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hystericalcherries · 6 years ago

Text

aeon (2/6)

Pairing: Keith/Lance Words: 11.5k Rating: M Warnings: mild violence, (minor) implicit sexual content, anxious thoughts Tags: Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

READ IT ON AO3

The flashes grow more intense.

At first, they had been an inconvenience. A flash here and a flash there, arbitrary like flipping open a book to a random page. Aimless in its intent of stealing Keith’s time but an ambitious thief nonetheless, sifting through his cove of memories and hoping to strike gold amongst desert sand and bruised knuckles. Both passages of time, locked away in a tilting hourglass and behind porcelain skin, they are fleeting in thought and consequence.

That is, until they decide to stay.

Then it becomes a problem.

A problem he can’t fix because the scenes played out are narrated by some omniscient being, unreliable with its knack for embellishing the color of the sky and the clouds that ride the breeze, and wholly unwilling to take criticism. For somewhere between leaving the quantum abyss and stepping foot on Earth soil the universe had decided that Keith’s story was far from over and needed to be told. What had been weekly is now daily. Streams of them, disjointed and vague, bobbing in the shallow depth of his foremind. It takes over, dissolving reality in a current call to a life that couldn’t be his.

One minute he has his hand on the doorknob to Shiro’s apartment, twisting, and the next he is walking into a stranger’s home, steps faltering at the tinkle of wind chimes and the sight of Kosmo curled up on a plush armchair, fast asleep. Past the backdrop of the muted television is the sound of running water and soft humming, running lackadaisical fingertips over the threadbare rug under his feet and the bookcase bursting with scrapbooks and bent paperbacks. Gossamer drapes sway in a draft let through the open windows, refracting the sunlight through their soft lens. He squints, blinded, and—

A face shrouded in light, beaming with happiness. Welcome home, Keith.

—he’s standing in the middle of Shiro’s apartment, not knowing when or how long he’d been standing there.

The walls are pale and the furniture minimalist. It’s a bit too pristine for Keith’s taste, everything in a place and a place for everything. For someone like Shiro, who’s always needed to have everything beyond flawless to justify his own dream in the face of a chronic illness, the space is perfect, but Keith is cut from a different cloth. Worn and rough to the touch, he expects the world around him to reflect the same. Brief as it was, he misses the flash and nearly wishes it real.

“You okay?” Shiro is asking, turned completely in his seat at the kitchen island and staring at Keith, reading glasses slipping down his nose; they look suspiciously like Adam’s but Keith isn’t going to say anything about that. “You kinda spaced-out a bit there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he responds quickly, throat dry. He rubs at his eyes with the jut of his palm, willing the vision away for good. “I just”—a deep breath, even and slow—“forgot about… something. It’ll come to me eventually.”

“If you say so.” But the older man doesn’t look entirely sure, frowning that frown he does whenever Keith says something particularly dismal about his past. Thankfully, he seems to understand Keith well enough to know better than to delve deeper— yet. “Did you wanna get started on the security detail for the coalition conference? The Unilu are sending a party next week and want to know if Voltron will be there to escort them out of their solar system…”

Constantly standing at the cusp of something almost real, Keith waits to be pushed over the edge.

It gets tougher to keep things under wrap with the flashes manifesting whenever they like. Most of the time he can blame the lapse in concentration on fatigue or even mishearing, but Keith knows that people are starting to catch wind that something is— not wrong, per say, but that something is definitely going on. Keith is not known for his inability to focus, but, rather, his to inability to stop.

“People are getting suspicious,” Allura tells him the third night in a row he had snuck into her room on the Atlas. Scattered around her are countless scrolls, brittle to the touch and written in a language he can’t read. Her mice lay about; Chuchule hidden in the curl of white hair, Platt napping under the makeshift tent of a book and Plachu and Chulatt lounging on Keith’s knee. “You could be a little more tactful in how you go about things.”

Having already heard the complaint more than once, Keith simply rolls his eyes and focuses on the translator in his hands. It’s slow compared to the almost instant reaction time of those that had been on the castleship, but it’s progress nonetheless. “Yeah, well, it won’t matter once we figure out what’s going on with me. So if you could focus on reading and doing just that, that’d be great.”

Allura huffs up a storm but does what’s asked of her.

It’s a little easier having someone else know, Keith must admit. Makes him feel less like he’s drowning and more like he’s treading deep water. With Allura around and in the loop, Keith doesn’t have to pretend when a flash hits him, scrambling up a dumb excuse or making a hasty retreat. She merely sits next to him, hand on his arm and leaning in, and waits for it to pass. There is no pressure of secrecy when it is done, just a smile he haltingly returns and a murmur for them to get back to work; not that that stops him from keeping to himself anyway (though Allura has made her opinion on that blatantly clear), but the thought is still there.

As if sensing his want of confidentiality and purposefully scorning it, the device in his hand beeps, causing them both to jerk to attention. Match found, reads the screen and Keith nearly topples over a pile of dusty books in his haste to get the scroll he had been translating into the princess's hands, upsetting the mice. Allura is just as eager, ripping it from his grasp and shoving her nose into it, going cross-eyed as she reads its faded ink.

“What does it say?” he asks impatiently.

Allura doesn’t answer immediately, instead unrolling it further and frowning in her effort to make sense of the words bared in front of her. After a solid minute of reading her eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Wow,” she murmurs in wonder. “To think that all this knowledge was at my fingertips this entire time. How foolish of me not to delve into the archives sooner.”

“Well?”

“First off, we were right in thinking that there might be a connection to what’s happening to you and Oriande. The translator worked and this scroll details the supposed creation of the realm.” Her eyes start glittering, wide like full moons. “It’s a realm, did you know that? Not another dimension like we originally thought. There’s a difference: a dimension can exist in a limited amount of space, but realms exist in all of them. How fascinating.”

“I know this is all great and awesome for you, but can we focus here? What does it say about the abyss?” Allura doesn’t so much as twitch. “Allura. Hey— what does it say?”

Almost reluctantly, she looks up and away. But when they are finally level with each other once more her face takes on a specific expression, the one where she talks science and alchemy and diplomacy. Perceptive and fierce. It’s one of calculation.

Out of pure instinct, Keith leans away from it. “What is it?

“You haven’t come into contact with pure quintessence recently, have you?”

“Uh, no.”

“How about during your time in the abyss?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you don’t know so.”

The way she beats around the bush causes a spark of annoyance to run through him. “I’m not sure if you know this, princess, but I lived on the back of a giant, space whale and you don’t just find vats of pure quintessence lying around. I’m sure if there was any, we would know about it.”

Another eye sparkle, as if she’d been waiting for Keith to say as much. “Speaking of ‘we,’ how does your mother fair with the visions? Are they more taxing with her age? Do they happen just as often as your own? It’s possible that the visions are connected through you both, through familial relation. Maybe we could ask and compare experiences between the two.”

Keith twitches. “Ah, no, she doesn’t get them anymore. They stopped a few days after we arrived on the castleship.” He looks away, wincing against the guilt that ravages his insides when he recalls her relief when telling him of the news. She had been so happy and Keith hadn’t wanted to ruin it, so much so that the lie had rolled off his tongue without a moment’s thought. “She actually doesn’t know that I still get them. I haven’t… well, I haven’t told her.”

Her brows turns downward. “Keith.”

Keith shakes off the chide, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to know, not when we finally have this.” He gestures to the scroll still held loosely in her hands. “You said there’s a connection, right? And that it’s got something to do with quintessence, I’m guessing.”

Allura looks as if she wants to talk more about Keith and his choices in life, but doesn’t know how to continue without upsetting Keith himself. Eventually, she sighs and nods, laying out the scroll between them and placing her ever-compliant mice at the corners as paperweights of sorts. They squeak up at them, watching Allura’s perfectly manicured finger trace a line. “It says here that realms are tied directly to the quintessence that makes up the world. It is the beginning of what was and what is and what shall be. The quantum abyss is a precursor to even that. From it or another like it, Oriande was made and from that, our universe. Just as I was tied to Oriande, it seems you are tied to the abyss.”

“But… why me?”

She tilts her head in thought. “Only selected Alteans can enter Oriande, a criteria held by what the Life Givers hold true. But the abyss is older and run by more… archaic principles. You are the first galra-human hybrid in existence, something never before seen in this universe or that of another, so perhaps it is your physiology. Maybe the fact is making you susceptible to the flashes in a way full-breeds and other species are not. Kinship in the form of novelty. It would explain why you are so sensitive to quintessence too.”

He nods. “Back when— before all this and Voltron was even a thing— I was able to find Blue. At first, it was just a feeling, but then it turned into some kind of obsession. I always thought I was going crazy, you know, chasing after some obscure cave drawings, but then we actually found her and…”

“It became real.”

“Yeah.”

She must notice something in his tone, because she leans into him and smiles. “It’s a good thing you trusted your instincts. Without it, we might have never met and the universe would be a much different place.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re right. I’d rather deal with this than never meet any of you.”

Allura brings her hand to her heart, mimicked by the mice, all obviously touched at his words, and Keith flushes in embarrassment. He’s gotten better at conveying his feelings since being launched into space, but the action of voicing them still causes his stomach to flip erratically. It’s ridiculous, he knows, because they’ve had enough group hugs and heartfelt reunions to sufficiently define themselves as the makeshift family he’s always wanted, but the abandonment of his past has a way of following him into the prospect of his future and it’s a battle he’s raging even today.

“So,” he says louder than necessary, “let’s get back to… this.”

Allura clears her throat. “Yes, well, if we are to assume that you are still linked to the quantum abyss despite leaving its bounds and that link is quintessence based then it would stand to reason that quintessence might be the solution.”

“I don’t follow.”

Her hand cups his own. “I want to induce a vision.”

It’s not what he was expecting and he says as much. “You want to— the flashes aren’t something I can control, Allura. They just happen.”

“You forget that I study alchemy and, though my knowledge is nowhere near complete, I am one of the leading experts on quintessence in this universe. If there is anyone who can guide you through a vision, it is me. I am a Chosen of Oriande.” Seeing his reluctance, she takes on a quieter tone, almost pleading. “Keith, let me try, please. This is all I can think of and I want to help. Something obviously went wrong when you and your mother breached the quantum abyss, and these visions could be attempts to realign what has been broken. If guided we could delve what they mean to fix and bring an end to this madness all the quicker.”

It’s the eagerness that does him in. Selfless in intent and utterly devoted to do the right thing, Allura is at the ready to prove herself in any way possible. Willing to give everything and more, guileless, she offers an upturned palm, putting the choice in his hands.

Hesitantly, he takes it. “Fine, but if anything goes south, you pull back immediately.”

“On my honor,” she promises.

When her other hand settles on top of their clasped ones he does his best not to jerk away, spying the faint glow that emanates from the princess just as a low hum vibrates the air around them. Reminiscent of how his friend’s eyes blazed with power when she had cradled a husk of a man and brought life to it, he doesn't dare look up, fearful of what the act might induce— days, weeks, all of it lost in the possibility of a single moment. So he lowers his gaze to his knees, outlining the definite wrinkles that pull at the fabric of his pants and letting Allura take the lead, riding the wave as she dives into the caverns of his psyche.

There is no fight against the intrusion, Keith allowing her to tread deeper as he floats upon its deceivingly shallow surface. She dips a finger into the water that fills his mind, studying the ripples it makes with avid interest. A breeze of energy passes and he breathes deeply with it, eyes fluttering closed as something bubbles deep inside him.

At first it is a tentative thing, a mere whisper floating along the outskirts of thought. But then Allura pushes and it reacts, creeping ever closer; a shudder and it crystallizes into something real, a reflection of self. The apparition, colored red like a dying sunset, stares him down, face blank and hand spread over the transparent barrier that lies between them. Voiceless words channel through the connection and Keith, still aware of the projection of Allura at his back, goes to echo the gesture. Fingertips touch and—

—a flash, blinding light that rolls down the inverted buttes of his irises and tightens the coils of every muscle. Pupils dilate, widening until they are a chasmic gateway to the soul.

He falls and it is a timeless motion.

Like Icarus to the sun, he aims too high and burns upon exposure. Once gliding on vitreous wings, they shatter and break, condemning him to fall eternally. Images fly past him, telling of scenes already passed and yet to come. They are solar flares, arching high above the scope of his vision, assembling into a life that lies far beyond his ability.

Hands that are not his own stretch farther than he can reach. Stained a divine pink, they spread wide and seize at the images, pulling them inward. A pulse of quintessences and then his axis is tilting. For there is no up and down, no left and right, no back and forth. Simply a directionless force, reticent and resolute. Transcendental impressions, waiting to be acted upon. Ever waiting. Waiting for creation, for aspiration, for vitalization, for—

—a field of flowers, white tablecloth and champagne glasses, an altar christened with tuxedos and vows—

—the heat of a fire raging, plumes of smoke rising from the ashes of a stranger’s home, clouds over the tombstone of a father buried—

—the roar of a lion—

—the weightlessness of falling, golden eyes in the shadows, a sword cutting through the air, the slumped form of a body in armor—

—a warm hand clasped in his own, golden ring glinting in the morning sun—

—absolution.

He resurfaces, gasping.

The world snaps back into place. Gone is the rush of predetermined destiny, leaving only the barren truth of now. He is back within the thrumming walls of the Atlas, surrounded by dusty tomes and military grade furniture, time resuming its reign and taxing him heavily as he regains control over his own breathing.

“We,” he pants, sweat already cooling at his neck, “are never doing that again.”

Allura is no better. She has her hands curled on the back of her thighs, leaning forward as if she can’t even support the weight of her own thoughts. The mice chitter worryingly, pawing at her ankles and wrists, only quieting when her altean marks flicker with residual magic and then die out. “Agreed.”

Phantom hands intertwined with his just as lips ghost over the corner of his mouth and Keith jolts to attention, muscles spasming as he catches the tail ends of the flash fading into the air. Head still aching and heart running a mile a minute, Keith forces himself to his feet.

The movement causes Allura to stir. “Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he says quickly. He feels ready to crawl out of his skin. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

She pushes herself to her knees. “But we haven’t yet determined the purpose behind what we saw together. If we are to believe that these are preeminent visions, then some of those images were your future. We may be able to use them to our advantage.”

The thought of delving deeper into what just transpired is nauseating. Some of the images had been nondescript enough for them to ignore, while others were in excruciating detail. There’s no way either of them had missed the significance behind some of the scenes, like the altar or wedding bands, and he dreads the questions that’s going to be asked of him

“There isn’t much to talk about. It didn’t give us anything to stop it or the war with, so.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll drop it.

Of course, it isn’t that easy. Allura thrives off knowledge and Keith is a treasure chest of hastily kept secrets just waiting to be plundered.

“I wouldn’t say that we didn’t gain nothing from it…” Her eyelids lower with her brows, giving him a side-eye that’s reminiscent of Hunk when he spies fresh gossip, only worsening when the mice begin to reenact some romantic shtick on the floor. Her voice is coy and has the impression of a cat that’s just got the cream. “Some of those visions were… quite telling. You have a bright future ahead of you, wouldn’t you say?”

Heat rushes to his face.

“Come now. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This war won’t last forever and when it ends we’ll be free to live out our lives, finding the happiness we so rightfully deserve. If that means finding another to live it with, then I hope we are all as lucky as you.”

Keith’s stomach flips. Mouth suddenly dry, he tries to think of something to say but can’t; trapped in the confines of his throat, they stay.

Love had always been a fickle thing for Keith, an almost affair that leads to heartbreak and broken promises. It’s something he can’t control. It rears its head in the most unlikely of places; in deep space, in between bubbling laughter and gunfire, a something settling behind his breastbone, refusing to disappear even as the years pass. It takes many forms, sliding along the cradle of his mother’s arms or curving with the brotherly hair ruffle Shiro bestows, easy to swallow because they are things he has always yearned.

But what the flashes depict… it is a love that runs deeper. A cluster of stars tied with a cosmic ring of infatuation, born in an instant and lasting an eternity.

His shoulders hunch and his fists clench, contorting in the equivalent of a full body grimace. “Yeah, well, it’s just… whatever.”

Allura frowns. “Are you not pleased with what you saw?”

And how does he even begin to explain? Explain the concern, the trepidation, because nothing is set in stone and letting himself hope is one step away from being let down.

For the flashes hadn’t really been a choice, not in this fold of time. In them he is stuck between yesterday and tomorrow, walking into a fate that might be deprived from him; he’s seen so much, flashes that blind him to what can be and what really is, painting him gray with longing. It’s years, months, week, days, seconds down the line, a tropical illusion amidst a desert of truth, blurry and just beyond reach. Tantalizing but deadly, because what he wants isn’t what he gets. And that’s the thing that hurts the most, the uncertainty.

Not that Allura would understand, he realizes. Love had never been in short supply for the princess, lavished onto her by a father, mother and kingdom. And he doesn’t blame her for that— would never compare the love she deserves to the love he lacks—but it still leaves him crippled.

So he takes a breath and clears his face of all emotion. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He ignores her shocked face as he leaves, feeling the pinch in his temple and twist in his gut. Bitterness is an all-encompassing thing, but he runs from it all the same.

“Dad?” an eight-year old Keith asks on a summer night long past. “Why did mom leave us?”

Crickets chirp among the blooming cacti, loud in the stillness of the desert. Dust coats his boots and clothes from their hike into the canyon that day, rough against his skin but warm against the cold air that whistles over the dry grass. Faintly, from inside the shack, he could hear the low hum of the refrigerator. The moon, yellow and waxing crescent, hovers low over the distant horizon, highlighting the rugged features of his father’s face and throwing his nicked eyebrow in direct relief.

An ashen gaze is pulled from the heavens back to earth.

“Your mother,” his father starts with that smile he always gets when speaking about the woman he loved, soft and sad and wistful, “left to protect us— to protect you. She couldn’t stay, not if it meant putting us in harm’s way, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t with us now. She’s up there, somewhere far beyond, looking at the stars and thinking of us just like we’re thinking of her. And it might be tomorrow or next week or even next year, but she’ll be with us again. Some day.”

It’s the same answer he always gives and just like all the times before, Keith doesn’t believe it.

Keith fools himself into thinking that the world wouldn’t catch up to him. Thinks himself so far ahead and with time to let the dust settle that when things do come crashing down it’s like a hammer to glass. A shatter so abrupt that it cracks him wide open.

It starts with a thinly veiled interrogation from Shiro on the Friday following his talk with Allura, stuff packed with good intentions and gentle probes. A you okay there, champ? here and a how about we go out for lunch today and talk? there, slipping past the bitten lip of concern. And when he ultimately declines, it shifts to blatant coddling. Helpful hands and calm words, aiming to guide and resolve, but only succeeding in bringing the thoughts inside his head to a steady boil. Enough so that Keith not-so-subtly excuses himself from the apartment and heads to the training facilities on the Atlas.

It’s early and his class doesn’t start until another ten minutes and, as a result, he doesn’t see any of his students when he swipes his keycard to enter. Which is fine with Keith, because he’d rather not have to force out some half-baked nicety between people he barely knows. However, the thought is torn in two when he realizes that he recognizes a face doing drills with a kendo stick at one of the mats.

“Lance?” he calls out without thinking, loud with surprise, drawing the attention of said boy along with the few bodies that are already stationed at the machines.

Quickly and ignoring the stares that follow him, he makes his way to his teammate. The mat sinks slightly when he steps on it, putting him at the same level with the boy when he straightens from the fighting stance he had been practicing. He looks to have been there a while, sleeveless shirt sticking to his sides and stretching the width of his chest as he takes deep breaths, face flushed from exertion.

The blue paladin doesn’t appear at all surprised to see him, leaning onto the stick as he pushes his hair back. There are earbuds hanging from his collar, playing some muted pop song that he doesn’t recognize. “Hey, buddy, fancy seeing you here.”

But Keith doesn’t register the banter-in-motion. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, abrupt and rude.

The teasing smile on Lance’s face dims slowly and it’s a painful thing to watch, more so when he realizes belatedly it was his doing. “Training,” the boy explains, scratching his neck and taking a quick sweep of the area before returning to him. “I, uh, missed my evening session yesterday and didn’t want to fall behind, so here I am.”

“I didn’t know you trained.” Rude again. Why can’t he stop?

A flash of annoyance. “Well, I do.”

Keith backpedals momentarily. Tries to remind himself that Lance hasn’t done anything to deserve to bear the brunt of his frustrations. “Yeah, of course, I… sorry.”

Lance purses his lips, passing quick judgement. Eventually, he shrugs and loosens the slope of his shoulders. “It’s all cool. I don’t exactly make a point to live here like you do. Hear you took up a class teaching dudes how to karate chop bad guys. How’s that going for ya?”

“It’s going.”

That brings a smile back to the other boy’s face and Keith feels the cool water of relief run through his body when he lets out a small laugh. Not everything is entirely hopeless, it seems. “Sounds riveting. I might just stick around and watch.”

There’s an unspoken challenge that Keith can’t quite decipher, but before he can even ask there’s the familiar swish of the door to the training room opening, a gaggle of his students filing through, dressed in sweats and activewear. Hunk is with them, shouldering his own pack and chatting amiably with two girls, one dark-haired with glasses and the other blonde and freckled. Rizavi and Leifsdottir, if Keith remembers their names correctly.

Keith takes a step, then stops.

Seeing his hesitation, Lance punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

So Keith goes, passing by Hunk on his way and sharing a wave.

Back into the routine of things he acknowledges his students, waits for them to line up, guides them through some basic stretches, and finally starts demonstrating their first move. It’s one he learned during his time with the Blades, efficient when needing to get out of a sticky situation. Duck, lunge and roll. Simple and easy to be coupled with other maneuvers, best in close quarter situations.

Pairs are made and Keith walks among them, stepping in and adjusting stances whenever he sees the need, but watching for the most part. His students take his offered advice seriously, fine-tuning their movements accordingly and only ever needing one or two demonstrations until they get it right. It’s impressive and entirely reflective of what he’s read from their files, all picked from the cream of the crop with the scores to prove it.

However, it’s not twenty-five minutes into the class, just as Kinkade executes a perfect lunge, rolling out of Leifsdottir’s surprisingly aggressive assault, that Keith gets distracted.

Amidst the flurry of fists and grunts, he spies Lance and Hunk. There’s nothing exceptionally ostentatious about the pair that rightly explains the way his gaze is caught so suddenly; they follow the basic pattern for a spar, circling and engaging at appropriate intervals, unassuming in how they exchange blows and playful words. Nothing to justify why he ignores his students and instead focuses on how Hunk’s burly left arm swings in an arc so wide that Lance has to duck out of the way or be gifted a black eye, the lanky boy slipping back into range with his fists at the ready in a decent boxing stance. Nothing but his own prying eyes to blame, ensnared onto the the sharp angle of shoulder blades as Lance twists into a kick that catches the bigger boy straight into the gut.

He chalks it up to his own restlessness. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to do anything outside the Garrison’s work-out regimen, too busy with restoration of Earth and his classes, and his body longs for the familiarity of close combat. To hold a sword in his hand once more, to feel that extension of self, pointed and dangerous and in control. In the throes of gunfire, a soldier, first and foremost, falling back on instinct alone.

Idly, he wonders if Lance would say yes to a spare if he asked.

“—tch out!”

Pain erupts in the back of his head, sudden and sharp. A noise between a grunt and a yelp erupt from his mouth, skewed as he attempts to twist himself and face the attack, only to trip over his own treacherous feet; the weight of it strikes him down, jaw smashing to the floor, unforgiving.

There’s a flurry of activity around him, voice rising in shock. Distantly, he feels more than one set of hands make to touch him, gripping his biceps and shoulders, and haul him onto his back. White spots dance in his vision, floating just above the harsh lights of the room and the fuzzy outlines of the people that crowd him, flickering in and out of existence as he tries to get a hold of his bearings.

A few seconds of dazed existence and he can actively decipher the muffled noise into words.

“Hey, is he gonna be alright?”

“Wow, Curtis. I can’t believe you just drop kicked a paladin of Voltron.”

“That looked like it hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear! It was an accident! I didn’t see him and— and who just stands in the middle of a sparring zone? Plus, Jason did the move way too fast and I couldn’t stop my spin in time!”

Another voice, lowered in an effort to soothe. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sure you didn’t meant it— no one’s blaming you, okay? Breathe. Just give him some space, yeah?” A little louder. “All of you, back up and give him some space. Back to your drills. Hunk, could you…?”

They must follow the order because things go quieter. Quiet enough for Keith to focus on his breathing and the throb that pulses at the back of his neck, wincing when he feels a faint touch to the tender area. He groans deep in his throat and shifts uncomfortably on his tail bone, forcing his eyes to open and squint past the pain until the world sharpens into clarity.

Front and center is Lance, brows furrowed in worry. “You okay, man?”

He offers a hand and Keith takes it, sitting up. The immediate rush of blood to his head makes him dizzy and he sways just a bit, fingers tightening around Lance’s even as his other hand rises to prod at his temple.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I didn’t actually see it but apparently you took a mean one to the head. Caught you when you weren’t looking— just a good ol’ heel to the face. Judging from the size of Curtis’ feet, I’m betting it’ll bruise.” Lance looks to him, frowning. “You need an ice pack? I can run and get one. Or I can take you to the infirmary myself. I know I joke about your mullet, but not even bad helmet hair can stop a concussion.”

The infirmary is the last place Keith wants to end up. The risk of being found out and having his flashes the focus of scrutiny is too high and Keith would rather suffer possible head trauma than deal with that. Not to mention the unbearable mothering Shiro would dote onto him once he realized his worry was justified, accumulative tenfold by his own mother once she heard of the news herself.

“Yeah, no, I just zoned out for a second— totally my fault. Just need to walk it off.”

“Are you sure?”

Slightly disoriented and a bit bruised, but nothing a good rest couldn’t fix. He’s seen worse, been through worse, and can take care of his own. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I don’t know, you’ve been lookin’ a bit scruffy the past few days. Me and Hunk were just talking about how maybe something bad is rolling through the base, like the space flu or yalmor pox— I’m not sure the second one actually exists but Coran didn’t technically say no when we asked, so…” He shrugs, like it’s water down his back.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I really wouldn’t mind going with you. We can catch up while we get you checked up.”

He’s not sure what exactly, but something about that has his hackles rising in defense. Maybe it’s the fact that Lance is so obviously pushing something he doesn’t want. It’s insignificant and well-meaning, but Keith has been living in a constant state of anxiety for the past couple of weeks, strained under the pressure of the flashes and keeping them locked away, and the words eat away at his fortitude. He can’t even pinpoint the reason this moment is the breaking factor— can’t even explain the fuddled mess of thoughts prior to the embarrassing kick in the head or why the pressure of Lance’s hand in his feels too much. Doesn’t know why and hates it.

“I’m fine, Lance.” he snaps prematurely, biting his tongue by accident and tasting copper. Lets the taste fuel him, push him past what he knows to be right. “Why are you asking? Did Shiro put you up to this? Is this why you’re really here? God, I already told him—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up.” Lance looks taken aback, palms outward in a gesture of surrender. “Shiro didn’t say anything to me. This is me asking all on my own, okay? No need to bite my head off.”

Keith breathes hard, looks away, and attempts to get up. He can feel Lance watching him, struggling to get his feet underneath him, eyes narrowed as he makes no move to aid his clumsy limbs; it’s a look that sticks, seeping into his pores. Tension, high and thick, fills the space between them, but Keith, for once, doesn’t rise to the bait. Lance, unfortunately, has never been one to let things go.

“Why would Shiro need to talk to me about you anyways? Is there something I should know?”

“No.” Finally, he makes it to his feet, knees popping in protest. The ache in his head is worse when standing, but he ignores it. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Lance rises too and pushes forward in a way that is solely them, challenge-like, close enough that Keith can see the speckles of brown in his eyes and feel his breath when he speaks. “Does it have something to do with how you and Allura are hanging out every night?”

His chest pinches tightly and it’s an oddly familiar feeling.

It furrows his eyes and thins his lips. Hard like stone he becomes. “Let me rephrase that. It’s nothing that concerns you.”

A pause.

Then, “Ah, okay. I see.”

It doesn’t immediately process that he’s said something wrong. It’s not until the other boy makes a face, scrunched up and twisted like he’s just sucked a lemon, that he’s even aware that something could go so wrong. But it could and it does. For there's definitely something wrong about the quiet chuckle that comes out of Lance's mouth, too much like the gurgling end of a drowning man.

Lance rocks onto his heels and shakes his head in this genuinely uncomfortable manner. Usually, the close proximity of the blue paladin wouldn't phase him, as used to it as he is by their constant squabbling, but something about the other’s face— the hard angle of his eyebrows maybe, or even the pressed line of his mouth— puts him off kilter. It's enough to have his mind stutter to a confusing stop.

“I don't know why I thought…” The boy looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and somehow making Keith feel like there’s miles between them. A deep breath, “Fine.” Then he straightens and smiles something self-deprecating, gaze sharp enough to cut glass, walking past him so abruptly that their shoulders knock together. “Look alive, Team Leader. Your class is waiting for your orders.”

Keith stumbles, turning with the move so as to watch Lance head toward his gear and pack everything away. Watches him mutter something to Hunk and the other gym goers, hiking his bag over his shoulder and head straight to the door. Watches Hunks casts one, last worried glance over at him before following his best friend, door sliding shut with a quiet swish.

Watches him leave.

Hidden under a blanket of shooting stars, he lets himself fall— in body, in mind, and in love. Arms of the sea cradle him, lifting him above the surf when the dark depth threatens to drown. Glistening, ever bright, it leans in close and presses a secret into his skin.

You can have your place, a starlit ocean whispers, but first you must want it.

It’s Hunk who finally corners him the next day, appearing just after Keith returns from an afternoon jog around the base with Kosmo, exhausted as he leans against the wall for support and unable to escape. For he is a wanted man, running from the many and the few, desperate to succumb to his own self-inflicted wounds. Lips cracked and throat parched, he swallows the sticky saliva that coats his mouth with increasing discomfort, watching his friend walk toward him from under the curtain of sweaty bangs.

Kosmo has no qualms about the company, wagging his tail when he gets a ruffle of the ears and a piece of jerky from the the boy’s stash of snacks. It’s betrayal in the most truest sense.

“Hi,” Hunk says, taking a seat on the ground next to him.

Keith gives him a small nod, using his towel to wipe away the sweat clinging to his heated skin. “Hey.”

“You have a nice run?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“That’s good.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith bent over his folded knees, still catching his breath, and Hunk just sitting, staring straight forward. There is no pressure in the silence, the yellow paladin’s easygoing nature lulling any and all tension just with his mere presence. Though, like all things in Keith’s life, it's only a matter of time before it breaks.

“I talked to Lance.”

And there it is.

It may be selfish, but Keith doesn't want to have this conversation. Doesn't want to be here, in this moment, in this position. Doesn't want to play this game of telephone with his teammates. Doesn’t want to be the reason this problem exists.

“How… how is he?”

“He’s a bit upset. Wouldn’t really tell me all of it and got really quiet when I pushed, but I think he’s more frustrated that it took such an ugly turn than anything else. Probably wasn’t expecting you to be so… you.” Something about it doesn't sit well. Hunk shouldn't be the one saying this— it should be coming directly from the source, from someone else, from Lance. “He did promised to behave, so that’s something.”

Internal dissent parts his lips. “He doesn’t have to… It’s not his fault, not really. I’ve just got— a lot going on, okay?”

“Figured as much. Still would’ve been helpful to know though.”

He lets out a frustrated huff. “It’s my stuff and I don’t want to…”

Hunk hums.

“Plus, you know how he can be.”

Another pause and it’s nice, to have someone there that just gets it. Keith has never been one for words, has never excelled in stringing thought into something more concise. Not like Shiro or Hunk or Lance. And the world doesn’t care for boys like that, like Keith, who would bite the hand that feeds him.

“Look…” Hunk starts and Keith feels it like a kick in the gut. “Lance is one of my best friends. He’s the reason I went to the Garrison in the first place— begged me for weeks to register with him, saying that I was too smart to waste it by staying on the islands. Always been like that, in case you were wondering. Loud, pushy and full of opinions.” He chuckles, the sound peeters off into a tired sigh. “I’m only saying this because I know sometimes he can be… a lot, especially with the rocky start you two had. But he’s a good guy, I promise. He’s just— sometimes he’s got these ideas of himself and everybody else that don’t really represent reality, and it makes him… sensitive to things.”

“Are you saying Lance is sensitive to me?”

Hunk gives a pointed side-eye. “Lance has always cared what you think of him.”

Keith frowns and shifts so that his ankles cross, wrapping his arms around his shins and wiggling his toes until Kosmo growls softly at him. He had known that people had envied his intuitive skill in piloting, no one being discreet about the words they said to his face and behind his back, and maybe he had distanced himself because of it. But it hadn’t matter, not when he had Shiro. Not when he could count on his friend-turned-brother to have his back, to listen when he talked, and to inspire him when the rest of the world let him down. To think that someone out there— and Lance of all people— had been admiring him in that same light, looking at his retreating figure and wishing for just a single glance back.

“You’re a hard guy to read, Keith, and an even harder guy to impress.”

He winces. “I don’t mean to come across that way. You guys have nothing to prove to me.”

“Lance doesn’t see it that way. You guys have always had this— thing, and well, old habits are hard to break, I guess.” He shrugs and Keith sways with the force of the motion. “We’ve spent a lot of time together up in space. Got to really know one another. But I think sometimes we forget that we aren’t all the same and experience everything differently.”

Keith thinks of Allura and his flashes. How something so anxiety-inducing for him had been celebrated.

“I’m not asking you to share your life story or for you to apologize, cause I know that you didn’t ask for that made-up rivalry or whatever it is you’re going though right now, and it’s not your fault that Lance feels like this. It sucks that you’re in the cross-fire and I would change it if I could, but this is just something he has to figure out himself and until then— if you could just lay low for awhile.” He must see his responding grimace because his tone gets a bit frantic, evidently distressed at the thought of distressing Keith. “I don’t mean it like that, I promise. Just— like, you know, not do anything in retaliation. Even if he starts it.”

He remembers Lance in the beginning, unreasonable and needlessly challenging, and dreads returning to it.

“Yeah,” he still says. “I’ll keep out of it.”

Hunk sighs in relief. “Thanks, Keith. You’re a good friend.”

Keith gets a pat on the back and then the yellow paladin is leaving, back to his family and Shay and the rest of the resistance. Kosmo whines a little, obviously missing the company he’s gotten so used to during their long travel back to Earth, but settles down when he pets his flank. In a move that forces Keith’s knees apart, the large wolf settles his head in his lap, ears alert and eyes focused on his face.

“I thought things would be easier when we returned,” he tells the wolf quietly, knowing the animal doesn’t have the answers to his problems. “But things are all mixed up now. I kinda wish we had stayed in space— everything was so much more simpler.”

Kosmos licks the pad of his thumb.

“Thanks buddy.” Keith smiles, fond when a bushy tail thumps against the floor. “Lance probably just needs some space. I’m sure this will blow over soon.”

It doesn’t blow over soon like everyone says, not even within the next few days. It gets worse, slowly and deliberately, enough so that he starts resorting to desperate measures. First and foremost, avoiding Lance.

It's not the most mature thing he's done and there is no denying the nauseating shame that comes to a boil in his stomach, but Keith doesn't know what else to do. Usually, if there had been a problem between him and another student back before Voltron, Keith would force it into the light and hash it out right then and there. But this is different, feels different, because Lance isn’t just some vague face roaming the halls anymore; he can’t just swing a fist and call the score settled, not if he wants to retain what they’ve made together. Friendship with Lance— with the entire team, really— is something he cherishes and has grown accustomed to, leaving him reeling without its easy grace and sincere intentions.

No more secret smiles or casual arms draped over his shoulder. No more thoughtful water bottles found by his practice gear or dumb challenges over who can finish the warm-up sprints first. No more playful banter or dumb puns.

Instead, he gets to watch as Lance stands to leave a room he just entered or purse his lips in a frown when he can’t, folding his arms and looking anywhere but at him. There are no heated arguments, no snippy comebacks, or even quips at his expense. Lance doesn’t speak to him at all and it’s that much worse, Keith decides. The silence is a pike between them, glaringly obvious to their friends and anyone who remotely knows the two of them, killing conversations and moods dead in their presence.

It’s nothing like Hunk said it would be and he can see the other boy sending the blue paladin concern looks throughout the days, always ignored and always brushed off when confronted. This puts Keith even more on edge and he falters in his next move, wanting to take action and wanting to keep the peace. Because if even Hunk doesn’t know what to do, then what hope does Keith have?

So Keith does the one thing he knows how. He ignores it, pushing forward and past with a single-minded focus, training in the hours not spent sleeping or teaching his class. He pretends that Lance isn’t there, forcing his eyes to glaze over his stooped form and to keep away when the silence starts to become too suffocating.

It’s unhealthy, he knows, but it’s familiar.

Strangely, while Lance makes himself scarce, it’s Axca who takes his place.

The half-galra, now working alongside the MFE pilots, seems to have worked her way around the Garrison Galaxy base. He sees her around constantly. Roaming the hallways of the Atlas, lingering outside the tech labs, sitting alone in the canteen, unloading fresh shipments of scaultrite at the landing docks. She’s everywhere, always aware and looking up to meet his questioning gaze with a twitch of the lips and sharp nod.

She starts joining Keith in his workout sessions, quiet as she greets him and focuses on the weights she lifts. There is no exchange of words, just the muted thuds of metal meeting polyester and their huffs of breath— and it helps, surprisingly enough. It helps to have someone there. He never says why he’s there so often and she never asks; no burning judgement or well-intended advice, just two people existing within proximity. It’s the understanding of two outcasts, bonded through blood shed, allies lost, and debts repaid.

Eventually, they start sparring together and it’s a breath of fresh air. Axca is a challenging adversary, quick and rational as she parries his blade and aims a short jab at his left side that’ll definite bruise. It reminds him of his time with the Blade, learning to use the weapon of his birthright and parrying the strikes of his fellow Marmorites when they practiced. It didn’t leave a lot of room to talk, but it did leave him stronger.

People come to watch them, sometimes. Peering through windows and beyond door frames, individuals of every kind of life and species watch them. The gazes of many tack onto their forms, ever curious of them and the Galra empire they supposedly represent. Keith ignores it to the best of his ability. Axca, for her part, appears to not notice their accumulating audience, focused solely on the fight at hand, sliding through the forms with ease and deadly precision acclimated with experience. She matches Keith’s every swing, expects every lunge, and parries every strike.

Shiro stops by whenever he’s not busy, watching with thinly veiled pride and offering constructive criticism on how to better their form. Pidge and Hunk visit too but only so that the former can sass them from the sidelines, ignoring the scandalized looks received when she cups her hands against her mouth and makes an obnoxious farting noise whenever Keith takes a hard tumble. Romelle likes to come with his mother, cheering when Keith gets in a particularly impressive hit. Only once does Allura show up, giving a beatific smile to those present before wiping the floor of both Keith and Axca in a record breaking minute and forty-two seconds.

It would almost be as if nothing was wrong if not for the blatant absence of a certain blue paladin.

And it isn’t as if Lance is indisposed. He’ll see the boy walking with Matt and his new alien girlfriend or the princess somewhere, obviously on break from his duties, matching their strides like he used to do with Keith.

It always brings forth a particular memory. The universe’s last chance drifting, five nobodies linked together by the arms of necessity, crusted with frost and one hysterical outburst away from splintering. Overcome by thoughts once locked away, slipping to the forefront with an edge that promises fracture, they are exiled, launched out of the mouth of a deity. Desperate, afraid and wishing to be swallowed whole.

Like cosmic dust, they float aimlessly in a sea of stars. Insignificant and dwarfed by the extensive scope of space, they are paladins without a righteous cause. Run through by their own failures, self-inflicted and refusing to heal, hoping that no one sees that they are less than what they are; but the damage is done and they pounce on one another, exploiting weakness in the name of preservation.

Maybe you should have stayed away, and it’s sharp canines digging into the vulnerable flesh of his jugular. A snarl, vibrating with malice intent, and he is left in pieces. Broken.

It hurts like nothing has hurt before, but he takes the pain and makes it his. Braces himself for a fight, brandishing sword and teeth just to survive. A thousand moons light the sky and he howls to every one, bristling under their pretense of companionship, knowing he does not belong.

For he is a wolf in a lion’s den, desperate and alone.

And when he’s pushed himself past his limits and is a moment from collapsing, can no longer stand the sight of the empty space beside him, he retreats to the stillness of solitude. Shoulders hunched and muscles aching, he makes his way to the Black Lion; the large cat lets him in easily, silent and solemn in the wake of leadership.

It’s a week into his self-isolation, things change.

The Garrison officials are gearing up for some big symposium, puffing out their chests and marching down the hallways with self-crowned importance oozing from every salute. It causes a rippling effect across the base, because suddenly more and more coalition ships are descending into the stratosphere by the day, bringing with them convoys of resistance fighters and the idea that soon their way of life will be no more; it seems everyone everywhere has things to do and no time to do it. It’s hectic and loud and everything Keith hates.

Hates it so much that he retreats to the library on the Atlas. Pristine as most new things are, the grand room is filled wall to wall with journals and tomes and star maps from planets all across the universe. Shelves run perpendicular to the main entrance, broken only by the holo-database that sits in the room’s center, organized and tended to by small drones. Humans and aliens walk through the scaled-down labyrinth, chatting quietly to themselves and the crisp pages they turn, nearly overshadowed by the low hum of the AI librarian cataloging new arrivals.

Settled in a tight-spaced alcove on the second floor, Keith finds himself curled on one of the many spherical chairs with a holoscreen held loosely in his grasp. It pings with the notification of newly received messages, but they go ignored as he stares listlessly at the open email, text glaring in the lamp light.

Mandatory team meeting, the screen reads. It’s time to end this war for good.

The quiet of the library is in direct contrast to the loud buzz in his ears. Only the books are privy to how his thumb runs anxiously over the side of his knuckle, the only indicator of the turmoil that churns inside. Though Keith was never one to let his things like feelings of doubt stop him from doing what he wanted, the storm inside his chest does put a damper on his resolve, binding his muscles in transparent chains that left him paralyzed at the very thought of seeing the face of the person he’d been actively avoiding for days. Forced through shared responsibility, this meeting would bring the two together in close proximity and Keith doesn’t know if the world would survive such a collision.

It’s then that a voice, distinctively feminine, breaks through his internalized frenzy.

“Can you believe how things turned out?” the bodiless being says from just beyond the nearest shelf. Close enough that it has Keith looking up sharply, turning off his holoscreen like he’s got something to hide, and leaning slightly out of his seat to get a look at the person who’s disturbed his bubble of privacy. “It’s wild, isn’t?”

“So wild,” another voice agrees, accompanied by a bob of blonde hair through the spines of Puig encyclopedias. “I wonder how it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what do you think set them apart?” Another flash of hair, cinched in a high ponytail and a bright red bow. “Those cadets. Why do you think it was them that got launched into space and not some actual pilots.”

“Professor Shirogane was with them too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. Plus, he was already MIA when it happened. Which, totally sketch, by the way.”

It takes a long moment for Keith to connect the dots and realize that the strangers are talking about him— him and his team. There’s some irony to it, he thinks, that the Paladins of Voltron, legendary defenders of the universe and wielders of the most powerful weapon seen in this world and the next, can be reduced to something so juvenile as hearsay. Brows furrowing at such a distracting thought, he shifts so that he’s facing away from the pair, ears perked despite the voice in his head advising against it.

A third person is talking now, a boy. “Didn’t you have fighter class with them, before? What were they like?”

There’s the shuffle of books being taken off the shelf, opened, flipped through and returned. ”Well, Kogane didn’t talk much, though he got caught in a few fights. But that was before he started his private lessons with Professor Shirogane.” A huff of thinly veiled glee, slightly muffled like it was being pressed against the back of a hand. “No one knows what they did, but that didn’t stop people from guessing.”

“No way,” the first girl gasps, scandalous.

“My roommate says that she would see them go on rides outside of Garrison grounds— wouldn’t return until after hours sometimes”

“They are pretty close…” someone else Keith can’t see murmurs. “But wasn’t Professor Shirogane getting married to Professor West? Full offense to Kogane, but I wouldn’t even hesitate dropping him for a taste of Professor West, or even Shirogane for that matter. Have you guys seen the size of his arms?”

A low rumble of agreement follows the declaration and Keith makes a face in disgust. It was hard to see the two men in such a light since he had been thirteen at the time and had been privy to their shamelessly domestic habits. There was no going back once he’s seen Shiro nearly burn down the kitchen trying to make premade lasagna and Adam’s arm blindly grasping outside the bathroom door for toilet paper he himself had forgotten to replenish.

“Okay, okay, so Kogane is just emo and a charity case. But what about the rest? I hear McClain was a cargo pilot, and he still got chosen as a Paladin. Garrett too, only a mechanic. If I was some sentient space robot, I’d at least pick a batch of decent pilots and not some wannabes.”

“You’re just salty it wasn’t you. Plus, Garrett is the sweetest guy out there. Same with McClain. Cute too.”

A bark of laughter. “Now who’s projecting?”

There’s the sound of a hand meeting skin and someone’s half-hearted squawk. “You know that’s not what I meant. He’s way too annoying and high maintenance for me. Don’t you see him always in the other paladins’ business? No thank you.”

Vwoop. The librarian materializes next to the group, outside of the shelves and directly in Keith’s line of sight, causing everyone to jump in sight and at least one book to be knocked over. “If you’re going to be disruptive,” the pixelated voice tells them, humanoid in shape and colored a neon blue, “then I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

The group, scolded, leaves with not another word, the watchful eye of the AI following them before it too flickers out of existence and Keith is left alone once more.

He sits there for a long time. Long enough that his legs start cramping badly and the occupants of the room start to thin, going quiet and solemn like the only way inked pages can. It leaves room for thought, chaotic and introspective, fixated on the idea of life and what it means to share it. To stand at the edge of an infinitely large gorge, look to the other side, and actually cross it.

There are no bridges in space, nor is there a concept of time and what it means to lose it, and Keith is suddenly hit with understanding of what's been taken away from him.

A hand on his shoulder startles a gasp out of him. He looks up through his bangs and meets the gaze of the blue paladin, steady and clear like a lake. They stand in the shadow of the Black Lion, waiting to crown a leader.

It’s the start of something new.

A transition from Lance and Keith, neck and neck to Lance and Keith, back to back. A partnership of equals, pushing to the pull and rising to the fall. Where one falters, the other is there to take the slack. It’s the sound of a pistol charging a mere second before a soldier’s blade can meet its mark. It’s the sight of Red’s hull in the middle of a rolling maneuver, shredding through the fighter jets tailing him with one swipe of a massive paw. It’s the hands tugging at his forearm, accompanying exasperated words for him to put down the holoscreen and join the team for movie night. It’s the solemn I respect the Black Lion’s choice, loyalty given wholly and irrevocably.

It’s them.

It’s purely by chance that he runs into Lance later that day, seated at an antique piano pushed to the corner of an empty room in the Garrison’s north building. He’s not in his armor or usual get-up and it throws Keith off, blinking in muted surprise at the sight of a short-sleeved hoodie and dark jeans when the boy turns to face the door he had just barged through. Dark navy meets gray obsidian, painting a thunderstorm on the canvas of the moment.

Keith stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Lance responds out of reflex, tone polite even with the tension that vibrates between them. “What’re you doing here?”

There’s no backlash at his presence so Keith takes a chance and finishes walking into the room until he is standing right at the piano’s bulky edge. A quick glance around reveals the room’s roots as a recreation center, complete with a three piece couch, television set, and foosball table; it’s unfamiliar like most things that are vaguely related to community are, unfrequented in his past because of their breeding grounds for possible social interaction. It’s almost uncomfortable to be there, out of place as he feels, especially so when seeing how natural the blue paladin looks framed by the domesticity of the late afternoon sun. So uncomfortable that he fixes his gaze resolutely on Lance’s hands, slender fingers still poised atop of the keys and at the ready to continue what Keith had rudely interrupted.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

Keith must have done that thing were he goes too long without blinking again because Lance squirms a little in his seat, retracting his hands and hiding them in his lap. “Oh, uh, yeah. My mom’s a big fan of Einaudi and, well, you know how it goes. First it’s one piece for her birthday and then another for mother’s day and then boom, you’re stuck in lessons every Saturday afternoon while everyone else kicks it at the beach.”

Inhibited curiosity stirs within him, rolling with the image of a young boy whose feet don’t even touch the floor, practicing his scales just to see his mother smile. It brings forth a longing that Keith hardly ever feels nowadays, one where it is his own juvenile self that bashfully holds out a newly-drawn picture of his family to his mother, happy and not torn away from him by war. A cycle ensues, one where curiosity turns to longing to jealousy to acceptance and back again, endless like the thrum of a piano string.

Lance opens his mouth, as if to say something to fill the space between them, but suddenly thinks better of it and presses his lips tightly together.

“What?” he asks, because he has to know.

“Nothing. You just look ready to deck me. The staring is… it’s just— kinda intense.”

“Oh.” Keith shifts from one leg to another, grimacing, and looks away. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine.”

A short silence follows his words and it's a weird one. It isn't uncomfortable per se, just… loaded, like someone crammed the world’s entire supply of pillows in between them and was surprised that they couldn't breathe. Keith isn’t sure if he’s supposed to speak up, to fill the blank page of this chapter with the ink of words, so he watches Lance’s leg start bouncing in rapid fire instead, knee making a soft thud whenever it bumps into the underside of the key bed.

Lance clears his throat. “Do you… want to sit down?”

“Uh, that’d be— yeah.”

He sits on the corner of the bench offered to him, careful to keep space between them. Uncertainty seeps through his skin, coloring him with its vacillations, and it’s frustrating because touch is one of the many things that Lance excels in. A nudge to his calf, an impromptu hug, a brush of their shoulders as they walk. Effortless, like few things are.

“You can…” He makes an aborted gesture at the keys. “… if you want.”

Eyelashes flutter and Keith watches their shadows billow over the slope his cheeks, combating the highlights that the sun cast through the open window. A balance of two worlds, night and day, coming together to form wondrous twilight. He thinks of being seven-years old and trying to outrun the setting sun, one leap away from skipping today and landing in tomorrow. It’s a finish line he had never crossed.

Slow, like the sun and stars and moon will wait forever, Lance places his hands back on the board. Weightless, they hang there, letting gravity bead together a string of notes. It’s soft, the song he plays, and Keith listens as it grow into something bigger; profound as the universe’s birth had been, a cacophony of collisions and violent chance, it is its death that will be remembered, a lull into a oblivion so sweet that it’ll have the cosmos sighing.

As if compelled by some higher power, his gaze drifts back down to the boy’s hands. They’re nice hands. Long fingers with wide knuckles, the jut of his thumb straight and his nails cut even. Tendons rise under smooth skin, a parallel to what must be happening under the piano’s lid, and it’s enthralling to watch. There are no music sheets anywhere in sight and Keith marvels at the idea that these fingers are moving on memory alone; from nothing— something, a paradox that only a soldier’s hand, molded to the grip of a pistol and a single squeeze of the trigger away from snuffing out a light, can know.

Lance hums as he plays.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology pushes past his lips and takes with them a great weight from his shoulders, silencing the music. He knows that he can’t stand much more of this but is more than willing to bend in order to end it. He misses Lance. Misses what they had, stupid rivalry and all, and is willing to set the world on fire for a chance to get it back. All he needs is a chance, just a single chance to make it right. He wants to make it right.

“Lance,” he says, swallowing hard. “I miss us.”

Truth makes the words heavy, filled with everything Keith can’t say but means. It’s one of the sincerest he’s ever been, second only to Shiro, you’re like a brother to me and I love you, Mom, and he thinks there’s going to more to it. More begging and more heartfelt turns of phrase, milked for all that it’s worth. But none of that happens and he’s left with Lance, solemn-eyed and soft, just nodding once and saying, “Me too.”

And for once, he thinks, that’s enough.

That night, a flash hits him while he sleeps.

Long fingers trace the grooves nestled between treasured ivory and reflective black, teasing at a melody that skims the mind. A single note sings, the precipitate of a feeling long in its coming, harmonizing with the delicate pitter-patter of the rain that knocks on the window pane. It’s peaceful, cool in the absence of worry and responsibility.

“Any requests?”

Movement, languid and infinite. The sweep of hair as he lowers his head, lips parting, breathing a burning declaration into the skin of another as his hands explore; the body in his lap shivers as he bears down with venereal intent, inhaling and exhaling in time with the world. A gasp and nails dig deliciously into the meat of his thighs.

“I… I don’t think I can play that on the piano.”

“I can help,” he murmurs.

The music that comes after is like nothing he’s ever heard.

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 7 years ago

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Black Panther review

I remember a while back, people were wanting Idris Elba to play James Bond. This stirred up some of the most stupid discourse I have ever seen in my life, but Elba took things in stride and denied being considered for the iconic role. But for me, I had to wonder… what would a black James Bond movie be like? Considering my love for blaxploitation films and my strong belief in Elba’s acting talent, I could only imagine what a black James Bond film would be like (hopefully better than Live and Let Die).

Apparently someone else – Ryan Coogler, to be precise – wondered the same thing, and so decided to make Black Panther, a Marvel movie that is truly a marvel. Quite frankly, we NEEDED a film like this in the world.

The plot picks up a week after the events of Civil War. T’Challa is set to become the king of Wakanda after his father’s death; soon after he is crowned, an old nemesis of his father pops back onto the radar: Ulysses Klaue, a thieving bastard of a man who steals Wakanda’s greatest resource, vibranium. While tracking him down, things get ever more tangled when CIA agent Everett Ross appears on the scene, and THEN things get even more complicated when a mysterious man known as Erik “Killmonger” Stevens shows up. This is one twisted web of political intrigue, one that could change Wakanda forever; can T’Challa cut through this mess and push Wakanda to a brighter future?

Be warned - there’s gonna be some SPOILERS below:

This might be one of Marvel’s most impressive film in the visual and audio department; Wakanda is such a gorgeous country to look at, what with all of its advanced tech. There are some issues – some CGI rhinos that appear are just really, really bad, and some of the fight scenes overuse CGI on the Panther suits (though the latter isn’t really too bad) – but overall this is a damn good looking movie. The soundtrack is just absolutely perfect and atmospheric, and kinda reminded me of The Lion King, amusingly enough. I was more just impressed that I actually gave a shit about the score of a Marvel film, because the scores tend to be very forgettable.

Now the best part of this film is most definitely the amazing cast of characters. We have Nakia, played by Lupita Nyong’o, T’Challa’s former lover and a badass spy who really pushes for Wakanda to get involved more in helping others; we have Shuri, played by Letitia Wright, T’Challa’s badass tech savvy smartass sister, who gets some of the funniest lines (and DOES quote an outdated meme, though in her defense, it was timely for the movie’s time period and also she follows it up with an actual funny joke); we have Okoye, played by Danai Gurira, the badass warrior woman who is head of the Dora Milaje and takes shit from a grand total of zero people; we have Everett Ross, the CIA agent played by Martin Freeman, who is kinda the ‘outsider perspective’ on Wakanda and reacts how anyone likely would in his situation; and rounding out the major supporting cast is M’Baku, the hilarious and badass leader of the isolated Jabari tribe, who is one of the biggest trolls in the MCU as well as a truly effective combatant. Each and every one of these characters is incredibly enjoyable, fun, and likable in their own way, making this perhaps the strongest supporting cast in the entire MCU.

Then we have T’Challa himself. He is an absolutely excellent hero, building off his grand entrance to the franchise in Civil War. He’s cool, he’s honorable, he has some interesting conflict going on due to his duties as king and then later after he finds out the truth about his father… though all that being said, I DO feel a few things with him here and there were either rushed or could have been delved into a bit more. But make no mistake, this is pretty minor, and he’s easily one of my favorite leads in the MCU.

And now on to the REAL stars of the show, the villains! Let’s start with Klaue, played by the always-appreciated Andy Serkis in his second villainous role in a Disney movie as of late… and much like Snoke, Klaue gets wasted towards the midpoint of the film. HOWEVER! Unlike Snoke, who gets very little to do before he gets killed, Klaue is in several scenes showing off what an effective villain he is. That cuttlefish scene in Age of Ultron? Oh, that was just a small taste of the utter brilliance Serkis brings here. Klaue is delightfully ridiculous, giggling and laughing even as he’s blowing the shit out of his enemies. He’s hilarious, he’s enjoyable, and he is absolutely memorable; as far as side villains go, he’s like Taserface on steroids, and I LOVED Taserface, so imagine how much I love Klaue. Leave it to Andy Serkis to give such an animated performance in one of the few films where he isn’t actually animated. The fact Klaue dies stings a lot less when he’s this much fun, though I am sad because he would have made such a GREAT antagonist for future films… though if they can work out a deal with Sony, Kraven could be a suitable replacement.

And then we have Erik Killmonger, played by Michael B. Jordan. Remember F4ntastic? Remember how awful he was as the Human Torch? If you weren’t convinced the man could truly pull off a comic book movie, well, he’s gonna make you eat those words. He doesn’t just make up for his less-than-stellar turn as Johnny Storm with his performance here; he makes up for that whole damn shitty movie that he was only a small part of. Killmonger is a villain you can actually understand, one where you can really see where he was coming from, one that has a plan that you can almost see yourself agreeing with. At the end of the day, Killmonger is a victim of Wakanda’s secrecy and isolationist nature; the killing of his father and abandonment by his uncle is what drives him to villainy, and he wishes to use Wakanda’s tech to arm the oppressed all across the world so they can rise up and crush their oppressors. It’s almost a noble goal, but at the same time, it’s pretty bloodthirsty and cruel, and he really couldn’t give a shit how many innocent lives are destroyed so that he can rule a Wakandan empire the sun never sets on. He’s truly an anti-villain for the ages, and I am going to give him the greatest honor I can think of by comparing him favorably to Senator Armstrong of Metal Gear Rising fame. Their goals are similar for one, as they desire to make their countries truly great at the cost of innocent lives, but most importantly… they have NANITES/NANOMACHINES, SON! THEY HARDEN IN RESPONSE TO PHYSICAL TRAUMA! Killmonger is easily top 5 villains in the whole MCU, and continues the trend that began in 2017 of giving Marvel villains excellent characterization. He can sit at the Big Bad Boys Table with Ego, Toomes, Hela, Red Skull, Loki, and Stane. Good work Killmonger.

There have been some criticisms of this film and of Wakanda that are just… really fucking stupid. One I see come up a lot is how Wakanda is such a big, bad nation for being so isolationist and not helping others. This is literally a fucking plot point in the movie. This is a big part of what the plot revolves around. Hell, Nakia pretty much demands T’Challa start helping the world with Wakanda’s tech, like this is not subtext, the isolationist nature isn’t played off as a good thing and Wakanda’s unwillingness to help others and their secretive nature is what fuel’s the villains agenda, so using this as some criticism of Wakanda to bash it is… fucking idiotic. Then there was this one post I saw floating around with a bunch of dweebs saying how T’Challa had to weaken himself to be able to beat Killmonger… no? Not at all? If they’re referring to the final fight, he weakened the both of them. They both had the same level of power, he just took their suits out of the equation, he never technically had an upper hand there. And if they were referring to the fight earlier in the film… it’s ritual combat. Seriously, I think a lot of the criticisms of this film just want to paint Wakanda and T’Challa as Mary Sues for some… fucking stupid reason. The only way you could believe that is if you didn’t actually watch the damn film. I really didn’t want to address these dumb criticisms, but frankly, I had them in mind the whole time while watching the film and rolled my eyes hard when they were blatantly disproven by text, not subtext, not subtle easy-to-miss lines, TEXT. RIGHT IN YOUR FUCKING FACE TEXT.

But let’s not end this all on a negative note. One of my absolute favorite moments was not your typical superhero moments, but a part at the end, where T’Challa has decided to open an outreach center, and he and Shuri show off a Wakandan ship to a basketball court filled with young black kids who are immediately awestruck by the ship. One of them comes up to T’Challa and looks at him like he’s the coolest thing in the world, and god, I just know there are hundreds of thousands of little black girls and boys out there watching this movie and seeing a black hero kick ass and just be goddamn cool. We all know Blade came first, but I don’t think that makes Black Panther any less important or necessary; representation is always a good thing when it’s done well, and boy is this done well. This is giving black kids heroes and heroines they can really look up to and admire and see themselves in, and frankly, that just makes me happy.

This is a damn good movie, one of Marvel’s best. It’s fun, it’s exciting, and it really does give off a James Bond vibe, if James Bond was crossed with The Lion King. I definitely recommend this if you’re a fan of Marvel movies, I recommend this if you’re looking for a more serious comic book movie, I just flat out recommend this movie. It’s a damn good film, and I hope that Marvel keeps making more films like this. So many action-comedies with a white male lead… it’s nice to get a more serious action-thriller with a black lead. Variety is the spice of life, and this movie here is just the kind of spice I like.

T’Challa is the king of Wakanda, and as a great man once said: “Hail to the king, baby.”

#Review #Movie review #Black Panther #Marvel #MCU #T'Challa #Killmonger #Erik Killmonger #Michael B. Jordan #Chadwick Boseman #Andy Serkis #Klaue #Ulysses Klaue #action #thriller #M'Baku #Wakanda #superhero movie

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