Chapter Text
1
Kosmo is wrapped around the pilot’s seat, his head resting on his paws. Keith feels the tickle of his tail against his ankle. It comforts him slightly, but he’s still nervous. It’s not every day you decide to believe in something, after believing in nothing at all for so long.
He thinks of the tangled web in his head. Of the things he saw in the abyss, and of the unfinished narratives unfurled in front of him. He remembers them, still, after all this time. Not extremely well, mind you, but he remembers the important things. The way they felt — he felt. He felt it all, even though it wasn’t him in his visions. Not exactly.
“Emotional memory” is what Pidge called it. It helps him remember the other things better, the events. He remembers feeling the anticipation, the elation of being in love, the heartbreak when he couldn’t love any more. Four times. And he remembers feeling hopeful at the end, before he and his mother had to go. He doesn’t know what happened after that, to the versions of him out there existing somewhere beyond the bounds of his reality. But he figures that if those other versions of him were hopeful, he’d learn to be hopeful too.
He looks over at the box next to him, strapped into the co-pilot’s chair. It had taken him way too much effort to actually get a box suited for a bouquet of fragile blue flowers native to some marginal planet on the edge of Cluster B. People don’t usually put bouquets in boxes, but it had to survive the trip. A plain old box would have been fine, but he needed a clear panel that would offer a view of its contents. It would look charming, he thought. He wanted Lance to see what they were right away, so that there would be no room for guessing.
Kosmo stirs, whining. He nudges under Keith’s pant leg with a wet snout.
“We’re almost there, boy,” he says, never taking his eyes off the clouds beneath him. Any minute now. The anticipation was a little too much. He reaches over to a dial on the dashboard, figuring he might as well drown out the silence with music.
2
The last thing he remembers is gasping for air, before being pulled under by unforgiving, cold darkness. Separated from the air, from breathing, he thrashes. He knows he can swim, knows he’s been thrown overboard before, knows he’s gotten out alive. But this time is different. This time, the current is too strong, the water too dark, his body too heavy, too injured. He thrashes anyway. He wants to breathe, craving oxygen, craving his home and his bed. He believes he can breathe — it’s usually so easy. But when he dares, he feels the cold enter him, swallowing it whole, burning in his chest. He thinks it should hurt more, but the searing lessens until soon, he feels nothing at all. He remembers gasping for air, and nothing else. He’s gone before he can feel two strong, steady hands grip his underarms, pulling him to safety.
3
“Hey, uh, is that girl in?”
“Who?” the barista is unimpressed, arms crossed. Not exactly peak customer service, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“You know, Katie? The girl with the glasses and the septum ring?” The customer gesticulates, almost knocking over the tip jar. “I was just wondering, ‘cause I like the way she makes lattes.”
“I can also make lattes.” The barista raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, but, I like the way—” he cuts himself off, brows furrowing, refusing to look at the young man in front of him. “Okay, fine. Sorry. I’ll just take filter. With milk.”
“Seriously?” He’s irritated. “We literally make them the same way.”
“No, ah — it’s fine. I changed my mind.”
The barista scowls at him, huffing. He punches something in the register.
“You know,” the customer leans in, a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. “For a guy working behind the counter, you don’t seem all that friendly.”
The barista stops, one hand hovering over the screen. He shoots the customer a dark glare. “And?”
“Uh.” He’s perplexed. “And, nothing? Just trying to make conversation.”
“By telling me that I’m not friendly.”
“Uh, fuck, okay, just forget it.” He shuffles wordlessly, shifting from foot to foot until his coffee is plunked down on the counter, slightly aggressively. Grabbing it, he swings his drawstring bag over his shoulder and bolts out of the cafe.
“What did you do?”
“Huh?” The barista turns to a girl behind him, emerging from the door to the back of the shop. She has glasses and a septum ring. She raises an eyebrow.
“I’ve never seen him leave so quickly. He’s like, one of the chattiest people ever, he comes here all the time.” She crosses her arms.
“He was an ass.”
“You sure about that?” She squints at him. “What’d he do?”
The young man pouts. He grabs a rag, walks over to the coffee machine and begins wiping any stray brown drops from its surface. “He wanted you to make his coffee because apparently mine aren’t good enough.”
The girl laughs. “Keith, he was probably too embarrassed to tell you how he likes his lattes. He likes them scalding hot with a mix of oat and regular milk, and he knows it’s kind of weird. And given how you’re acting, I don’t blame him. You would have probably ripped him a new asshole.”
Keith scowls again. “Who the fuck likes their lattes like that? What the hell?”
“Look, just… next time, don’t make him feel like shit, okay? He’s a friend of a friend. I want him to keep coming here, it gets boring when it’s always people I don’t know.” She stares up at him, smirking slightly. “I know you’ve got this whole edgy thing going on but don’t be an asshole, it’s not cute.”
Keith huffs. “Fine. I’ll be nice.” He smirks.
“Alright, that’s a start.” She leans back on the counter. “And you’re not totally wrong… Lance can be kind of a dick sometimes. His mouth runs faster than his brain. But he’s a good dude.”
Keith resumes polishing the coffee machine. “Sure.”
4
A young man walks into the lobby of a hotel. He doesn’t stop at the desk, doesn’t stop anywhere. It’s almost like he’s been here before. He hasn’t.
He’s carrying a slim briefcase, wearing fitted trousers, a dark trench coat and a tweed cap. A small crowd of wealthy looking guests and cleaning staff crowd in front of the elevators. He sees an opportunity. Brushing his way through the crowd with practiced ease, he slips out of the trench and swiftly balls it up, tightly. He rounds a corner in the hallway, dropping the trench and cap in a bin that is likely meant for laundry. He doesn’t stop walking.
He makes his way to the fire escape, brings his wrist up to ping his watch against the sensor, disabling it. He spins, pushing the door open with his back to ensure no one has turned the corner, and enters the stairwell without a sound.
He knows he isn’t being watched here, and knows the security cameras were disabled for him. Here, he removes the loose button down to reveal a thin leather jacket. He takes a detour on the 14th floor, leaving the shirt in another bin, before returning to the stairwell.
This isn’t the first time he’s scaled 20 storeys. He barely breaks a sweat, having practiced this, trained for this. He runs his hands along the banister, knowing his leather gloves won’t leave a trace. The briefcase remains in his other hand.
He reaches the rooftop. Each and every patron is a picture of wealth — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the iridescent fabrics, the borderline-ridiculous sun hats, and makes his way to the bar. He doesn’t stand out in his leather jacket, but he doesn’t exactly fit in either. Thankfully, he’s clean and put-together enough to pass for well-to-do. His haircut is odd, no doubt, but there are other eccentrics here.
He sits on a barstool, briefcase in his lap, leaving one leg on the floor. Just in case. He relaxes, slightly. Getting in is the hard part. Leaving is much easier.
“Red?” A woman sits next to him, albeit awkwardly. She looks as if she doesn’t know what to do with her legs.
“Uh,” Red pauses, taking in her features. She’s an android, evidenced by the seams and hinges on her skin. Not the only one at the bar — it’s not an uncommon sight, these days. Mid-length, wavy brown hair. A long black dress. She looks well-assembled, albeit unremarkable. Her eyes glow, emitting a faint turquoise light. He furrows his brow. “Blue?”
“Yeah, super weird, eh?” She shuffles a little in her seat, uncomfortable. “They were out of masc models today and had to make do.”
Red chuckles. “What’s it like?”
“Honestly?” Blue turns, facing him. Their posture is all gangly and stiff, inelegant. “It’s like my center of gravity is way too low. Walking feels so weird — I’m trying to sit as much as possible.”
Red smiles, turning to the bartender. He gestures, holds up two fingers, and turns back to her. “I can’t say it suits you, frankly.”
“Yeah, no shit.’ They laugh. “They said it shouldn’t happen again. I stand out too much like this, when I’m… not exactly comfortable.” They frown, slightly. An untrained eye might not pick up on it, but Blue has been Red’s contact for long enough now that he’s finely tuned in to their expressions.
“Something wrong?”
“Yeah.” Blue leans in, toward him. “It’s like dudes are always, watching me, you know? I keep thinking they want to fight, or something, but then I realize it’s… it’s something else.” They shake their head. “I’m glad you showed up. That big guy over there, by the wall, he was giving me eyes and I was convinced he was gonna come over here. He stopped paying attention when you came.”
“What, you could definitely take him,” Red smirks, fondly. He reaches over, grabbing the two glasses of whiskey set down in front of him. He slides one over to his contact.
“I mean, obviously. I can take care of myself, Red. That’s not even a question.” They smirk, clinking their glasses together and taking a sip. Their eyes linger on Red's for a brief moment. “I just didn’t want to cause a scene. That’s not exactly what we’re here for, is it?”
“Nope,” Red smiles, looking down at his whiskey. “Speaking of which.” He slides the briefcase into Blue’s lap, swiftly.
“Thanks.” They furrows their brow, staring at the counter before looking up at their contact. “Hey, Red?” He meets their gaze. They look nervous, flushed, despite being an android. Newer models have complex systems for signaling emotion. It’s a requirement, now, especially for ones piloted remotely by real people — models with a conscience. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” He relaxes in his seat, raising the one foot off the ground. He looks at them, expectantly.
Blue purses their lips, looking away. “You don’t have to say yes. I know it’s kinda… out of nowhere, but… You know what? Nevermind. It’s fine.”
“You can tell me anything, Blue, really.”
They turn to him, sharply. As if they didn’t expect that kind of response. The red of their face deepens. “D-do you…”
“Do I what?”
“Do you wanna sleep with me? Like… now? Like this?” Blue pauses, horrified. “Aw man, that didn’t come out right.”
“What?” Red’s eyes widen.
“WHAT?” A remote voice yells in his ear. “Did Blue seriously just do that? What the fuck!”
Red shuts his eyes, lips pressed into a fine line. “Turn off the comm, Pidgeon,” he mutters under his breath.
“Fuck no! I wanna know what happens!”
“Pidge. Off.”
“Fine. You’re filling me in later.” The faint buzzing in his ear goes dead.
He opens his eyes to Blue looking at him, unsure. “Sorry, I forgot you had the whole,” they gesture wildly, “comm thing going on in your ear and whatever.”
“Yeah, she’s gone though.” He half-smiles, before downing the rest of his drink.
“Forget I asked,” Blue says, looking away. “I don’t wanna make this whole business weird, I just figured, like, it’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve, y’know, connected with someone and, like, I’m not exactly meeting any new people like this. And I don’t know if you only like women, or men, or anything but you’re the only person…” They’re rambling. Blue does this a lot. It fills up the empty space, makes Red feel comfortable. He’d never complain.
They take a breath. “I figured if it was gonna be anyone, It’d be you. You know?” They’re looking at him now, still unsure. It’s so endearing, Red feels something stir in his chest.
He sighs, offering Blue a small, barely-there smile. “I’m gay,” he says, after a moment.
“Oh,” Blue’s eyebrows go up. They eye their drink, before taking it and downing it back in one gulp. They clear their throat. “That’s… Wow, okay, I thought you’d like me more like… this. But I guess…” They’re confused. “I’m like, technically a guy.”
“Technically,” Red echoes, the fond smirk back again. He waits a moment. “It’s not a no.”
“Oh?” They swallow. Or he, rather. He swallows. “Oh. Alright.”
“Just not now. I want it to be…”
“To be?” Blue bites his lip, averting his gaze.
“To be good,” he finishes. “I’d want you to feel comfortable. In a body that makes you comfortable.”
“Fair,” Blue says, a little too quickly. He’s playing with the glass in front of him, tilting it side to side.
“Hey.” Red leans forward, a hand resting on his contact’s arm. He searches for Blue’s gaze, meeting it after a moment. “I mean it, really.”
Blue is looking at him. He notices when his eyes flicker down for a brief moment, before pulling themselves back up again. Red tries to focus on just the eyes — the only familiar part. He waits a couple seconds, making sure Blue doesn’t shrink away at being so close to him. They’re pretty close, now.
He leans in, taking Blue’s lips in his. It’s odd, really, how much synthetic flesh feels normal. But it does feel real, realer than most things he’s felt lately. Blue kisses him back, puts a hand on his cheek. It’s something he’s been wanting a while, and it doesn’t bother Red at all that it’s like this.
1
Keith finds himself on the ground, eyes squeezed shut. He tries pushing himself up, but his gut twists uncomfortably. A soft, fuzzy presence is at his side in an instant, pushing him upright onto his knees. He grabs onto his wolf’s fur, steadying himself.
That last flare was the worst one yet. Keith felt as if he were getting better at handling them. There hadn’t even been one in a few days — which was rare, admittedly, but he was enjoying the break. The flares had started triggering memories from his past that he had already seen before. He figured that was it, that they had run out of material or something. The short break was a relief, honestly. He didn’t need to keep feeling the same things he felt when he lost his dad, when he lost Shiro, when he lost himself, for a time. It felt like picking at a wound that was nearly healed over. Just barely, but enough to open up all over again.
But this time, things were… different. It was honestly so fucking weird, Keith is struggling to wrap his head around it. He saw other people this time, and things that had never happened to him in his life. Except that it looked as if it were him, sounded like him. He felt it, too. Felt his surrogates’ thoughts and feelings. Almost as if he were living it, but from an odd, third-person point of view.
He had watched himself drown. Like, fully drown. The kind where you don’t wake up again. And even though he sort of saw himself get rescued, he had no idea what any of it meant, or where it came from. He also saw himself kiss a woman, which was also weird in its own way. But they also weren’t a woman though… apparently? And he saw himself piss off Lance at a coffee shop, which was probably the most believable thing that happened. The only thing that didn’t mess him up. He held onto that part, and how ordinary it felt, allowing the familiarity to comfort him.
Knowing alternate realities were a thing, having literally visited one, he had no doubt that was what he had seen. Sure, it seemed literally insane. But he was also living on a planet-sized whale in a part of space that apparently defied every concrete law of physics. He was feeling pretty open-minded right about now. His life wasn’t exactly “normal” in the slightest.
He stands up, shaky. His wolf whines, supporting him by leaning into Keith’s side. He opens his eyes, finally, and looks at his wolf. He meets his gaze, his little wolf brow furrowing with concern.
“I’m fine, boy.” Keith offers the animal a wary smile. He doesn’t feel fine, really. He's got a lot of questions, ones he’s not sure he wants the answer to. He can't shake the memory of drowning in the dark, freezing sea. Nor can he really ignore the nagging feeling that the android he had seen reminded him an awful lot of someone he knows well. “Let’s go back to camp.”
Krolia had seen things too. It’s written all over her face when Keith and his wolf return. She offers him a tense, unreadable expression — one that became familiar to Keith over time, over the year and a half they spent together. He had thought it meant she was guarded, that she didn’t want to open up to him. But he had come to realize that it was just what her face did when she was concerned — for them, for him.
“Did it happen to you too?” he says, sitting down by the fire and offering her the corpse of some kind of rodent he had hunted not long before the flare.
“Yes,” she answers. Her gaze drags toward Keith’s kill. She unsheaths her knife and skins it, taking it apart and throwing any extra bits at their animal companion, who gnaws on them happily. Keith stares at the fire, trying not to think about how it felt to kiss Blue. It’s been a while since he’s kissed someone. A shorter while since he had been around someone he wanted to.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His mother looks at him, her voice steady and trusting. Sometimes they talk about what they see, sometimes they don’t. He knows he has the option of keeping quiet, and knowing that he has that option is what makes him speak.
“I saw myself drown. I felt it too.” He twitches. “I think I was rescued though, but I didn’t get a good look.”
Krolia nods her head. She’s not insensitive, she just doesn’t have the same words that humans do when it comes to communicating understanding and comfort. Keith came to realize this after some time, and it doesn’t bother him anymore. Asking and listening are more his mother’s speed than offering up wise words and sage advice.
“I saw myself working in a coffee shop. Lance was there, and Pidge. That one was okay, it almost felt normal.” He smiles slightly. He may have spent a year alone in the desert, but the past year and a half felt lonelier, despite having his mother and wolf for company. He misses his friends. It was good to see them, even if it wasn’t really them.
“You’ll see them again.” His mother smiles back at him. Her smiles are nearly imperceptible, but some say the same thing about Keith’s. They have that in common.
“Yeah.” His smile falters. Neither of them are sure how much time will have passed since their absence. Krolia said, once, that time runs quicker in the abyss than in the rest of space. Keith isn’t worried about his friends changing in his absence — but he worries about himself, and what they will think of him.
“And the third one?” She’s skewering chunks of meat onto a smoothed, thin branch. Her eyes are focused on the task at hand, and Keith doesn’t feel pressure to answer right away. He thinks about how the third one was the strangest, despite nearly dying in the first. He can’t help the nagging feeling that he knows the person inside Blue’s head. It’s only wishful thinking, he tells himself.
“I broke into a hotel, or something. I was delivering a briefcase to a contact at the rooftop bar. They were an android. It was… There was a lot going on.” He pauses, mulling over that last vision. “Pidge was there too. She could speak to me through a comm link in my ear.”
“Interesting.” She hands him a branch, and they take to grilling the meat over the open flame. “It seems the green paladin and yourself have found one another in other realities.”
“Yeah. We were friends, too. In both.”
“And the blue paladin, as well. Even if it was only in one.”
Keith looks at her. There isn’t a sign on her face that betrays her thoughts, though he knows what she must be thinking. She’s heard the way he talks about Lance, seen him in his visions of the past back on the castle ship. She’s never asked questions, probably assuming that if Keith wanted to talk about it, he would. She didn’t ask when they saw the two of them in Keith’s room, when Lance offered to leave the team and Keith made him reconsider. She didn’t ask, either, when they watched him stare at his former teammate across a crowd, distributing supplies to war refugees. She saw her son watch him long enough for it to be suspect, before Keith activated his mask and retreated. When he was in tears, afterward, she only held him close, promising that they would see one another again.
He doesn’t say anything. He only watches the meat sizzle in front of him, feeling his stomach rumble in anticipation.
2
He feels sand between his fingers, the smooth push and pull of water at his bare feet. He must be on a beach, by the surf. Breathing is… surprisingly easy, given how his last memory is of losing himself to the sea. He stirs, knowing that once he opens his eyes, he’ll be met with brightness from the warm sun above him. The storm must be over, then.
He opens one eye, hesitantly, before shutting it again as it stings. He scrunches up his face and tries again, this time rolling to his side and focusing his gaze on the ground.
He sees light sand, and a beach once he raises his eyes further. He pushes his upper body upward with one arm, his other hand pushing his hair out of his face. The sea stretches out before him, calm and bright now.
His eyes trail along the horizon until he looks to his other side, opposite where he had first opened his eyes. He stops, abruptly, on a person lying on their front, body propped up by their elbows. But before he can look at their features, he’s distracted by the large, deep blue fish tail present where one would expect legs to be.
He gulps, slight panic mounting in his chest as he lets himself look back at the more… human part of this person. They’re tanned, toned, and their brown hair is about chin-length, slicked back from being wet. They’re looking at him. Right into his eyes. With a mix of intrigue and confusion, it seems. Their eyes match the colour of the tail.
“Hi,” he says, though he’s not sure why he says it. Maybe because this merperson is most likely the reason he’s still breathing.
Hi, he hears, spoken to him in his own head. They raise their eyebrows and blink at him. It’s their voice, he quickly realizes. This is how they talk.
He swallows, furrowing his brow. “Did you save me?”
Yes.
“Thank you.” He pauses, wondering what exactly one is supposed to say in this type of situation. “I’m Keith. That’s my name.” he adds, after a moment.
His new companion smiles, hesitantly.
Good morning, Keith. My name is Lance.
And as he watches, from his strange, third person vantage point, the other Keith sinks to his knees and buries his face in his hands.