Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
                                                                       　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　☾　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　,　
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  ✮　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.⠀
　　　　✩　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　✴
　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.
　.⠀　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀,　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　*　　⠀.★
　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦
　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*
　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
 　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀
　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　
　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　☾　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　,　
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  ✮　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀
　　　　✩　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　✴
　　　˚　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　ﾟ　　　　　.
　.⠀　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀,
　　　*　　⠀.★
　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦
　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*　　　　　　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,
　　　*　　⠀.
　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦
　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*
.⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　    　　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　
　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　
　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.
　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,
　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　. ⠀ . ˚ ﾟ . .⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀, *⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　☾　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　,　
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  ✮　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀
　　　　✩　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　✴
　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.
　.⠀　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀,
　　　*　　⠀.★
　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦
　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*
　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
 　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀
　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　
　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.
　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,
　　　*　　⠀.
　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦
　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*
.⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　    　　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*
　　　　　⠀　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.⠀　　,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
 　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　
　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　
　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.
　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　
⠀. . ⠀✦ ˚ *.⠀ . . ✦⠀
, .⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀. ⠀Blast to the Past⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀. . ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀. . ﾟ . . ✦ ,
.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * .. . ✦⠀ ,
* ⠀ ⠀ ,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀. ⠀ ⠀. ˚ ⠀ ⠀ ,
. . *⠀ ⠀ ⠀✦⠀ * .
. . . ˚ ﾟ .
.⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀,
✦⠀ ,

Chapter Text

Lance POV

Heavy rain drowned out the chime of the entry bell as Lance thundered into the intimate cafe front of the Patisserie. His sudden arrival sent a brief tremor through the warm ambiance, rattling glass displays into the heart of the cafe. Water dripped from his soaked suit, trailing behind him as he made a beeline toward a small group occupying an amber-lit lounge area.

A long industrial seating counter separated the main shop from the lounge, currently cluttered with piles of books and binders. They were scattered haphazardly, spilling onto nearby coffee tables and velvet gold-trimmed couches.

No one noticed his entrance, already having tuned out the storm into little more than background noise. All, except his gorgeous fiancé ; who sat perched at the counter, stylus hovering over a data pad. His head turned sharply, drawn in by the sudden commotion. Irritated, narrowed eyes blinked into bewilderment at the sight of Lance—every step sputtering like an engine in all his waterlogged glory—Almost unsure of the image he saw before him.

And what an image it must be, Lance thought, acutely aware of the crumpled wreck that was his suit. Like he had yanked it mid-cycle from the wash; hair limp, clinging to his forehead in a damp mess, all to the heroic intro music of leather shoes squelching in a tone-deaf rhythm.

The frantic energy and irritation that brimmed right beneath Lance’s soaked skin dissolved, exchanging his trembling from the cold for anticipation. The forced smile he’d held for what felt like ages eased—melting away the storm he’d carried with him, the frustration, the bone-deep exhaustion. Overjoyed, he’s actually managed to catch one Keith Kogane off guard.

He didn’t wait for Keith to brace himself before letting the full weight of his exhaustion drop unceremoniously over his fiancé’s shoulders.

Keith jolted with a grunt.

Dampness transferred into his shirt and across his back. Though instead of shoving him off right away, he instinctively tilted forward, adjusting to steady the deadweight slumped against him. One hand gripped an arm dangling loosely over his shoulder, while the other braced firmly against the back of Lance’s thigh.

Lance enjoyed the subtle pull of Keith’s muscle at his chest and the firmness of his grip, slacking indulgently further into his forbearance.

He littered lazy, gratified greetings wherever his lips could reach across Keith’s shoulder and the back of his neck—but mostly met his mob of hair that faintly smelled like burnt tires, carrying the distant memory of the Garrison’s training floor. 

He only slightly cringed when he pulled back, a few stray strands stuck in his mouth. Though couldn’t justify even moving his neck an inch away from the radiant warmth that felt like hovering frost-nibbled fingers over a fire pit.

Despite the scowl and furrowed brows etched in place—sharp as ever—Keith uncharacteristically, didn’t complain. Instead, he slowly glanced over his shoulder doing little to hold back the gleam in his eyes that sparked in wonder.

And really, that’s all Lance needed to know how much he had been missed these past few months apart.

“Well, would you look at that,” Lance’s voice strained, holding back a breath he seemed to be still trying to catch. “Made it just in the nick of time.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed, a smirk twitching the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you say two and a half hours late to all your meetings?”

Keith’s fingertips trailed from his wrist, up to pluck at the faint itch at his lips before threading through Lance’s damp hair, playfully shaking it out, scattering droplets in every direction and across the counter.

Lance scrunched his nose. He could only imagine the tangled monstrosity Keith’s tousling left behind.

Though any snide remark or concern for his hair slipped right off his tongue as Keith leaned sideways to admire his work. Grinning smugly, his amusement practically dancing in his eyes.

Something familiar brimmed at the edges of Lance’s awareness, teasing him with its inescapable radiance. I love this man, he thought, I just want to marry him already. Not that he’d say it now—not when Keith looked so unbearably pleased with himself at making a mess out of him.

His arms sneaked around Lance’s hips, still bearing the brunt of him, though the warmth that sunk into his hair was gone, replaced by the dowsing cold of his own suit as Keith pressed a steady hand into the small of his back. A shiver plunged down his spine, just as Keith peeled him away like a piece of sodden paper.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Keith admitted, his voice gentle with a hint of incredulity, as he eased Lance to the seat beside him. “It sounded like the meeting was going to run longer than expected.”

“Yeah, but I never said I wouldn’t make it,” He declared. His grin a little crooked. Now seated, he had to arch a bit awkwardly with arms still clung around Keith’s shoulders, “Better late than never, babe!”

Lance’s eyes wandered across the room, shifting slightly to ease his posture and to take in the busy hive of workers around them, nose-deep in varying tasks and conversations. With a raised brow, he added, “ Doesn’t seem like there’s much cake testing going on though.”

His gaze caught on their wedding planner–Dawn. Who stiffly stood beside the Garrison’s PR rep, Aoife, and a towering man he assumed was the pâtissier catering their wedding. His tallness exaggerated by the height of his toque and a curled mustache that looked straight out of a lineup of ancient cartoon villains…Truthfully, man made it work though.

The three loomed over a corner booth, pouring through large books and—blueprints?

He took in the clutter around them again and gestured. “What’s with the half-a-library covering this place, anyway?”

“Apparently, we can’t pick the flavor until figuring out the design and how it’s supposed to hold up. Something about density and temperature affecting flavor integrity.” His lips pursed in that uncertain way Lance had come to expect when he couldn’t decide if something was absurd or one of those ‘normal’ things people just accepted without question.

“Who cares! As long as it tastes good, it can look like a goddamn weblum! What are we supposed to hire an architect for the cake too?”

His fiancé chuckled, and the sound tickled Lance’s chin, settling something in place, like a keystone he hadn’t even known had been off-kilter in the first place. “Hope not, we’re already waiting on enough permits as is.”

Lance tilted his head back, snickering at the joke, yielding to that settled something that loosened the tension in his shoulders. The feeling of being home.

At least as close to it as he'd gotten in months. His line of work taking him away to varying corners of the universe, helping planets and galaxies find compromise in their new found times of peace. Untangling the mattes of tyranny left behind by Zarkon's rule and getting to tour about the more beautiful and less depressive and depleted parts of the known universe. 

But nothing beat the view he got to enjoy right here. Unobstructed by blue light and resolution limitations, he found he was having trouble keeping his eyes from taking in every detail of his fiancé. Feeling like a man who'd taken his first bite and realized he’d been starved. 

More than that, for the first time in weeks—maybe longer, his thoughts slowed, and the familiar taut buzzing under his skin quieted. The world at large snapped into focus, with a wonder that tightened at his throat.

He couldn’t seem to pin it down—the millions of small, impossible-to-name things that made up this …this …just this …He wanted to bottle it, frame it, keep it, yet the more he tried, the more it seemed to slip through his fingers like a moment turning into a memory.

“Lance?” Keith’s voice broke through his haze, steady and amused.

Lance opened his mouth to respond—only for a sharp tone to shatter his focus, his thoughts slipping from him drawing him instead to the back corner of the room.

“It’s. A. Mess.” Aoife spat each word, voice low and serrated, slicing straight through the ambient warmth of the room. “Not to mention mechanically impossible. We need something more stable. Respectful .”

Her icy stoicism clashed sharply with Dawn’s ferocity, that the air all but crackled between them.

Caught in the crossfire, the patasiere cleared his throat, in an attempt to moderate the escalating tensions. “The concept is certainly, certainly…ambitious.” He remarks in a careful tone. “However, this is merely a rough sketch of course. The details can be refined, of course—and the latticework may appear fragile, but I assure you with the right sugar—”

“I’d like to hear at least one—ONE design idea from you today, that doesn’t look like it’s meant to entomb something!” Dawn interjected loudly, her small stature, having no problem overpowering the presence of the man twice her size. “I’m telling you, the tower concept is perfect! They add height , grandeur , drama! A perfect way to serve the guests without compromising the presentation! It’s the utmost symbolic representation of the towering heights of love and-”

“This is exactly the problem.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dawn sneered, " I forgot this is a wedding , how inappropriate to have any mere reference of love and hap—!”

“Would you stop yelling !”

“Would you stop interru-”

“At least a dozen cultures in attendance believe tower structures are relics of oppression. Relics of war and violence . Which some of them have just lived through and it would be egregious and offensive to be welcomed to a celebration when the cake is a reminder of their devastating losses.” Aoife went on, sounding as though scolding a child. " And you want to start dismantling them in front of the guests to serve? That’s a dozen more outraged at the blatant omen of fractured unity.”

She lifts a book from the table. “Now this,” she shoves it open inches from Dawn’s face, nearly smacking her with its flying cover. “ It’s classic, elegant, and most importantly dignified .”

Dawn’s eyes flashed with boiled-over frustration, “Well, this wedding is on Earth .” She grabs the center fold of the book and begins to try to rip it from Aoife’s hands though it doesn’t budge. “My clients are both from Earth —we are not catering to every single superstition in the cosmos!”

Typically, Lance would throw in a suggestive comment about their rivaling energy, maybe teasing their own up-incoming marriage after all of this. But after a rather l o n g, grueling couple of months enduring intergalactic tensions over treaty terms—capped off by the draining flight he’d just taken halfway across the known universe—he wasn’t in the mood for it.

Though Lance couldn’t hold back his disbelief at the scene, as the two women started fighting over the book. Neither holding back their strength.

Considering their build difference and Aoife’s military background, he was impressed with Dawn’s resistance.

Somehow the assistants, don’t bat an eye at the altercation, tuning it out like the storm outside.

“There are plenty Earthian cultures with similar views!”

“EARTHIAN IS NOT A WORD!”

Aoife flinched back from the echoed scream in her face, however, gave no other indication of letting go of the book.

Lance pressed his forehead to Keith’s shoulder, rubbing at the aching pressure building behind his eyes.

“You can’t tell me this isn’t giving you a headache?” He knows how sensitive Keith’s hearing is— if he was feeling the pinch in his skull, Keith’s head had to be rattling by now! He didn’t look it, though, and just shrugged, bobbing Lance’s head with the gesture. “Think at this point I’m used to it.”

“Should we stop them?”

“Already tried,” Keith replied wearily. “It’s easier to just wait and let them tire themselves out.”

“Two hours —and they’re not worn out yet?” On a side note, Lance quirked his brow up at his fiancée “And since when have you started trying to apply to sainthood? I’ve seen you get impatient with a toaster. ”

“Gives me time to work on my report.” He gestures to his data pad.

Lance gave it a distasteful look. One thing he certainly didn’t miss from working directly with the Garrison was the never-ending paperwork. So much as you thought of giving a command or not giving one, it needed to be locked-in to a paper trail, or else you get the ‘so-tell-me-about-your-train-of-thought-here’ meeting.

Straightening in his seat, Lance turned his attention back to the tug of war. “Well, I’m here for some damn cake.” He rolled his shoulders, getting himself ready to project at least some authority over this situation, “Cover your ears, babe.”

He let out a sharp, piercing whistle that echoed through the chaos.

Following the silence, a flash of lightning lit up the windows, accompanied by a rumbling growl of thunder from outside. A very satisfyingly, unexpected display of drama, leaving a few assistants gawking at him with just a tiny bit of awe.

Lance sat up proudly, and wrestled with his features at his own surprise at the timing and a swell of vainglory that was hard to cap. It’s not the most diplomatic approach, but it got the job done.

“Now that I have your attention,” he said, leaning into the moment, “how about we keep it simple and have the cake be regular-cake-shaped: three-four tiers with extra slices in the back for distribution time?”

He glanced at Keith, who uncovered one ear to raise a hand in support. “I second that.”

After a pregnant pause, Lance lost the battle with his smirk as no objections were raised. Order restored —it was a rare win to get a speechless crowd these days!

Of course, It didn’t last.

Aoife released her grip on the book, having Dawn bungee back, stumbling back a meter, nearly falling on her ass.

Never one to be caught off guard for too long, Aoife stepped forward with military precision and snapped into a rigid salute before him. “Pleasure for you to finally join us, Colonel. We weren’t expecting your return from Tzerlan for another month. We hope the negotiations ended favorably.”

Oh god, this again. He thought, grin growing tight as he forced a breath through his nose, “Lance is fine, " the words already a tired reflex on his tongue.

Besides, he could barely call himself a ‘Colonel’, and they all knew it. Just another infuriating reminder of the Garrison’s grip on their lives—even here, even now—in the midst of planning for his own wedding.

“And we’ve still got about a month or so left before we can wrap up this sect,” his voice steadied, working in a lighter and more casual tone. “We’re just on extended recess for the next like-40 hours- or so, thought I’d pop in, help with the cake…maybe take back that Wedding Binder, and get through some more finalizations on my side of things. Getting things back on track and all.” Lance winked at his fiancé, a knowing smile passing between both their lips.

Both knowing it really wasn’t as simple as he made it seem. It took favors, careful maneuvering, and some major ass-kissing over the last two months to pull it off, and he had already maxed out the legal number of court absences he was allowed for the year so he didn’t have that to fall back on anymore.

Not that the Generals and reps of Peace and Sanctions hadn’t been lenient with certain dates and situations—cake tasting, however, certainly didn’t count as an exception or a medical emergency- which, on record, is absolute bullshit.

Especially with this potential threat to intergalactic reverence!

He was kind of mad he didn’t think of that while drafting his Leave Request.

It was just, he was finally looking forward to something a little more lax and fun. Keith always swore he didn’t like any type of cake, an unheard-of phenomenon that Lance just had to challenge, with an arrangement of cakes from a world class baker. Seriously when would they get another chance like it! And he couldn’t miss such a revelation. A milestone!

And with just a couple hours to spare really, he wasn’t going to let some stupid design choice stop them now!

“So if we’re all finalized here, I say let’s get on to the next part.”

“HOLD— hold, hold. Hold-on a moment,” Dawn blinked, still recovering from her struggle with Aoife.

“How long did you say you’re staying for? Two days?” She blinked between him and Keith, eyeing them with a look that definitely wasn’t pleased that neither of them notified her of this.

Lance sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. To be fair. Lance barely knew if he was even going to make the meeting at all. “I didn’t know until last night. This isn’t exactly a long vacation.”

“You leave tomorrow, then?”

“Just after midnight….tonight.” He clarified just in case she thought to squeeze him in somewhere else. He still needed a couple hours for the commute back.

“Carlo!” Dawn’s voice rose as she called out over her shoulder. “See if Threading can fit Lance in right now for his suit fitting!”

Right now? Like… right now , right now?

Keith’s head snapped up, but before Lance could protest, Aoife chimed in, her voice low and measured.

“Just wait on a moment,” she started, “ Before you start dragging him out the door maybe consider his insights on the intercultural nuances.”

Lance looked to Aoife, gratitude outweighing his annoyance at her ‘Colonel’ comment from earlier.

“She’s right!” He cut in, just as another voice interrupted.

“Got Lora on the phone—would Paladin McClain be able to get to Italy within the hour?”

Dawn’s response was swift, cutting off any chance of protest. “Yes, he will!”

Lance’s stomach dropped. Italy. Now!?

“We can run those details remotely,” She waved off Aoife with her hand passive aggressively inches from her nose, “ Right now the suit takes priority.”

“Dawn, I don’t think flight control is going to give me clearance for that kind of speed planet-side.” He tries, though the countering look that flashes in her eyes makes his arms drop to his sides in a half-hearted gesture of defeat.

“If you can get here from across the universe in just a few short hours, I’m sure it can take you minutes from here.”

Okay…admittedly that was a weak argument to begin with.

“We’re already behind on your suit, and it’s already hard enough to get you here with all your scheduling conflicts. I don’t want to waste you on a meeting like this. Go now, and we’ll have the cake drawn out by the end of this meeting!”

End of the meeting? Wha-So he came all this way and they weren’t even going to get any cake at all?

He had to admit, he liked Dawn, he liked that she fought for them, trying to balance what they wanted with what the Garrison demanded. But right now? He could hardly stand her.

“So,” Lance tried to hold back his disappointment and frustration, “We’ll need a second meeting for this? Isn’t that a bit excessive?” He shot a glance over at Keith, whose gaze flickered downward, shoulders dipping just enough for Lance to notice. Heart going heavy it—tipped something over in Lance.

All in all, in his mind, he knew he shouldn’t make a big deal about this…but all he could feel was the years’ worth spent juggling work and wedding planning, of the constant back and forth commute, Dawn and Aoife’s ear-grating bickering, and the weight of the endless wedding binder. When was the last time either of them even held a conversation that wasn’t about this stupid wedding that was more and more a publicity stunt for the Garrison than anything else at this point?

He was tired. He was irritated. And he just wanted one nice moment with his fiancé. Just one nice evening, eating cake together, and hopefully watching one perfect slice change Keith’s life. Was that really so hard to ask for?

“You know what? No.” His voice rose, firm and honed to an edge. “We’ve already settled on dates and a timeline. I know I’m holding us back on a few things, but you also can’t just keep adding more dates to the schedule because you two care more about arguing with each other than actually getting things done!” His resolve settled in with the fire behind his words. “I’m staying.” He exhaled sharply. “If that’s what it takes to keep you guys on track, and finish this to completion, then so be it. You think Keith here has endless time at his disposal too? We’re seeing this through— now .”

Keith placed a firm but gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder. His gaze met Lance’s wearing an expression he could probably draw from memory by now. Solidarity. “Lance has a point.” Keith certified.” We can’t keep adding more meetings every time something doesn’t go exactly as planned. Like you said, it’s already hard enough to coordinate our schedules and right now you have both of us here.”

Lance could melt. He could dissolve and be condensed, absolutely nothing left of him but a puddle of love and affection. However, Dawn didn’t give him a chance to even test the theory.

“There won’t be a second meeting.” Dawn settled. “The cake samples are already all freeze-preserved. There are enough slices for each of you to take with you. The flavor can be decided on in your own time.

“And as for the design…we’ll be sure to finish it by the end of today. But you’d be saving us a lot of time by getting your measurements and inputs out of the way with the tailor. And I’d like to get some more buffer room for you in case we need any last-minute alterations… Regarding any future delays…” She paused.

If Lance’s frustration was a wildfire then hers was a solar flare.

“It might be worth suggesting to the Garrison to send in someone a little more competent and a lot more efficient…for this sort of thing.”

Aoife who had already started to pale at Lance’s reproach, now appeared like how Lance imagined a polar bear might look after its job security was threatened.

The pâtissier decided that was the opportune time to chime in rather unhelpfully. “On my mother’s memory, once you reverse the preserving process, it will taste as if you’ve plucked it from my very hands!” 

“Great.” Lance remarked. Yet another moment stolen by duty, and responsibilities.

Just wonderful.

He started to lift his hand to pinch at the bridge of his brows when the pâtissier caught it and clasped both of Lance’s hands in his own. Lance barely registered what he was trying to do until his mind finally made sense of the frantic handshake.

“I have to just say before you go, it is such a pleasure to meet you most of all Mr. McClain! Truly, truly, tru~ly a great great honor! I was just telling your fiancé how you saved my village during the—”

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Dawn cut in, her tone clipped. “But right now, we’d prefer to respect Mr. McClain’s time.”

Lance blinked, a half-formed retort already rising to his lips before he caught himself. “It’s alright, Dawn!” He said with a sheepish smile. Like a second skin, Lance slipped into his public figure persona, matching the man’s enthusiasm with a firm grip. “Think I can afford to get to know our star chef here!”

He laid thick the compliments and gratitude, which he found easy enough, given that he had been excited to try his cakes.

Before long, Lance got to hear how cool he looked taking down a destroyer drone that targeted a remote village during the Galra attack, way back when.

The man’s voice trembled recalling the helpless fear, gutting him as he yelled after Garrison fighter jets streaking just ahead towards the major nearby city. Too far to help his family and neighbors as they dodged enemy fire.

It wasn’t unlike the countless stories Lance had heard before, yet he couldn’t stop the prickling behind his own eyes, just as the pâtissier's tears fell, raw and reflective. The intensity of the moment, however, might have been slightly abated by the man’s iron grip; which was starting to bite painfully into Lance’s skin.

Despite still being a bit damp from the rain, he pulled out his pocket square and offered it to him. Briefly, wondering if it sounded arrogant to joke about signing it for him after he was done with it—though at that point Dawn was already shoving him out the door.

Umbrella in hand, Keith trailed after, announcing that he’d walk Lance to his Lion to keep him from getting soaked again. And Lance tugs him out the door before anyone could point out the extras in the umbrella stand at his feet.

With the swiftness of a flicking switchblade, Keith popped open the umbrella, and Lance was at the ready, swiping it from his hand before he could hold it steady, like a true gentleman.

Keith’s expression flickered wide, before shifting into a type of tentative levity that didn’t quite hold the same familiar fire Lance was used to seeing when he did something unexpectedly chivalrous—it felt distant, muted.

Lance watched him for a beat longer, sensing the way Keith settled into his touch, but he didn’t lean into their interwoven hands. Which was just a bit worrying— usually he clung extra hard to the excess of Lance’s heat when his hands were that cold.

Lance tightened his grip just a fraction as they moved deeper into the storm and the early winter air.

Really, he should have been nagging Keith by now for not bringing a proper winter jacket, so they could have waddled their way back huddled beneath it. But he looked less open to any of Lance’s usual antics for tonight.

In general, Keith was more prickly when he was cold, and maybe Lance was a bit too tired, himself, to try to tease those quills with any real finesse.

Especially in that downcast gaze of his staring light-years away, with a dimness of dwindling embers. Despite his presence feeling like standing next to an open flame— steady and easing, doing a much better job shielding from the cold, than Lance was on his side.

He could tell he was disappointed. And an ache drilled itself a pit in Lance’s chest, feeling a bit responsible for it. 

He subtly tilted the umbrella more to Keith’s side—a small automatic gesture that somehow made him feel just a bit more pathetic. As if this was all he could do right now.

He’d been the one who pushed more heavily to make their wedding this big, grand thing once the idea was presented to them. Insisting they deserved nothing less. That this would be their compensation for all they were put through.

And though Keith had his own reasons for agreeing to it, here he was—flailing while Keith quietly held everything together, never once complaining. Not-a-once.

All Lance had done was complain…and miss half the meetings, stuck on the other side of the known universe…it’s why he had so badly wanted to plan something special-something just a little memorable. But now, even that felt like another hollowed-out promise.

That was getting a bit too common for his liking these days. Guilt drilled deeper further down to the pit of his stomach. It felt like it might hollow him out completely.

He gathered some of his thoughts as they halted at a signaled crosswalk, watching the blinking red light reflecting off the wet road.

Lance expelled a rather loud breath—Not entirely sure what was about to come out of his mouth.

When in doubt, start with the basics.

Keith was already watching him expectantly at the sound.

Just the sight of him framed by the backdrop of cascading rain from the umbrella’s edge, made the words spill out a bit easier in their small, intimate bubble.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, giving Keith’s hand a gentle squeeze, hoping it carried some of the weight and sincerity he couldn’t quite express. “I keep dropping the ball on you, leaving you with all the heavy lifting.

“I know it’s unfair, I know it’s a lot…so thank you for being so great and keeping everything on track. I wanted to express that better, especially today, but instead, I’m stuck playing catch up and probably going to bore you with cultural theories instead for the next couple of hours.”

He managed a small smile before adding, “But I do promise I’ll make it up to you somehow. Once this sect is over I’m going in one hundred and twenty percent! I swear it!”

When the pedestrian light turned, Lance nudged his fiancée forward, noticing a faltering hesitation in Keith’s step.

“Where’s this coming from?” He frowned, eyes narrowing, searching his face.

Okay…so maybe Lance’s rambling hadn’t quite hit its mark.

He tries again, channeling his Keith-speak. “You…just look like you’ve been ejected out of the wrong end of a wormhole, and I know it’s because I haven’t been here to help you steer through…all this.”

Lance honestly couldn’t tell if that landed any better, but the subtle twitch in the corners of Keith’s frown felt like a small victory in the battle against words.

Keith shakes his head, his gaze holding a bit more focus than before. “We’re both managing what we can. Even if we’re not always working at it side by side, we’re still steering through accordingly.

There’s a stubborn intensity in his tone, a quiet insistence that Lance knew well. Trying to command away Lance’s concerns before they dig in too deep.

“And you don’t have to kill yourself either trying to keep promises I don’t need from you. I don’t need one-twenty percent. "

“Then what do you need?”

Keith’s frown deepened glaringly. Lance is almost convinced he’s going to say ‘nothing’ which Lance already has his answer to that. Bu—llshi—t.

He shrugged, surprisingly, with mostly a real answer on hand. “Just be here when you can and take care of yourself.” His tone wasn’t particularly warm, and neither was his gaze as it zeroed in on Lance’s soaked clothes with something close to contempt— like he was on the verge of ordering him to strip and hit the showers— and not in a sexy way. No, in the increasingly familiar, mother-hen way that crept its way into Keith’s demeanor sometime after the war.

Not that Lance would dare point it out. That was one hill he refused to die on—only partly out of self-preservation. Mostly because of how endearing his fretting was. Not even the cold, damp weight of his suit could smother the warmth it stirred in him.

Keith’s attention flickered back to his face pointedly, eyebrow arched prophetically. He nudged Lance for good measure, signaling that he had enough of any serious talks for today. “Besides if anyone looks like they’ve just came out the wrong end of a wormhole— it’s you.”

If he had a free hand Lance would have immediately ran it through his tousled hair, recalling how someone made a mess of it earlier. “Really? I think the whole ‘battle-worn hero making a grand return to his beloved’ look suits me, actually .”

“Hmm,” Keith mused, his gaze flickering over him, unimpressed. “Who won, you or the hurricane?”

Lance scoffed, leaning in with a roguish gleam. “I made it here, didn’t I?”

Keith’s eyes darted to his lips, a fleeting motion, but Lance, being the simple man he is, did not need a second invitation. He whirled in front of his fiancé closing the distance between them; capturing Keith’s mouth with his own.

Keith was usually all teeth. Toying and nipping wherever he could sink them. Now it’s not so relentless or unrestrained. It was slow—lingering, desperate.

Electricity battered down Lance’s spine; lighting a fire that burned through his torso and into his hands. He wrestled with the urge to pull him closer, trying not to press his clammy clothes against him in the cold. But Keith didn’t seem to care.

He tugged Lance flushed against him, holding tight, seemingly oblivious to the chill probably soaking through the shirt beneath the open folds of his lightweight jacket.

The world around them muted a bit like this. Reduced to the gentle sound of water running somewhere around them; warmth bleeding where gale and rain couldn’t claw its way between them.

Pulling back just enough to look into Keith’s eyes, Lance grinned, mischief overcoming him. “See? I won.” His voice dropped to a whisper, rich with reverent, already leaning in for another—then another. “For you, I’d cross the universe every day if you asked me to.”

Keith brushed his thumb along Lance’s jaw, a sound rolling out of him, like a purr of an engine rumbling past Lance’s parted lips. He licked over the warmth it left behind, savoring its distinct taste of resonance.

It was a far cry from where they began, a thought that swirled briefly before Keith angled to rest their foreheads together, disarming him of any further thoughts entirely.

“I’m glad you’re here—”

Lance’s ringtone cut savagely, and rather rudely interrupting him, like an obnoxious alarm clock capsizing them out of a dream. He reached for it, seriously considering just chucking it out of sight, when a flash caught in his periphery— not lightning.

Looks like some tabloid scored themselves a cover photo ; and from the irked sidelong glare on his face, Keith noticed too.

Though they weren’t necessarily concerned about paparazzi money shots—aside from the general annoyance. It usually meant an added surprise to their schedule from their friends at PR-A la Garrison. No doubt perfectly overlapping his lunchtime—Keith’s dinner—once he got back to the Tzerlans.

Awesome .

With a deep sigh, Lance begrudgingly pulled back, unable to find his earpiece in his pockets. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, freeing at least one hand to lazily smooth down the more errant strands of Keith’s bangs reluctant to sever the connection from their moment entirely.

“Yes, Dawn.” He chirped sweetly; irritation clawing up his throat, sharp and tangible, like a round seated in its chamber, ready to lash out.

“You forgot the Binder.”

Lance groaned, swearing under his breath. “Seriously?”

“I can grab it for you.” Keith offered, unsurprisingly able to hear the other end probably as crisply as Lance’s own ears.

More surprisingly, apparently so could Dawn.

“YOU’RE STILL NOT AT YOUR LION!”

Lance stuppered, rubbing at his lobe, which burned like it had been punched. “I-ah-I’m about to launch right now actually.” He winced. Definitely, not believable . “Just… parked a little far off. You know, city life and giant lions don’t mix well.”

He tries to end the call, but Dawn holds him to lecture about being respectful and to call after the tailor gets everything he needs from him.

Lance barely registered much else before noticing something like ash floating in the air. His gaze flickered upward, and his focus slipped entirely as he interrupted abruptly— something about signal interference with his lion before cutting the line.

“Holy shit, it’s snowing!” He blurted, all his frustrations forgotten as he dropped the umbrella. Thick clusters of flurries spiraled around them, erratic and alive. Keith looked up, just as a strike of lighting lit up behind the cloud.

Lance watched Keith’s lips part slightly, his eyes reflecting the pale glow of the lightning. Thrill struck him like a live wire as a distant memory surfaced—a planet far from here, where they’d last encountered snow together…Or at least, something with its resemblance. However, the coal-like lumps there had been underwhelming. Nothing like the delicate, crystalline patterns he had once seen on Earth.

Something he’d vowed to show Keith in person one day.

What were the odds of the timing? And lightening! He sent a quick thank you out to the universe for handing him the perfect chance to stage a comeback.

Lance set the umbrella down. “Give me your hand,” He instructed and was only given a puzzled look once it was in his grasp. He turned it palm out and gently lifted it into the air to let the snow gather in his palm.

He spared only a fleeting thought for any more cameras lurking about; deciding to let them take as many pictures as they wanted. The damage was already done, and he’d like the memento of their first snow together anyway.

“What are you doing?” Keith asked, his tone caught between distrustful and exasperated, as Lance settled behind him grabbing his other arm.

“Obviously I’m too hot,” He jeered, lowly. Tilting his head to nuzzle his cheek against his fiancé's hair; his breath warm against Keith’s ear. “It’ll melt the second it gets near me.”

Lance could only see the tail end of the curl of his mouth as Keith gave a small snort. “That’s your excuse?” He leaned a bit further back and tilted his head to give him a knowing look.

“It’s not an excuse; it’s the laws of science,” Lance said matter-of-factly, “Now do you wanna see some real snow or not?”

There was a moment of pause, in which Keith just gazed at him. His expression shifting to something unreadable and searching. As though starting to shift through those dusted memories himself. Lance could see the recognition catching up as he turned back to the sky, another sharp flash of lighting brilliantly illuminating the storm clouds in the distance.

“I didn’t know that could happen,” Keith murmured, tone somewhere between wonder and suspicion.

Feeling a bit devilish, he bit back a laugh, “Wow—hey, do you think the clouds are plotting something?” He asked, tone grave.

Keith slid him a flat look, deadpan. “Dunno, should we go interrogate them?” A lopsided smile sneaks its way past his dry humor, and a faint exalt escapes him, curling into smoke.

Without another word, he settled, resting his head against Lance’s jaw. Letting himself be used as a personal snow catcher, rather content with taking the role if the wide grin spreading about him was anything to go by.

Lance guided Keith’s palms out invitingly; however, most of the snowflakes whirled past, rather shy or apprehensive about settling on the skin.

The quiet moment stretched, and not a single flake found itself yet in their grasp.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Keith lamented after a while, teeth worrying his lower lip. Breaking through the stillness with a half-hearted sigh.

“Yeah, but I don’t think Italy has snow— or fiancé’s right now, so I’m not much in a hurry.” Lance grinned, tilting a bit of pressure against his partner’s temple. " Why? Trying to get rid of me, already?”

“Trying to save you from Dawn’s wrath actually, when she sees tomorrow’s papers.”

Lance sucked air through his teeth, as one really large cluster spiraled past, evading their reach. “I happen to have a lot of experience with firecracker personalities. Getting married to one actually.”

“Might be harder than you think. I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Ouch, babe. Way to kill a man’s confidence,” Lance said, faining injury with a wince. “Here I thought I was a universal taste.”

“A universal pain in the ass.” Keith huffed.

“Okay, now you’re just fishing.” Lance raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “But fine, I’ll bite ‘cause you’re cute. " He made a show of clearing his throat. “That’s exclusively all~ll your’s baby—happy?”

Keith’s lips twitched, “Hmm, doesn’t usually take so much effort to pry something like that out of you. What gives?”

“Excuse you! Are you implying I’m easy?”

“No…just really, really charming.”

“If you’re trying to distract me with sweet talk, just know—it’s working. You’ll never get rid of me now—”

Finally one landed right into their waiting grasp at the hollow of Keith’s hands. Lance guided them to take a closer look at the feathery cluster, that looked so light and airy, appearing like it was about to float away in the wind.

They leaned in, catching the light, showing a glimmer of fragile entanglement of glassy shapes around the outer edges of the melting mound. They watched marveling, and he could feel Keith go still, holding his breath, as if he was afraid even the slightest exhale would risk disturbing it, making it vanish all that quicker.

When it disappeared, Keith turned to him with a wide expectant grin—bright and open, like a kid wanting to be swept up again, ready for another spin. It was impossible not to be drawn into it. His own pretenses melting away like the snow dissolving against the heat of his skin, until everything made sense again. Until everything felt easy and simple again.

Lance couldn’t resist obliging, reaching out with open hands for them to try again, the snow orchestrating its escape around them. Still, they managed to catch a few more delicate flakes that lingered for only a heartbeat— there and gone again.

“They look like the paper ones,” Keith said. Referencing the paper snowflakes they made with Lance’s cousins for their art project.

“Much nicer than the cotton balls, don’t you think?” A knowing smile tugged at his lips, his voice light with the double meaning that he trusted Keith to catch. "What did you think they looked like?”

“I don’t know—like white sand maybe.”

“I used to think it would look and taste like powdered sugar,” Lance admitted. “Imagine my disappointment when it was just cold and hard to catch. But…think it grew on me.” With that, he tilted his head back sticking out his tongue, breath curling into the cold air.

Keith stared at him for a beat and followed suit. Not even a second later, he made a noise of surprise triumph. “Ah-y cau’gh one!”

Lance joined him, calling in his own muffled noises of victory, mentally noting how much more easier this was than trying to catch them with their hands. When his gaze drifted down, the sight of Keith grinning widely, with his tongue sticking out, was too much. Uncontrollable laughter took over, spilling in a cloud of breath as he tightened his arms around Keith, shaking both of them with the force of it.

Keith shifted in his hold, now facing him and pressing his cold nose into his neck; huddling there, the last of his resistance crumbling as he visibly quaked against the relentless cold.

Lance tried to warm him, his hands darting up and down his arms and back, his breath concentrating steam to his pink ears. He didn’t even mind when Keith pressed his fingers at his armpits, holding them down firmly to trap in whatever heat he could seal.

He knew he was probably making it worse, all things considered. And knew he’d have to be the one to pull them apart— because if it were left to his stubborn fiancé , he’d keep them there until historians unearthed their ice-encased bodies.

Still, Lance didn’t move right away. The moment feeling too short, and tomorrow too near.

“Sorry, we didn’t get to try the cakes together.”

“We’ll eat them together next time,” he replied easily. “It was more about coming to see you anyway.”

Keith hummed, “I know.”

Lance shifted slightly, starting to pull back, regretting it already as the air bit savagely in the spaces that used to be Keith. He didn’t linger after that, "Come on," he said, pulling them hurriedly against the wind toward the direction of his lion—barely remembering the umbrella at their feet.

He tried to preserve some heat in his fiancé’s hands, blowing puffs of breath into one before focusing attention to the other as they walked. Occasionally, pressing a quick kiss to his iced tips—minutely aware of where they’d just crawled out from and not caring in the slightest.

In his own way, Keith seemed to distract him too. “Do you actually remember where you’re supposed to go after this?”

Lance blinked, almost wanting to be offended.

He’s not that scatterbrained!

“Uh—yeah, totally. To the tailor’s, obviously.”

“Address?”

“Okay, maybe not totally.” He remarked. He hands over his phone for Keith to record himself in his voice notes.

“What would I do without you?”

“Probably left holding over an entire country,” Keith teased, handing him back the device.

XXXX

He’d dropped Keith off as close to the pâtissier's as he could without drawing Dawn’s attention, keeping humor present in their conversation until the moment came for goodbye

Which wasn’t really a goodbye. They’d see each other home soon enough and fall asleep in each other’s arms. A month would pass, and they’d do the same for many more nights.

He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the familiar rough texture of his engagement ring. Only to notice it glowing, the feel of it pulsing under his skin just barely distinguishable under the hum of Reds flight—but there it was. And Lance held it receptively.

Chapter Text

Keith

Keith wasn’t supposed to have made it this far—statistically, at least.

Once, he’d been the kind of kid people usually stopped seeing the moment they realized he was more trouble than he was worth. Another grim statistic in the making, most people felt more comfortable to overlook as a lost cause and not think twice about.

And for a long time, Keith was more than happy to return the favor. Ignoring them. Shutting out their judgments, their prophecies, sidelong looks, and muttered words they thought he couldn’t hear, but he did. He always did.

And he ignored all those, too. It was easier that way.

Besides, his regular day-to-day didn’t leave room for wasting away on pity parties and dead ends. What people thought of him was none of his business, and he’d be damned if he wasted his energy proving them wrong. If the world already decided who he was and what was to become of him before he even had the chance to figure it out, so be it.

He had actual important shit to deal with. At least that’s what he told himself…

Not that he didn’t have actual real shit going on—but sometimes, when your defenses are cobbled together haphazardly, held up by anger, spite, and desperation, things tend to catch up with you whether you liked it or not. And yeah you could outrun some for sure, but some shadows just traveled faster than your own legs could carry you.

So, admittedly in the darkest corners of his mind, in the places he tried to avoid but inevitably wandered into; he hoped. 

He hoped to become strong enough to defy the expectations of his fate—a fate that showed itself in nightmares as another body left behind in the desert for scavengers to tear apart, bones left forgotten to bleach beneath an indifferent sun.

Or, in examples used in “field trips” for troubled boys to see where they would end up if they didn’t listen to their foster parents—locked up—just another troubled DOC number. His legacy, a rusted nameplate marking his burial in a prison yard, to serve as a piss target for prisoners and guards for generations to come.

Or— if you asked Lance—willingly living in a tent to pursue his calling of wearing tinfoil hats and waving doomsday signs about an alien invasion to deaf ears.

“You would’ve had such a grand ‘I told you so’ moment before the Galra wiped us all out,” Lance once said, smirk curling into its familiar shape.

Keith had rolled his eyes at that, but something about the sensibility underneath the humor stuck with him. Maybe in some warped, twisted way, that version of his life—any of those versions— might have been easier. Simpler. At very least, predictable.

Where his mistakes were his alone. And the only weight on his shoulders belonged to him—leaving no one else to suffer when his grip faltered.

Yet here he was.

More than a survivor. More than a statistic. More than a maverick of his time. And maybe, just starting to figure out what that all meant in the clarity of hindsight.

He’d been one of the first to introduce Earth to the universe beyond. Led as a respected general, toppled corrupt empires, sparked hope back into the doomed, and helped stitch the universe back together again, for the most part, on better terms than they’d been handed.

He found his mother…along with answers to questions that haunted him for as long as he could remember—answers he’d once given up hope for.

And somehow—against all reason—through chaos and uncertainty, he carved out a place for himself and found more.

His center.

A family.

A home.

Love.

Yes—despite the odds, he wasn’t just lucky. He built a miracle.

Sometimes, that line of thought ignited him with loud, arrogant pride. And sometimes, it wrung him up deeply, wondering what the price of miracles was anyway.

Other times, it was just enough— just barely— to convince him out of bed in the morning, even when his body ached with the weight of memories, scars, and the choices he carried.

But on mornings like this—peace felt tangible. Not a fluke or a fleeting gift. But solid. Earned. Like a mosaic of hard-won choices, cemented piece by piece, forged into something whole.

On mornings like this—when the ghost of Lance’s kiss still lingered warmly on his skin. When the comfort of a familiar weight mixed with the unequivocal scent of him all around—Peace felt real.

He reached for it. Expecting to find his fiancé beside him tangled in their sheets and covers. Overslept, serene. Right where he should have been.

Instead, his fingers sank into fur—dense and plush.

His mind cluttered to consciousness—blearily adjusting to the early morning darkness. Through it, he began to make out the soft outline of a large wolf, sprawled belly-up on Lance’s side of the bed; Legs splayed in shameless contentment. Cosmo’s hind paw twitched in a dream, hovering mere inches from Keith’s face.

It was almost enough to be funny. Almost—close enough to feel, but not enough to hold.

Though, he knew who would laugh at the display, and reached for his watch to take a picture. The weight across his back, however, had him drawing his arm back.

For a split second, his mind supplied an image: Lance lay diagonally across him, cheek cradled into the dip between his shoulder blades. His heartbeat, a rhythmic thrum, absorbed into Keith’s side—a sleeping position he was used to on Lance’s more restless nights.

Instead, when he craned his neck Terra’s sleepy eyes met his. Their rescue mutt resettled her eerily familiar weight and huffed a slothful sigh. Keith’s fingers moved instinctively, scratching behind her button ears.

He let his hand fall back to the sheets as a heavier, yet all too well-known gravity settled over him—of the conscious type he tried to ignore—feeling how he always felt these days. Pressed. Like a bruise too often prodded raw just beneath the skin.

Stretch. Get up. Move.

His mind nudged forward, talking him through his routines to prep for the day. It was clockwork, but effective.

Coffee—scratch that— Feed the dogs. Run. Shower. Check schedule. Train with Terra. Reports— A steady rhythm of predictable and necessary tasks.

He reached to rake a hand through his hair—only to feel a few strands caught on something on his cheek. What the—?

Keith peeled it off his face, eyes narrowed, and blinked at a post-it note with rushed unmistakable handwriting:

Good morning, my unbearably hot,

ungodly rugged future husband! I love you

♡

1 out of 101

A quiet huff of amusement escaped him—a soft, breathless thing.

Of course, Lance couldn’t just leave him with a simple goodbye—always finding some way to be unrepentive and provoke Keith one way or another, even in absence.

Keith ran his thumb over the ink, expression sobering, recognizing the note for what it was; another ridiculous attempt to ‘make it up to him.’ A seemingly unresolvable conversation they circled back to far too often. Each round like a thread winding tighter and tighter against his nerves, making Keith unsure whether to roll his eyes, pull his hair out, or walk away from the conversation entirely when the topic came up.

Maybe it’s guilt, He thought, lifting the note tentatively closer. He sniffed it, catching a more distinct undercurrent of Lance—an aromatic, always earthy and ozonic scent, mixed with the sweet citrine spice of his hand cream.

He held it there for a moment, breathing him in and trying not to picture the Lance he’d seen that late night, too early to have gotten more than a few measly hours of sleep. Coaxing Keith to bed the way he had, only to slip out the moment he’d drifted off to sleep to rig up his little game.

Unsolicited, but insistent guilt , throwing him over some edge he thought he needed to atone for. It didn’t take much these days. This time probably for missing Christmas and New Year’s.

Not like Keith ever gave a damn about the holidays—not before Lance, and only enough now to go through the motions for his fiancé and his family.

He probably hated this more than Keith ever could. Having to sacrifice family and tradition to work. If anything, to assume Keith would get upset over something like that bothered him more than anything else.

Still…

Still —despite himself, Keith’s head sank back down with a sigh.

…Because it was sweet. So, infuriatingly, gnawingly sweet, that Keith couldn’t help the besotted smile, half-buried into his pillow.

He never knew someone could care so much, so deeply. And it’s not like Keith could fault him for that either. As far as he was concerned, if his most annoying grievance was that his fiancé cared too much, well—what kind of complaint even was that?

More so, one sure-fire sign that his life was going pretty damn well, all things considered—Maybe even a miracle of its own kind.

Keith’s eyes lingered on the note for a long moment. He drew in a slow breath, then stuck the post-it back on his cheek before reaching for his watch.

XXXX

The days blurred together after that—passing into an odd limbo, both too long and not long enough.

It hadn’t taken Keith long to start finding the notes—some impossible to miss, almost entirely in plain sight, like the note hidden in their sock drawer: Better wrap it up, hot stuff. Wouldn’t want you to get cold feet.

Others he found by chance—like the one found crumpled and mixed in with coffee beans after he’d dumped them back out of Lance’s grinder to store for him: I love that you let me kiss you even when I have coffee breath.

Some were more sentimental, like the one wrapped in Terra’s old house training leash: Our family might be a little wild, but building it with you is my favorite adventure—and a lifetime has only just begun.

That one stayed with him, kept folded in the pocket of his officer jacket, catching himself fiddling with it absentmindedly. Pulling it out on occasion, when he’d mistake it as scrap paper.

Then there was the one he had to fish out of the toilet bowl tank: Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite plumber, think you can help me with some pipes later. ¬‿¬

Keith groaned, only half-exasperated. “What is this even supposed to mean?” He asked, holding the cockled note up during that night’s video call.

Lance just leaned back, a mischievous gleam lighting up his grin. “Whatever you want it to mean, babe.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, attempting to look relentlessly unimpressed, “So… absolutely nothing, then?”

“Unbelievable! Do I have to do all the work here!”

“You can’t give it meaning if it doesn’t make sense to begin with.”

Lance threw his hands up. “That’s literally what making up what it means, means!”

They spent so long going back and forth like that, that Keith didn’t even get around to complain about the one he found that morning—folded into an origami square, left on the door frame leading to the backyard: I’d leave my backdoor open for you any day—just not this one. This is your reminder to lock all the doors every night.

There were seven of those reminders in total. And when he finally remembered to bring it up, he made a point to quip back that he hadn’t forgotten to lock up once since Lance had been away.

“Yeah,” Lance tapped his temple with a self-satisfied grin, "cause the notes are working.”

Keith was reluctant to concede.

Admittedly, it took Keith an embarrassingly long time to find no. 7, appearing when he finally put the toilet seat down: Thanks for putting up with all my shit.

But there was one note that continued to elude him: Number 42—and it was starting to drive him crazy.

Though, judging by the state of the notebook in front of him, it was clear he’d crossed that bridge some time ago. Pages upon pages were left covered with his unraveling mind— frantic scribbles crammed into any white space he could find. Arrows veering wildly circled leads spiraling into dead ends, and ideas obliterated in fits of frustration.

Keith leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on an unfinished trail of thought, scanning the scrawled pages for the hundredth time. It was the type of stream-of-consciousness tact planning that Lance once muttered, “could put someone in a coma if they were forced to decipher it.” Though Keith was starting to think that figuring out Lance’s mind was going to put him in one instead.

Because Lance was nothing if not deviously artful—Something Keith was reminded of when patterns began to emerge among the harder-to-find notes. Cracking the code with note 51. Both a breakthrough and a confirmation of how maddeningly clever his fiancé could be: Baby, are you an alien? Because I searched the entire galaxy for the love of my life, and yet somehow, found you in Nevada.

He discovered it behind a false drawer in their kitchen cabinet—the one Keith despised with unrelenting passion. Why pretend to be a drawer if you can’t even function as one? Every time Keith pulled on its useless handle, he cursed its existence. Of course, that’s exactly where Lance had hidden the note, and the connection hit him immediately.

51; Area 51—Keith’s most hated conspiracy cover-up; hated cover-up; a hated front; false drawer. A false front in a false drawer.

Keith had stood there in the kitchen, note in hand, like he’d unlocked a new level to this game, then excitedly bolted to find the already half-filled notebook to scribble out the remaining numbers.

Like number 38; 3/8; March 8th— the date they moved into their home. Home; house; foundation; Of course, the note was wedged in a tiny crack of the exposed foundation wall in the basement. The same crack Keith created when they first moved in, accidentally jabbing one of the cinder blocks too hard while carving their names in with his knife to commensurate buying their first house together; I can always count on you to make the best, glorious holes.

But 42 remained a mystery. Despite running through every possible connection— sifting through all the puns, word plays, inside jokes, and shared memories and associations he could think of. Only for it all to come undone just as quickly as he drew it.

He had eliminated most potential options, though his gut kept pulling him towards one path in particular: “answer to the ultimate question of life, universe, and everything.”

A reference from one of the books they’ve read together.

“Forty-two,” Keith muttered under his breath, tipping his pen against the notebook, frustration feeling like it was hitting a new peak.

42; answer to ultimate question of life, universe, and everything; the answer a location. But what was the answer to everything? What is everything? Everything; Matter; Energy; Quintessence; Voltron;

Voltron!

Voltron; lions; team; unity; togetherness; teamwork

Lost, he combed through every piece of Voltron memorabilia they owned: relics from missions, trinkets from tours, and mostly things Lance picked up or asked him to steal during their time in space.

Itching with impatience, he resisted the urge to break or dismantle anything for the most part.

He did end up finding a note there, though it hadn’t been 42.

We do make a great team—now it’s your turn to remember to lock those doors at night.

After that earlier second toilet note, he retraced his steps, revisiting old hiding spots just in case. Even scouring some places for a third time, but ultimately to no avail.

However, after finding one under Black's paw in the Garrison hanger: They say Black likes his pilots in control at all times, looks like we have the same taste in men because you’ve got total control of my heart — he was starting to wonder if this last note could be somewhere outside their home.

Okay, think Kogane. Together; where do we go together?

He cycled through everywhere he could think of: missions, planets, Earth,- Everywhere—it was all too broad. He needed something specific, something them .

Their anniversary was coming up…maybe he was supposed to look in the place where they’d gotten together? Though, as far as he could tell, there was still a minefield of active supernovas near those coordinates. If Lance left anything there it would be long gone by now. Pushed out by masses of energy currents, lost to deep space…unless…he encased the note in place somehow?

He let that line of thought go, scribbled out the idea realizing that the coordinates were way too far out. Neither of them had access to wormholes, so there would have been no time for Lance to get there himself anyway.

Twirling the pen in his hand, he considered the phrase again: answer. to. the. ultimate. question. of. life…universe…and. everything… together …where do they go together…

He broke down the components, trying different combinations in his mind:

everything, together;

universe, together;

life, together;

Life, together …his pen tapped between the combination. That sounded like something….that felt right. He latched onto it, following the thread of thought.

Life; together; home? That made sense…but he’d already exhausted everywhere in their home…somewhere else…

Life; together; marriage? The thought surfaced, and he mulled it over. Wedding planning did take them to various places, but the bulk of it was done in the living room …or on video chat. He paused, a possibility dawning on him.

Could the note be virtual?

…a virtual note…his data pad….

The realization surged through Keith, a bolt of excitement crackling up his nerves. He abandoned his notebook, heart pounding wildly, grabbing at his data pad instead.

Hastily, he swiped through the interface— files, documents, calendars, reminders. Tapping through pages and pages of notes and archives; Each tap grew more frantic until—a sharp pain jolted him out of his search, as Hunk’s foot kicked his shin under the table.

Coming out of his thoughts his eyes fixed to the holographic display before him, suddenly painfully aware of the conference room full of suits and execs, all staring at him.

He gave Hunk a sidelong gaze in question when Admiral Woodpeck’s voice clued him into where his attention was supposed to be.

Fuck.

“Lieutenant General Kogane.”

Woodpeck’s voice clipped, like a well-aimed blade deliberate in grazing his ear, bristling his scattered thoughts into silence. Instinct snapped his attention to the head of the table.

With an intensity that verged on unnerving, Admiral Woodpeck fixed him down with a look suited for a predator staking its claim. Striking something rare and primal in the valley of Keith’s senses. Very few people managed to intimidate him like this. He would’ve been impressed if he didn’t feel as though he was dangling from a crumbling edge.

“Forgive me,” She spoke with a smile, but Keith knew what a display of teeth sounded like. “You were so…engaged in your notes just now, I assumed you had something valuable to share regarding our current issue in R’thian.”

Keith’s jaw tightened, gripping his pen firm enough that he could distantly hear the groan of plastic under the tension of his fingertips. He noted the power move behind her polite barb, and considered several responses of his own, each sharper than the last.

But stopped himself, just making out Hunk’s pleading doleful look in his periphery. A look combined with a brief flicker to the clock on the wall that meant they were close to lunchtime. Bidding him, to maybe consider his battles afterward and not on an empty stomach.

It was only the years worth of trust in Hunk’s competencies and instincts of being his right hand in both battle and bureaucracy that gave Keith pause to consider.

He didn’t particularly feel hungry but could taste the disproportionate spike in his irritation. Something pent-up and restless gnawing under the surface.

Slipping.

He couldn’t afford that. Not now. And certainly not for Woodpeck’s satisfaction. Getting him to displace his temper was just the thing she was probably fishing for.

Like when she personally volunteered to break the news that the Voltron Tour being rescheduled earlier; cutting straight into their wedding planning just months before the date.

He still couldn’t figure out what he did to personally piss her off enough to get on her shit list, but then again, everyone seemed to have a reason to hate him these days. Especially during these holiday months, falling soon after the anniversary of the Galra’s attack on Earth.

As much gratitude they were shown for saving the planet, there was just as much resentment simmering just under the surface. As if the sight of him was a reminder of everything lost. Of all the changes they couldn’t come back from, good and bad.

It didn’t help when the tabloids showed off happily engaged paladins either.

“Just making sure I have all relevant details covered.” He said voice taut around the silk of his words enough for her to notice the steel outline beneath.

Her lips twitched—whether in disappointment or irritation, he couldn’t tell. Instead swerved his attention back to the hologram, flickering with data streams, graphs, and a map with multiple red blinking pinholes.

He recognized it from the start of the meeting—two and a half hours ago. Sensitive zones in the R’thian galaxies where threats to embargo routes were on the rise after an increased surge of Zarkonian sympathizers in the region.

“Commendable, Lieutenant General,” her response veering just shy of condescending. But if she was able to leave it at that, then so could Keith.

Unfortunately, the pause that followed made it clear she wasn’t done.

“I trust those notes include actionable insight, not just observations. Seeing as you’ve been lauded for your superior strategic developments , it would be a shame for such reputable integrity to be wasted on barren personal affairs.”

Each syllable calculated to draw blood, yet framed with such distaste, it was hard to tell if she was bored or repulsed by him. “Let’s just pray your brilliance hasn’t been entirely diverted, during our dire times of need.”

Some in the room laughed, even the undercurrent hum of the holoscreen seemed to buzz in amusement in Keith’s ears. While Hunk, who usually tried to remind him to take a breather, looked too speechless to intervene, expression halfway between surprise and a wince.

Keith however didn’t flinch under Woodpeck’s sharp gaze, nor did his knuckles whiten over the plastic of his pen, despite her words landing where she wanted them to.

Integrity.

Barren.

Personal affairs.

The words rang distinctly of echoes of equally provoking and disrespectful sentiments.

From stale, timeworn homophobic ignorance to the new-age critics that fell into varying puristic aims.

One side hating Voltron for ever involving Earth in any sort of war or intergalactic integration. Blaming the paladins for leading the Galra to their doorstep or ‘provoking’ them to attack. Wanting nothing but to banish them to open space and let things go back to how they were.

The other side condemned them for not doing enough to fully integrate Earth into the known universe and amass advancements in technology and medicine. Going as far as resenting them for indulging in “frivolous” things—like marriage or relationships— when they could be devoting themselves to curing cancer.

Better yet, at least in some circles, leveraging Voltron’s influence to boast Earth’s standing into inheriting a large chunk of intergalactic power. Political. Technological. Militant.

Keith’s personal favorite were the workplace snobs upset at the double standards for the paladins breaking the rules of fraternization. Raging on how instead of losing their jobs, they had a Garrison-funded wedding.

It usually wasn’t hard to guess where someone landed. Especially when it came to the Garrison’s people. Only now did he consider that Woodpeck might have chosen a side.

Despite the circumstances, Keith could almost stand to feel amused. Frankly, he’s heard worse things about him and his engagement just walking down the street.

Let them… The words came like a reflex to his mind.

However, it was the blatant hypocrisy that made the situation nearly laughable.

Woodpeck. Of all people—the same woman who helped draft and championed the idea of making their special double paladin wedding a spectacle.

Woodpeck, who had sat with them among the many Garrison political chess masters and architects. Charting overarching plans designed for long-term socio-economic ripple effects. Possibly leading to actually curing cancer, ending world hunger, and all the likes.

They’d invite the greatest, most brilliant, and most powerful in the universe to this once-in-a-lifetime event. And unlike the countless times before, this would be one invitation they wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Because despite the universal trust in Voltron and its paladins—Earth was a different story.

A young, ambitious, and severely underdeveloped planet that shortly into its debut into the known universe, squandered much of the goodwill it once held.

Now synonymous with opportunism, and known as a planet that gained its rapid space presence from stealing from more developed planets and individuals. Using its associations with Voltron as a poaching right.

And after just starting to recover from the exploits of Zarkons rule, the universe didn’t take its reputation lightly. And Earth found itself silently blacklisted.

But sure, let’s pretend you’re not one of the people with the most to gain from this theatrical show of a wedding.

The sheer absurdity to spit it up in his face right now…calling it wasteful, barren.

Keith’s hand twitched at his side.

Though giving credit where credit was due, she was right about one thing. Wedding planning had been keeping him busy and the distance it kept between him and his fiancé distracted.

Holding him back from calling these fuckers out for so long that the contents of the words unsaid tasted like something dead and sour in his mouth. So much of it…he could choke on it. But he thought he’d let her do the honors instead.

Remind her how good he was at his job of toppling those once deemed untouchable, and how, unlike her, he didn’t rise within from blowing smoke to shitheads who wanted to complain to him about the mess in their own ass.

Keith laughed humorlessly and stood from his chair. The shift in the air ran through him like a heavy current. The room grew silent. Suddenly holding its breath.

He didn’t realize that his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his blade until he registered the suffocating fear wasn’t his. But directed at him. Which was ridiculous all he did was stand. His weapon not even drawn—hadn’t even planned to—hand already falling away from it just as quickly as it appeared.

It almost shocked the anger right out of him, but the subtle shift in Woodpeck’s expression, gaze locked on his, unyielding but no longer dismissive-it would be a lie to say it didn’t give way to a sick curl of satisfaction in him.

The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of someone shifting in their chair, an action aborted halfway as though trying not to draw Keith’s attention.

Spineless . He thought. All of them.

Though what else should he expect from policymakers and diplomats adorned in badges for others’ accomplishments or bought in backroom bargains? Probably not a single honorable scar decorating their porcelain skins.

“You’re right, Admiral,” Keith said at last, voice low and deliberate. “I have been holding back… Let’s fix that.”

“That’s—”

With a quick, decisive motion, Keith’s hand took control of the hologram and expanded the map across the entire length of the conference table.

The living blueprint unfurled layers of drafts and expanded the data into view. Trade routes wove through the glowing display, like veins, branching towards resource hubs. Along the veins glowed dozens of pinprick markers for disturbance reports.

“These,” he said, gesturing to the points, “are minor disruptions. Organized, yes, enough to be impactful, but not the coordinated insurgency you’re trying to paint. This is too sporadic, localized, and inconsistent to be an uprising; while targets are usually smaller shipments and not key assets.”

Instead of individually going by the reports, he cut the fat making his point by uncensoring the covert military routes. The ones they should have been worried about. Keith initially figured the omission was from a lack of clearance in the room. Though if that’s the case they shouldn’t be at this meeting, making these decisions in the first place.

He continued, “While looking into Zarkons history with the region; under his control, these localizations were also mostly self-sustained. In comparison, treating the area like a war zone makes us look like tyrants to the very rebellions we’re trying to prevent.”

He swiped the hologram again, bringing up data streams and projected outcomes. “What we need is to build trust with the system and show them that we’re not here to exploit them for their resources or profitability. Especially when their planet’s structures and ecosystems are almost carbon copies of Earth, a base planet to Zarkons’ resistance.”

You’d think they’d learn by now, and didn’t need everything spelled out for them.

Keith tapped on the map with deliberate force, as he selected through data markers. Companies, logos, and shipment details flickered into view detailing the affected goods. His jaw tightened as he scrolled through the list, many of which used suspiciously familiar lettering.

“Though, now thinking about it,” he said, tone coated with accusation. “Spending so much of our time and resources on something as trivial as— minor trade disturbances—seems almost wasteful…Tell me, Admiral—this wouldn’t have anything to do with your own personal affairs? Would it?”

His finger hovered over a name that popped up enough times in his research, enough to be notable.

“Woodpeck Corp.” He said flatly before meeting her glaring expression through the hologram. “Any relation?”

“You bring up good questions for long-term solutions,” The words interrupt Keith’s attention to a different corner of the room. Catching the gaze of the Secretary General, who sluggishly searched his person for a handkerchief to wipe his lenses.

“However short-term threats and considerations to valuable resources must be accounted for as well…when you see so far into the future you may forget or get lost in the details that are supposed to help you get there.”

Keith saw red in that moment. His vision narrowed, pulse pounding in his ear like a drum while anger surged through him making the room go distant. He opened his mouth to retaliate, just as Hunk snapped to a stand beside him, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

A sharp wail of alarms and warning lights broke through his rage. 

“Code: 38-555” A voice rang from the intercom, cutting through the tension at Keith’s chest like hot iron to ice.

His mind ran blank for a moment, residual anger stuttering against the urgency he felt at his senses as he let the numbers wash over him.

38; High priority; Intruder detected-555-Voltrons lion hanger.

Keith’s head snapped to Hunk, eyes locked as Hunk’s face paled.

Keith didn’t spare another useless second to glance back at the others in the room nor waited for permission to be dismissed.

He sprinted out of the room, Hunk at his heel.

The current of people moving in the opposite direction thickened the closer they got to the hanger. Keith gritted his teeth, as shoulders slammed into him as he forced his way through the chaos.

Keith fought to stay clear-headed, suppressing his body’s reflex to sharpen his senses. When the sirens blared louder, echoing through every hallway, and lights reflecting harsher off the steel walls, it was much easier to get disoriented.

Rounding past several Garrison officers, directing traffic towards designated exits, they reached the hanger’s sealed entrance. But Keith didn’t slow.

His fingers punched in his emergency override code to bypass the lock.

“Cover me, but stay close to the door—no one gets out.” He commanded as the control panel glowed green and the doors unlocked with a prolonged hiss.

Blade in hand, he advanced through the door.

From what Keith could see the hangar was empty.

Or at least, nothing out of place since he’d landed there that morning.

With his proximate surroundings clear, he looked toward the two lions, looming tall ahead. Looking both untouched and unmoved.

Black. Yellow.

Keith let his mental prowls connect with Black for any details she could give him. Having done so so often, it was second nature, yet this time, the link felt elusive against his reach. He struggled against its slippery escape. The instant he secured his hold around the connection, a searing flash, like lighting, interrupted the link like an explosion erupting within his senses.

Pain spazzed down his spine. He reeled, tasting metal in the back of his throat. A howl erupting past it. Instincts screaming to dislodge himself from Black.

With his hold around the link dropped and the pain subsided, though it took effort to not slump to his knees. 

He tried to reach out again, hesitant this time.

The light flared again, and he dropped his reach instantaneously. Disconnected, he was able to see rather than feel the flare. An outline—like lighting—formed around the Black Lion.

He stood there, transfixed, unsure exactly what he was looking at. The outline, refracting a crystalline-like aura. White light drawing painfully through the lion. The light ate away at the features of the Lion, while the head—Black’s cockpit—seemed to warp around it before his eyes.

He ran towards his Lion, only briefly noting his lack of paladin armor and bayard, but if the intruder inside was solid his mother’s blade would be enough.

“Whoever you are, you have a second to get out of there,” He said letting his voice rise sternly, though he wasn’t particularly optimistic it was going to work.

He hoped getting the intruder to talk could at least get him insight into what was radiating off his Lion. At least buying him some time to test if there was a way into the cockpit.

He still couldn’t get a good connection with Black, who stood still, as he neared closer.

There was no answer from the intruder, and the strange energy flared. He leaped back. However, mid air the light engulfed him.

Everything stilled—Black, the hanger gone from all his senses.

There was nothing, not even gravity to pull him down. Marooned and left adrift in a sudden white void—leaving him with the impression of floating in open space. Nothing to propel him, nothing to grasp. No direction to orient himself.

Helplessness unsettled his stomach, as the suspended moment drawled on endlessly. He braced against its unknown. Unsure if he was waiting for impact or for something to fight.

Instead, a gentler sensation brushed his senses, light as a whispered breath. It ebbed and drifted over him in a soothing kiss. Coaxing him to

A second—awareness of gentle warmth and pulsing

A s e c o n d — a v o i c e

A s e c o n d — i m a g e a f t e r i m a g e c r o s s e d t h r o u g h h i s sense of s i g h t b l u r r i n g i n t o e a c h o t h e r

A second—visions, he thought. Like the ones in the Quantum Abyss.

A s e c o n d — n o, m e m o r i e s

Before he could latch onto something concrete, a shockwave ricocheted through him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He just vaguely recognized the jolt of an impact, coursing through his body where there had once been void, now tangible existence. 

Solid. Alive —his thoughts screamed.

Muscle memory took control, rolling him with the force of the impact. The cutting sharpness of reality throbbed painfully in his muscles, in a way that almost made him miss the light.

Stillness weighed over him for a beat and with a sharp inhale, his eyes flung open and the familiar contours of a cockpit took shape around him as light spotted his vision with every blink. The amber glow of the yellow lion enriched the space in a steady warmth, a sharp contrast to the harsh light from moments before.

He recognized the unmistakable Hunk-shaped outline at the controls before the details filled in.

“Got your back, buddy!” Hunk called, sparing him only a flicker of a glance before turning back to his monitors.

It was enough reassurance that Keith willed himself upright and onto his feet.

Ahead, the viewing monitor was covered in data sets and analysis tasks that fragmented over the viewing window. But he was still able to make up the way the Black Lion twisted unnaturally with the light. Almost appearing like a corrupted reflection against water rather than something made of ore and hard steel.

Hunk worked furiously, hands sorted through readouts and overlays across the monitor and ventral workspace tabs. Data scrolled in endless streams and erratically spiked graphs. Keith didn’t need a closer look to know everything was coming back inconclusive. Most flashed error codes before the scan could finish.

Before he could even think to ask Hunk directly the Lion shimmered one last time before—

Gone. It was gone.

Falling out of sight. The only thing left behind was a sliver of crackling light— brilliant. Electric— like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.

“What the hell is that?” Hunk’s voice whispered, hand hovering still before jerking back through readouts. He scrambled through more data, scanning and rescanning as though sheer will could make sense of what was going on.

“Getting anything?” Keith kept his gaze fixed on the light, a lump building in his throat as he desperately tried to reach for Black through it. He strained, grasping into—well… nothing.

“From the readings, it seems to have a similar component to—to whatever that white hole to Oriande was made of—but that’s—” His words choked off. “FUCK—it’s shrinking!”

The information punched Keith like a physical blow, and before he could think, Hunk flung the controls forward. 

 Still wobbly from his earlier plunge through the flare, the sudden jolt sent him stumbling back. He reached instinctively, just barely catching himself on the back of Hunk’s chair.

“HUNK—WAIT—”

They fell through, slipping through as easily as any wormhole. However, something seemed to shift despite the lack of resistance or buildup. 

A rush, combined with the sensation of falling, almost knocked Keith over.

The next moment, the falling sensation was replaced with a halt as though they knocked right into something solid. The sensation multiplied like a punch, over and over again.

Keith fell back.

When he opens his eyes again, back on the floor of the cockpit, Keith’s not sure if he simply blinked or had been knocked out for longer.

“Huh.”

“What’s going on,” Keith groaned trying to roll back to his feet— a much harder task than it should have been. The forces crushing him from all angles made him feel like his weight had doubled.

…Which should have been impossible since the Lions were specially engineered to combat such atmospheric changes.

“Nothing…just remembered something…that should have made going through this—ah—wormhole…I think that’s what this is—a lot harder to go through.”

From his spot on the floor, Keith bore holes into the back of Hunk’s pilot seat. He was going to murder him when he could stand again. “Why did you go through it , if you weren’t sure what it was!”

“Oh, you mean like how we did when we entered through any and every wormhole we’ve ever first encountered!”

“We could have called Allura if it was some type of entrance to Oriande!” He gruffed, feeling like all the oxygen was being squeezed out of him the higher off the floor he got.

“You want your lion back or not? Because we would have lost Black’s trail back there if we hadn’t gone through.”

There was no use arguing, Keith thought, biting the inside of his cheek. They were already through and judging by the way Hunk braced around the controllers, he could barely hold things together enough to steer them through—let alone turn them back now.

He was going to double-kill him when they got out of this. Mentally promising ten-fold the fury he had shown Woodpeck before.

“Well, are we in Oriande?” From this angle, Keith squinted, barely making out a kaleidoscope pattern in the view window. Not entirely sure what to make of the place.

He distantly remembered hearing stories about their journey through Oriande, but never saw it for himself, having been with the Blade when Voltron had encountered it. 

“No—ah—I don’t—SHIT”

Keith barely registered the curse before everything turned sideways—flung violently through the cockpit.

He grabbed an uneven wall, but his grip faltered, and in a snap of a second, he was weightless again. This time tumbling between the floor and the ceiling like a snapped rubber band. 

A sharp sting sliced the top of his head near his temple.

He landed in a heap on the ground, the impact rattling through his bones. For a moment, he just lay there wondering if it was concerning that his vision was vibrating…Probably. Should’ve taken the extra time to grab my helmet and paladin suit, he thought ruefully.

“Sorry, Keith!” Hunk’s voice sounded more distant than he liked. “It’s pretty bumpy in here!”

“You think?” He shot back, a sticky warmth trailed down his temple, and when he lifted his hand to check, red smeared across his palm. Perfect .

Just what he needed right now—a minor head injury. Probably a concussion too.

He brushed it off to deal with later. With his head buzzing he forced himself to focus. “Do you still have eyes on the intruder?”

“I’m pretty sure we just hit into the Black lion, so hey, we’ve caught up!” He paused giving way to a nervous laugh. “Now I just need to lock-in on their location—Uh...any advice on taking Black out? Because I’m going to be real with you—think I’m gonna need em!”

Keith took a moment to think—though actually working through the implications made the whole thing feel …impossible…

The Black Lion wasn’t just a machine. She was a sentient being…whose bonds with their paladins remained even after death. For someone to override that bond enough to disrupt his connection…there was only one instance where that was possible…

Did the Black lion choose someone else?

It couldn’t have been Zarkon—even if it was some metaphysical version of him—Keith’s bond with Black had grown stronger than Shiro’s. And if Shiro could keep Black from falling under Zarkon’s control, there was no way anyone else could…right?

Whoever they were dealing with—They were in no doubt powerful. Not to mention could probably navigate a lot better through this terrain than they could. They were idiots for following through without a plan.

Keith tried again, closing his eyes reaching to Black’s presence—something felt…off. His thoughts scattered, frayed. His focus slipping, mind too sporadic…too concussed.

“Keith?”

“Try asking her nicely,” He spat reflexively—needing Hunk to shut up. Needing time to think.

That only set the yellow paladin off into a fit of laughter. “Oh man, anyone told you yet that you’ve been spending wa~ay too much with Lance?”

The mention of his fiancé sent Keith’s hands flying to his neck. Blindly searching for the chain leading to his engagement ring.

“Just lock in on Black.” He spewed the words out, right as his fingers finally closed around the uneven stone. His grip tightened, welcoming the convulsive heat against his skin, but a different sort of eruption punched the air out of his lungs.

Like a rock plunging through water, his heart heavy and limp sinking into panic. He squeezed harder against the stone—willing it to come alive in his palm, relying on that second pulse to resuscitate his own.

Nothing happened.

Nothing but its sharp grooves digging impressions into his skin.

Calm down. He probably took it off.

The thought rang hollow, its successor spearing through the first. Lance never takes his ring off.

That’s a lie, he countered . Though for the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single example.

“Hold on a sec,” Hunk spoke. “I need to troubleshoot some of our systems; our coordinates and the ASP probes aren’t orienting us right—OH!”

He blinked, something in the way Hunk’s tone broke off, snapped him out of his mental grapplings.

“What!” Keith pushed himself up into a kneeling position, keeping low to his center of gravity as the cockpit rocked with turbulence.

“So—bad news,” Hunk spoke calmly. “We’re definitely not in Oriande.”

“Any good news?” Keith heaved in demand.

“Glad you asked,” a grin audible in his voice. “Were on Arus!”

Keith breathed sharply, with what felt like his first proper breath since his first. “Why the hell didn’t you just say that!”

“‘Cause I’ve got more bad news. And, you know, they say you should layer bad news—like a sandwich.”

“I swear to—just SAY IT!”

“Okay, okay! Bad news number two, I can’t seem to get Yellow to, uh…cooperate. So you might wanna hold on to something…like, right n—.”

The cockpit lurched violently. Force-throwing Keith forward before Hunk could finish his warning, hurtling him straight for the pilot’s seat.

In one swift motion, he unsheathed his blade and drove it deep into the side of the seat, miraculously with enough adrenaline and force to jam into the metal within. His other hand clawed desperately into the leather.

.

.

.

The lion screamed.

A deafening screech of metal rending against itself tore hauntingly through Keith’s skull as Yellow made impact with the planet’s surface.

At some point, Keith’s head slammed into the back of Hunk’s chair, with a force that made his entire face go numb, but his grip didn’t falter. Tension in his hands so fierce he’d be worried he’d shatter all the bones in his hands if he wasn’t more worried about rattling like a pinball through the cockpit.

The chaos drawled on endless.

Then silence.

It lingered—thick and fumelike—as Keith blinked, disoriented.

He was alive. The thought glowed dimly through the rumble, for the second time that day.

His grip loosened. Slowly, groaning at the sharp agony running through his nerves, he allowed his muscles to unwind. Forcing him to take in shaky breath, after shaky breath.

Something like relief came over him as his legs gave out sending him into the cold metal with an echoed dull thud.

Not all the pain rushed through him at once. Some of it coiled around the edges of his awareness blocked by adrenaline. For now there was only exhaustion. The heave of his breath catching like sandpaper in his throat. And sweat. Soaking through every numb, trembling inch of him. Irritatingly itching at his skin, and carrying salt into the wound on his head.

He wanted to lift a hand and swipe at it but his arms refused to obey. Forcing him to instead stare at the ceiling, blinking at the metal sheets as they gradually realigned, the world settling back into place.

One singular, unhelpful thought crossed his mind:

Lance is going to kill me.

And, like reflex, an echo of his fiancés voice cut through the fog of his mind,

Don’t be ridiculous—I wouldn’t murder you—I need you too much for that—But don’t think that’s free range to do whatever stupid thing you can think of! And I’m still giving you shit when we get out of this and in the meantime you can listen to me complain the entire time too for putting us in this mess in the first place!

Keith’s lips twitched faintly at the memory, though in more a grimace than a smile. He couldn’t place the conversation having spent practically the earlier half of last decade making too many mistakes, landing them in too much shit to pin this particular time down.

But at that very moment, in the aftermath of yet another crash landing, he felt himself reaching for that imagined voice. The silence that followed in its absence suddenly unbearably suffocating. 

Then everything went black.

It took a moment to realize this wasn’t the blissful type of blackout. The harsh and sudden flickering of red emergency lights confirmed that he was still very much awake.

Head swimming the cockpit faded in and out of his vision, pulsing with a red glow that almost gave the illusion of blood smearing the walls.

In all reality, it very well could have been.

Move. Get up. Help. Hunk. His mind listed like a reflex, more than with conscious effort.

With a clenched jaw, Keith forced himself to move against the resistance of his lead-heavy muscles. Just barely managing to lift his head to get a look over at Hunk, who laid slack over the console. Though like Keith he appeared to be breathing hard. “Hunk.” He rasped “You alright?”

“Yeah-yup.” Hunk wheezed, " Ten fingers—I’m assuming ten toes. All limbs attached. Yup, all good.” He shifted with a wince, though this time the instant frown made him less optimistic about how he must look. “You?

“Still breathing,” he muttered, wincing at the pounding pressure in his head and throat. “Cut on my forehead a bit, but other than that, I’m all good too.”

Nausea rose to a taste like swallowing a jar of sugar cubes. He swallowed against it managing to just barely find enough stillness to breathe steadily again right as Yellow’s dashboard wired to life.

Their window to the outside glitched, casting a solid blue screen. To the side, Yellow’s scanner view hovered, erratically blinking and blipping several markers around the radar, struggling to make sense of their surroundings.

Hunk leaned toward it to get a closer look at the display. His brows furrowing tight, “Woah—these are some weird readings. It’s like we’re surrounded by the other lions? Like-”

“Maybe that’s because we’re CRUSHED UNDER YOU!”

The comms crackled brutally with a burst of harsh static overlaying the voice. Though the distortion didn’t make the echo any more unmistakable.

Hunk turned, sharing with Keith a look of searching disbelief.

Two ventral windows opened at once before the blue screen. Each of the displays sputtered in and out of view, jagging and distorting the small slivers of feed coming through.

Nothing distinguishable…At least nothing Keith could believe in that moment.

“Pidge—” Hunk began, but another voice cut him off.

“Buddy,” Lance’s voice filtered through, coming in clearer with much less static, yet still bent to an awkward pitch. “I thought we already agreed slamming into each other is not how we form Voltron.”

Keith bristled, eyes blown wide with questions and uncertainty.

That voice…it was Lance. Carrying every cadence and intonation Keith knew by heart…But it wasn’t.

The similarities were undeniable. He could tell just how annoyed he was—And that he was more tired than truly annoyed. Yet through the recognition and static…it was simply, profoundly wrong .

Every nerve unsettled and on edge, he shook his head almost instinctively, at the comm display. Instantly he could feel his training kick in like muscle memory. Dragging him to the days with the Blades, meant to prepare him for moments like this. Testing his survival through all conditions—weak, battered, and disoriented—unable to tell what was real or not.

He clenched his fists, ignoring the barks of protest at the effort. Through sheer will he slowly came to his feet— lurching his strength, forcing his mind to come into focus.

Instinctively, he discerned for movement in the shadows around the cockpit. Though the only activity around them was the static-laden echoes bleeding through the comms as more haywired ventral windows appeared.

“Ahh—guys I don’t mean to start a panic, but THAT’S NOT ME!” The impression of Hunk’s voice came through, followed by Lance.

“What the fuck— then who’s crushing us right now!?”

Keith checked his ring again at the sound of not-Lance. His fingers stilled over the rough stone, hesitating as a subtle, eerie tingling brushed his fingertips—nothing like the usual bold thrum that could defibrillate his senses.

“There’s a second yellow lion.”

Keith’s head snapped forward, at the sound of his own voice. Meeting his stare, Hunk mouthed one word: clones.

The memory of Shiro’s clone flared open a wound he’d near forgotten about. Painting it all vivid and raw in his mind. The fight. The scars…All the tells he should have seen. They came rushing back with painful clarity.

He forced himself to push the memory aside. Yes—clones of them could be made—it’s happened before—

But the Lions?

Keith’s breath hitched, stumbling on the realization with relief. 

No one could make another Yellow Lion.

He needed to get out. He needed to confirm—

“A second Yellow Lion?” Lance chimed back in. " Just how many lions are there anyways?”

“Paladins! Do not engage with the lion. It’s a trap—there are no other lions created by my father.”

“Do not engage?!” Pidge blurted. " We’re already stuck right under them!”

“Pidge is right,” Shiro’s voice spoke calm and assertive through the comm making Keith’s jaw clench tight. “If this is a ploy from Zarkon we have no choice. We have to fight. Pidge, Lance—can you free yourselves?”

Keith darted his gaze around the cockpit— His sword was still lodged in Hunk’s chair. The control panel glitched with a stutter that looked too damaged to make flying them out a possibility— Every avenue of escape felt like a dead end.

“Guys!” Not-Hunk strained through. “I would also like to remind you that wasn’t me who was talking to Keith earlier! Like, I didn’t just imagine that! You all heard that, right?”

“That…wasn’t me either,” His voice muttered low through the comm.

“Not to burst anyone’s bubble,” not—Lance interjected, the wrongness making Keith’s skin crawl. ”But if we can hear them I’m pretty sure they can hear us.”

“Yes—” Keith leaned forward hastily before they could sever the connection. “We can hear you. This is Keith—Black Paladin of Voltron. I'm in the Yellow Lion with it's paladin —Hunk. And—” He chose his next words carefully. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on—” Keith winched—the main window sparking to life, flooding the cockpit with harsh flickering light,

Multiple views of each of the paladins came to life over the dash. The images still glitched intermittently, but were sharp enough to make sense of.

A strange sense of deja vu displaced him into another time. The lineup before him. The backdrop of mounds stretched high. The Castle of Lions gleaming in view at the very top.

“We’re not looking for a fight,” Keith said firmly. “We were lured through some kind of wormhole and ended up here. And we may need your help to get back.”

The silence that followed stretched wide as Paladin after Paladin turned their gazes at something coming to life in their own view screens. Their faces twisted into varied mixtures of shock and skepticism.

Each flickering gaze made Keith feel suddenly exposed, but his stomach churned for a different reason altogether as he took each of the faces before him.

They all looked…so young …

The air in the cockpit ran thick hanging something over all of them—so fragile Keith held his breath, afraid even that could shatter the moment into chaos.

However, there was one person you could count on to do just that and somehow get away with it. 

“You have got to be kidding me! One Keith was enough, now we have to deal with two ?”