Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Warmth on his face coaxes Elânsi’s consciousness from the dredges of sleep. Light turns the inside of his eyelids pink, and he groans as he squeezes them shut further. His mother’s fond laughter bubbles in the back of his mind. Adapt, A’Elân, he hears.

Oka’s voice sounds so far away now. He shoves himself to sit up onto his palms, ignoring the pain that pulses through him. The skin on his side pulls taunt with the movement. At least he’d managed to cauterize that blade gash before getting to wherever he is. From how his stomach rolls, he knows the laser blasts radiating heat from his shoulder and leg have already had him empty its contents.

Sand shifts under his palms, clinging to the slight webbing at the base of his fingers, and his chest seizes. Elânsi lifts a hand to see pale tan grains, a far cry from the purple-gray that usually slid right off him.

He’d truly made it off Thalakai.

Taking a deep breath, Elânsi forces himself to his feet, ignoring the way his vision swims from tears. It’s a horrible decision since it sends his head reeling and makes his stomach flip all over again. He braces his hands on wide-spread knees, staring at the sand beneath him while he breathes. Slow and purposeful, just like Andrys had taught him.

After a few dobashes, he allows himself to straighten up again. Hopefully he’s got more supplies in his pod. Gǔn Iona'ar if he doesn’t.

Gǔn, his pod . Where is his pod? He should have been in it.

(His mother would feed him to the deep sea lilikainar if she could hear how vulgar his thoughts are, but he’s earned it, nevermind that he's only 10 decaphoebs.)

Elânsi takes slow, staggering steps in a circle as he takes inventory of himself. His muscles ache, so he must have been asleep for a while. By how close he is to what he assumes is an ocean—a frothy, blue ocean—he must have washed up somehow. There’s no pod in sight, and the small stretch of beach he’s on is blemished only where he’d been—and, mere xivals away and half-buried, his bag.

“Gioma’ar bless,” he breathes out hoarsely, stumbling over and dropping back to his knees to pry it open. The Divine Soul was truly gracious, ensuring that he got to shore with the most important items he could take with him.

The kalipri leather had ensured that nothing in the small bag was waterlogged, luckily. He sifts through it, relief melting into Elânsi when his hands wrap around his bonded pieces of thalamer. They stay in their polished, mottled spheres of blue-green, but they sheen silver under his touch. He checks everything else, and when everything is accounted for, including the Olkari watch his mother had shoved at him while pushing him into his pod, he sighs and shifts the bag onto his shoulder.

He should start walking. Or… ambling. Figuring out what planet he’s on is important regardless of how long it takes him to find the nearest village. He hasn’t actually been on another planet until now, but his parents have been preparing him for this since before he’d even received his first band. 

Elânsi hears a sharp gasp and turns, feeling his ears flatten to his head. His eyes snap onto a face staring at him from around a tree trunk. The person looks similar to him in structure, he notes, ears perking back up. Their eyes aren’t as rounded, and they have much more white around the irises than he does. 

This race is… plain, for lack of a better word. He can hear Shi'Dryli chastising him for such a descriptor even now. 

He's right, though. Their ears sit small on the sides of their head, their features are much more angular than his own, they lack a stabilizing tail, and their skin is entirely one color. At least their hair looks normal. 

He mentally kicks himself for staring. “My name is Hǎi’Elânsi. May the Divine Soul's current flow through your veins,” he introduces, trying to give a slight bow and wincing when pain flares red-hot. It’s not something he can keep out of his voice. “What planet am I on? May I know your name?”

The individual stares at him for a few more beats before yelling something in their native language. Their eyes don't leave Elânsi's even though he's sure they weren't addressing him. He frowns, confused until another, similar-looking person appears next to them in the undergrowth. This one's jaw drops, and Elânsi registers something like panic flicker across his face as they—perhaps he, if their cultures are similar—steps forward instead of the girl(?). His hands raise slowly as he talks, but Elânsi doesn't understand a single word. 

He'll readily admit that his planet is far from the most advanced out there—the Olkari definitely has them beat, and they have nothing on what he's heard about Altea—but they do have technology and the universal standard translators. Is this planet so isolated that they don't?

No wonder Gioma'ar blessed him if this is where his pod took him. According to his mother, he shouldn't have even made it out of the Xibali Galaxy. 

He's supposed to be able to make his way home once it's safe again. His stomach turns, and he lays a protective arm over it as if that’ll help quell the wave of nausea.

The man's voice becomes softer, and Elânsi realizes that he's been trying to talk to him. He's closer now, only an arm's length away. Something slips down Elânsi's chin, and in that moment, he realizes he's crying. He forces his eyes to those of this stranger. There's only what Elânsi reads as pure worry, and that's enough for him to let go of a sob and sink to his knees.

Arms envelop him. They're unfamiliar but comforting, so he lets himself sink into them. One of the arms braces on his back, and he's lifted up to the boy’s chest in a protective cradle that feels like how his father would hug him. 

He already misses Oto. He misses Oka. He misses Vrai’sha and Lanhiki. Giomar'ar bless, they've hopefully made it to one of the nearby planets and not—

Elânsi draws his knees as close to his own chest as possible in the person's hold. The boy is still speaking, but instead of just to him, it sounds like he's talking to the girl, too. He watches her blurry figure cast him another glance before she makes her way inland through the trees. 

Please be peaceful and not about to lock me up somewhere, he thinks, then winces. Even a week ago, he’d have never thought things like this would cross his mind.

He feels his body bob slightly and realizes that the boy is following her, slow and careful. His voice lowers and softens as if he’s reassuring Elânsi, but like everything else, it’s completely lost on him. Rather than meet such worried eyes again, he squeezes his own shut and buries his face in the boy’s chest. There’s no shutting out the boy’s voice, though. The care eases him and twists his stomach all at once.

Eventually, there’s more voices. He can pick out the girl from before, overlapping the boy’s. Both are smothered by an older woman’s, sharp enough for them to quiet and Elânsi’s head to bolt up. His panic must be visible since her expression softens. When she speaks again, it’s just as soft as her son’s(?).

She gestures to the house behind her, and the boy carrying Elânsi walks him to it and inside. It’s not dissimilar to Elo’ki’s family’s house: the couch has blankets and pillows, the walls are covered in images of the people aiding him, and knickknacks of all shapes and sizes clutter the space. Tension slips a little from his muscles when he’s laid on the couch and knelt beside, his body carefully adjusted so that none of the wounds touch the couch’s side. The boy moves his bag, keeping eye contact with Elânsi’s untrusting gaze as he shifts it enough that Elânsi’s not laying on it.

He hums and mutters out a thanks, bunching up to keep the nausea from tugging too harshly on his stomach. Curiosity sparks in the boy, enough to brighten his eyes a shade and make him smile, and suddenly, Elânsi has a face much closer to his own than he’d like. He makes a strangled noise, but the boy doesn’t seem to be bothered. Instead, he starts speaking, fast and energetic. Elânsi manages to catch a repeat of something like “mar” as the boy gestures to himself with a finger.

Elânsi frowns at him. “Mar?” he echoes as a question, pointing to the boy. His name, maybe?

The boy brightens. “Mar co .” He emphasizes the last syllable. 

When Elânsi doesn’t get anything more, just a stare, he tries it again. “Marco,” he says slowly, making sure he pronounces it correctly, albeit with a syllabic emphasis he can hear. He must be close enough, though, since the boy—Marco—downright beams.

“Sí, sí!” Marco points to Elânsi. “¿Su nombre?”

His name, then, he thinks. He gestures to himself. “Elânsi.”

Confusion dims Marco’s enthusiasm. He shifts to sit, legs crossed with his torso still leaning forward. “El-awn-see,” he sounds out.

It’s not the worst pronunciation he’s heard, but it makes him snort. He covers his mouth apologetically, jolting his shoulder, but Marco merely laughs and sits expectantly for Elânsi to repeat his name.

Before he can, the girl and her mother—assuming them a family by now—walk through the front door. Marco’s attention immediately switches to them. He gestures to Elânsi enthusiastically. “Mamá, su nombre es Ehl-an-si.” 

Elânsi’s chest bursts with an odd sense of fondness when Marco grins back at him like a baby paipaibar proud of his first catch, even if his name still isn’t quite right on Marco’s tongue. “Elânsi,” he confirms with a hesitant smile and a nod.

“Su nombre es Rachel.” Marco nods to his sister when she approaches. She kneels next to the couch on Marco’s left.

“Ra’shel.” Elânsi frowns. With translators, he only ever needs to speak his own language, and the sound in the middle of her name isn’t one Thalakainese uses. I’m slaughtering your name. I’m so sorry, he mentally apologizes with a wince.

Marco snickers and shakes his head. “Rae-chel,” he repeats. 

Rachel luckily looks endeared instead of angry with his mispronunciation, so he tries again. “Rashel,” he tries again, getting the vowel right but not the cursed sound in the middle. His frown returns with a frustrated noise in his throat. He sits up against the armrest, groaning when his body screams at the movement. “Ra shel .”

Their mother speaks a string of her language as she moves behind her children, crouching down. “Marco y Rashel,” she says with her hands on their shoulders, smiling reassuringly. She says something to each of her children in turn, and with final glances at Elânsi, they push up from the floor and leave the room.

Elânsi watches them until they’re gone. Meeting the woman’s eyes again now that they’re alone sends a pang through his ribcage. She looks absolutely nothing like Oka, but the warmth in her expression is so similar that his eyes water before he can even try to stop them. He sniffles and averts his eyes in an attempt to shield himself, just a bit. This isn’t Oka. You’re not on Thalakai anymore.

A hand, gentle and soft, fingers short on his cheek, turns his face back toward the woman. “Mi nombre es Asela. La mamá de Rashell y Marco. Yo te cuidaré,” she tells him. He understands little, but the rush of safe and rest makes up for it. He leans into her palm and lets himself sob.

***

“ Spaceballs is actually way closer to how space is than, you know, Star Wars, ” Lance says, leaning on Keith’s piloting chair. “Actually, from what I remember of Star Gate, that one could be more accurate than Star Wars, too.”

Keith readjusts his grip on Red’s controls with a deep sigh. “Lance, I’ve never watched any of these movies.”

“I’ll see if we can pirate Spaceballs from here,” Lance assures. He leans further over the chair. “How far out are we?”

Like every other time he’s asked, Keith just shrugs. “You can see the same distance model I can.”

Sure, but that’s not as fun as pretending to be a kid annoying their parent. “So…”

“Five dobashes out.”

“Cool.” Lance doesn’t move from his position. A year ago, Keith would have been fuming at him to get out of his personal space. At the very least, he’d have been snapped at to shut up. Lance attributes their friendship growth to his impeccable charm.

(Realistically, it’s been the amount of times Lance and Keith have saved each other’s asses. Eventually, you can’t help but respect the person willing to go back into danger for you.)

“Red lion checking in,” Keith says. He must have flipped on his comms mic because Lance hears the words echoed. 

It’s quiet for a few beats before Allura’s voice bubbles in. “Keith, Lance, good to hear you’re close to the outpost. I’m assuming nothing has happened on your way?”

Lance taps his own mic on. “Not a thing, ‘Llura. Just quiet space.”

A hum. “From our intel, there should be little activity on Outpost 57 despite the high-priority prisoner they’re preparing to transfer. Remember that the prisoner data located here is our best shot at freeing others in captivity.”

“You got it, Princess,” Lance says in tandem with Keith’s solemn, “Copy that.” He shuts his mic off before pushing up from Keith’s chair and stretching his arms up.

Through Red’s visor, Lance spots the outpost coming into view. It’s small compared to many of the other bases they’ve been on. The area was decimated into scattered chunks of rock years ago by a collapsing star, Pidge had told them, so it was a prime location for prisoners and information that needed to stay hidden and remote. 

“Do you really think this place is as quiet as it seems?” he asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Keith’s shrug. “Probably not, but it’d be kind of nice for once.”

Lance snorts. “Dude, you love beating the shit out of Galra.”

That earns him a small smirk. “Yeah, I do.” The curl of his lip flashes an inhuman fang that Lance stares at for a tick too long.

He fixes his attention back out as Keith lands them on a nearby rock, close enough for them to jetpack but far enough to avoid immediate detection. They leave Red and head for the building, making their way inside via the vent system, Keith taking the lead as they weasel their bodies through. Eventually, the artificial gravity activates, and Lance braces against the sides of the vent to keep his weight from dropping to the bottom. Keith does the same.

They drop into an empty hallway, and Lance pulls up the outpost schematics—courtesy of Pidge—on his wrist hologram. “Cells are along the left side of the building,” he tells Keith through their comms, keeping his voice quiet. “Tech looks like it’s in the top right. You take the data; I take the prisoner?”

Keith holds up one of Pidge’s fancy flashdrives. “Meet back here,” he says with a nod before taking off down the hallway. 

Lance turns left, hand on his bayard as his helmet dissolves. Even when there’s not many Galra around a building like this, there’s almost always sentries doing their programmed rounds. He ducks around the corner and pulls his bayard from the holster, feeling it mold into his familiar handgun, the Earth-style one he’d forced early on.

(Every so often, when Lance is training by himself or alone in his room, he lets it morph into the Thalakainesian bow it craves to be, just to feel the familiar weight of it in his palms.)

He downs two sentries on his way to the cells, but he never catches sight of any Galra. All he hears is his own footfall and heartbeat, unnervingly loud in his ears. “Keith, any Galra or sentries?”

“Handful of bots, but no Galra.” He can hear Keith’s frown. Knowing him, he’d probably been looking forward to combat practice.

Lance’s shoulders tense, and he tightens his grip on his gun. “I know we weren’t supposed to be running into anyone, but this feels wrong. It’s too empty.”

“Found the comms room. I’ll get the data and head to rendezvous, and we can ditch this place before it stops being quiet.”

Sighing to himself, Lance eases open the door to the cell block. He slips inside, eyes narrowing when he doesn’t see a single guard. After muting his mic, he calls, “Anyone in here?”

A clang from one of the cells down the line. “Stay back,” a voice warns. Male, presumably. Scared but willing to fight.

“I’m not Galra.” Lance checks behind him before letting the door close. He makes his way down the line of cells, sticking to the opposite side from where he thinks the voice came from. 

(He’d been slammed against the bars before by a terrified prisoner thinking he was a guard. He’s learned to take one or two precautions.)

A growl this time. “I said to stay back,” the man bites out, but Lance can hear the rising fear.

“Even if I’m a paladin of Voltron?” Lance stops in front of the cell and lowers his gun. He doesn’t holster it yet, but he lets his arm fall to the side, the other held passively in the air. “I’m here to get you out.”

The man snorts. “Bullshit, you are. I was told the druids pulled all sorts of tricks like this.”

Lance can see him now. The darkness of the cell shadows the man’s face, but he can see the outline of his body, curled up in the back corner. “They’re total dickheads, you’re right, but I promise I’m the blue paladin.” He slowly approaches the bars, eyeing the lock. “Can I shoot this and get you out?”

Silence. Then, “I can’t stop you either way.”

Lance winces at the resolution in the man’s voice. He raises his blaster and shoots the lock until it busts. The man immediately shrinks against the wall, flinching with each blast, and Lance mentally apologizes.

He forces the cell door open and holsters his gun, letting it regain its bayard shape. “Are you wounded?” he asks, moving into the cell.

“Can’t walk for shit. Those fuckers broke my leg.” The man hesitates but lifts a shaky hand.

Lance takes it and eases him up. He shifts an arm around his back and helps him amble out of the cell into the light of the cell block hallway, and once the man can lean against the wall instead of Lance, he does. 

“I’ll let my partner know I’ve got you, then we can—” Lance starts, glancing at the prisoner while his fingers search for his comm button. His movement halts as nausea twists his stomach. Horror races cold through him. There’s no way he’d forget his face, even if Lance’s memory of him is years old. “Elo’ki?” 

The man— Elo’ki —startles, and the hesitant trust in his expression closes off in an instant. “You are one of those druid evils,” he spits, baring his fangs. “How do you know my name?”

Elo’ki is older now. An adult. His features have sharpened, and the once vivid orange of his eyes has dulled, but there’s no mistaking his closest friend. 

Lance scrambles to rip off his glove and shift up his suit enough to show Elo’ki the watch on his wrist. “A Galra druid wouldn’t know about this, right? Just you and me.”

The man’s eyes drop to the watch and widen. “Elânsi?” he rasps, mouth hesitant around the vowels.

He hasn’t heard anyone say his name in years. It rolls over him smooth as butter, soothing a tightness in his chest. Relief pushes tears to his ears. “It’s me.”

Elo’ki’s attention snaps back to Lance’s face, desperate. “Prove it.”

Lance hesitates for all of a tick before shutting off his watch. It’s been too long for him to know what Elo’ki sees, but it must be enough to convince Elo’ki that Lance is here and that Elo’ki is safe, because he crumbles into tears and lurches forward into Lance’s arms.

“I thought you were dead,” he pushes out, claws scraping against the panels of Lance’s armor. “My prince, I’m so sorry .”

Lance hugs him just as tightly. He clutches Elo’ki to himself, his ungloved hand cupping the back of his head. Elo’ki’s hair is unruly and tangled, but it’s affirming beneath his fingertips. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be sorry,” he chastises, voice thick. 

He swallows, shifting to activate his watch and take a step back, just enough to look at Elo’ki’s face again. As much as he wants to sit here and stare at his friend, he has a mission to finish, and Keith is still on the other side of the outpost. “Why are you here?” he asks, frowning. “You’re the high-profile prisoner being transferred?”

Elo’ki mirrors his confusion. “ Being transferred? I was left here for the druids to collect. The Galra refuse to stay here.”

It connects, then, why Elo’ki had jumped to Lance being a druid. His blood ices his veins, and he slams his finger onto his comm while pulling his glove back on. “Keith, do you copy? This place is a fucking druid dead drop.”

“A what?” Keith’s voice comes through an octave too high. “What the—” A shout. “Lance, one of them’s here. Don’t—” His comm cuts with a warble that leaves Lance’s ear ringing.

“Fuck.” Lance meets Elo’ki’s eyes. “My name is Lance here. Don’t say a word to Keith. We’ve gotta go.” He grabs his friend’s arm. “I’ll explain everything when we get out.” Elo’ki looks like he wants to argue, but fear overtakes his expression again, and he lets Lance lift him onto his back in a carry. 

Elo’ki can luckily hold himself up some, which lets Lance grapple for his bayard with a free hand. He keeps it held up as he makes for their meeting point. Keith being noticed must have sent sentries throughout the outpost since he has to shoot them as he goes, heart hammering and back quickly tiring. 

Purple fog appears in front of him, and Lance starts shooting as it materializes into a druid. He tightens his grip on Elo’ki’s wrist. “Go to hell, bastard,” he grits out.

The blast of quintessence goes right through the druid. The second hits nothing but thin air as the druid appears behind him. He whirls, hearing Elo’ki’s pained whine. He smothers it with another round of shots.

“Keith!” he yells. “Your ass better not be dead!”

Druid laughter echoes right to his ear, and he yelps, startling backward and pulling the trigger on his gun. “Keith!”

Lance manages to make it around the corner to the main hallway. At the end of it, Keith skitters into view, darting toward him. The druid appears behind Keith, and Lance takes the shot, all too delighted when the thing screeches and teleports.

“I’ll carry the prisoner while you cover us. I called Red.” Keith stops long enough to take Elo’ki from him. He’s as careful with Elo’ki’s leg as he can be given the quickness of the movement, but Lance can’t help a wince when his friend groans and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Clearing the path, then.” Lance nods and takes off down the hall, firing any time he sees a hint of purple fog. 

They round the last corner as the druid materializes solid in their path, cloak billowing as their feet land. Their arm raises, and Lance has enough time to throw his body in front of Keith and Elo'ki and fire a shot before he's hit with a bolt of electricity. He hears a scream of his name coupled with his own shriek before the wall crumbles, Red’s maw barreling through. 

Lance presses a hand to his side over the entry point, teeth gritting as he's forced down to a knee. His legs shake under him when he pushes himself up, but he forces them to move. “Get in Red!” he shouts to Keith. He fires at the druid twice more before he sprints toward the lion. 

Keith's ahead of him, ducking in with Elo’ki's passed out form slumped over his back. Lance throws himself inside, collapsing onto the floor once Red's jaws close. He dry heaves, fists clutching at nothing. The coolness of the floor against Lance’s forehead does little to quell his nausea, but he presses into it all the same. 

He feels a tentative hand on his back and groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “That one hurt worse than normal,” he wheezes with a forced laugh. 

“It would hurt less if you stopped taking the hits for me, asshole.” There's something different in Keith's voice, a hesitancy Lance doesn't recognize that's covering for something else. 

He can't begin to parse it out, though, not when Keith slips an arm around him and eases him up until they're both standing. Lance winces but lets Keith guide them to the cockpit, where he sits Lance down on one of the benches. Outside, the outpost is shrinking; Red, blessed Red, must be on autopilot and heading back to the castle. 

Elo'ki lays on the other bench, out cold. In the light of Red, Lance can see the ratted, torn clothes and the visibly broken twist of his leg. The prison pants are ripped at his cat-like ankle, giving Lance a full visual of matted brown fur and cracked, dull orange paw pads. The same matting is present in his tail, hung limply from the bench, and the rounded ears on his head, likely from blood. 

Lance eyes the glands low on his throat, checking them for harm. Luckily, nothing marrs them, and that eases enough tension for him to direct his attention to Keith—who stares between them, pale. 

“Did you get the intel?” he asks with his head against the wall, figuring Keith’s just a bit shaken from the druid. “Allura better be thanking us after this since—”

“What are you?” Keith interjects. Lance’s eyes widen as Keith’s fingers twitch toward his bayard but don't move for it.

“Keith, buddy, if you expect me to call myself an idiot sandwich for this shit, you've got another thing coming,” he tries, but Keith doesn't rise to the joke. He just stares, eyes narrowed slightly as if assessing Lance as a threat. 

Keith jerks his head toward Elo'ki. “You're not Galra. You look like him.”

Lance feels the color drain from his face. He pulls off his glove, and sure enough, his skin isn't the single-toned hue he's grown so used to. It's been years since he's seen his own skin, and the sight makes him shake. “Fuck,” he breathes, hitting his watch. It beeps at him, sparking, before his skin suddenly looks human again.

“Have you always been like him?” Keith asks, still stiff. 

His eyes won't move from Lance, and Lance himself shoves down the desire to squirm uncomfortably. The urge to vomit rears up full force. “Yes,” he admits. “Please, Keith, I'm still Lance, I swear.”

Keith eyes him for a few more long, sickening seconds before he nods. “I know,” he says, stepping closer, and relief washes over Lance like a tidal wave.

Lance pitches forward, ungloved hand covering his face. “Fucking hell, Keith,” he manages, voice shaky.

Their comms crackle, then press out Allura's voice. “Keith, Lance, check in. We see Red moving toward us.”

Panic seizes Lance's chest. He reaches out, gripping Keith’s arm before his brain catches up to his body. “Please don't say a word. I'll explain, I promise,” he begs quietly. His eyes flick between Keith’s, watching him war with himself before he sighs and presses his comm. 

“Mission successful. Prep a pod for the recovered prisoner, and tell Pidge I have her flashdrive,” he says before shutting off the comm again. After Allura’s affirmation, Keith frowns. “Thought you were human.”

Lance realizes he's still clinging to Keith and lets go, curling his arm around his torso instead. “I'm not. Never have been.”

“And you didn't bother to mention this when I was losing my shit over being Galra?” Keith’s arms fold across his chest. 

Heat flares in his eyes, and Lance flinches. “I couldn't. I know I'm a hypocrite, but I swear I couldn't say anything.”

“And why not?” his friend snaps.

Lance clenches and unclenches his hands, avoiding Keith’s eyes. He opens his mouth to answer, but Elo’ki’s voice sounds before his own does: “Because our prince was never supposed to return home.”

Chapter Text

Elo’ki’s head rolls to face them. His eyelids open like they’re heavy curtains, but he’s conscious, and Lance, who had given up on deities after crashing on Earth, sends a grateful prayer to Gioma’ar. He can’t even be pissed about the prince comment. “Glad to see you’re not dead, you bastard,” he says with a relieved exhale. “My watch short-circuited. Keith saw.”

Lance allows himself a few moments to just look at Elo’ki. He’s skinnier than he should be, and the broken leg is going to have to be reset before he’s put into the pod. Seeing Elo’ki like this makes anger race red-hot through his veins until he smothers it under the relief that at least he’s alive.

Elo’ki hums, digesting the information with a blank expression. “Sorry for passing out on your partner,” he eventually rasps, voice tired. Color has yet to return to his face, but he manages a nod toward Keith.

Lance waves his free hand dismissively. “He’s carried heavier than you.”

Keith just grunts and folds his arms. He stares at Elo’ki, and although the fire that had kindled in his eyes has vanished—suspiciously quickly, Lance thinks—there’s something else now that he can’t identify. “Who are you?” he asks stiffly, lips curled in a frown.

“Dude,” Lance hisses, sending him a sharp glare. Keith merely holds up a hand in his direction.

“Doesn’t it seem a bit suspicious that some alien you know was the prisoner at a druid drop?” he continues, a protective undertone to his voice. His eyes stay on Elo’ki. “How do we know this isn’t some trick or fucked up plan of theirs?”

“It’s not me the druids would have had if they wanted to get to… Lance ,” Elo’ki tells Keith, staring him down with the same intensity. His ears flatten against his hair.

Lance’s jaw sets as a wave of nausea hits him. He swallows and presses his eyes closed. Vrai’sha’s face greets him, round and bright with laughter. His brother’s image bleeds into his sister’s, and then all Lance can see is Lanhiki’s sharp gaze, so reminiscent of his mother’s that Lance’s eyes fly back open with a hitched breath. “Elo’ki—”

“They’re safe,” he interjects, attention snapping to Lance with the most clarity he’s had since waking. “I promise they’re safe.”

Lance manages a small nod, but he doesn’t ease. His family’s faces flash in his mind every time he blinks. “The Galra think I’m human. The high-level prisoner being Elo’ki is just the universe’s fucked up karma for leaving my planet.”

Keith silently assesses Elo’ki before eventually nodding, though he definitely doesn’t look convinced. He stands stiff, conflicted, before leaning himself back against his piloting chair. “Red says we’re five minutes out, so let’s get whatever we’re telling the team straightened.”

“We?” Lance blurts, straightening up. The nerves in his side light up, but he ignores them. “You’re not going to make me come clean?”

Keith’s frown deepens again. “I won’t.”

Lance knows his teammate well enough to hear what goes unspoken: hiding this could break trust, put the universe at risk in the worst scenarios, get Lance captured or targeted. Hiding now that Keith knows and Elo’ki is here opens the doorway to consequences that Lance has considered far too often. He knows what the stakes are, more intimately than Keith does.

Before Lance can get wrapped up in them, Keith continues, “You didn’t push when I found out about me—” he casts Elo’ki a glance “—and you don’t deserve me forcing you to tell everyone. So, I’ll help you stay looking human, but you’re going to have to make me understand why you even have to in the first place.”

“Deal.” Lance settles his back against the wall again with a relieved sigh. His shoulders slump. “Thanks, Keith. Really.”

Keith just hums, and Lance ignores the residual tension lingering between them, chalking it up to his own discomfort and the numbness injecting itself into his veins. To Elo’ki, he says, “No slip-ups this time. I’m Lance, a human paladin of Voltron, and this is the first time you’ve ever met me, got it?”

Elo’ki’s eyebrows pinch together, ears twitching, but he gives another slow, slight nod. “Got it.”

“Good. I’ll be pretending I know nothing about Thalakai when they ask you about your home planet, so don’t bring attention to me,” Lance adds. He hesitates for a beat, lips parted. “I know this is a big ask, but try not to mention my family. I don’t know how well…” He lets the sentence fall off.

Understanding softens Elo’ki’s expression. “I’ll do my best, my— Lance .”

“Definitely do not call me a prince,” Lance stresses, wrinkling his nose. “That was the first thing you did when you woke up, and I don’t need you doing it again.”

“It’s not like the team would believe that one anyway,” Keith points out with a slight smirk. He looks more at ease now than Lance; even that weird glint to his eye is gone, replaced by the normal flare of teasing Lance is used to.

It’s more reassuring than Lance would ever care to admit, enough that he squawks, “Why wouldn’t they?”

“You’re an incorrigible flirt with too much energy to sit still. That doesn’t exactly scream regal.”

Elo’ki barks out a laugh that drowns out Lance’s offended whine. Lance’s attention darts to him in alarm when the laugh morphs into a cough, but Elo’ki merely smiles and forces out, “He was like that in our youth, too. His mother had one of the elders teach him to dance in hopes he’d tire himself out.”

Keith looks like he has questions on the tip of his tongue, but the telltale sway of Red landing stops him. Instead, he sighs and crosses to the bench Elo’ki is sprawled on. “I’ll take you to the med bay for a pod,” he says, picking Elo’ki up. His friend keeps his lips pressed firmly together to smother any pained noises.

(Guilt stirs again when Elo’ki looks back at Lance. Whether it’s to confirm that he’s following or that Lance truly trusts Keith, he doesn’t know, but it tugs at Lance’s heart all the same.)

Hunk, Pidge, and Shiro are waiting for them, and he forces himself to look at them instead of Elo’ki. He’s acutely aware of his friend being taken toward the med bay, and it’s only when he’s out of sight that it truly hits Lance how Lance he has to be.

Before, the human guise he’d created for himself had been a natural mask, one he’s practiced for nearly a decade without issue. Sure, being in space had always ensured Thalakai stayed in his thoughts some, but Voltron had countless planets in various areas of space to help. Thalakai had been a statistical improbability.

It’s not now. It’s reality. It’s the universe deciding to fuck him over, and he has to pretend like he’s not getting the worst metaphorical dicking of his life.

“Lance, are you injured?” Shiro asks once they’re on the ground. His eyes are on Lance’s side, likely having searched both him and Keith for injuries the moment Shiro could see them.

“Took a druid lightning bolt, but it’s just sore, I promise,” he assures. He stops in front of them, but Keith continues, pausing only long enough to give Pidge the data he’d gotten.

Hunk hums, long and skeptical. “Are you sure, bud?” He moves to stand next to him, worry pinching his features. “We can get you into a pod, too.”

“You can shove me in one of those when I’m actively dying,” Lance waves off. He’s acutely aware of the hanger door opening, then closing.

“If you need one—” Shiro starts, barely getting the words out before Lance interjects, “I definitely do not.”

Pidge snorts and jerks a thumb toward the hanger door. “We’ll tie him up and throw him in if we need to. Allura’s waiting for us.”

Hunk stays at Lance’s side as they walk. Luckily, Hunk’s frame blocks his view of the hallway leading toward the med bay, making it easier for him to tune into Pidge’s suspicions about the data. She turns the drive over in her fingers, eyeing it like it’s a prized candy instead of a piece of tech. That’s familiar. Not life-shattering.

He walks on autopilot to the bridge. If he’s said anything to his friends along the way, he definitely doesn’t remember what. The doors slide open, and Allura’s head raises from her data terminal. She brightens when she sees Lance. “Good to see you’re back, Lance,” she greets. “Keith took the prisoner to the med bay, yes?”

“Correct, princess.” As the others move to take their seats—Hunk lingering a beat longer than Pidge and Shiro—Lance stays standing, itching to get out of his armor. “Keith gave Pidge the data he retrieved before he left.”

“Uploading it now,” Pidge says. She inserts the drive into her modified laptop. “There aren’t too many files, but it’ll still take me a few vargas to sort through them for anything usable.” 

Shiro nods, arms folded easily across his chest. “Take your time. We need to wait for the prisoner to get out of the pod anyway.”

The door sliding sounds behind Lance, followed by Keith’s voice, low and soothing against Lance’s fraying edges. “Coran says he’ll be out by morning. Broken leg that had to be reset and severe exhaustion. Some other wounds, but nothing as serious.”

His eyes slide to Lance’s when he stops, their bodies shoulder to shoulder. It’s only for a moment, long enough for Keith to give the slightest of nods. Lance feels more tension bleed out.

“Then I’m gonna go rid myself of this armor, grab some food, and get my beauty sleep, and we can fully debrief in the morning,” he says, pushing a cheerful smile to his face and reaching out for Keith’s arm. His side twinges, but it’s no longer painful, just sore when the skin pulls. “Come on, mullet.”

Hunk—blessed, sweet, traitorous Hunk—glances at where Lance’s hand falls. “You two can have the rest of the space sapasui I made,” he offers. “It’s Keith’s favorite space dish, right?”

Keith’s head tilts slightly. “Yeah, but it’s also yours, so—”

“Nope, no, I insist.” Hunk shakes his head, settling further into his chair. Smug bastard . “I can cook it again later.”

Lance can only keep up with one crisis at a time, so instead of letting Hunk get any more smug, he blurts, “Fantastic! We’ll go eat it, then.” He tugs Keith from the bridge, ignoring Pidge’s snicker and Shiro’s confused murmur to Hunk.

It’s only when they get to the kitchen that Lance realizes he’s still gripping Keith’s arm. He abruptly lets go and crosses to the Altean equivalent of a fridge. As he pokes around for the sapasui, he taps against the fridge’s door. “He’s really okay?” he asks as he grabs the container.

“Coran said the pod would heal him fully,” Keith confirms. Behind Lance, he hears the scrape of a stool as Keith sits.

He hums and nods, letting himself dip back into autopilot while he gets two portions separated and reheated. Lance doesn’t have to think or feel for those few minutes. The numbness threatening to give way to emotions he definitely doesn’t want to deal with crawls along his neck, pricking along his spine. He wills it away. He needs to last a little longer.

“Eat in my room?” Lance suggests, holding one of the bowls out to Keith. 

Keith stands and takes the bowl with a nod. He grabs two spoons, passing one wordlessly to Lance as they start walking toward Lance’s room. 

This is what the two of them do. The two of them may have fought in the beginning, and Lance can admit they still do, but they're friends. At some point during their time in space, their fights became banter. When they spar, they match each other’s blows. When they team up, Keith and Lance are the perfect team who work together without visible seams. 

Keith being the one to know about him is both a blessing and a curse that way.

When they get to Lance’s room, Keith opens the door and sets the bowl on his nightstand. He does the same with Lance’s before he can protest. “Armor first,” he says, already making his way back out and toward his own room. 

Lance nods belatedly, watching the door close. The shick is the final noise before the room silences, and Lance’s lungs seize. He struggles for a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut as the emotions that numbness had staved off strike him full force. 

A sob works its way up his throat as he removes his chest plate. The more pieces he removes with shaking fingers, the foggier his vision becomes until he’s in his flight suit with tears slipping down his cheeks. Nearly ten years, and this is how he’s reunited with his home? Rescuing his best friend from a druid drop and having to pretend not to know him despite the urge to hug him tight and sob into his shoulder?

He’s starting to forget what they sounded like. Even their faces, as color-rich and bright as they are in his memories, are starting to fuzz around the edges. He can’t remember the small things—the number of freckles on Lanhiki’s cheeks, if Vrai’sha had been missing any teeth the last time he’d smiled. 

Would his parents recognize him? Would he recognize himself in the mirror?

Lance could have looked any time. He could have, but there was no point in seeing who he used to be.

Whoever Keith saw when his watch malfunctioned—did he see Elo’ki, or did he still see Lance?

His door opens again. Keith, as if summoned by Lance’s downward spiral, shuffles in, dressed in a tank top and a pair of red sweatpants Lance had forced him to buy at a swap moon a few months back. He frowns, taking in the still-present flight suit.

“We’re not having this conversation until you’ve changed and eaten,” Keith informs him as he crosses to Lance’s closet. He digs out a baggy shirt he’d given Lance—a novelty t-shirt that said “I love Hovynlop” in one of the planet’s native languages, the font suspiciously similar to Comic Sans—and the pair of blue sweatpants matching Keith’s.

The clothing gets shoved into Lance’s arms before he’s hauled to his feet. “Change.” He turns once he’s sure Lance won’t sit back down.

Lance doesn’t, but he does stare at the back of Keith’s head before eventually prying his flight suit off. He drops the fabric into the pile with his armor and pulls on the shirt and sweatpants, humming when he’s done. 

Keith glances back at him to confirm. Satisfied, he crawls onto Lance’s bed and grabs his bowl, settling it against his chest. “Come eat. You’re freaking me out.”

He squints incredulously at Keith. “You found out that I’ve been lying to you for over a year about my backstory and my fucking species, and you’re worried about me eating?” he croaks. 

“Yeah. Keep up.” He gestures to the nightstand before pointedly scooting himself over. 

Keith gives Lance whiplash constantly. That’s who Keith is—he’s fire, changing course when he wants to, and Lance, used to the flow like the water he now associates himself with, almost always knows how to get back on his tail. He’s adept at figuring out the why behind everything Keith says and acts. Even if Keith is merely paying back the acceptance favor from when he found out about his Galra genetics, this is more. Keith hadn’t known he was anything other than human. And he was still half human.

Lance knowingly kept up the charade instead of coming clean. He’s never been human in the first place.

Ducking his gaze, he grabs his own bowl and gets on the bed, keeping space between himself and Keith. His back presses to the headboard. He stares down at his food—purple and orange and a sort of teal color that looks more Thalakainese than any Earthen ingredients.

Lance’s stomach squeezes tight. He sets the bowl back on the nightstand.

“Okay, so scratch the food.” Keith sighs, eyeing his own bowl. “I’m starving, though, so your loss.” 

Keith digs in without waiting for Lance’s hum. It’s so normal that it makes him want to gag. Sure, Keith said he’d keep Lance’s secret for him, but he had been mad. Lance had felt the anger. It had vanished nearly as quickly as it had come, though, which was abnormal for someone that holds grudges as badly as Keith does. He should be yelling at Lance, not eating in Lance’s bed as if it’s another whatever-day-of-the-week-it-is night. 

His foot starts tapping against his opposite ankle. “How come you’re not pissed at me?” he finally asks.

“I was.” Keith’s answer comes immediately, through his food, and with a shrug. “Got over it.”

“How is that something you just ‘get over?’” Lance’s tapping stops, and he throws his hands up. “I lied, Keith. We got sent into space, where I’m from, and I didn’t say anything.” It all tumbles out of his mouth now as something in his chest breaks. “I nearly get blown up. I don’t say anything. You find out you’re half Galra, and instead of showing some fucking understanding, I don’t say anything . How are you not throwing me into the training room to beat me up?”

He looks at Keith, expecting to see some sort of crack in his nonchalance. Instead of being angry, though, Keith’s expression crumbles with something like sorrow, and Lance flinches away. “I was mad,” Keith says again, setting his bowl aside, “but I know you. You’ll beat yourself up more than anyone, including me, ever could, and I guess I thought you could use an ally instead of another enemy.”

It’s such an open, honest, caring statement that Lance’s vision blurs again with tears. “You’re supposed to be emotionally stunted, asshole.”

Keith huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry, I still pretty much am. I just learned a thing or two from you.”

“I’m not exactly living up to my reputation right now.” Sniffing, Lance scrubs a hand over his face.

The movement brings Keith’s attention to his watch. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to push, but did you—do you want to talk about anything?” he offers, and there’s Keith’s awkwardness.

Lance snickers and pulls his legs in toward himself. He fiddles with his watch and sucks his lip between his teeth. “I do owe you an explanation.” His voice is quiet even to his own ears. 

“You don't owe me anything.” Keith shakes his head. “I shouldn't have snapped at you in Red.”

“No, you reacted better than most anyone would have.” Lance sucks in a deep breath. “I don't think I have it in me to talk, but I, uh, guess I can show you? What I look like, I mean.” His fingers brush over the watch's face.

Beside him, Keith shifts so that he's facing Lance more fully. He can see Keith’s knee out of the corner of his eye, and when he looks up, his friend is watching patiently. He doesn't glance at the watch, just keeps his eyes on Lance's, and that's what gives Lance the push he needs to shut the device off. 

Even though Keith has seen him before, he’s only seen what little his armor exposed, so Lance half expects to be shoved off his own bed. He steals a glance at Keith, who is staring at him, eyes wide and trailing along all of Lance. Warmth floods his cheeks in an instant. “I haven’t seen myself in years,” he blurts, playing with his fingers. “I don’t even really know what I look like anymore.”

Probably like his father, Lance thinks. His father’s sharpness but his mother’s eyes. Her smile, too.

He snaps back to full attention when Keith makes a strangled noise in his throat. 

“You kept calling me a space cat for being Galra when you’re literally a fucking space cat? What the hell, Lance?” Keith jabs Lance’s shoulder. There’s no anger in them. No disappointment. It’s just teasing . 

Laughter leaves him before the noise even fully registers. He’s quick to slap his hand over his mouth, careful of his own clawed fingers. “I’m like a space jaguar. You’re a space house cat,” he corrects, shooting him a grin over his hand.

Keith frowns, the pretty pout that makes Lance’s heart squeeze in his ribcage. “I’m literally not.”

“Look in the mirror the next time you’re really feeling an emotion, then try telling me that again.” Lance rolls his eyes.

“Fine, but at least I don’t have toe beans.” He points toward Lance’s legs, where his ankles and feet are distinctly cat-like.

Lance indignantly covers them with a blanket, then squints at him. “Is that really what you’re focusing on? My fucking paws like a pervert?”

Keith shrugs. “Starting with your ears would have been too easy.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Lance shakes his head before glancing at his untouched bowl. 

His mood plummets immediately. In that moment, he becomes acutely aware of the numbness wearing off, letting the emotions he’d rather keep avoiding bleed back in. He sighs and tilts his head back. With his eyes closed, he asks, voice quiet, “Can you stay tonight?”

Normally, Keith and Lance share space at night only when the nightmares strike or when insomnia gets the best of one or both of them. But because Keith is somehow okay with this version of Lance, the one who looks humanoid but not human and can’t decide whether he wants to feel nothing or everything, he agrees, and Lance’s sigh of relief is as audible as the sob that follows. 

Chapter Text

On his ninth birthtant, Elânsi’ parents take him to the Tochi elders in the mountains. They leave his siblings behind with his Shen grandparents while they venture to his father’s tribe. Ota doesn’t usually accompany them on their travels; as the zhǐmáti, it’s his duty to remain in Kairi’idar in case he’s needed by the people, but this, what will hopefully be his son’s first Banding, is not something he can miss.

Oka, Ota, and he settle on their knees in front of a slightly raised wooden stage, Elânsi positioned before them. Their hands rest, supportive, on his shoulders. Other kits sit around him with one or two adults at their backs—parents, older siblings, grandparents, mentors—but some sit alone, so he embraces the comforting touch instead of shucking it off like he may have otherwise.

Despite being in the middle of so many other bonding candidates, it’s hard not to feel watched. He is, after all, a zhǐmáti'xǐ, so even if this attention was anticipated, he can’t preen under it now, not when their gazes are weighted. He can sense expectation in the elders sat on the opposite side of the stage. Some mix of curiosity and anticipation radiates from the community members seated on the third side of the stage, separating the youth from the elders.

These ceremonies happen each phoeb, so the excitement is Elânsi’s fault. He stares at the empty tables set up on the stage and pretends like his mother doesn’t give him a soft squeeze to reassure him.

An elder stands from the front row and hobbles to the stage, balanced by his thalamer cane. It gleams gold under the midday sun. He has the same large, triangle-shaped Tochi ears that his father and Elo’ki share, and his eyes are sharp and colored the same hue as arméng berries. Once in the middle, he faces the community members and lets his gaze sweep from his fellow elders to the waiting kits. “I am Shi’Kojamai,” he announces once the crowd has silenced. “May the Divine Soul’s current flow through your veins.”

Elânsi’s gaze narrows in on the cane, tail twitching. He knows little about quintessence, but Shi’Kojamai’s is easily the most yellow-based he’s ever seen given his stone’s pure coloring.

The elder lifts his free hand. “Under the Divine Soul’s eye, present the thalamer,” he projects.

Behind him, the front row of elders stands, and Elânsi realizes that each of them cradle chunks of mountain-born thalamer in their hands. They approach the tables in a reverent, practiced line and place their stones down: jagged, fire-hued shards; soil-brown slabs; round, sunglow lumps. Some are as pure in one color as Shi’Kojamai’s, while others are a mix of two or three, spottled or striped.

Ota will be thrilled if Elânsi bonds with one of these pieces, he knows. His father’s own is a beautiful orange loosely ribboned with a deep brown, a blend of two ground-based quintessences to reflect the steadiness of his being.

“Bonding candidates, you may come forward.” Shi’Kojamai waves toward the youth once the line of elders stands behind the tables. Elânsi notes the distinct lack of webbing between his fingers.

For a few beats, Elânsi can’t move. Other kits rise to their paws around him, but he stays on his knees, anxiety twisting his stomach. If he joins them, he either comes back chosen or bondless, and if the latter happens, he’ll have to wait until the next phoeb and go through this ceremony all over again. His fingers twitch before clenching around air.

“It took your father a few times for him to find his thalamer,” Oka says in her soft voice. Elânsi stiffens, cheeks flushing while his father scoffs amicably. She laughs and presses a kiss to his temple. “Go, yáoxǐ. You always make us proud.”

Ota pats his shoulder before Elânsi stands. “Thalamer chooses you, not the other way around. It’s all a matter of quintessence,” he reminds, eyes warm and molten when Elânsi’s meet them.

His parents know him painfully well. Their words ease him, at least enough to smile and get in line with the other youth. He ends up between a short Shen boy and a lithe Tochi girl that reminds him a bit of Elo’ki.

It pains him that his friend isn’t here. Elo’ki’s presence puts him at ease in a way little else does, and if he does walk away bondless, Elânsi would much rather either laugh it off with him or fawn over Elo’ki’s thalamer.

He doesn’t glance back at his parents as he approaches the tables, even though their eyes feel just as heavy as everyone else’s. He’s the first-born zhǐmáti'xǐ—this is his chance to make them proud.

Elânsi tentatively picks up a yellow and tan ingot, smooth around its edges, but the stone gives no pull against his quintessence. He sets it down and lets his fingers drift over a few others. There’s a slight spark when he touches a maroon shard the color of drying blood, but it fades as quickly as it came. His hope dwindles.

Around him, he hears gasps and cheers, and thalamer pieces begin to disappear as other kits find theirs. Not a single other piece so much as prods his quintessence along the rest of the tables.

Elânsi focuses on keeping himself standing straight as he makes his way back to his parents. Oka kisses his forehead, and Ota gives his shoulder a squeeze. They say something to him, but he can’t hear it over Shi’Kojomai closing the ceremony and the raucous excitement all around him.

He wants to be assigned his elder mentor. He craves to know what his quintessence looks like, what his quintessence can do .

“Next phoeb,” he’s promised as he and his parents head down the mountain. Elânsi doesn’t think Ota’s right.

Phoebs pass of his parents taking him to the Tochi ceremonies, but no mountain-born thalamer claims him. Each rejection from the stone drags him deeper and deeper into a sadness he can’t explain, a sort of press to his ribs that feels more permanent than it should.

Elo’ki and Shi’Dryli, their teacher, notice, and Elânsi pretends not to see their worried expressions.

After four phoebes of Elânsi trying and failing to find his thalamer, they travel to the Shen elders on one of the outer islands, and it’s different . He’s grown used to feeling nothing at the ceremonies, but the moment the elders begin to place ocean-born on the tables, something deep inside him warms.

His thalamer is there.

This time, Oka and Ota don’t have to encourage him to get into line with the others, and he isn’t mentally begging to be at Elo’ki’s side instead of here. Excitement floods him from the tips of his ears to the end of his tail. Between the kits already at the tables, he can see flashes of drenched-shore purple, sky-rich blue, and green as vibrant as the xibipa flowers Ota gets for his mother. 

The warmth curls further into him the closer he gets. It thrums as his fingers brush over nuggets of pink swirled with dawn blue, ocean-depth-purple slates, and soft green hunks dotted with black. Some spark, but they don’t hammer his heart. Not yet.

At the final table, his attention snaps to twin chunks of blue and green thalamer unlike any he’s seen before. Shades of blues and greens tangle together in thin waves, and in that moment it’s as if Elânsi has left Thalakai for someplace else. He touches them with his fore and middle fingers, and they sheen over silver.

His .

Elânsi reverently picks them up, one in each palm, and that something warm becomes a tsunami in his lungs.

A laugh, and Elânsi’s attention moves to the elder standing behind the table. His face is wrinkled and round, the apples of his cheeks pronounced and reddened by the sun. The four thalamer bands around his neck are a deep blue that emphasize the lighter color of his eyes, one a crystalline blue and the other a steady green. Hoops dangle from several piercings along his ears.

“I’ve been waiting a lot of decaphoebs to see who those stones belong to,” the man says. He leans forward, a lopsided smile stretching his lips. “I should have known that thalamer of this rarity would bond with our beloved zhǐmáti'xǐchu. It will be my honor as Elder Shi’xixen to mentor you, Hǎi’Elânsi.”

Joy radiates through Elânsi. It’s overwhelming enough that he tears up, vision swimming as he replies, “The honor is all mine.”

***

Lance’s body seizes when he wakes up. Keith, curled around him, luckily doesn't stir beyond making a soft, grumbling noise in the back of his throat. After six months of sharing the same bed on rough nights, Keith has blessedly learned to sleep through Lance’s moving around.

He carefully untangles his limbs from Keith’s and slips a pillow into his hold instead. Lance activates his watch before padding to the door, steps as quiet as he can make them. Keith may not wake from Lance shifting around—or kicking him—in bed, but he is hypersensitive to everything else, so he stares at his sleeping form while opening the door in hopes he can will Keith to stay that way. 

The shick makes Keith roll over and take a deep breath, but he doesn't appear to have woken up. Lance mentally cheers. He slips his feet into the slippers he keeps by the door and leaves, letting out a sigh once the door closes behind him. 

Part of him considers going back and waking Keith up, but that thought gets trampled quickly. As much as Lance knows Keith will do everything in his power to help, he needs to visit Elo’ki's pod alone. At least for a while. 

Once the bed goes cold, Keith will come find him. He always does.

(Pidge once joked that the two of them sewed their hips together the moment they stopped hating each other. Lance had mentally agreed.)

Lance doesn't meet anyone else in the hallways. It's early still, likely an hour or two before their alarms go off. He enters the med bay, relieved, and forces his exhausted body to make its way to Elo’ki’s pod. 

The sight nearly makes him vomit. Nausea pulls at him hard enough that his vision sways, but he keeps himself upright and swallows it down. Elo’ki looks so dead. 

He stares at his chest until it rises and falls, then continues staring until he’s unsure how much time has passed. “Why is it you?” he voices into the silence, quiet and cracked.

Lance gets empty air as a response. Elo’ki continues to breathe, and he doesn't pry his gaze away from his body in the pod. 

Coran was kind enough to clean Elo'ki's skin and change him into clean clothes before putting him into the pod. His fur still needs washed, but the majority of him is at least cleaned enough to see the patterns across his skin. Lance doesn't have to fight through blood and grime to double check that, truly, nothing had happened to Elo’ki's glands on his neck. 

It also exposes the second thalamer band situated in deep maroon across his skin. Lance's fingers brush over his own throat.

He hears the door open behind him and sighs, eyes still on Elo’ki. “Record time, Keith,” he mutters. 

A hum, too high and contemplative to be Keith’s. “Apologies, Number Three. I’m definitely not Number Four,” Coran quips, sounding far too awake for whatever-the-hell time it is. 

Lance stiffens, mentally cursing himself. Of course Coran is awake. He glances at his hand—no claws, single-toned skin. Human.

Coran, oblivious to the spike in Lance’s anxiety, checks the monitor of Elo’ki’s vitals before crossing the room to stand at his side. In the corner of his vision, Coran stands with his hands behind his back, head cocked as he regards Elo’ki in the pod. “He should be out in less than a varga,” he comments.

The Altean quiets again, and Lance doesn’t know what to say to fill the silence, so he just stares at Elo’ki, trying not to see his own reflection beside Coran’s in the glass. Coran is exactly who he should be, while Lance is both a mockery of himself and a version he wishes he could have been born as. His warped, translucent reflection is too human and not human enough.

He’s had so much— too much—time to come clean.

Coran seems to be content with the silence, or maybe he’s letting Lance stew in his thoughts. The air is weighted but not tense between them, so when Lance’s eyes refocus on Elo’ki, he thinks it might be the second one instead.

His fingers twitch, then curl.

Finally, Coran’s voice slices the quiet. “You wished to be here when he awoke?”

As kind as his tone is, Lance still hears the curious lilt to it. Lance has saved people across the universe, but he’s never one to wait at their pods. Him being here is odd, but at least Coran doesn’t seem to think much of it, so he tries, “I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d make a round and check on him for you.” He shrugs and pries his eyes from Elo’ki.

Coran stares at him for a few beats too long. Before Lance’s rising panic can get the best of him, Coran merely nods, his expression softening. “Much appreciated, my boy, though I wish you’d been able to get more sleep.”

Lance’s body relaxes minutely. “Some nights I wish I only needed Altean amounts of sleep instead,” he says, inflecting his voice with more cheer than he feels.

“A shame indeed,” Coran replies. His hand settles on Lance’s shoulder, and something in him threatens to crack. 

Go, yáoxǐ. You always make us proud.

His mother’s voice dances in the back of his mind, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. His emotions lay too close to the surface right now for this.

Before Lance can come up with an excuse to step away from Coran’s touch, the advisor speaks again. “My boy,” he starts, sounding hesitant. His fingers tighten just slightly on Lance’s shoulder and, with more resolution, continues, “I feel you need to know that it would have taken the pod significantly longer to heal this person if I had not needed to program the pod for his species a time before.”

Lance’s body chills as if dunked into ice. All he can do is breathe out a shaky “Oh” because how did he not realize Coran knows ?

The pods read out more than just vitals, and of course vitals are species-specific. Coran is far too caring and dutiful to not ensure he has the proper information at hand. He’d had Pidge and Hunk help him adjust the pods as part of the main diagnostics, but Lance wouldn’t have registered the same way.

He’s such a fucking idiot .

“You’ve known since the first time I was in a pod,” Lance croaks, staring at the floor.

Coran makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat. The hand on Lance’s shoulder doesn’t move. “I have,” he says, tentative.

“You never said a word.” Not even a suspicious glance Lance’s way.

“No.” It leaves Coran’s mouth like it’s something easy to say. His gaze snaps up to the advisor, meeting indigo eyes that stay cloud-soft. 

Lance searches those eyes, wondering if they'd still look at him the same if Coran knew how much of a coward he is. He doesn't know that Lance shakes at the thought of going to his home planet. He isn't privy to the memories and guilt he's so carefully hidden during mindmelds and forming Voltron.

Lance has always been so good at keeping a wall around Elânsi when Thalakai is a figment of his memories. Now, it's crumbling too violently for him to even try rebuilding it.

“Why didn't you tell everyone about me?” he asks. 

Coran’s lips ease into the smallest smile, though concern still sits in his features. “I may play up my personality for amusement, but I am still a trained advisor and diplomat with tact,” he says, giving Lance’s shoulder a slight squeeze before his touch vanishes. Lance immediately misses the warmth. “You must have your reasons, so I felt it best to simply ensure you were well taken care of until you decided to say something.”

He sighs, glancing between Elo’ki and Lance. Sorrow dulls his expression. “I'll admit that I'm telling you now out of my own selfishness. I feared that attempting to comfort you without you knowing why would greatly diminish what little I could provide.”

Fondness surges through Lance, so strong that he lurches forward into Coran's chest. The man startles, but he wraps his arms around Lance and gives his back a soft pat in a gesture he's learned from Hunk. Lance presses his face to Coran's collarbone as he grips onto the back of his suit.

“Thank you, Coran,” he says, clinging that much tighter.

Keith knowing is both an accident and necessity. He'd found out not because Lance had mustered the courage to tell him but because technology had failed him. There was no choosing involved. Even if Keith had taken it well and is now helping him keep it under wraps, Lance can't say he hadn't wanted to tell him on his own terms.

Coran had given him over a year of time to choose. He'd stayed silent for Lance’s comfort and trust, putting those above potential team safety and his duty to his charge. The only reason he's even saying anything now is so Lance has someone to turn to about Elo’ki.

He's so unbelievably grateful for Coran.

“You're most welcome, Lance,” he hears. Coran gently shifts Lance back so he can see his face again, gauging his expression and brushing away a stray tear with a hum.

It's so parental and loving—and so, so similar to something Shi'xixen would do—that Lance swallows and straightens, running a hand through his hair. “You probably have a ton of questions, right?”

Coran's hand drops, but hurt never crosses his face. “For now, I would simply like to ask if you want to talk.” He nods toward Elo'ki's pod. “Do you know his name?”

Lance follows his gaze back to his friend. “Elo’ki.” He's not sure why, but he finds himself adding, “We grew up together. He was my best friend.”

Solemn understanding bleeds into Coran’s hum, and suddenly, Lance can’t hold himself back. “He and I became best friends when we were four, actually. We had the same teacher. He was the first one besides my parents I showed my thalamer to, and I was at the ceremony where he got his.” His voice cracks, and Coran resumes his steadying his touch, this time with an arm around his shoulders.

“I will be most happy to meet him once he’s awake, then,” Coran says, his smile warm. If he’s confused about thalamer, he doesn’t show it.

“You’ll like him,” Lance promises, sniffling and leaning into the advisor’s side. If Elo’ki has changed too much in eight years.

Coran hums, pleased, before his lips eventually shift into a frown. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did you come to be on Earth with your fellow Paladins?” 

Lance winces, wiping another stray tear with the back of his hand. “The Galra.”

Adapt, A’Elân.

Yo te cuidaré.

His mother’s voices sound distant in the back of his mind, though the words are clear, crisp as the day he had heard them. At his side, Coran stiffens, a protective air wrapping about him. Coran doesn’t speak, simply allows Lance to collect his thoughts, and he thinks about sending Gioma’ar his second prayer in just as many days.

“I was ten decaphoebs when they came to my planet,” he eventually tells him. Getting the words out both lightens and weighs something in Lance, and he watches Elo’ki’s pod to keep his resolve. “Our galaxy had never experienced the Galra before, but I did grow up with stories about the empire and how horrible Zarkon and his soldiers are.”

He hesitates. Lance can feel Coran’s eyes still on him, compassionate to a fault, and fear of him regarding Lance any other way makes fear spike in his gut, sharp and raw. “Ota—my father—he’s not what we call a king, but that’s, I guess, what he is, and I’m his first born. My mother, my oka, she sent me through a wormhole in a pod, and I crashed in Cuba, where the McClain took me in.”

Lance braces for Coran’s reaction, expects him to pull away or get upset with him, but instead, he gets pulled in for another hug, this one tighter than the last. His breath stutters in his chest. Coran, unbothered by Lance’s surprise, lifts a hand to cradle his head, much like his father used to, fingers threading into his hair.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone had held him like this.

He’s too shocked for tears. His ears ring, but he distinctly hears Coran’s voice, utterly broken, say, “I’m so sorry, Lance. You were but a child.”

“It happened a long time ago,” he tries.

The attempt is distinctly unappreciated. Coran stiffens but doesn’t let go of Lance. “You were a child,” he repeats more firmly. “I will forever thank the goddess Nataji that she found you a family on Earth.”

Lance gnaws on his lip. He had fallen into the laps of the most generous, loving family he could have imagined—and left them, just as he had his birth family. None of them, not a soul, knows he’s fighting a war. His birth family could be dead for all he knows. His planet could be gone. He’s never even so much as mustered the courage to check .

He's about to open his mouth again, but the cryopod releases Elo’ki before he can. Lance and Coran separate in time for the former to catch Elo’ki as he misses the step out. His forehead meets Lance’s chest, and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

Lance cracks a smile. “Glad to see you're not dead again,” he greets. 

“Feels kinda like I am. I need a gǔnzài nap.” Elo’ki uses Lance’s arms as a brace to straighten up onto his own two paws. He blinks, looking around and tensing the moment he sees Coran. Panic flashes across his face before he can school it.

“Coran can know,” Lance assures, glancing back at Coran with a small smile. He gets a bright beam in return.

Elo’ki regards the Altean warily, but after a few seconds, he eases all at once. “Fantastic.” 

When they were young, Elo’ki believed him about most things and people just as easily. Now, Lance recognizes that naivety, how dangerous that kind of trust can be. But this isn’t the easy trust Lance remembers, not when Elo’ki glances at Lance for a split second, so quick and analytical that, at first, he doesn’t even process it. No, Elo’ki is choosing to place trust in Coran only because Lance truly does.

Eight years of growing up has changed his friend a lot, it seems. A small—or maybe large—part of Lance aches that he wasn’t around for it. His heart swells knowing Elo’ki still has the utmost faith in him after all this time apart.

Elo’ki yawns and stretches, testing out the mobility of his arms, then his legs. He whistles in awe when the one previously broken moves fluidly. “It’s like I was never even injured,” he notes, flashing a grin.

Lance snickers. “Thank the Altean tech. Sent straight from Gioma’ar.”

Humming, Elo’ki stops moving so he can look around the room, sharp eyes clear and very much alive. “The prince said there’s others. Where are they?”

“Sleeping,” Coran answers, stepping forward to look Elo’ki over with furrowed eyebrows. Elo’ki frowns but doesn’t shift away. “The pod healed you well, but it does not bring your body back to its best state. We should get you to the dining area for a meal and then a shower before the paladins awake.”

Elo’ki nods slowly, and Lance pats his shoulder, relieved when his friend settles at his touch. “I’ll fill you in on as much as I can before Pidge and Shiro inevitably get their hooks into you,” he assures. On instinct, he grabs the tip of Elo’ki’s ear and tugs, gentle but still firm enough to get him to yelp. “And for the second time, quit calling me prince.”

Elo’ki’s expression morphs into betrayal as his hand comes up to cradle his ear. Then, something like delight crosses his face, and he laughs. “But you are one,” he teases with a smirk.

“You only use that term because of that stupid book your oka had.” Lance folds his arms, and suddenly, he feels like they're eight again, sneaking around Elo’ki house late at night. It warms his soul straight through.

Coran’s quiet laughter pulls their attention to him. Lance shifts his weight awkwardly, knowing his cheeks are flushing pink. “You two may bicker after we get dear Elo’ki some food,” he chides, more amused than serious. He does, however, start toward the door. 

Elo’ki blinks, likely confused as to how Coran knows his name. Lance watches him visibly shake it off with an ear twitch before the two of them follow after. 

He's immediately taken with how large everything is in the castle, so Lance smiles to himself and walks quietly beside him. Pride swells in his chest as Elo’ki quietly gasps and swings his wide gaze around. 

“Ask Coran about the castle later,” he tells him quietly. Elo’ki looks at him with curiosity. “Coran's grandfather built it. He knows everything about this place.”

Elo’ki practically glows with excitement. “Awesome.” 

Maybe it should alarm Lance that he's so animated and jovial after whatever he's experienced in Galra custody. Elo’ki had been in pain for who knows how long, but this joy, unfiltered, lacks any hint of hurt or lingering fear. 

The trauma will rear its head, he knows, likely when the other paladins and Allura appear to fish for information. Lance resolves to keep him happy while he can, even if it's just long enough for a meal. After all, he’d be a hypocrite to call him out.

Coran fusses over getting them both sat down at the table, Lance across from Elo’ki, unwilling to look away from his friend. Behind him, he hears the cupboard doors opening and closing, followed by the noise of the food goo machine. Elo’ki’s eyes are on Coran over his shoulder, and Lance smothers a laugh as horror creeps into his expression.

“Here you are, boys. Eat up,” he says, placing the bowls down with two spoons. The goo sloshes. Coran straightens, smiling and clapping his hands together, oblivious to the way Elo’ki greens and Lance covers his mouth to hide his grin. “The goo accounts for 85% of life forms’ basic nutritional needs.”

Elo’ki hesitantly picks up the spoon and pushes it into the goo. Its movement makes him whine, low in his throat. “You eat this for all your meals?” he asks.

Lance almost wants to say yes, just to be a little mean, but he’s so thrilled to have Elo’ki alive and well that he takes pity on him. “Hunk cooks a lot, so we usually only eat goo if we have no leftovers or it’s all we can stomach. It’s relatively easy to keep down, even if it does look like something a níchel would eat.”

Confusion presses at Coran’s lips, but Elo’ki pauses, blinking at him. Emotions race fast enough that Lance can’t grasp them, but as quickly as they came they settle, leaving an amazed sort of fondness. “I really thought your gǔnzài ass was gone,” he admits. 

Lance picks up his own spoon. “Right back at you, man.” He takes a bite of the goo, watching as Elo’ki mirrors him. 

The moment Elo’ki tastes it, he recoils, face scrunching. “Gǔn Gioma’ar, that’s as bad as the food Shi’Dryli used to make,” he grouses.

Coran huffs and folds his arms. “It’s not as bad as you lot make it out to be, you know.”

Lance and Elo’ki share a glance. “Yes, it is,” Lance says as Elo’ki nods solemnly. 

“Food critics, the lot of you.” The Altean shakes head. “I’ll fetch Elo’ki fresh clothing for his shower while you two eat, and I expect you both to finish all of it.” He eyes them expectantly before leaving the room.

Elo’ki watches him go. “Does he remind you of—”

“Shi’xixen?” Lance fills in eagerly. “Yes.”

His friend hums and eats, his expression staying just as repulsed with each bite. Lance eats quietly, keeping his eyes on Elo’ki and savoring the warmth of familiarity coaxing his muscles to relax more than he has in days.