[This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. The lions had been jettisoned from the wormhole, scattering the paladins across the universe, with no real means of contacting one another and who-knows-how-long until they could be reunited.
That wasn't the worst part.
Crash landing on some mystery planet wasn't the worst part, either. Red's scanners had been running well enough to tell that the atmosphere outside of the lion - and outside his armor; necessary, with the damage it took in the fighting and in the crash - was hospitable to him. That was good, actually. If the atmosphere was fine, then there would be food and shelter that were also fine, until someone came.
And Keith wasn't even alone, this time, though he couldn't help but worry about the others, couldn't help but think that Pidge or Lance or Hunk would have been better off in this position, on a mostly hospitable planet with Black crashed next to their lion. Keith could handle roughing it on his own. He'd done it before. He'd make a new little shack for himself and that would be that. That aside, though, if he had to crash land with someone, he was glad it was Shiro.
Shiro, who had been injured, just like him. Shiro, whose injuries were not healing nearly as fast as his own in this odd environment. Red said the atmosphere was high in Quintessence, and he supposed that must have been the cause for his ribs knitting back together so easily, and the cuts and scrapes sustained faded within days. That was weird. That still wasn't the worst of it.
The worst was how difficult it was to keep the fact hidden that, while everything else was healing at a rapid pace, his bruises were not... or he didn't think they were. Mottled purple and black and blue faded into a pale violet and stayed that shade. In fact, it even seemed to be spreading by the day, and Keith didn't want to find out what would happen when it reached the ends of his sleeves, or stretched far enough up his neck to be seen. He told himself it was just weird bruising. He told himself there must be something else in the atmosphere to cause this. He told himself he couldn't tell Shiro, because he would be unsettled with how his skin was starting to look distinctly... Galra.
He couldn't tell, because it was unsettling him, too.
Along with that, though, was the fact that he was having more trouble than usual sleeping. Every time he tried, he'd wake up sweat-slicked and panting from some erotic dream, the results of which were, at best, embarrassing. He tried to hide that, too, from Shiro, because... what else could Shiro do? He was handsome and kind and perfect, but while Keith wouldn't mind getting a... friendly helping hand, sometimes, this was still Shiro, and asking would be crossing all kinds of boundaries.
And yet, it got worse by the day, to the point where he found himself oddly flushed and feverish at even the best of times, where it almost seemed as though a stiff breeze would... well... stiffen something else. It was frustrating, in more ways than one, and prompted him to avoid Shiro more than he'd ever want to.
Until one morning he woke up even earlier than Shiro and was glad for that much. Something felt very, very wrong. His body was hotter than usual, thrumming and oversensitive. The light of early morning was too bright and hurt his eyes. The purplish hue had spread to his hands, and that was what prompted him to retreat back to Red's cockpit, in an effort to find some gloves.
The console lit up in purple light. Odd, but perhaps Red could sense the discomfort in his eyes and was doing her best to help, since bright red lighting didn't seem especially appealing. What was more unsettling was the fact that all the English script was replaced with Galran text.
He looked back to his hands. His nails had turned black, had sharpened themselves. His stomach dropped to his shoes. He flicked a few switches by muscle memory alone, turned on the video comm, looked at the small image of himself, as though it were a mirror.
Glowing yellow eyes. purplish skin, and darker purplish hair. Big, catlike ears that perked up in alarm as he drew his weapon, thinking it to be some kind of trick, but... the feed moved with him. It couldn't have been a joke. And over all the panic, over everything new and deeply, viscerally concerning, he still had the distinct sensation of being terribly, terribly aroused.
[ Here on this yet-to-be-named planet, the atmosphere filters the light from this system's twin stars differently than on earth: it gives the sky a purple tint. Like the color of the satoimo buns that his mother used to make for him when he was a child.
Shiro awakes to that thought every morning. The memory of his mother's hands curled over his to help him shape the bun. The warm smell from the bamboo steamers, the temptation of peeking in before his mother allowed him one. It soothes the inevitable turbulence of the nightmare preceding it; pragmatic as he is, Shiro doesn't let himself dwell. The others are out there, perhaps ensnared in circumstances worse than his own: right now, fixing up their Lions and getting the hell out of here is the focus.
On the sixteenth day after their crash, Shiro wakes in silence. This world echoes. The scanners picked up no evidence of animal life, but they hadn't needed the Lions to tell them that: no crickets chirp as the twin suns sink to their rest, no carnivores come hunting for human flesh. The last two people on the planet. The first. It doesn't matter.
He presses his hand to the pallet beside him, a frown flickering across his face when he finds it cold. They'd built this small shelter from the fronds of a native tree; Shiro had insisted on staying together at night even when retreating to their respective Lions to sleep might have been the logical choice. They have no idea where they are. The Galra might be a heartbeat away. Staying together is paramount.
Shiro rolls to his feet, working out the kinks in his back as he goes. The frown lingers, gathering in the creases in his face. Signs of age descending too quickly, spreading his twenty-one-two-three years over experiences too large.
He's noticed Keith's reticence. He'd done his best to remain a supportive but unobtrusive friend, but concern has begun to outweigh his patience. They aren't the children they'd been back at the Garrison, where Shiro had the luxury of years of kindness to sand Keith's sharp edges down. Everything is quicksilver and hot-pressed gold in their present: emotion comes and goes like the swell of the tides. Sometimes Keith has bad days. Sometimes Shiro does. Most of the time it's not worth talking about.
But this - this is different. Keith has never been ashamed of his body - in the Garrison, in fact, he'd never been self-conscious in the changing rooms, uncaring or unaware of his own startling good looks. Here, he has taken to wearing his undersuit at all times, disappearing to the salt-lakes to bathe only when Shiro is occupied with something else. Shiro has been startled into waking by the fervor of Keith's nightmares, almost on a nightly basis; he hasn't commented on it, but it does nothing to abate his concern.
Nonetheless, Shiro knows how Keith values his privacy, so he doesn't immediately set out to find him. The murmur of Black's reassurance at the back of his mind allays any fears that Keith may have been taken by a hostile force. He busies himself with preparing breakfast. With the lack of animal life on the planet, they hadn't expected to find anything edible - but the scanners had picked up more than a few edible greens and even a wheat-like plant. Mixing the wheat with a bit of water and adding the greens for garnish makes for a serviceable gruel.
He goes through his morning exercises. Spends a few minutes at the salt-lake, scouring himself clean. Checks in with Black; makes a list of repairs he wants to complete before the day is out.
Still no Keith.
Shiro rebinds his leg, wincing as he does so. He'd dislocated his shoulder and banged his head up badly in the fall, but his left leg had taken the brunt of the damage. The console had sparked into flame when they'd breached the atmosphere, leaving Shiro with burns down across his thighs. He'd been sitting with his left leg braced against the underside of the console, leaving him with a nasty third-degree burn from knee to ankle.
It's healing, but slowly. The Altean medkits have been helping, but it'll take time.
--Keith, oddly enough, had needed only a day or two to recover from his injuries. Shiro had been piqued, but not overly so - Keith "healing quickly" is likely explained by Keith not externalizing his pain.
Maybe it had been worse than Shiro had believed. He scoops up the bowls of gruel, the grain now soaked to an acceptable consistency. The Lions bracket their makeshift camp, Red not yet maneuvered out of the ungainly sprawl she'd crashlanded into.
He shifts the bowls to the crook of his arm, freeing up a hand to press to her snout. He can feel the thrum of her consciousness alongside Black's, a whirlpool in his own Lion's boundless calm. ]
[If Keith had been thinking rationally, he should have come clean days ago. He should have shared with Shiro the strange things happening with his body - or, at least, the odd discoloring of his skin - and maybe they would have both been able to figure something out. If they couldn't, maybe Black could. Red wasn't much help. She wanted repairs, and she wanted Keith to be less viscerally frustrated, but that was it.
And now Keith was locked away in her cockpit, pacing idly and trying to figure out just what to do.
He couldn't go out, now. Shiro would kill him. He would think they'd been found by the Galra and would cut him down without a second thought and then wouldn't ever be able to find his body. The communicator in his helmet had broken, and if he used Red's, then there was no guarantee there wouldn't be a video feed. He couldn't strike out on his own, because then he'd be lost and alone without Shiro and without his lion and with no way of getting back to the castle - and no way of proving his innocence, even if he did find a way.
He was screwed in every way except the one his body was aching for, and he hated that his mind kept drifting back there, too.
He spends what feels like hours fretting away in the cockpit before Red flicks Shiro's approach up on the screen, broadcasts his voice into the cockpit, and he can't let her let him in, but she's stubborn enough that he can't make her keep him out, either, so he tries to project confidence when he broadcasts his voice through external speakers.]
Uh. Yeah. Thanks, Shiro... Leave it outside? I'll grab it in a sec...
[Great. Good job, Keith. That wasn't confident at all.]
[ Even over the external speakers, Shiro feels the disquiet in Keith's voice as if it had been filtered through the mental bond they all share through their Lions.
The Shiro of before wouldn't have hesitated before pushing further. But the Shiro of before hadn't been the half-wrought creature the Galra have shaped him into. He knows that Keith still respects him; he isn't self-serving enough in his insecurity to believe otherwise.
Yet -- pragmatic or otherwise, he still stops to wonder: maybe Keith's not willing to share his weaknesses because he doesn't trust Shiro the same way.
Shiro leans forward, forehead tilted against Red's jaw. The scuffed metal is warm to the touch, sentient but utterly inhuman. He can feel her impatience, but not the reasoning behind: Black, in the periphery of his mind, has little to offer in response. ]
Sure. If it's space you need, I get it.
[ But that's not all he wants to say. Not when he knows Keith the way he does. When Keith escapes, he escapes to pockets of shadow and isolation. Left alone in the echo chamber of his anger, it only makes it all worse.
Shiro closes his eyes, projecting his concern in Red's mental direction. If Keith won't let him in, maybe she'll see the necessity of it. He takes a deep breath. Holds it in the bower of his throat, alien air burning all the way down. ]
But - whatever is going on, whatever you're struggling with - it'll be a lot easier if we deal with it together.
[ And this is where the hesitation draws near, Shiro's tongue dragging against his soft palate. Forming and discarding words from inhale to exhale. The plume of laughter that rises from his throat is a soft, wingless thing. ]
You know that, right? [ Like the hours under the stars, Keith's brilliance isolating him from his peers, his disregard for authority angering his instructors. Shiro shaping himself into a cliffside for Keith's white-tipped waves to crash upon. A moment away from reality, a silence too sweet for awkwardness. ] Just like old times.
[It aches, shutting Shiro out like this. He knows doing it will hurt him - it already has, if the twinge in the back of his mind from shiro to black to red to him was any indication at all... if how he knew Shiro was any indication at all. But he couldn't just let him in like this. He couldn't. Not when he was panicking, not when he knew Shiro would be worse.
And that, too, was a terrifying thought. Level-headed Shiro, always the pragmatic one, undone.
He wants to yell at him. He wants to shove him away. Wants to say anything to buy himself just a little more time, but it isn't so easy. Not with how Shiro's voice filters through. Not with how uncertain he sounds. Not with how hopeful his words are.
It'll be easier if they deal with it together - no it won't. He knows it - he doesn't. Just like old times... he'll ruin their old times. Everything they had before, every memory, every shared moment will forever be tinged with... this. Whatever this is.
He trusts Shiro, or he wants to. He doesn't want to hurt him. He wants to confide in him. He doesn't want to hurt him.
Red is in the back of his mind, urging him to trust, and he can't be sure but it's probably her stubborn insistence that gets him to speak, finally, if only to buy a few more minutes of her not opening up and letting Shiro in, impatient and unwilling to see her boys hurting without reason.]
I... know, Shiro... I just... I don't want this to ruin everything else, okay?
[And he bites his lip at that, because no way was that inspiring any kind of confidence, but it was honest, and open, and maybe - maybe - it would get Shiro to steel himself for whatever happened.
[ Keith has a tendency to wrap his hands in certainty before going for a punch, whether or not he truly believes in what he does. It's part and parcel of who he is. That's why his hesitation strikes deeper than anger or fear might have: whatever has happened, it's enough to make Keith doubt himself.
It makes it easier to bolster his resolve. They'd worked together well as a team even before their reunion, but the past few months have taught them cooperation to a near precognitive level. Where one falters, another steps forth. Give-and-take.
Here on this alien planet, with the violet sky painting Red a quieter color than her norm: Shiro unknots his concern, replaces it instead with the belief he has in his team. In Keith, beyond the rest, whose abilities are a supernova in its prime.
He takes a step back, looking up into Red's visage. The smile carries in his voice. ]
I can promise you — whatever it is, it won't ruin anything. What we've built together can't be dismantled that easily.
[ And he doesn't have to feign the confidence in his declaration; it comes as naturally as his next exhale. It's easier when Keith is within distance, when he can bolster him with a hand to his shoulder - physicality works much better with Keith, who has always struggled with words - but this will have to suffice.
Black rumbles in the periphery, her encouragement warm and unobtrusive. He can feel her withdrawing, trusting him to deal with Red and her paladin on his own merit. ]
[Shiro promises him, and Keith hates, hates that he can't believe him entirely. He wants to. He aches to. But he can't. Not when he looks - is? - Galra, not when he knows how Shiro reacts even seeing them in person, not when the seriousness of the situation weighs all the heavier on his shoulders for how his body aches.
But Red nudges at the back of his mind to trust not in Shiro's reactions, because they both know they'll be visceral and will hurt, but in their bond from before, in their bond now, in how they slotted together perfectly. Personalities haven't changed, after all, not appearances.
So he sighs. Tries to steady himself.
It doesn't work, not really.]
Okay, Shiro.
[Okay. He'd agreed to come out, but that doesn't make the act any easier.]
Just... remember it's me... okay? Try not to freak out?
[Enigmatic, maybe, but it's a moment later before Red's cockpit is opening and Keith peeks out, eyes bright and glowing in the dim light, ears down in abject uncertainty. One step. Another. And he's standing in the planet's oddly tinted sunlight, eyes on the ground and fidgeting from foot to foot.]
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That wasn't the worst part.
Crash landing on some mystery planet wasn't the worst part, either. Red's scanners had been running well enough to tell that the atmosphere outside of the lion - and outside his armor; necessary, with the damage it took in the fighting and in the crash - was hospitable to him. That was good, actually. If the atmosphere was fine, then there would be food and shelter that were also fine, until someone came.
And Keith wasn't even alone, this time, though he couldn't help but worry about the others, couldn't help but think that Pidge or Lance or Hunk would have been better off in this position, on a mostly hospitable planet with Black crashed next to their lion. Keith could handle roughing it on his own. He'd done it before. He'd make a new little shack for himself and that would be that. That aside, though, if he had to crash land with someone, he was glad it was Shiro.
Shiro, who had been injured, just like him. Shiro, whose injuries were not healing nearly as fast as his own in this odd environment. Red said the atmosphere was high in Quintessence, and he supposed that must have been the cause for his ribs knitting back together so easily, and the cuts and scrapes sustained faded within days. That was weird. That still wasn't the worst of it.
The worst was how difficult it was to keep the fact hidden that, while everything else was healing at a rapid pace, his bruises were not... or he didn't think they were. Mottled purple and black and blue faded into a pale violet and stayed that shade. In fact, it even seemed to be spreading by the day, and Keith didn't want to find out what would happen when it reached the ends of his sleeves, or stretched far enough up his neck to be seen. He told himself it was just weird bruising. He told himself there must be something else in the atmosphere to cause this. He told himself he couldn't tell Shiro, because he would be unsettled with how his skin was starting to look distinctly... Galra.
He couldn't tell, because it was unsettling him, too.
Along with that, though, was the fact that he was having more trouble than usual sleeping. Every time he tried, he'd wake up sweat-slicked and panting from some erotic dream, the results of which were, at best, embarrassing. He tried to hide that, too, from Shiro, because... what else could Shiro do? He was handsome and kind and perfect, but while Keith wouldn't mind getting a... friendly helping hand, sometimes, this was still Shiro, and asking would be crossing all kinds of boundaries.
And yet, it got worse by the day, to the point where he found himself oddly flushed and feverish at even the best of times, where it almost seemed as though a stiff breeze would... well... stiffen something else. It was frustrating, in more ways than one, and prompted him to avoid Shiro more than he'd ever want to.
Until one morning he woke up even earlier than Shiro and was glad for that much. Something felt very, very wrong. His body was hotter than usual, thrumming and oversensitive. The light of early morning was too bright and hurt his eyes. The purplish hue had spread to his hands, and that was what prompted him to retreat back to Red's cockpit, in an effort to find some gloves.
The console lit up in purple light. Odd, but perhaps Red could sense the discomfort in his eyes and was doing her best to help, since bright red lighting didn't seem especially appealing. What was more unsettling was the fact that all the English script was replaced with Galran text.
He looked back to his hands. His nails had turned black, had sharpened themselves. His stomach dropped to his shoes. He flicked a few switches by muscle memory alone, turned on the video comm, looked at the small image of himself, as though it were a mirror.
Glowing yellow eyes. purplish skin, and darker purplish hair. Big, catlike ears that perked up in alarm as he drew his weapon, thinking it to be some kind of trick, but... the feed moved with him. It couldn't have been a joke. And over all the panic, over everything new and deeply, viscerally concerning, he still had the distinct sensation of being terribly, terribly aroused.
How in the world could he face Shiro like this?]
that header img is cruel and unjust
Shiro awakes to that thought every morning. The memory of his mother's hands curled over his to help him shape the bun. The warm smell from the bamboo steamers, the temptation of peeking in before his mother allowed him one. It soothes the inevitable turbulence of the nightmare preceding it; pragmatic as he is, Shiro doesn't let himself dwell. The others are out there, perhaps ensnared in circumstances worse than his own: right now, fixing up their Lions and getting the hell out of here is the focus.
On the sixteenth day after their crash, Shiro wakes in silence. This world echoes. The scanners picked up no evidence of animal life, but they hadn't needed the Lions to tell them that: no crickets chirp as the twin suns sink to their rest, no carnivores come hunting for human flesh. The last two people on the planet. The first. It doesn't matter.
He presses his hand to the pallet beside him, a frown flickering across his face when he finds it cold. They'd built this small shelter from the fronds of a native tree; Shiro had insisted on staying together at night even when retreating to their respective Lions to sleep might have been the logical choice. They have no idea where they are. The Galra might be a heartbeat away. Staying together is paramount.
Shiro rolls to his feet, working out the kinks in his back as he goes. The frown lingers, gathering in the creases in his face. Signs of age descending too quickly, spreading his twenty-one-two-three years over experiences too large.
He's noticed Keith's reticence. He'd done his best to remain a supportive but unobtrusive friend, but concern has begun to outweigh his patience. They aren't the children they'd been back at the Garrison, where Shiro had the luxury of years of kindness to sand Keith's sharp edges down. Everything is quicksilver and hot-pressed gold in their present: emotion comes and goes like the swell of the tides. Sometimes Keith has bad days. Sometimes Shiro does. Most of the time it's not worth talking about.
But this - this is different. Keith has never been ashamed of his body - in the Garrison, in fact, he'd never been self-conscious in the changing rooms, uncaring or unaware of his own startling good looks. Here, he has taken to wearing his undersuit at all times, disappearing to the salt-lakes to bathe only when Shiro is occupied with something else. Shiro has been startled into waking by the fervor of Keith's nightmares, almost on a nightly basis; he hasn't commented on it, but it does nothing to abate his concern.
Nonetheless, Shiro knows how Keith values his privacy, so he doesn't immediately set out to find him. The murmur of Black's reassurance at the back of his mind allays any fears that Keith may have been taken by a hostile force. He busies himself with preparing breakfast. With the lack of animal life on the planet, they hadn't expected to find anything edible - but the scanners had picked up more than a few edible greens and even a wheat-like plant. Mixing the wheat with a bit of water and adding the greens for garnish makes for a serviceable gruel.
He goes through his morning exercises. Spends a few minutes at the salt-lake, scouring himself clean. Checks in with Black; makes a list of repairs he wants to complete before the day is out.
Still no Keith.
Shiro rebinds his leg, wincing as he does so. He'd dislocated his shoulder and banged his head up badly in the fall, but his left leg had taken the brunt of the damage. The console had sparked into flame when they'd breached the atmosphere, leaving Shiro with burns down across his thighs. He'd been sitting with his left leg braced against the underside of the console, leaving him with a nasty third-degree burn from knee to ankle.
It's healing, but slowly. The Altean medkits have been helping, but it'll take time.
--Keith, oddly enough, had needed only a day or two to recover from his injuries. Shiro had been piqued, but not overly so - Keith "healing quickly" is likely explained by Keith not externalizing his pain.
Maybe it had been worse than Shiro had believed. He scoops up the bowls of gruel, the grain now soaked to an acceptable consistency. The Lions bracket their makeshift camp, Red not yet maneuvered out of the ungainly sprawl she'd crashlanded into.
He shifts the bowls to the crook of his arm, freeing up a hand to press to her snout. He can feel the thrum of her consciousness alongside Black's, a whirlpool in his own Lion's boundless calm. ]
Keith? I brought breakfast.
it's accurate tho
And now Keith was locked away in her cockpit, pacing idly and trying to figure out just what to do.
He couldn't go out, now. Shiro would kill him. He would think they'd been found by the Galra and would cut him down without a second thought and then wouldn't ever be able to find his body. The communicator in his helmet had broken, and if he used Red's, then there was no guarantee there wouldn't be a video feed. He couldn't strike out on his own, because then he'd be lost and alone without Shiro and without his lion and with no way of getting back to the castle - and no way of proving his innocence, even if he did find a way.
He was screwed in every way except the one his body was aching for, and he hated that his mind kept drifting back there, too.
He spends what feels like hours fretting away in the cockpit before Red flicks Shiro's approach up on the screen, broadcasts his voice into the cockpit, and he can't let her let him in, but she's stubborn enough that he can't make her keep him out, either, so he tries to project confidence when he broadcasts his voice through external speakers.]
Uh. Yeah. Thanks, Shiro... Leave it outside? I'll grab it in a sec...
[Great. Good job, Keith. That wasn't confident at all.]
no subject
The Shiro of before wouldn't have hesitated before pushing further. But the Shiro of before hadn't been the half-wrought creature the Galra have shaped him into. He knows that Keith still respects him; he isn't self-serving enough in his insecurity to believe otherwise.
Yet -- pragmatic or otherwise, he still stops to wonder: maybe Keith's not willing to share his weaknesses because he doesn't trust Shiro the same way.
Shiro leans forward, forehead tilted against Red's jaw. The scuffed metal is warm to the touch, sentient but utterly inhuman. He can feel her impatience, but not the reasoning behind: Black, in the periphery of his mind, has little to offer in response. ]
Sure. If it's space you need, I get it.
[ But that's not all he wants to say. Not when he knows Keith the way he does. When Keith escapes, he escapes to pockets of shadow and isolation. Left alone in the echo chamber of his anger, it only makes it all worse.
Shiro closes his eyes, projecting his concern in Red's mental direction. If Keith won't let him in, maybe she'll see the necessity of it. He takes a deep breath. Holds it in the bower of his throat, alien air burning all the way down. ]
But - whatever is going on, whatever you're struggling with - it'll be a lot easier if we deal with it together.
[ And this is where the hesitation draws near, Shiro's tongue dragging against his soft palate. Forming and discarding words from inhale to exhale. The plume of laughter that rises from his throat is a soft, wingless thing. ]
You know that, right? [ Like the hours under the stars, Keith's brilliance isolating him from his peers, his disregard for authority angering his instructors. Shiro shaping himself into a cliffside for Keith's white-tipped waves to crash upon. A moment away from reality, a silence too sweet for awkwardness. ] Just like old times.
no subject
And that, too, was a terrifying thought. Level-headed Shiro, always the pragmatic one, undone.
He wants to yell at him. He wants to shove him away. Wants to say anything to buy himself just a little more time, but it isn't so easy. Not with how Shiro's voice filters through. Not with how uncertain he sounds. Not with how hopeful his words are.
It'll be easier if they deal with it together - no it won't. He knows it - he doesn't. Just like old times... he'll ruin their old times. Everything they had before, every memory, every shared moment will forever be tinged with... this. Whatever this is.
He trusts Shiro, or he wants to. He doesn't want to hurt him. He wants to confide in him. He doesn't want to hurt him.
Red is in the back of his mind, urging him to trust, and he can't be sure but it's probably her stubborn insistence that gets him to speak, finally, if only to buy a few more minutes of her not opening up and letting Shiro in, impatient and unwilling to see her boys hurting without reason.]
I... know, Shiro... I just... I don't want this to ruin everything else, okay?
[And he bites his lip at that, because no way was that inspiring any kind of confidence, but it was honest, and open, and maybe - maybe - it would get Shiro to steel himself for whatever happened.
Maybe.
Hopefully.]
no subject
It makes it easier to bolster his resolve. They'd worked together well as a team even before their reunion, but the past few months have taught them cooperation to a near precognitive level. Where one falters, another steps forth. Give-and-take.
Here on this alien planet, with the violet sky painting Red a quieter color than her norm: Shiro unknots his concern, replaces it instead with the belief he has in his team. In Keith, beyond the rest, whose abilities are a supernova in its prime.
He takes a step back, looking up into Red's visage. The smile carries in his voice. ]
I can promise you — whatever it is, it won't ruin anything. What we've built together can't be dismantled that easily.
[ And he doesn't have to feign the confidence in his declaration; it comes as naturally as his next exhale. It's easier when Keith is within distance, when he can bolster him with a hand to his shoulder - physicality works much better with Keith, who has always struggled with words - but this will have to suffice.
Black rumbles in the periphery, her encouragement warm and unobtrusive. He can feel her withdrawing, trusting him to deal with Red and her paladin on his own merit. ]
no subject
But Red nudges at the back of his mind to trust not in Shiro's reactions, because they both know they'll be visceral and will hurt, but in their bond from before, in their bond now, in how they slotted together perfectly. Personalities haven't changed, after all, not appearances.
So he sighs. Tries to steady himself.
It doesn't work, not really.]
Okay, Shiro.
[Okay. He'd agreed to come out, but that doesn't make the act any easier.]
Just... remember it's me... okay? Try not to freak out?
[Enigmatic, maybe, but it's a moment later before Red's cockpit is opening and Keith peeks out, eyes bright and glowing in the dim light, ears down in abject uncertainty. One step. Another. And he's standing in the planet's oddly tinted sunlight, eyes on the ground and fidgeting from foot to foot.]