Solidarity (Voltron, Keith)

[monochrome]

For @IcyFlame  

...this took forever and I hate myself for it. it's so late. fml I'M SO SORRY, ICY. i owe you my soul.

 

Anyways, this is just... pre-season 2 plotless Klance that I've been working on for a month because I am so ridiculously slow at writing... no matter which way you look at it, the delay is ridiculous. And... it's really long, with a really abrupt ending.

 

...yeah, i don't know what i'm doing here.... sorry.

 

––x––

 

Keith hates to acknowledge it, but his immune system definitely isn’t one of his strong points. It hadn’t exactly been a problem on earth: back at the garrison, he’d always worked by himself and kept contact with others to a minimum, so contagion wasn’t really an issue. But now that he’s in space, admittedly he’s let his guard down. He’s gotten close enough to the others that if one of them falls ill, he’s pretty sure that sooner or later, he’ll be bound to catch something too.

 

It makes absolutely no sense, though, that he’s the first to get sick when everyone else appears perfectly fine. If there’s someone who should fall ill first, it should definitely be Lance, considering that the blue paladin tries eating everything that vaguely resembles human food on other planets. Keith is more careful. He’s always attentive, always wary of the planets they land on, always getting double confirmation before he puts anything potentially life-threatening into his mouth.

 

Except he’s still the first to fall ill on their journey, which honestly isn’t fair at all.

 

He can tell that something is off from the moment he wakes up. His head is pounding painfully, his airways are blocked, his limbs feel weak and shaky. He’s shivering, and the fact that he doesn’t have an extra jacket besides his usual red one isn’t exactly helpful.

 

He can already tell that his illness is going to hinder his performance for the day, which is incredibly inconvenient. But he doesn’t want to waste away in bed, so in the end, he settles for taking a few pills and hoping that his current predicament will pass unnoticed. He doesn’t mind suffering in silence. It’s just a bug, and he’s used to having no one to bother, anyways.

 

He’s still only half awake, so he stumbles into the bathroom and splashes some water onto his face. The abrupt wave of coldness that engulfs him is alarming: suddenly, his whole body is shuddering with chills and he has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Well, at least he’s fully awake now. His gaze wanders up to the mirror and he winces: he looks noticeably worse than usual; his skin is pale, his hair is messed up, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Great.

 

He groans, exiting the bathroom, and navigates the empty hallways to the kitchen. When he gets there, he rummages through the storage cabinets for some medicine – surely there’s something he can take, right? – but unfortunately, there’s nothing remotely like pills stored anywhere in sight.

 

When he enters the dining room, everyone else is already seated. “You’re late,” Lance says, halfway through a mouthful of food.

 

Keith’s eyes goes slack in surprise. Oh, god, how late is it exactly? What if it’s noon already and everyone is eating lunch? Did he really sleep in for that long...?

 

“Lance got here just a few minutes before you did,” Hunk informs him, seeming to note of his expression. “So no, you’re not that late.”

 

“Oh,” is all his hazy brain supplies him with, so he walks over to the edge of the table and slides into his seat. “Okay.”

 

“I’m always late, so it doesn’t make a difference,” Lance is saying, scrutinizing him too closely for comfort. “You’re not.”

 

Keith shrugs. “Whatever.” He doesn’t want to meet Lance’s eyes, so instead he opts to stare down at his food. It looks nice, as always – Hunk’s surprisingly good at turning questionable space plants into decent meals – but currently, he doesn’t really have an appetite. Instead, he busies himself with rearranging all of the things on his plate with a fork so it looks like he’s actually eaten something.

 

Across the table, Pidge is describing a computer program they’ve come up with last night, and Shiro and Hunk are listening and asking questions. “Are you not going to eat that?” Lance comments, gesturing towards Keith’s plate, “Because I’ll take it from you if you want.”

 

Putting food into his body is about the most unappealing thing Keith can think of doing right now, so he sets his fork down and pushes his plate over to the brunet’s side of the table. “Sure, you can have it.”

 

Clearly, Lance doesn’t expect that, because his eyes shoot open in surprise and his head snaps up so quickly Keith’s afraid he might break his neck. “Wait, Keith is offering me food?” he stammers, poking at the contents of Keith’s bowl as if the dish is some kind of alien artifact. “What’s up with that? Did you… like… poison this or something?”

 

Normally, Keith would probably be making some curt remark about how Lance’s manners are probably more poisonous than the food is, but he’s not in the mood to start an argument at the moment. “I’m just not hungry,” he answers evenly, standing up and moving to push in his chair. “I’m going to go up and practice.”

 

He exits the room as quickly as he can, but he can still hear Lance mumbling behind him: “Something’s wrong with him. Do you think his identity’s been stolen by a Galra soldier?”

 

Then there’s another voice, which he’s sure belongs to Pidge. “Lance, I’m pretty sure he’s just tired.”

 

Keith stops walking abruptly, his body tensing as a foreign itch pervades his nose. It’s almost frustrating how all control he holds over his body is surrendered as his head jerks forward, his cupped hand meeting his face in an attempt to silence the two sneezes as much as possible.

 

When he straightens again, he can hear Lance say something decisive – “I’m going to find out” or something along those lines – and he frowns, massaging his temples with one hand. As much as he enjoys Lance’s presence, he really, really doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now.

 

Unfortunately, a few seconds later Lance is at his heels, walking at the exact same pace as he is. Keith shoots him the most heated glare he can muster, hoping that he’ll get the message and back off, but Lance doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

“So. Training room, huh?”

 

“Uh… yeah.” His voice sounds disgustingly congested, so Keith tries to sniffle as subtly as possible, though the action isn’t exactly helpful. “Why are you following me?”

 

“Why not?” Lance counters, sounding more cheerful than usual. “If you’re training, there should be nothing to hide, right?”

 

What does Lance think he’s hiding, anyways? Besides a cold from hell, at least. Rolling his eyes, Keith shoots back, “You’re just going to distract me.”

 

“Well, maybe...” Silence. He can practically hear the gears turning in the brunet’s head. “...Maybe I actually want to train today! Ever thought of that?”

 

“Oh, you’re going to be productive this morning? That’s a first.”

 

“Yeah, well you know what? I enjoy listening to music in the morning. And not being productive is better than being boring.”

 

It’s not the first time he’s heard that insult. “Training isn’t boring,” Keith deadpans. “It’s useful.”

 

“But it’s mostly boring.”

 

He shrugs. As impossible as it sounds, Keith actually likes training by himself. It’s efficient and productive, and it’s a good way to take his mind off of other things. But that’s certainly not something that Lance will understand, and Keith’s throat is hurting from all this conversation, so he decides to promptly shut up and keep walking. Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, Lance will eventually get bored and stop bothering him–

 

“You’re quiet.”

 

–Well, so much for that attempt. “You’re not.”

“Because I have so many interesting things to say.”.

 

“That’s arguable.” A sudden draft catches up with him and he shivers, wrapping his arms tightly around his frame. “I-Is it cold in here, or is it just me?”
 

“It’s totally just you.” Lance stops walking for a moment just to gape at him. “How are you cold? You’re wearing a jacket.”

 

As much as Keith hates to admit it, Lance has a point – he’s wearing far less than Keith is, and he seems to be perfectly comfortable with the indoor temperatures. “I don’t know.”

 

“Maybe the coldness of your personality has finally caught up with the rest of your body, huh?”

 

“Shut up.” It’s better than having to admit to having a fever, anyways.

 

They walk for awhile in silence, before Keith stops abruptly in his tracks, his head dipping forward with two short outbursts. “hh’nGSHHh! hh’KXTshh!”

 

“Oh.” Lance says plainly, his face settling as if absolutely nothing in the universe is a mystery anymore. “You’re sick.”

 

Keith glares at him, sniffling resolutely. “I am not sick.”

 

“Yeah, you are. You sneezed just now and you didn’t eat breakfast earlier. And your voice is weird. You’re sick,” Lance sings. He almost sounds happy about it.

 

It’s not a proven fact, though, so Keith decides he’ll just keep up the denial for as long as he can. “It was just one sneeze,” he points out.

 

“It was two.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“You shouldn’t be up and around if you’re sick,” Lance is saying, obviously taking every chance he can to rub it in. “You might spread it to someone. Or pass out.”

 

But Keith isn’t about to pass out, especially because Lance will see him if he does. He has a reputation to keep up. “I told you, I’m fine,” he repeats, and his voice either sounds really convincing or really bad, because Lance conveniently stops talking after that.

 

They enter the training deck side by side, and he reaches for his bayard, stance slightly unsteady as he presses a few buttons on the control panel. “Commence level one.”

 

A fighter robot materializes in front of them. He’s done this level enough times that he’s able to evade its attacks easily, though his worsening headache is making it difficult to aim well. The level persists for far longer than it usually does, much to his chagrin. “Wow, you totally suck at this,” Lance pipes in from the sidelines.

 

He doesn’t pause at the distraction, though his head is swimming and he’s getting the suggestion that perhaps this wasn’t a great idea after all. “Didn’t you say you were here to do something productive?”
 

“Watching you fail at this is productive,” Lance says, and Keith knows that he’s smirking without even turning around. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m watching you get beat up by a level one robot.”

 

“I’m not…” – unfortunately, his body chooses the exact wrong time to fail him – “n-not… hh… hih’nGShh! hhT’ZCHuh!... getting beat up.” He barely manages to avoid a particularly hard blow that comes flying at him. Suddenly, he wants training to be over really, really soon.

 

The robot slows for a moment, and he takes advantage of its hesitation; he lunges forward and stabs his weapon directly into its neck and twists it, then aims for another blow in the stomach. The figure stumbles backwards and topples to the ground, momentarily lifeless, before flickering and regenerating, standing completely still until he gives it permission to start up again.

 

“Commence level two.”

 

He makes it to level four before he starts feeling too unwell to continue. The levels come one after another without any break in between, and they’re definitely taking their toll on him: if he’s honest with himself, he’s starting to feel as if the robot has delivered a direct blow to his skull. The robot swings at him and he moves away too slowly, too gracelessly, and he’s only able to evade the attack by a narrow gap.

 

These simulations are nothing to be toyed with. They can reduce him to shreds if he gives them the chance to, and if he keeps this up, that’s probably what’s going to end up happening. As much as he wants to continue training, there’s only so much his body can take.

 

He stumbles forward unsteadily, his vision blurring at the edges. Perhaps just for now, wise choices should take precedence over the desire to uphold his reputation.

 

“End training sequence,” he utters.

 

The robot freezes up mid-strike and he topples to his knees, releasing his grasp on the bayard. Everything is too cold; the air around him is positively frigid, and the exhaustion that floods over him is potent enough to make him pass out. Suddenly, the floor beneath him seems ridiculously inviting. He’s tempted to lay down and never get up again.

 

In the background, a voice surfaces from somewhere immeasurably distant: “Wow, chickening out already?”

 

But he doesn’t reply – he can’t – so he just stays there, letting oxygen replenish itself in his lungs in the form of clipped, shallow breaths that come in through his mouth. He’s too congested to properly breathe through his nose, anyways. An impromptu coughing fit overtakes his frame, and he crumples into himself, too tired to do anything but let it run its course.

 

It barely registers to him that someone’s approaching him until Lance is practically hovering over him, his eyes wide with evident concern. “Hey,” he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle, “are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” he supplies shakily, wincing as a particularly sharp stab of pain courses through his head. “Just… dizzy.”

 

He watches Lance’s features shift – his eyebrows draw together and his lips press into a thin line. “Get up.” When Keith doesn’t move immediately, Lance grabs his hands and pulls him carefully into an upright position. “Can you walk?”

 

He scoffs, though the laugh turns into a muffled cough. “Of course I can walk.”

 

“Good,” Lance says stiffly, “because I’m taking you back to your room.” His arm folds over Keith’s waist and his fingers close around Keith’s arm, giving him the option to lean on him if he needs to. It all happens too fast, and Lance is touching him and it’s not in the form of the usual punch or shove; it’s surprisingly nice, and it’s all Keith can do to stare back dazedly.

Brown eyes narrow. “You’d better get moving, or else I’m going to call Shiro over.”

 

Shiro. Call. He doesn’t want that. “Don’t bother him,” Keith protests weakly, “He’s probably busy.”

 

Lance, though, having absolutely no mercy on him despite his current state, raises his voice to yell, “SHI–”

 

“Okay, okay!” Keith shushes him, “I’m walking. See?” He takes a few steps forward. He can walk, luckily enough. He has a cold, not a broken leg, which makes Lance’s arm around him completely inessential.

 

“Are you still dizzy?”

 

“Not really. This is unnecessary,” he points out. He’s not even sure Lance is helping. It’s pretty hard to walk with someone at his side.

 

“I’m just making sure you don’t pass out halfway to your room,” the brunet argues, steering him towards the door. “It would be really awkward to have your corpse lying around the castle.”

 

That’s an image that he doesn’t want to think of. “I’m not going to pass out,” he says.

 

“Says the one who almost died from a level four simulation.”

 

“I ended it before the robot even touched me. I would have been fihh…” His body tenses, shoulders trembling with gasping breaths, and he feels Lance’s arms go rigid around him. He veers away, face flushed, but not even embarrassment can keep him from dealing with the inevitable.

 

“hh’ZTCchh! hh’TXCHuu!”

 

Lance gives him time to compose himself again before commenting. “I was right,” he says crossly. “You are sick.”

 

“Congratulations,” Keith retorts, rolling his eyes and sniffling afterwards. “You figured it out.”

 

The taller boy scoffs, clearly annoyed. “I can’t believe you tried to deny it.”

 

I just didn’t think you’d care. Keith stops himself before the words ever have a chance to leave his lips. A comment like that would probably come off as snarkish, and Lance has already gone out of his way to help him out, so Keith figures he’ll keep the words to himself.

 

“I thought you’d be too dense to figure it out on your own,” he jokes instead.

 

That earns him a punch in the arm, but it’s light enough not to hurt. That’s a good thing, considering that all of his limbs are already aching without Lance using them as a punching bag. “You’re lucky you’re sick. I’d punch you harder if you weren’t,” Lance justifies.

 

Typical.

 

“I figured.”

 

––x––

 

Thankfully, Lance is fairly decent at navigating the castle, and they arrive at Keith’s room within minutes. Lance unwraps his fingers from Keith’s waist and stands leaning against the doorway, his eyes following every movement Keith makes.

 

“Can you sleep?” he asks, watching as Keith takes a seat onto the mattress.

 

Keith ponders the question. He usually can’t even at night, but perhaps his body’s tired enough to make an exception just this once. “Uh… yeah,” he manages.

 

“Good,” Lance says. Keith waits for him to leave, but he doesn’t.

 

Perhaps he’s waiting for permission. “You can get out now,” Keith states flatly.

 

“What?”

 

“You’ve already escorted me to my room. I won’t pass out while I’m in bed, so your job is done.”

 

“Oh.” Lance says softly, as if that information is somehow new to him. “Um.” His gaze snaps to the ground, and he suddenly looks apprehensive. “What if I told you that I wanted to stay here?”

Stay here? In the same room as Keith, when he’s pathetically weak and most likely contagious? That isn’t happening. “I’d tell you that I actually do intend on getting some rest,” Keith deadpans.

 

“And you can’t do that with me in your room?”

 

“Definitely not.”

 

“But–”

 

He narrows his eyes, pointing one finger towards the door. “Out.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Lance concedes, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m going. See you.”

 

The bedroom door clicks softly closed, and he hears Lance’s footsteps retreat. Keith sprawls himself out onto the mattress, limbs spread out lazily, and stares at the ceiling. The whole room is suddenly too silent. Perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed Lance away so quickly.

 

Shivering, he curls up and turns to the side, catching two stifled sneezes into his wrist. On second thought, it’s probably better if he’s alone. He’s not entirely sure he wants someone to see him in this state.

 

––x––

 

“It’s not dangerous,” Coran says.

 

Lance lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. Shiro’s shoulders slump in relief, Pidge’s body unstiffens. Hunk stops pacing and joins the three of them on the floor.

 

“It’s roughly equivalent to a human cold,” Coran continues, “but it will hit harder than that, since his immune system isn’t used to the foreign strains.”

 

Lance frowns, glancing down at the ground. “Why can’t we just put him in a healing pod?”
 

“I’m afraid the healing pods won’t be of any help,” Allura supplies, turning around to face the paladins. “The pods are meant to regenerate life indiscriminately, so they’ll just cause the germs to multiply faster.”

 

Coran continues scrolling through the scan results, which show up on a flat screen suspended above him. “On the bright side, the illness isn’t supposed to last more than a week.”

 

“How did Keith manage to catch this the first place?” Pidge speaks up, crossing their arms. “we’re in space. Aren’t germs like... practically nonexistent here?”

 

“Practically,” Shiro stresses.

 

“That sucks,” says Hunk. “Can we see him?”

 

Allura’s lowers her head, a frown pulling at her lips. “This particular strain is contagious, and your immune systems have all been weakened from the lack of exposure. I’ll have to put Keith into a mandatory quarantine until he recovers.”

 

“Wait, what?” Lance snaps loudly, and she flinches in response. “You mean, you’re not going to let us see him for a whole week?”

 

“I’m sorry. It’s for the best.”

 

“...No way.” He understands that logically, separation would be the best way to prevent the others from getting sick, but this is going too far. “There’s no way I’m going to leave him alone for one whole week.”

 

Allura hesitates visibly, her fingers curling in at the edges. “We just can’t afford to let the illness spread,” she says stiffly. “You won’t be able to form Voltron if you’re all bedridden when the galra ships attack.”

 

“If you want me to stay away from him, I’m not going to do it.” He knows he’s being immature--he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t care. He’ll argue against Allura. He’ll argue against all of them if he needs to. Because if there’s something that sucks more than being sick, it’s being sick and forcing to suffer through it alone–he and Keith may be bitter rivals, but he’s not about to put Keith through that.

 

“I do have some gas masks you could use,” Coran offers finally. “Or portable oxygen tanks, if you prefer those.”

 

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Lance says, pointing his thumb at his own chest. “I have an immune system of steel,” he brags, then points his other thumb at the hallway, in the direction of Keith’s bedroom. “I also spent all morning with him, so either way, I’m pretty sure I’ve been exposed to his space flu already.”

 

A moment of tentative silence settles between them, and Lance drops his hands to his sides, ready to think up more arguments if needed. Finally, Shiro sighs, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. “Lance has a point,” he says slowly. “Maybe we should just let him take care of Keith for a week.”

 

“I... guess that could work,” Allura confesses, scrutinizing Lance carefully. “If your immune system is really as good as you claim it to be.”

 

“Great,” Lance says, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Thanks, guys.” He rises to his feet and starts off in the direction of the exit.

 

“Don’t kill him,” Pidge yells after him, and they don’t exactly sound sarcastic.

 

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I won’t.”

 

––x––

 

As it turns out, not killing Keith is difficult when the red paladin already looks like he’s half dead. When Lance finds him, he’s pale and his cheeks are flushed; his hair is sticking out at a hundred different angles, and he’s trembling slightly, his body curled up upon itself in a futile attempt to keep warm.

 

Lance looks around, wondering where the extra blankets are stored on the ship. He contemplates asking the others, but then decides against it: he’s offered to help because he can handle this without them.

 

Eventually, he ends up wandering over to his room, gathering his own blankets in his arms, and taking them back to Keith’s room. Thankfully, the red paladin’s shivering dulls with the addition of the extra layers, but he still looks cold. Lance decides he’ll hold off on applying any ice packs until later.

 

It’s weird, really. To witness Keith, the impervious, succumb to a simple illness–the idea is almost laughable. A part of him wants to dismiss this whole thing as a joke. For once, Keith has beat him to something–namely, catching an unnamed alien virus–and it’s actually backfired on him.

 

But at the same time, it’s a little unnerving. It feels strange to see Keith in a state like this. Curled up on the bed with his eyes screwed tightly shut, Keith looks vulnerable and open and defenseless, and it puts Lance on edge–typical Keith fits none of those adjectives.

 

Pushing the concerns from his mind, he allows his body to switch to autopilot. He pours a cool, but not ice-cold glass of water from the kitchen, then takes a few bottles of medicine from the bathroom cabinets and sets everything on Keith’s bedstand. He finds a spare pack of tissues in a storage compartment and sets that aside, too. Then he wanders into the other bedrooms, standing at a distance in case he has been exposed to the illness, and asks Hunk if he can make them soup for dinner.

 

The ship is oddly silent when there’s no one to argue with. That’s a problem Lance doesn’t want to have, so the only option he has now is to fix it.

 

––x––

 

It’s exam day. Keith is back at the garrison, standing in line, waiting to enter the simulator. This is it–the test that determines if, at the end of the semester, he’ll be allowed to advance from cargo pilot to fighter class.

 

The test itself isn’t an issue. It shouldn’t be. He does enough work outside of class to guarantee that his piloting abilities are solid. Though he isn’t on the best of terms with the commander, neither of them can deny that he has the skills and the qualifications to make it through.

 

Unfortunately for him, this isn’t just an individual assessment. It’s a group exam, and his teammates are relying on him to get them through. And as if that isn’t enough pressure already, there’s one more problem: he isn’t feeling well.

 

This illness couldn’t have hit at a worse time: his head is swimming, his body is too cold, and his legs feel like they’ll give way beneath him at any second. The world is too bright, colors whirring and pulsing in a manner that he can’t keep up with, and he’s already certain that this is going to screw up his performance.

 

But the commander is calling his name, and he has no choice but to go with the normal procedures. He sways on his feet, his hand moving sluggishly up to form a salute, and strains to process the instructions that are being thrown at him.

 

A moment later, his teammates are being taken into the simulator, and he has no choice but to follow. The interior of the jet is cramped and dark, and he hauls himself into the front seat with more effort than usual, burying his head into the crook of his elbow as a particularly bad coughing fit runs its course.

 

“Simulation initiated,” he hears in the background, and onscreen, the familiar topography of Kerberos comes into view. They’re in the atmosphere, and their landing spot is about four minutes away, in a flat plain surrounded by jagged peaks. He’s done this before many, many times. It should be easy.

 

He grabs hold of the controls, seamlessly maneuvering the jet for a minute or two. There isn’t much to worry about in the beginning. Except, just as he’s steadily lowering the engine to weave through a high arch, he feels his breath catch. It’s at the worst possible timing, yet he knows he can’t hold back the inevitable for very long...

 

“hhh… hh’tzcHh! hh’nGShht!”

 

His hands shake with the force of the outbursts, causing the jet to jerk downwards. The machine shudders with the impact, and the warnings on screen alert him to the fact that damage has been done to one of the wings.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” one of his teammates yells from behind him. He wants to snap back, but he knows that starting an argument will only land them in more trouble. He’s not sure he has the energy to yell in the first place.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters weakly, doing his best to focus on the screen– they’ll fly for another fifteen seconds before having to swerve off course to navigate a lower chain of mountains. Only, he can’t fight the sinking feeling that the itch in his nose hasn’t relented; once the sneezes start, they aren’t going to stop.

 

His theory is proven moments later, when he has to give instructions to the engineer. Communication is key, and he knows that their landing won’t be successful unless his teammate performs all of the necessary steps. Except, his breath is hitching again, and it’s making it unreasonably hard to get his message across…

 

“Get the… hhh… c-coordinates again,” he manages, “and the… the sta… stabilihh... hhiH’TCHhu! hHh’ISHhhh!” he feels his face flush red as he sniffles, slightly regretful that getting tissues right now isn’t an option. “The hydraulic… sta… hh’NGshHh! stabil… hh’Xchhh! The hydraulic stabilizer needs to be on.”

 

The ground is coming dangerously near, and if they don’t have the stabilizer up in a few seconds, they’re going to crash for sure. The jet swerves sharply left, just narrowly avoiding the tip of a mountain, and the landing plain comes into view.

 

“Hurry up with the stabilizer. We’re going to land soon.”

 

Something clicks. Clearly, the engineer has done something right, because shaking of the engine lessens, but not by much. They’ll make it. His head is throbbing, and suddenly, he feels lightheaded, as though he might pass out. His vision is distorting; a million glowing pixels fade into a few bold colors, and he feels his eyes slipping closed…

 

“KOGANE!”

 

That snaps him back into alertness. Landing. Right. He slows down the jet, calculating the distance between the engine and the field. Angles the wings. Deals with the controls. Waits for impact–

 

The plane jolts, skidding onto foreign ground. The monitor goes dark. Moments later, two words flash onto the screen: Simulation complete.

 

He’s visibly shaking as he drags himself out of the engine. He feels like death warmed over; though they’ve completed the simulation, he’s not sure if his performance was good enough to count as a pass. “What is wrong with you?” one of his teammates is saying. “What the hell was that?”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the commander open his mouth to yell at them. They aren’t supposed to be arguing, after all.

 

But the world is spinning, and he’s out cold before he hears a single word.

 

––x––

 

“–eith? You there? Hello? Earth to Keith!”

 

Vaguely, it registers to him that someone is hovering above him, calling his name. He opens his eyes, blinking back exhaustion–that’s Lance’s voice, and Keith can’t think of any reason why Lance would be in his room. Except–

 

Except if they’re under attack. He pushes himself into a sitting position, which isn’t exactly the greatest idea–the motion sends a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and he grimaces, feeling his headache resurge.

 

Lance reaches out, grabbing his shoulders to steady him. “Woah there, what are you doing?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, and as Keith realizes distractedly that Lance’s face is close, too close. “I didn’t ask you to get up, idiot.”

Keith frowns, ducking away from Lance’s grip and leaning onto the headboards instead. He still feels dizzy, and nothing Lance says is making much sense. “We’re under attack, aren’t we?”

 

“Attack? No, where’d you get that idea?”

 

“Galra ships. Intruders. I don’t know. Why else would you be here?” He watches Lance’s expression shift into a lighter one: his lips quirk upwards into an amused smile, and Keith scowls in in response. Clearly there aren’t any invaders if Lance is making a face like that.

 

“I came to check on you. It looked like you were having a nightmare or something, so I woke you up.”

 

Oh.

 

“I thought I told you– hh’xSHh! I told you to stay out of my room.”

 

“You did.” Lance flashes his signature smile, which really isn’t fair at all. “I just didn’t listen.”

 

Keith shifts, wondering what could possibly have been concerning enough for Lance to give up other activities just to stay by his side. “You didn’t need to come. I’m not dying.”

 

“I know.” Lance takes a seat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight, and lifts his head to gaze back at Keith. “Coran did some scans on it this afternoon.”

 

“And?”

 

“And whatever you have is just like a human cold, except more draining. For now, they said to just take it easy and get some rest.”

 

Wait a second. “They?” Meaning that someone other than Coran is involved?

 

“Yeah,” Lance answers without a beat, “the others.”

 

Keith’s eyes widen, his gaze snapping onto Lance’s in disbelief. “Everyone knows about this?”

 

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

 

“I told you not to tell,” Keith relates, his grip tightening on the bed sheets. “I didn’t want…” to cause them unnecessary trouble? To be a burden, just like he’d been to his teammates back at the garrison?

 

“I had to be sure you weren’t dying.” Lance retorts, and though his words are phrased lightly, there’s not much humor to his voice. “What if what you had was dangerous? I couldn’t have just taken the risk.”

 

He has a point. Logically, Keith knows that what Lance is saying is true. And yet, there’s the lingering voice in the back of his head that voices the statements he can’t bring himself to say.

 

No matter what Lance says, that won’t change the facts, will it? That when Keith gets sick, the same skills that made him worthy of joining the team start to break down; that in a state like this, he can’t keep up with the rest of them, isn’t the person that he’s supposed to be living up to. What is he besides useless when everything that constitutes his worth is taken away?

 

“Hey,” Lance says, leaning forward to catch him in a level-headed stare. “You okay in there?”

 

Swallowing, Keith lets his head dip forward in a nod. “Yeah.” His voice trembles slightly, and he clears his throat, though that’s not the problem. “I’m fine.”

 

When looks up again, Lance is holding out a cup of water. He reaches out to take it shakily, and Lance’s hands guide his own as he lifts the cup to his lips.

 

The liquid, while blissfully cold, alerts him to just how sore his throat is, and he grimaces as he swallows. As soon as he finishes, Lance takes the glass away from him and sets it down back on the bedside table, though he never really takes his eyes off of Keith. “How are you feeling?”

 

Keith shrugs noncommittally. “Just... really tired.” That much isn’t a lie. The anxiety that came with the nightmare is fading, replaced with the uniform, overwhelming haze of exhaustion. Now, he can barely keep his eyes open.

 

“You should get some rest,” Lance says unnecessarily, moving to adjust his pillows and tuck the bedsheets neatly around him.

 

Keith simply watches, motionless, as the brunet finishes arranging his bed and moves so that he’s sitting on the floor again. Lance catches him staring and stares back. “Do you need anything else?”

 

Keith shakes his head, his gaze wandering. He’s perfectly comfortable, while Lance, on the other hand, is not. He’s sitting in a position that will probably lead to some sort of back pain, and the ground–in addition to being uneven and uncarpeted–and is almost certainly really cold. To make things worse, he’s been sitting here for what, hours?

 

“You shouldn’t stay here,” Keith mutters, though the words come out sounding more hostile than he means them to. “I just need to get some sleep.”

 

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

 

“You’d distract me.”

 

“What if I promised to be quiet?”

 

Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind having Lance stay here. It’s in times like this–when he’s completely laid up in bed and useless–that he craves company the most.

 

But it’s too much. It’s too much to ask for, too much trouble for Lance when Keith isn’t supposed to be his responsibility at all. So he simply lays back down, forcing the idea from his mind, and turns to face the wall. “I just want to be alone right now.”

 

Lance is quiet, and for a moment, Keith wonders if he’s thinking of a comeback to make. Instead, all he says is, “Okay.”

 

Keith rolls over to face him, surprised it was this easy. “What?”

 

Lance smiles, a bit sheepishly, and holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll go. I hope you feel better soon.”

 

He rises to his feet and exits the room. Keith stares at the door for a bit longer than he should. Then he closes his eyes and turns back around in bed, trying to convince himself that this is really, honestly, what’s best for both of them.

 

––x––

 

His mother is standing before him.

 

She’s faceless and nameless. His memory isn’t capable of filling those gaps, but he’s had this dream before, more times than he can count.

 

He doesn’t know how he recognizes her after all this time, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

 

“Mom?” He calls, voice wavering. It echoes.

 

She smiles, but he can’t see her eyes. “I heard you weren’t feeling well,” she says.

 

In dreams, things have a weird way of making sense. Nothing about her arrival is logical. Why would a mother who’s wasn’t there when Keith needed her most, a mother who chose to abandon her own son, arbitrarily pay him a visit? Especially now, of all times? And yet still, he can’t bring himself to question the one thing he’s always wanted–his mind clings to her presence, revels in it as if the encounter were nothing less than real.

 

“I’m sorry for leaving you.” Her words are simple, but he doesn’t need need something complicated. He doesn’t need a long apology or a fancy reunion. This– this meeting, this proximity, this conversation– this is all he’s ever needed from her.

 

She smiles.

 

And then the image of her flickers and fades, like bursts of static running through a TV screen, and suddenly she’s gone again, just like before. Stop, he wants to say. Don’t go. Please.

 

But the words get choked up in his throat, because not once has he ever had the courage to say them.

 

––x––

 

One of the downsides to not having any windows or linear time-relaying clocks in his room is that when Keith wakes up, he has no idea what time it is, or where the ship is in space. The only thing that’s clear to him is that there’s no one else in the room, and he feels exponentially worse than he had the last time he’d opened his eyes.

 

He lays awake in bed for what feels like twenty minutes, though it’s hard to tell by the way consciousness and unconsciousness diverge and realign. He’s exhausted, but it’s hard to fall asleep again. He wants company, but the desire isn’t quite clear enough to act on.

 

Finally, he gives up on his attempt to rest. He stands up, blinking past dizziness, and stumbles gracelessly over to the bedroom door. If the rest of the group isn’t midway through a meal or a training session, Lance is most likely in his room. He wouldn’t mind if Keith bothered him just for today, would he?

 

The air is too cold, and without his blankets over him, Keith can’t keep himself from shivering. It’s inconvenient–his stance is already unsteady enough without the constant tremors running down his spine. He sniffles, ducking his head as his breath hitches, his shoulders rising sharply.

 

“hh’NGshh! hHh’tzCHh!”

 

He straightens, sniffling, and stops outside of Lance’s bedroom. The door is ajar, and he peers inside, half expecting Lance to be sitting on his bed, listening to music. He’s not.

 

The disappointment he feels is disproportional. His stomach drops, heart twisting in a way that he doesn’t expect. This is his own fault – he’s the one who pushed Lance away in the first place. It’s not in his place to complain.

 

Sighing, Keith leans against the wall, trying to make the world stop spinning in his vision. Now he’s cold and shivering and the trip has accomplished absolutely nothing. This was a bad idea. He’ll just stay here, he decides, until he has the energy to make the trip back to his room.

 

He’s examining the tiles on the ground, lost in thought, when he hears footsteps round the corner. Lance turns and enters the hallway, humming softly, when he sees Keith standing there. He stops in his tracks, his voice cutting off abruptly, and just stares. “Keith?”

 

Lance. Thank god. Keith takes a few hurried steps towards him, but suddenly, the world is tilted at the wrong angle and he’s dazed to fix it. Lance rushes forward to meet him, steadying him with both arms and letting him lean onto his chest. Lance is warm. It feels nice.

 

“What are you doing?” Lance hisses, though thankfully, he doesn’t let go.

 

And Keith wants to say something. He wants to say that he messed up, that he didn’t mean to push Lance away earlier. He really doesn’t mean to be this much trouble. But the words get caught in his throat, and all that comes out is a half-mumbled, “S-Sorry.”

 

Lance’s gaze softens, a frown pulling at his lips. “Let’s get you back to your room,” he says, unzipping his green jacket and draping it around Keith’s shoulders.

 

Keith’s room isn’t far, so it isn’t a hard trip to make – at least, not with him leaning most of his weight onto Lance’s side. When he lays down in bed, he’s still uncomfortably cold, even though he’s under more blankets than usual.

 

Lance reaches forward, slipping a hand under Keith’s bangs to feel his forehead. “You feel really warm.”
 

He shivers slightly at the contact, though a part of him ends up unconsciously gravitating towards Lance’s touch, anyways. “It’s normal for people to feel warm.”

 

“Yeah. It’s normal for people with fevers.” Lance retorts, retracting his hand.

 

Keith shrugs, too tired to argue. The notion isn’t impossible. If he does have a fever, it would certainly explain why everything around him – everything except Lance, at least – feels so damn cold.

 

His breath hitches, and veers away quickly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “hh’tChh! hh’NGksh! uhh...”

 

Lance hands him a travel-sized pack of tissues and Keith fumbles with it, opening the plastic seal and taking out a few neatly folded tissues. He brings them up to his face, slightly self conscious from the gaze which he knows is on him.

 

“You should take some medicine,” Lance suggests.

 

Keith crumples the used tissues into a ball, and Lance holds out his hand, palm facing up. But Keith isn’t about to let him touch them, in case what he has is contagious – instead, he sits up straighter and tosses the tissues successfully into the trash can at the other end of the room. “There isn’t any on the ship. I already looked.”

 

“Oh, really?” Smirking, Lance grabs a bottle of pills off of the bedstand and holds it up. “Clearly you didn’t look closely enough.”

 

Keith stares at the container, his eyes wide. “Yeah, w-well,” he stammers, reaching out to grab it. “I looked in all of the kitchen cabinets.”

 

“In case you haven’t noticed, this is medicine, not food.”

 

“Where else is medicine supposed to be stored?”

 

“In the bathroom cabinets.” Lance says it as if should that much be obvious. “Haven’t you ever been sick before?”

 

“Of course I have.” He’s just never had other people store things for him. He’s used to living alone, only picking up medicine when he gets sick, shelving his belongings wherever it makes sense.

 

He empties a couple of pills into his palm, and takes a glass of water off the nightstand, which he notices has been refilled. He swallows the pills easily, then sets the cup down and leans back against the headboards, eyes already sliding shut.

 

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me yet,” Lance says softly, and Keith’s eyes flicker open again, his gaze focusing vaguely on Lance’s. “When’s the last time you ate something?”

 

He ponders the question. He skipped breakfast this morning, and he hadn’t eaten all that much for dinner yesterday, but Lance doesn’t need to know that. “Just yesterday,” he says, which isn’t technically a lie.

 

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Do you want soup?”
 

 

He shakes his head. He doesn’t, really. He isn’t hungry.

 

“Next time you wake up, you’ll have to have at least some, okay? It isn’t healthy to skip so many meals.”

 

A nod.

 

“Okay, you can lay down now,” Lance relents, and Keith does. Now that he’s not struggling to stay upright, he’s suddenly reminded of unwell he feels: exhaustion crashes over him in disorienting waves, and his headache throbs against his skull, searing and bright.

 

Still, his bed is comfortable, and Lance’s presence is nice. He’s already drifting from the edge of consciousness when it registers to him that Lance has stood up.

 

“I’m going to go, okay?” the brunet says softly, “I know you’d prefer to be alone right now.”

 

That wakes him up. Keith bolts upright, grabbing Lance’s hand before he can stop himself. “Wait,” he says, swallowing past pain. “Don’t go. I didn’t mean–”

 

He draws in a quick breath, but his lungs cave in at the effort and he’s forced to twist away, his shoulders shaking as he coughs harshly into his hands. When he turns back around, Lance is crouched beside him again, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

 

“I knew it,” he says, “you couldn’t resist my company in the end, could you?”

 

Keith glares at him, though he’s unspeakably glad that Lance isn’t making a big deal out of this. “I thought you told me that you wouldn’t be too loud if I let you stay.”

 

“I’m not being loud,” Lance retorts, shifting slightly so that he’s sitting cross legged on the floor. “You’re just not trying hard enough to fall asleep.”

 

“I’ll try harder, then.” Keith buries his face into his pillow. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this tired.

 

And yet, he’s still not entirely at ease, and sleep eludes him. He shifts, opening his eyes to stare at the wall. Vaguely, he wonders if Lance has left, or if their whole conversation has been just a dream.

 

“Lance?” he mutters, half afraid the response – or, more accurately, the lack of one.

 

But Lance’s voice is there behind him, steady and warm and very, very real. “Yeah?”

 

“...Thanks.”

 

There’s a tangible pause, and then Lance laughs softly, his fingertips brushing against the back of Keith’s hand. “It’s no problem. But next time Hunk makes cake for dessert, I’m getting the last slice, got it?”

“I guess that’s fair enough.” Keith smiles into his pillow, his eyes drifting closed again.

 

For the first time in weeks, he doesn't fall asleep alone.

Edited February 12, 2017 by monochrome
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[IcyFlame]

Omg!  This is amazing, I have no idea what you're talking about! And I don't see why you're apologizing when this is 10x as good as anything I'd ever be able to write! (Translation: Calm down, no souls needed here. ) I love everything about this, and I would quote multiple parts of it, but I'd end up quoting almost the entire thing. So I'll go with my favorite: 

“I knew it,” he says, “you couldn’t resist my company in the end, could you?”

^THIS^ is so subtle, but at the same time it's so suggestive that Lance knows that Kieth must like him (at least a little) because when he's at his worst he wants Lance to be there and I just love it! There are so many of these moments in this story, and, once, I must state that I just love everything about it! Well done! 

[SpookyBoi]

Yeeeeees, I love this!!! There isn't enough Voltron on the forum!!! Keith is so stubborn and Lance is just being all sweet and trying to help him. It's so perfect!!!

[KD02]

This is sooooo good! Voltron is brilliant! There isn't enough fics on here 

[LeapYearKisses]

Awww, this is adorable and reminds me that I need to watch season 2.   Keith is my favorite.  Gotta love those quiet brooding types that are afraid to admit they need someone.  I really liked how you wrote their interactions.  I could hear their voices in my head when I read all the banter!  Thanks for sharing this lovely fic!

[san kyu]

Awwwwww, these two! This fic was positively stellar. Little Keith with the fever dreams and suffering alone, oh no. It's a good thing Lance is a nagging mother hen.