Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keith grows up with the constant reminder of hunger clawing at his belly, he thinks he’s maybe experienced the feeling of satiation a grand total of once in his life. The time his father scraped up enough funds to get not only a loaf of bread but also some eggs to go with it. It had been a simple meal, and Keith wasn’t going to turn the food down. Keith remembers eating with gusto - to the point that his stomach ached for an entirely different reason. Keith recalls looking at the worn face of his father as he looks down at Keith pensively like there is a worry, a hidden secret just beneath the surface. 

Keith never got the chance to ask, as his father died in a tavern brawl not a week after the full-bellied meal.

That was six years ago - and in that time, Keith’s grown accustomed to empty stomachs and scratches on his face and knuckles. He’s grown accustomed to having nothing to his name and even less in his pocket. He adjusted to the sharp pang of hunger mixed with the sharpness of a stolen blade. He learned enough so that he could fill his breath in his lungs. He managed so that tomorrow is something he can grasp.

And he’s lived a life. At some number around fourteen, Keith’s skinned knees and street skills ensure he’s alive. Sometimes he wonders if being alive is enough, sometimes he wonders if the night crouched in an alley, his face smudged and a fire burning in his belly is worth the value of each breath he takes in. Sometimes he wonders if this is all that he is meant to have. All he can do is take each step. All he can do is fight for his life. Living without understanding the reason for living. 

At night, Keith will catch fitful slumber between alleys, along beach fronts, hidden underneath foundations. At night, Keith would shift his gaze up, staring at the endless sea of stars and wondering all that the universe contains as he clutched his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut. At night, Keith would shift his gaze out, staring out at the glittering moonlit sea, wondering for a moment if there was more for him out there, somewhere. 

Keith survives for years on his own with no one to call a friend, let alone family, and he presses onward on the thin hope that each breath will be worth something. 

He is fourteen-something and his stomach grips at his insides and he has a knife in his grasp and he’s desperate. 

Keith knows that as soon as the idea slips into his head, it’s not his best. His best idea was two years ago when he managed to trick the drunkards at the tavern that he didn’t know what he was doing in their game of cards and came back with coins to line his pockets. 

It felt like a win until they attacked him in the alley, Keith letting in whistling breaths as one of the drunkards flicked a single coin at Keith’s prone body. Keith doesn’t know how he survived that night, let alone the days to follow with a broken body. But he never makes a mistake like that again, he steals and doesn’t get caught, he teaches himself to fight, and while his moves are awkward and unskilled it is matched by a determination to never feel so weak again. 

So this idea, it’s not his best. But he’s desperate and he needs to find a better way to line his pockets than petty theft and lying in a game of cards. He’s somewhere near fourteen, that is practically an adult. Keith needs a better way to live. 

And that starts with stealing this horse, hopefully, he can find someone willing to pay good money for it. Keith eyes the steed from his hiding spot near the tavern entrance, drunkards lean against the wooden structure, dizzy and tipsy and losing their lunches as others guzzle down another pint with merriment. Keith watched the horse’s owner step inside the tavern close to ten minutes ago, and he knows he can’t wait a moment more. 

Keith takes a couple of steps forward, his hand braced against his side as he wraps his fingers around the jagged knife he’d found. Well, maybe ‘found’ is not quite accurate, the blade had been wedged between a man’s rib cage as he was left to rot. At the time, Keith had been so focused on acquiring some way to protect himself that he never stopped to consider the viscera already coating the blade. 

Keith is close enough to the horse that he can feel its hot breath as he lifts a hand. Keith’s fingers flex hovering over the horse’s thick mane, the eyes of the creature staring down at Keith with interest and quiet observation. Its dark mane and darker coat make the horse stand out against the drab brown all around them. Keith snakes out his hand and grabs hold of the reins as he slices his jagged blade down on the coarse rope. His movements are rough like the blade he holds, the sawing movements struggle as he cuts through the fibers and the horse begins to exhale heavily. 

Keith hasn’t allowed panic to dictate his choices in a long while, any time he does, it inevitably blows up in his face. So, he definitely isn’t panicking as he rests his hand on the horse’s mane and attempts to shush the creature as he mumbles soft swears under his breath. The drunkards in front of him seem to pay him no mind as he continues sawing through the fibers but the horse pads its hooves against the dirt floor. 

Keith’s hands shake by the time he can fully pull the horse from its fixed position. The animal snorts and Keith’s grip on the reins tightens as he flicks his gaze towards the road ahead. He doesn’t tend to venture more than a handful of miles from the town that he begrudgingly calls home. But if he is going to sell this horse, he’ll need to venture farther than he’s been in a long time. 

But he knew that. He signed up for it. His desperation demands it. 

Keith grips the reins and tugs the horse back, trying to get the creature to move with him and toward whatever Keith can manage to venture. Keith grunts as the horse remains stubbornly in place, the eyes that hold a pearl of wisdom that Keith doesn’t know what to do with. Keith grits his teeth and shifts his position, attempting to mount the massive creature. 

He thinks he hears the heavy weight of boots coming from behind, the sound of someone exiting the tavern. Keith has no way of knowing who, his back still turned as desperation dictates his next actions.

He hauls himself up and in quick thinking slams his foot against the horse’s side. 

Keith is some number at fourteen, but those fourteen years were ones of desperation and need and fire that helped him survive. 

He glances behind him and sees the face of a dark-haired man, the confusion affixed to his face is almost enough for Keith to pull back. But the horse decides for him as it takes off, a plume of dust in the animal’s wake. 

Keith struggles to remain upright as his thighs clench around the side of the horse. Other than the reins, he has no idea how he is meant to guide the horse in the direction he wants to go. Keith frowns as the feeling of his organs fills his throat. The force and power of the horse’s gallops are enough for Keith to feel it in every part of his body. A thrum and vibration that has his teeth clacking together as he attempts to catch his bearings. 

Which, Keith realizes, is easier said than done. 

Keith almost loses his grip on the horse, his sides aching with his vicious hold. His vision blurs from the repeated undulating. Keith is used to having his feet on the ground, the predictability of movement and motions that he knows and trusts. 

This feels like anything but stable. 

Keith hisses under his breath as the horse gallops towards the sandy terrain, the crash of waves overshadowed by the huff and thump of breath and hooves. 

So maybe not his best-laid plan - but he has no time to undo mistakes as he wraps his fingers into the thick mane and attempts to slow the horse down. The galloping has him gasping for breath as sand and sea spray hits his face like a thousand needles. 

Keith feels his grip on the steed loosening, the jostle and push of movements too intense to control. And then, as suddenly as the movements rush all around him they come to an abrupt stop. Keith’s face presses against the horse’s mane as he almost topples over the side at the sharp movement. He takes in a gasping breath as the horse stomps in place. Keith slowly lifts his head and sees the man - the owner of the horse, Keith thinks, standing tall and proud and resolute on another steed. 

The man has a steely gaze as he dismounts his horse, walking toward Keith with a slight downturn of his lips. Keith grips the reins so tightly his bloodied knuckles look ashen amongst all the scabs and knicks. He holds his breath, tension filling his body to the brim as he stares the man down. 

Keith has had a life, short at only fourteen, but he has lived. Survived. He endured. But now… he was certain to get the noose. Theft is not so easily forgiven in a world so callously cruel. Keith glances behind him, the endless stretch of sand, the endless breadth of the ocean, the town in the distance, sure to seek recompense for his behaviors, the-

“It takes time,” the man’s voice is gentle, not holding an ounce of anger as Keith suspects he may. Keith’s head jerks back and he looks at the man, his head tilted a little as he angles down. “To gain the trust of a steed.” The man’s tone is not judgemental, simply observing the scene before him. 

He steps closer, Keith tensing, his elbows braced against his waist as he holds everything together. 

“I can teach you if you’d like.” The man’s eyes are still gently so curious and kind and Keith has never witnessed anything like this. He flinches, his rigid body pulling the reins as he looks down with confusion at the dark-haired man. 

“What?” He croaks, confusion lancing at his insides.

The man looks at Keith with a kindness Keith knows he doesn’t deserve and extends his hand in an offering. 

Keith doesn’t know what to do with this.

He struggles to get off the horse, nearly tumbling off the side as his feet catch on the saddle. Keith falls and pushes himself up, shakily, as he looks at the man. 

The hand is still outstretched. 

The intent of an offer is still known.

It is the first time in his fourteen years that he thinks he can trust another.

Keith frowns and takes a chance. 

⤩

Keith learns a great many things as he reaches the age of something around fifteen. He learns that the kindness of strangers isn’t such an odd occurrence, he learns what a full belly actually feels like, and that his ability to fight is fueled by survival but no actual skill. He learns that the man who could have easily accused him of theft could have easily sent him to the gallows, is named Takashi Shirogane. 

An odd name in Keith’s opinion, though, certainly no odder than the surname he rarely uses. 

The man tells him to call him Shiro. He has a slight accent and a kind demeanor. There is a softness to him that doesn’t align with the hardened muscles and the thick build. Shiro treats Keith with kindness, certainly, but the longer Keith stays with Shiro, having a roof over his head for the first time in almost a decade, he realizes that Shiro gives more than kindness. 

He gives structure. Certainty. The kind of thing that Keith needs when the world is built around what he doesn’t have and what he can’t get. Keith begrudgingly accepts the early morning wake-up calls, often filled with a small but satisfying meal paired with a lift of a sword and an hour or more of sparring. 

Shiro offered tutelage and he gave it. Shiro is a man of his word. Shiro gives Keith more reasons to trust than he doesn’t. 

But it doesn’t come easy. 

The initial nights with the thatched roof and a steaming bowl of stew weren’t calm things for Keith, no, they felt like threats waiting to cut him open. So those initial nights he secrets silver and other valuables, set to pay Shiro’s kindness with theft and trickery. 

Or it would’ve been that way, had Shiro not been standing in the doorway with his hand outstretched to take back the stolen goods. 

And with it, Shiro tells him his intent. “You can either live a short life of theft and misery, or I can teach you how to protect yourself and let you forge your path.”

The words ring inside Keith’s head - the echoes of truth and the inklings of hope are enough for Keith to return the stolen items. The promise in the words is enough for Keith to believe that he can forge a path, he can have a future, and that he can see his fifteenth year. Perhaps even his sixteenth. 

So he wakes up when Shiro dictates, he eats the provided meals and pulls out the offered sword. He recognizes that Shiro’s kindness comes with expectation and discipline, but Keith finds himself drawing appreciation from this. 

Granted, it does come with its hardships. 

Keith is certainly some age at fifteen, and he has lived with Shiro for long enough to know his name, where he hails from (a country Keith has no frame of reference for), and even his inability to make a meal without burning it. But Shiro is secretive, he doesn’t disclose more than he intends, and in response, neither does Keith.

They play this dance, the pushing, and pulling of familiarity and distance, until it too shatters in Keith’s touch. 

“I will need to leave for about a week.” 

Keith looks up from the table, the blade a gift from Shiro presses against a block of wood as he peels back layers of fibrous wood. Shiro stands in the doorway of the small abode, his arms at his side, a piece of paper resting against his left side. 

Keith’s first response, something guttural and childlike, urges him to protest, it demands him to interrogate Shiro and to let his displeasure be known. He doesn’t understand how in such a short time, only a year, Keith thinks, the idea of being separate from Shiro feels insurmountable. He doesn’t understand why he feels young and foolish and scared by the idea of Shiro not being there to wake him in the early morning like, not there to prepare burnt porridge. Not there for Keith. 

His first response leans on panic and fear and all that he has lost. 

He doesn’t let that response guide him. His stomach twists in knots and with a shaky exhale, Keith lifts his head from his creation. 

“Okay. Where are you going?” He asks, his voice clipped, even as he grips his knife harder. 

As he looks up, he sees Shiro peering at him with an observational expression. The man is likely calculating the ways that Keith unveils certain truths without speaking. Shiro pushes off the entryway and steps into their small home, Keith finding it odd still that he can consider this home. 

“I have a friend in need of some assistance,” Shiro begins and settles across from Keith at the table, “on a nearby island. It shouldn’t take long,” he assures as though without speaking it, Keith has revealed his nervous plea. Keith sets the block down and nods stiffly. 

“Okay. Are you leaving now?” 

“In the morning.”

Keith’s heart hammers and then he nods, reaching to pick up the block once more. 

“Would you like to fit in one more session of sparring before tonight?” 

Keith looks up at Shiro’s words and peers at him with a soft frown. He sees a man, a young man, only four years Keith’s senior, taking a chance on a street rat. Taking a chance after Keith’s sticky fingers stole a prize worth more than both of them combined. 

In the year with Shiro, he’s realized just how much he’s missed care and consideration, and how much he’s been without it for most of his life. In his time with Shiro, he’s realized what it means to want something, not need it for living or surviving, but to want and desire it. In this short lifetime with Shiro, he realizes just how much a week will feel like an eternity. 

And he doesn’t want to waste a single moment he has. 

Keith nods and a smile graces his lips as he reaches for his weapon of choice. 

⤩

Keith grows accustomed to the days that Shiro is not here. The year unbroken together was a fluke, but in that time Keith learned how to make Shiro laugh (more a chuckle but hey, he’d take it). He learned that, really, it’s just better if he cooks the meal, not Shiro.  

He’d learned that nightmares break easier when he has someone to wake him. 

He’d learned that kindness is happenstance and unreliable but the people who show it aren’t. 

Shiro leaves for that week and it’s miserable and lonely but Keith does it and he feels proud that his instincts to run away remain at bay. 

Shiro leaves for that week and Keith finds himself yearning for the simple conversations, the teasing tone, and even the sage advice. 

Shiro leaves for that week. And he comes back.

And that’s all that matters to Keith. 

It’s the coming back that clenches like a vice around his heart. 

Keith’s father left but he never came back. 

Shiro leaves but he comes back. He’ll always come back. 

He has to. 

⤩

Keith is nearing nineteen. He has lived a life of poverty with hunger clutching at his insides.

Keith nears nineteen. He has lived more life with Shiro than he ever thought possible. Simply by stealing a horse. 

Keith’s nineteen, or he thinks he must be, and Shiro has been coming here and back for several years now. The leaving is always the same. The coming back is always reliable. 

He’s nineteen. Shiro gets on a ship named The Kerberos, and he never comes back. 

Chapter Text

Keith grows accustomed to loss. It is nearly a constant state in his experience. He doesn’t dwell on it longer than he needs to. No, he has to move on. 

Or he pretends as though he can. 

The ache of Shiro’s disappearance leaves him in a constant state of despair and confusion. The stability and certainty that Shiro provided is gone in an instant, and with it any semblance of a hope for a better future. Now all he can do is feel that constant ache that he desperately wants to forget. But to forget would mean forgetting Shiro and Keith just-

Dust kicks in his face as he coughs and rubs at his eyes. He walks towards the open waters, the sound of waves crashing against the docks nearby.

The months since Shiro’s disappearance had not done wonders on Keith’s predictable patterns. With no other place to go, Keith leaves behind the home he’s had with Shiro and returns to the streets. This time, however, he has the skills and savviness to ensure his needs are met. Whether through outwitting drunk gamblers, or the easy lull of tugs free prized goods, Keith finds himself returning to familiar rhythms as he searches desperately for any news on his brother. 

He recognizes this may all be for nothing. He recognizes that life has historically never been kind to him and the brief reprieve of his time with Shiro only reminds him of the futility of kindness and a boon of good luck. 

It never lasts. It isn’t meant to.

So he returns to the streets and with it comes sweat-soaked clothes and dirty nails, messy hair, and a smudged face, the image of desperation that will not get him far in this life. He needs to put on a face if he is to outwit this next batch of gamblers that are certain to cross his path.

He uses the seawater to clean his face, dousing his shirt in the briny waters and wringing out the excess. He slaps on the damp shirt, grimacing as it clings to his skin. Keith has no spare clothes to search for, the only thing of value on his person is the knife tucked at his side. 

Keith makes his way back to the dusty outpost filled with seafaring folk of all sorts. Keith's eyes pass over the assortment of men and women walking through the dusty streets. A woman off to the side offers him a glimpse of her bosom, the fabric tucked around her body tight and revealing. Keith’s eyes cast up and sees the brothel, a pair of lovers kissing on the balcony. He inhales slowly, steeling himself as he passes the woman by, and ignores the temptation of bodies and physical affection. 

Keith has never been one to acknowledge his urges, he usually just acts on them, come what may. There lies a hollowness in him as he considers the last time he had felt any sort of kindness and affection from another. That woman, or others in the building, would not be able to fill Keith’s needs. Even if it was not Shiro’s brotherly affection, Keith’s eyes have never lingered on the fairer sex. 

Just one more reason for his perpetual isolation. Shiro was a fluke and Keith knows that he will never find someone to share that kind of consideration or interest in him. 

Keith’s thoughts stall as he sees the throng of people part, making way for someone in flashy attire, long icy blond hair flowing over his shoulders. Keith steps back, shifting and moving into an alleyway - hidden from sight as the man walks back. 

The man, only slightly Keith’s senior, walks with confidence and a hint of pomposity. Two others trail him looking equally larger than life and foreboding. Something about the man sets something alight in Keith, he isn’t able to place it, but a youthful bravado simmers to life. Something in Keith wants to do something brash. Something in him wants to be that young boy who stole a horse from the man who would become his brother. 

Shiro would say to breathe. Slow down. Think this over. 

Keith’s instincts have often resulted in bruised cheeks and a pang in his stomach. But it also led him to meet Shiro. 

He takes a gamble. 

He may never, truly, understand why. 

But without Shiro to advise him, all he can rely on is his instincts, as ill-informed as they may be. 

Keith slips from the alley and trails behind the trio at a fair distance. He keeps his steps light, the dust barely moving as he walks. As he trails them, he watches the tall, blond man with curiosity. Keith isn’t certain why he feels compelled to follow the man, but the odd pull keeps in pursuit. Keith watches as the man ties his hair back, the long locks settling between his shoulder blades as he continues walking down the dusty streets. 

Then, with a lift of his hand, the man dismisses the pair, one protests whilst the other gives a stiff nod of assent. Keith’s eyes track the pair as they part from the man before he returns his gaze to his mark. Not that Keith fully knows what he intends to take from this man’s person. But surely, a man like that must hold something of value that will give Keith a fighting chance. 

Or one less hand to use. 

Shiro would say to slow down. To consider his options. To- 

Shiro isn’t here.

The man steps inside one of the taverns that line the streets, the building having survived the worst of the storm three months back, but still notably missing some tiling on the roof. Keith takes a steadying breath, not giving himself enough time to reconsider his options as he steps inside the tavern. 

The air is stagnant and hot inside the alehouse, not helped by the pungent scent of sweat and bile that permeates the space. Raucous laughter echoes from a pair of men as they clash their glasses together and start to sing an off-key tune. These men, drunken and ill-equipped, would make far better targets for theft. After all, they’d likely not even recognize their own faces when they wake from their inebriated stupor. And yet, Keith’s gaze returns to the blond man as he settles at the bar and orders a drink for himself. Keith watches as the blond man pulls a small satchel from his pocket, despite the slightness of the bag, it looks heavy. Keith’s instincts hold merit as the man’s slender fingers pull out a coin and push it against the bar. 

Keith hovers by the door for a moment too long before taking quick steps off to the side and sitting at a table. As he sits the table wobbles, clacking against the wooden floor. The sound is soft in comparison to the laughter and merriment surrounding him but Keith freezes as he sees the man lift his head. 

Keith wishes he had something to preoccupy his hands, but pulling out his knife in front of a bunch of sailors of various morals is asking for a fight. He picks at his nails and attempts to look disinterested in his surroundings, particularly the men sitting at the bar. He wonders, briefly, if he would look less conspicuous with a drink in his hand, however, the lack of coin in his pocket makes that venture more than a little challenging. 

Keith brushes his fingers against his cheek as he flicks his gaze towards the bar. The man sips his drink, his other hand tapping rhythmically against the wood of the bar as the drunken men continue to sing off-key. Keith grimaces as the noise in the tavern appears to only escalate. His instincts scream at him to go, either go for the bag of coins or leave with all of his limbs accounted for. 

The voice of Shiro willowy and faint as he moves to depart. 

Then, oddly, Keith’s mark shifts and settles the small satchel on the bar counter, the weight of its contents morphs the velvet container against its resting spot. Keith blinks. He frowns. His fingers flex against his sides. It feels too easy. Too obvious of a grab. It shouldn’t just sit there… should it? A small whispered worry tells him to leave. That same worry sounds like Shiro, advising him against his natural instincts. 

Keith grits his teeth and curls his fingers into his palm, the bite of his dirty nails digging into his skin. A wave of grief floods him and his eyes sting. He feels the ghost of Shiro’s touch, the man’s hand settling on Keith’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. Shiro isn’t here. He’s gone. Missing. Dead.  

Well, Keith isn’t certain what Shiro’s status is, other than the pang of abandonment that permeates and consumes him. Shiro may as well be dead for all that Keith can do about it. He may as well be impossible to reach because Keith doesn’t know how -

The scraping of a chair against wood shakes Keith from his reveries. He jerks his head up and sees the satchel of goods still resting on the bar table. The man’s back twists away from his worldly possession, holding something up to his face. Keith can’t see the item in the man’s hand as he cautiously stands and slinks his way towards the bar. His steps remain muffled with all the noise around him, off to the side a drunken sailor lets out a loud cheer that deafens Keith’s remaining steps. And then, with a quick jerking movement, Keith grabs the bag and brushes by the man, shifting on his heels as he turns and paces towards the exit of the tavern.

His heart beats in his throat as his shoes hit the dusty streets. The man’s satchel feels heavy in his grip and temptation tells him to peer down at his riches. But, no, he has to make his way out of the zone of danger and the tavern is very much still in his line of sight. 

Keith counts his steps as he makes his retreat, the velvet soft against his palm as he tucks the treasure into the folds of his shirt. He doesn’t exactly have a safe place to rest his head, but with enough distance, he thinks that the risk of this stranger's wrath won’t aim for Keith. 

His plans are swiftly abandoned when a force shoves him brutally into an alleyway. Keith scrambles for his blade, groaning as his breath thrusts from his lungs as the hulking assailant pushes him against a brick wall. Keith attempts to lift his head, to catch a glimpse of who has him pinned, but that effort remains for naught as a meaty fist catapults into Keith’s stomach. He lets out a pained groan, his eyes squeezing shut as he breathes shallowly. He prepares himself for the beatdown. Maybe if he’s lucky he may manage a few swings in, but Keith’s learned from experience that sometimes minimal efforts spares him the worst. Not that he wants to give up the fight. 

Then the hands gloss over his body attempting to find Keith’s acquisition. 

The thought of bruises is nothing new. The thought of an empty stomach hardly rings foreign. The thought of cold emptiness is far from unique. 

But Keith does not want to lose this modicum of hope in the form of gold lining his own pockets. 

He lets out a fierce growl, the sound low in his throat. He pushes up and pulls out his knife, slashing against his attacker’s forearm. He grins to himself as he sees the large woman holding her arm for a moment, both of them watching the blood bloom against the white fabric. Keith shifts his body and aims another blow, the woman coming back to her senses and reaching to pull him into a choking grip. She lifts him, his feet dangling in midair as he attempts to plunge his knife into her. And then time stops as a voice rings out.

“That is enough Zethrid.” 

Keith jerks his head towards the voice and his eyes widen slightly before shifting into a frown. The blond man stands imposing and tall, a pompous expression on his angular features. 

The hulk of a woman, Zethrid, grunts and with a flex of her fingers releases Keith to the ground. 

Keith looks between the pair, Zethrid still towering over him while the man walks toward them. 

“I believe you have something of mine,” the man’s honeyed voice speaks with no malice or anger, simply lifting a sculpted brow at Keith. Keith wraps his hand around his stomach, the bursts of pain from Zethrid’s blows still bubbling at his insides. He grits his teeth and presses his arm closer around him as he attempts to hide the parcel in his grip. 

The man stands in Zethrid’s stead, a hand resting against his sword while the other extends expectantly. Keith glances down at the man’s extended hand and burrows his brows together, seeing the polished nails and slender fingers. Not that of a fighter. At least, not that Keith could make of it, but something in Keith tells him to not underestimate the man in front of him. 

The man clears his throat, smiling a little as Keith lifts his gaze to meet his eyes. 

“Let us not make this into a bigger ordeal,” he offers, “return what is mine, and if you are so amenable, I would like to have a chat.” 

Keith’s back stiffens as he looks at the man with suspicion. He presses himself against the wall, his blade in one hand while his other hand braces against the brick, the material digging underneath his nails. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he bites out. 

Keith’s voice sounds ragged and rough from lack of use. He doesn’t remember the last time he uttered a word to someone, let alone something under his breath. 

The man tilts his head, a glint of amusement in his dark gaze. “Please do not treat me as a fool,” his outstretched hand remains lifted but Keith hears the subtle sound of metal against leather as the man lifts one of his swords and settles it under Keith’s chin. 

“The bag, boy.” 

Keith flinches at the demand, feeling the prick of the blade against his skin. 

Keith seethes and glares up at the man. The building keeps them shadowed from the bustling street but now that Keith is up close he can see the man clearly. Smooth, angular features with a sharp jaw and glinting eyes. There is a slight beauty mark underneath the man’s piercing gaze that seems to match the finery that he adorns himself in. Keith flicks his gaze up and down and catches sight of shiny gold and silver jewelry, dark onyx earrings dangling from his ears. More than enough wealth to feed twenty men resting around the rings on the man’s fingers. 

Keith ignores the pain in his stomach in favor of the frustration and fire that brews. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he repeats, practically spitting the words. 

The man’s lips curl in a vicious smile. “I admire your resolve.” He lifts the sword, the point so sharp that Keith can barely make out the shape. “But did you really think that I would have left a parcel of my personal wealth left unattended?”

Keith’s eyes narrow then widen as he inhales sharply. “You wanted me to steal it?” Keith’s brows curve together in growing confusion. 

“I wished to assess your skill.” The man’s words are clipped and matter-of-fact. “I find you to be lacking… However, there is potential.” The man’s silky voice fills the space with his explanation. Keith’s gaze drifts to Zethrid, noting her fierce scowl as she presses a palm against her wound. 

Keith presses his lips together and returns his gaze back to the man. “What does that mean?” 

“It means nothing until you return what is mine,” the man lowers the sword and once more extends a hand to Keith. 

Keith blows out a hot breath and pulls the soft fabric bag from its tucked state. With a glower, Keith sets the bag on the man’s open palm, not missing the pleased look on his angular face. 

“Now, as offered, let us chat.” 

⤩

Captain Lotor Sincline, as Keith later learns, wishes for Keith to join his crew. Or well, that is what Keith surmises after being forcibly escorted onto the man’s ship by Zethrid. Keith puts up a valiant fight, even managing to strike the large woman with another slash of his blade before he is disarmed. 

And now he sits, simmering, in the captain’s quarters. Keith can see intricate maps on display, a handful of loose coins resting on top of the desk, and a set of ink and parchment. 

“You want me… to join your crew?” Keith asks as Lotor’s monologue comes to an end. 

“Quite so,” Lotor nods. 

“Why?”

Keith doesn’t miss the slight tilt of a smile curve at Lotor’s lips. 

“I could use someone of your skill,” Lotor remarks, flexing and circling his wrist as he leans back in his seat. 

“I thought you found me lacking.” Keith grunts, crossing his arms over his chest as he ignores the pain radiating from his stomach. 

Lotor exhales an amused laugh, “I do, but I can see potential.” He offers, “and it seems as though you are without better options, unless… you would like to return to the streets.” Lotor’s gaze flashes with the threat he levels at Keith, “Or perhaps I should notify the authorities of your theft. I wonder which hand you would prefer to be without.” 

Keith rises from his chair and slams his hands against the desk. 

Lotor’s smile only grows as he witnesses Keith’s fire and fury. “If you believe my threats to be without merit, I suggest you speak with my crew.” He offers before Keith can manage his reply. Keith exhales hotly, the warmth of his own breath cascading over his bare skin. 

“So I join your crew or you throw me to the wolves.” Keith digs his nails into the wood of the desk. 

Lotor lifts a brow and his lips tweak once more. “Quite so.” He repeats and Keith plants his hands against the desk and sighs.

“Though I think you will find my offer rather toothsome, as it comes with room and board and of course,” as if Keith’s insides and Lotor’s words sync up, Keith’s stomach growls loudly, “your fill of full-bellied meals.” Keith’s cheeks flush and he pulls from the desk, settling back into his seat. 

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Keith looks away, his gaze fixated on the open waters. The water shines crystal clear blue as the sun dapples light across the surface. He knows the chance of him finding Shiro is slim to none, he doesn’t know the first thing about seafaring life. But, Shiro disappeared into the watery abyss, and the only way to maybe, perhaps, possibly find him, is if Keith shares the same fate. 

Not that he intends to tell this man any of that. 

At least not yet. 

Keith doesn’t trust Lotor, and he is certain that the feeling is mutual. However, he supposes having a place to rest his head and something to fill his belly without the threat of consequence is difficult to pass up. 

“Okay.” Keith grunts, his gaze never leaving the crystal clear waters shining in the window. Slowly, he turns to look at Lotor, his expression tight, “I’ll join your crew.” 

Lotor’s lips form into a smile as he claps his hands together, the sound of his rings clacking against each other sends a rush down Keith’s spine. “Excellent, I knew you’d choose wisely.” 

Lotor’s amusement lingers as he pulls forth a new parchment paper from the folds of sheets. “Let me draw up the articles of your contract,” he recites, the information new to Keith, but seemingly old hat for the captain. “Feel free to,” Lotor flicks his hand almost dismissively, “look around my cabin, perhaps there will be a weapon to suit you.” 

Keith frowns, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as he holds his breath. On the desk, Keith sees his own blade, the curved weapon calling out to him to return to his side. Keith does his best to ignore that pull, he would recover his knife soon. Keith cautiously gets to his feet, the chair scraping against the wood as he moves. Lotor busies himself with his script, Keith flicking his eyes to the looping letters as Lotor writes, then pulling away to canvas the cabin. 

Keith takes slow steps around the cabin, taking in Lotor’s various prized possessions. Keith’s hand brushes along the cabin walls, looking appraisingly at the weapons on display. He wonders how he may fare if he pulls a sword from its resting place and takes a run at Lotor. Sure, he could try, but the sound of the crew outside, shouts and commands muffled but evident, gives Keith enough pause to not enact his suicide plan. After all, there is nothing left for him on the shores of a place that barely feels like home, and without Shiro, feels like nothing but an empty void inside of him. So, his fingers dance along the cool metal, behind him the scritch and scratch of Lotor’s writing is the only indication that he is not alone in the room. 

Keith remembers walking up the gangplank and seeing the crew, rough around the edges but all looking focused and attuned to their work. Keith isn’t sure just who Lotor is, outside of the captain of this vessel. He had heard that recruitment to some King’s navy had been ironclad, so perhaps these sailors sailed for some royal. However, Keith isn’t certain about that, as his eyes cast to the piles of gold coins scattered throughout the cabin. 

Keith loses track of time in his musing, his hand brushing against his stomach to ease some of the lingering pain. He hears Lotor clear his throat. 

Keith turns, his eyes narrowed as he approaches the captain. 

Keith settles back into the seat, arms crossed as he eyes Lotor with resumed suspicion. He reminds himself, he is doing this because he has nothing else allotted to him. He has no future and next to no hope of continuing to live penniless and on the streets. There is hope, however misguided, in considering this offer. Surely, Shiro would consider this a sage choice for Keith to contemplate. Surely, Shiro would be proud of Keith for finding this unexpected opportunity in the wake of Shiro’s absence. 

“These are articles of your contract to join my crew. They detail what is expected of you,” Lotor explains, tapping his finger against the parchment, “and what you expect of me as your captain.” Keith nods a single, solitary nod, his hands braced against the arms of the chair once more. Lotor lifts the parchment and Keith, with a slight hesitation, grasps it and pulls it close. Keith frowns and traces his eyes across the words. He bites his lip as he attempts to parse out the words, opening his mouth slightly as he tries to hide the rising challenge of reading the slanted script. 

If Lotor notes Keith’s struggles, he does not comment on it, content to let Keith take his time to read or attempt to read the contract. 

Keith makes out a few words, some things that ring familiar as he sounds them out quietly, but it ends up being mostly gibberish. Shiro had spent some time arming Keith with some literary skills, but it had never felt like a priority to Keith. Why lift a book or a parchment when a sword was much more favorable? 

Keith lowers the contract and exhales shakily. A self-conscious feeling of admitting his shortcoming hangs heavy on his tongue so he keeps his lips pressed tight together as he sets the parchment down. 

“Do I sign?” He presses his fingers against the parchment and watches as the barely dried ink smudges underneath his grip.

Lotor hums and dips his quill into the ink, extending the feather tip to Keith. Keith watches a splotch of ink land on the parchment as he grabs the quill. The ink splatters across the words making them even more challenging to discern. 

Keith hesitates for a moment, then two, his heart beating wildly in his chest. 

He doesn’t have a future on those shores. He doesn’t know or believe that Shiro will return. He doesn’t have anything to hold dear and doesn’t have anyone to hold him dear. He can’t amount to anything under his present circumstances. He… 

Keith scrawls his name, the script jagged as he presses too hard on the quill, the letters of his name misshapen. He stares at his name. The only letters in combination that he has managed to memorize. He stares. And stares. And stares. 

He can’t take this back. 

Keith glances up at Lotor and sees the man’s pleased expression. He cautiously passes the parchment and quill back to the captain, his gaze returning to his blade, still resting on Lotor’s side of the desk. 

Lotor reads over Keith’s rough signature, the content expression remaining. “Welcome,” he squints for a moment, attempting to read Keith’s letters. “Keith,” he hums, “to your new home.” 

Keith isn’t sure why, but a flood of comfort and warmth consumes him at Lotor’s words. Lotor has no reason to be kind to Keith. Regardless of the ploy to have Keith steal from Lotor, the trick to trap Keith in this spider’s web, Keith still acted on instinct and stole from another. And now, just like with Shiro… an opportunity presents itself in ways that Keith could never have predicted. 

Lotor gets to his feet, his boots echoing as he takes methodical steps towards Keith. In his hand, Lotor holds Keith’s blade. The sun hangs lower in the sky, shining through Lotor’s bay windows and reflecting against Keith’s knife. Keith cautiously lifts his hand to take the blade back but pauses as Lotor looks consideringly at the weapon and then at Keith. The man tilts his head slightly, a river of locks settling over his shoulder as he peers down at Keith. 

Keith frowns and wets his lips as silence permeates the cabin. 

He cautiously opens his mouth and mumbles a ‘thank you’. Lotor’s lips tweak at Keith’s response. 

“One last thing before I leave you to settle in,” he remarks, “now that you are part of this crew, it is best that you look the part.” In a move that is too quick even for Keith to track, Lotor swipes Keith’s blade against Keith’s cheek. A searing pain erupts across the side of his face as blood pools from the wound. 

Keith is in too great a state of shock to even recognize what happens until Lotor tucks Keith’s blade back into his belt and offers a disarming smile that stands polar against the violent act that stains Keith’s skin. 

Keith’s breathing shallows as he bites back the urge to whimper in pain. Something tells him that showing weakness in front of Lotor will not yield helpful results. Keith lifts his shirt, attempting to press against the wound and releasing a pained gasp. Lotor tuts and brings forth a clean cloth pressing it against the side of Keith's face as he escorts him to the cabin doors. 

There is something so odd that Keith has a difficult time wrapping his head around it. Lotor’s brushing fingers hold a gentleness and consideration that feels in sharp contrast to the reason for the pain. Keith’s throat compels a soft whimper as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Mr. Kogane,” Lotor begins, his voice smooth, “I will give you a life of adventure and fortune, but you are and will forever be a pirate, just as we all are. We have no use for your tears.” 

Keith’s breath shallows and it is only when the soft, firm hands of someone named Ezor guide him down into the ship's bowels that Keith fully realizes the trap he has fallen into. 

Stolen some precious coins. Only to have all that he’s ever known stolen right back.

The life of a pirate is not the life he asked for, but it is the one given to him. 

For whatever that is worth.

Chapter Text

Keith lives the life of a pirate. In fact, he excels at it. Lotor’s astute observation of his potential proves to be true in many ways. He picks up the skills Shiro taught him with the sword and manages to take down every member of the crew of The Galtea, apart from its captain. He struggles with the written word, which Lotor offers assistance in when he feels charitable, but where he lacks in skills of the word his eyes trace and track navigation maps to an nth degree. Keith manages to slink and sneak through the cabins and into the ports they stop in, acquiring just about anything Lotor requests. 

In the span of a few short months, Keith goes from a thief shackled to The Galtea. In the span of years, Keith goes from a thief to someone that Lotor admires and values. This status and admiration are reflected in Lotor’s decision to place Keith as third in command. While Zethrid flashes a murderous look his way, she does not dismiss Keith’s loyalty and deserved rank. 

And so Keith remains a pirate. He doesn’t always love it. The first time he takes part in an ambush, his insides coil tight with all the blood and death surrounding him, he stares at the dead sailor still braced against his sword. Later, when the others clink glasses of rum in their merriment, he sits quietly off to the side cleaning his sword. Redness stains the rag as he rubs the sides vigorously. 

“You did well,” Lotor had said, his words coming to Keith through a fog of his own distress. “The first time always comes with its challenges, but, Keith,” at this, Lotor rested a hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezed, “ you have proven yourself.”

Keith had tried to take the words to heart, he tried to be heartened by them, but as Lotor pulled from his side to join the crew in the gaiety of a successful haul, all Keith could do was stare at the stained rag. And the stain of his hands. 

Keith finds more ways to prove himself, more ways to stain his heart and tear apart all the lessons Shiro offers him. He doesn’t have any other options. 

Lotor praises Keith, he rewards him with gold and jewels of his own. Keith realizes with a full belly, the pull of gold and jewels loses its appeal. So he does what he can to enjoy this life that Lotor hands him. Lotor may have left scars and a cursed future on Keith’s body, but he had not lied to him. Lotor offers adventures and fortunes and he delivers at every turn. 

Keith supposes that despite the rocky beginning, he can somewhat trust the silver-tongued captain. At least, in the sense that he is truthful to a fault, even if that reflects poorly on him. Two years on a ship is bound to create some kind of comradery even if Keith isn’t quite certain how to describe it. 

Keith doesn’t know what persuaded him to disclose elements of his past but he blames Ezor for shoving a bottle of rum in his hand. Lotor had taken in the information concerning Keith’s brother with a considerate hum and nod, his words an echo in Keith’s psyche. 

“While I have no answers for the whereabouts of your brother, those who are lost at sea usually never remain that way if you know who to ask.” 

It isn’t a promise, nor is it a guarantee. But Keith clings to the belief that if he proves himself enough, Lotor may find the information he seeks. He just has to try harder, be better, show up, and keep a stiff upper lip. He doesn’t mind the life of piracy, he doesn’t mind having a crew that he’s familiar with, and a way to show off his talent. It isn’t a life with Shiro but, he reasons, it is better than the fate of a streetrat. 

So when Lotor asks him to come along to a meeting with a new client in a small port city in Cuba, Keith nods and doesn’t protest. It’s an opportunity to once more prove useful, to live up to this potential that Lotor ascribes to him, and to honor his new designation as first mate. It’s an opportunity to continue finding value in this life he now lives. 

Keith doesn’t think much of their stop over in Cuba, this is not the first time Lotor has offered their lucrative services to those desperate enough to take them. And likely this would continue as long as people were willing to pay up. 

Keith doesn’t think much of this meeting, sticking to hiding behind one of the posts of the tall home. His blade presses against a block of wood as he carves into it, peeling back the layers. Keith looks up as a flurry of movement passes in front of him, he pushes himself behind the column, hiding from view. Keith peers at the figure in front of him, taking in the form of a young man. The man’s face flushes as he glances over his shoulder, bright blue eyes crystal clear against tan skin. Keith watches as the young man presses a palm against his cheek and rubs valiantly against his eyes as if to ward off incoming tears. 

Then, like something sets off inside of the young man, he straightens, rolling his shoulders back and taking in a deep steadying breath. While Keith can’t see him fully from his hidden view, he watches as the young man plasters on a bright smile and abandons all his feelings of woe. 

The figure leaves, Keith blinking a few times as he takes in the fullness of what he has witnessed. 

His thoughts return to the young man’s blue eyes, deep and soulful as the sea, deep and vast as the watery abyss that Keith calls home. Keith’s eyes close as he lets the fragment of an image - the briefest of memories fill his vision. Something calls out to Keith like the sound of sirens. Keith can’t place it, but his heart feels suddenly lighter in his chest each time he closes his eyes and envisions those endless blues. 

It would not be the first time the visage of something unnamable had struck down Keith, he had been on the ship and the crew long enough to know just who to request the time of in the brothel. Keith knows what it feels like to pull another into breathless kisses and feel the heat of bodies as they twist as one. He has experienced all of these sensations. 

But never so instantaneously. Never with a sudden, grasping need to hold another. Never so viscerally. 

Keith’s musings end swiftly when Lotor emerges from the house. Lotor flicks his gaze towards Keith and without another word, orders Keith to follow the young man.

Keith casts his eyes towards the retreating figure - his eyes lingering long enough to take a slow steadying breath. 

He doesn’t utter a word, he knows he cannot, because if there is one thing he has learned in his time aboard The Galtea is that Lotor’s generosity knows no bounds. He will give and provide all he can for his crew's goodwill. He will sacrifice to appease and please the pirates aboard his vessel. However, if something has caught his eye, a sword, a set of jewels, a priceless artifact, or any such thing of value, there is no arguing. 

It is Lotor’s. 

Keith heeds Lotor’s order. He must. He is obliged to. 

Keith follows the figure. 

And tries to forget that for a brief moment, he could have something of his own. 

⤩

Keith learns that the young man’s name is Lance and he is the youngest child of the man Lotor is dealing with. 

Lotor dictated to him, “This I know, what else? ”

Keith had told him, “I don’t know, I will have to try again.” 

Lotor approves. 

Keith watches. 

And he learns. 

Lance is energetic, always full of laughter and joy, even from a distance. Keith notes that whenever he is around others, he plasters on a bright, blinding smile, wrapping his arms around his friend, letting his brothers tug him around, quietly letting his lover guide him into surreptitious kisses. 

Whenever Keith watches Lance with others, he sees the sheen of joy and happiness that Keith thinks is a guise. It is a show, the way the young man holds himself. From the bubbling laughter and disarming smile, to the endless chatter and elegant poise. A flick of his hair, the skip of a step as Lance practically dances, the smile that shines bright as the sun. Keith’s never read much about fairytales, and his father was never one to offer them, but he thinks that something in the way Lance holds himself shines like royalty. A princess. Or, well, a prince. 

Keith slipped away to gather intel for Lotor, providing tidbits to the pirate captain. “He likes blues.” Lotor had hummed in response. “He enjoys the market but he doesn’t usually shop for himself,” Keith reported. 

Keith discloses all that he observed of Lance and those in his life over the past month or so, telling Lotor of Lance’s dearest friend, the closeness of his siblings, and, with some hesitation, Lance’s lover. 

Keith doesn’t know the lover’s name, all he knows is the way their laughter lingers in the evening air as they believe they are alone in their joy. Keith typically does not linger longer than he must, knowing that witnessing this exchange will only twist the knots in his stomach further. 

Lotor appears to share a similar persuasion. The twist of his lips and darkness in his gaze as he informs Keith that he will accompany Keith during his next excursion to observe Lance. Keith finds himself stiff as Lotor stands beside him, nestled against some foliage as they quietly observe Lance. 

Lance talks quietly to his lover, their fingers laced together as Lance lifts up a shell. The other man peers at the fragile sea-offering and slips his hand from Lance’s grip to quietly pull Lance against him. The whispers and soft laughter continue and Keith knows that at this point he will avert his gaze and return to The Galtea. 

Lotor does not seem to share that sentiment. 

Keith peers up at the other man, Lotor curls his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his hand gripping it so tight that the leather casing creaks. Keith’s breath stills and he cautiously glances back at the pair before returning to Lotor. 

His words slip past his lips before he can prevent them. “Why do you want me to follow him?”

Lotor flicks his eyes down at Keith, then with a shift of his wrist, Lotor releases his grip on his sword and motions behind them. Leaving the lovers behind, despite the confusing feelings Keith feels regarding all of this. 

“Keith,” Lotor begins, speaking evenly as the stars flicker above them, guiding them back to the docks. “Do you know what the main purpose of a quartermaster is?” 

Keith’s brows merge and he wets his lips as he processes the question that comes from seemingly nothing but thin air. But Lotor never speaks without clear intent, that much Keith has come to learn with his stint with the man. 

“You mean… Acxa? Um,” he pauses, his question from before still unanswered and his stomach knotting further as he witnesses the intensity in Lotor’s cool gaze. “It’s like, uh, me? First mate?” He provides despite not quite understanding his role either. Lotor’s eyes on him increase the uncertainty and discomfort within Keith. 

“Akin, yes,” Lotor hums as he takes slow steps along the shoreline. “However, it is the quartermaster’s role to make certain that both the captain and the crew are content.” He details, “and there are some concerns of mine that are best for Acxa to learn at a later date.” Lotor brushes a hand through his hair, tilting his head up towards the sky. 

Keith blinks slowly, gathering this information. 

Lotor is extending a hand of trust. He is telling Keith and Keith alone of some secret intent that Keith is only just wrapping his mind around. 

“Such as…?” Keith prompts, his heart hammering loudly in his head as flashes of Lance’s warm smile dance in his memory. The smiles aren’t for him, Keith is but a shadow, observing the joys of Lance’s life. And yet, they are memories that cling to Keith’s mind as he waits for the inevitable truth to shake him. 

“Acxa would not take kindly to distractions,” Lotor muses, pausing to pluck a periwinkle flower nestled along the coastline. He straightens and twists the stem between his fingers. 

“But I shall have that young man as my own.” 

Keith doesn’t know what to do with this information, he cannot refuse Lotor. He’s not sure he knows how, even if fire brews at his insides, he doesn’t have the words. 

“Come,” Lotor orders, taking Keith’s silence as compliance. “We have much to do in the interim.” 

⤩

He gives all that he feels is relevant. But there are some things he holds secret. Only for his eyes. 

The Galtea departs the shores of Cuba and returns nearly a year later with a trail of blood in its wake. 

Keith closes his eyes and all he sees is blood and viscera. All he can hear is the screams of sailors ill-equipped for the terror Lotor and his crew wrought. All he can feel is deep-seated numbness for the man that he is, so unlike the one that Shiro plucked from the streets. 

What would he think of Keith? What could Keith say to him? Keith doesn’t know and no matter the fervor of the swipes of his rag, he can’t keep the blood from his hands. And he can’t prevent the rising guilt of what is to come. 

It’s been months since Keith’s seen his curly locks and heard his bubbly laughter. It has been months since the confusing, perplexing presence of Lance Serrano crossed Keith’s path. In that time, Keith’s insides attack him with every unimaginable thought and sensation that he can hardly name, let alone act on. 

Keith finds himself back on the shores of Cuba. He finds a similar ordered refrain directed his way by Lotor. He finds himself once more in front of a familiar home waiting for Lance to emerge with a similar skip in his step. 

However, that is not at all his experience. 

Keith watches Lance leave his home, his head low, a heavy sigh blown out as he exhales. Lance, despite his tall lanky frame, appears small and slight, curled up and so unlike the larger-than-life appearance he exuded in the past. 

Lance kicks at the dirt as he walks, passing Keith without any recognition. Keith notes that Lance’s level of spatial awareness is lacking, but Keith doesn’t plan on correcting that. Keith quietly follows Lance from a distance, expecting Lance to go to his friend’s home, or to attempt to meet his lover. Lance does neither, his arms tucked around himself as he shakes. 

Keith feels oddly tempted to run up and ask if he is okay. 

The guilt lancing at his insides only grows. He has no right to impede on this young man’s life, he has no right in doing Lotor’s bidding as it concerns Lance. He has no right and yet he follows. 

Lance makes his way to the beach, he tugs off his boots and throws them with some irritation off to the side. Keith cannot see Lance’s face but he can sense a storm of emotions settled just beneath Lance’s skin. Keith ducks behind a dune, the pinpricks of the sand press against his palm as he leans as close as he dares. 

Lance strips off his shirt, bunching the fabric tightly in his fists and pressing it to his face as he attempts to stifle a sob. Lance lets go of his shirt, the smock fluttering to the sandy shore as he takes long purposeful steps until the water reaches up to his covered waist. Keith shifts on the ground, as he moves, the sand spills down and settles around his knees. He leans as close out in plain view as he dares, watching in confusion at this very different man. 

Keith had surmised that the smiles were a gloss, that Lance laughs the loudest when he knows others are there to witness it. He had gathered that something deeper rests under the surface, something visceral and raw and real. Keith knows the feeling. He favors silence over smiles, but he thinks he understands Lance. Or believes that he does, if only to assuage his own guilt. 

Keith takes in a slow breath as he stares at Lance. The moon hangs low in the sky, bathing Lance in a silvery glow as the water laps at his body. Lance stands in the water, silent apart from his heavy breaths. Keith thinks he can hear soft mumbles of words but the distance prevents him from hearing it with any clarity.  

Silence. 

A kind of quiet that only the sounds of nature can fill. 

And then Lance leans forward and lets out a loud guttural yell, shattering the quiet to pieces. The yell sends Keith hurdling back in surprise, still hidden behind the formation, but disoriented as he witnesses Lance’s raw emotions. The scream sets his nerves alight as he bears witness to a pain from Lance that he does not understand.

And perhaps he has no right to ask. 

Keith watches Lance as the lingering sounds of Lance’s voice fade, the young man plunges himself fully into the water, disappearing underneath the surface. 

Keith presses his palms against his knees and takes a slow steadying breath. He stares at the spot where Lance had last stood, seeing slight movement underneath the surface before Lance pops up from the sea, his hair damp and curling around his face. Keith bites his lip and quietly as he dares, he moves away from Lance and his misery. 

The guilt chews and bites and tears him to pieces. 

He doesn’t think he could stop Lotor from getting what he wants. Keith had no luck preventing his own fate, what could he do for someone like Lance? Someone who has yet to experience the world, but may experience the worst of the world very soon. 

Keith stumbles away, walking toward the docks and the only home that has felt permanent. He passes a dilapidated building, the wood creaking as he leans against it and slips to the ground. His hands rest against his legs, his fingers curling as he takes slow breaths. The sound of Lance’s scream haunts him, as he closes his eyes, he can see the anguish that soon will be all that Lance knows. 

Keith curls his hand into a fist, the bite of his nails sending him careening back to reality. 

Back to the belief that, maybe, he can steal just one more thing. 

Later on the ship, Lotor looks expectantly at Keith as he dictates his report. “And our charge?” Lotor remarks, a lift of his brow as he leans forward. 

“Not yet,” Keith manages, a bit too quick to answer but unable to do anything else. 

“Not yet?”

“No, he’s… he’s not ready, he…” Keith struggles to find the right words to convince Lotor, but, as Lotor brushes a hand, Keith finds that he does not need to. 

“Very well, we shall return in two months' time, let us hope,” Lotor pauses, lifting from the desk and leaning back, looking Keith slowly up and down, “you find him ready, then.” 

Keith stares at Lotor’s cool eyes, the stare of a man who knows he has all the sway in power in the world. The eyes that have Keith pinned and a part of a world he never thought possible or probable. The eyes have led Keith to do things that he knows he must, but what must Shiro think of him, and the man he’s become? The eyes that when they avert, Keith can get away with more than he’d ever thought possible. 

Like witnessing Lance at his rawest and never breathing a word of this secret shared between them.

Like stealing Lance a little more time to be loved by his family. 

Like knowing that stealing Lance is inevitable under Lotor’s powerful gaze. 

But Keith can steal Lance a little more time to be anything other than Lotor’s.

It’s the least he can do. 

Chapter Text

Keith risks it only when he dares. The passing glances and brush of hands. He doesn’t dare do more, least of all since Lance wants nothing to do with him. Least of all since Lance is not Keith’s to stare at, Lance is not anything that Keith can have and hold. 

So he watches from a distance as his silver-tongued captain twists Lance in his carefully constructed web of lies. Keith watches and tries to keep his distance, maintaining his role that Lotor designates him as. The role that will help him win favor, the role that could lead to information about Shiro, the role that reminds him that he is a pirate and he is obliged to Lotor. The role that remains the only thing he can hold. 

And he watches, he allows the brief moments where Lance is by his side to be enough to assuage the ache in his heart that floods with guilt and desperation. 

He observes and steals what he can through the passing of glances and brushes of hands. He lets that be enough. 

“Have you lied, Keith?” Lance asks and Keith’s insides coil and twist and he lies some more, if only to let his eyes take in Lance’s soft features. 

He lies and he keeps on lying. As Lotor spins Lance into a dance, as Lotor takes claim of Lance, as Lance falls deeper into the wants and wishes of the pirate captain. And Keith lets Lotor do so. He doesn’t fight him. He believes that the glances he steals are enough to quell the ache that grows. 

Then the glances shift - suddenly, Keith has the opportunity to brush his hands against Lance’s soft, warm skin. Suddenly, Keith can guide Lance in a dance that Keith knows and loves. The meeting of blades, the rhythm of movements as he teaches Lance how to protect himself. His own words echo in his mind, “Can’t have you being defenseless forever.”  

And with this dance, Keith finds new satisfaction in what he is allotted. Not Lance, not that he is deserving of anything Lance is or could ever be, but a fraction of him. A fraction of the warmth and joy he exudes mixed with the sorrow and beauty he exhibits. Keith wonders, not for the first time if Lotor knows of his wandering eye, his wandering touch. 

And for whatever reason, the captain decides to be generous with his prize. 

Keith should feel grateful, he can steal more glances and gentle touches. He ought to feel honored that he is not met with wrath from his captain. He should understand how lucky he is to be seen in such high regard by Lotor. 

And yet, witnessing the shell Lance is becoming, slowly but surely, chews Keith up inside. 

Lance doesn’t always speak it, but Keith has observed enough in his life to recognize a fading resolve, the shift as doubt and fear plague the mind and heart. 

Keith watches from a distance. 

That’s what he’s best at. That’s where he excels. 

And yet, with Lance, he can’t help but stumble and tangle himself in the mess that Lotor curates. 

He can still feel his skin tingle from the brush of hands and ghost of breaths as Lance whispered, “Would you be kind to my unattended presence?” 

Would Keith? Would anyone? When Lance shines so bright and beautiful he seems like a beacon to call any homesick sailor home. All Keith knows is that under any other circumstance, he would have wished to take Lance’s hand and let Lance guide him wherever he saw fit. But Keith doesn’t. He can’t. He pulls away and lets the ghost of Lance linger on his body. It is the best he can ask for - under these conditions of violence and cruelty. 

Keith should’ve guessed that blood would stain the deck soon enough. He should’ve guessed that it was only a matter of time before the fun of seafaring life that Lotor spins for Lance comes clattering back to reality. 

Keith never learned his name, Lance’s lover. And now, as they shove bodies off The Galtea he wonders if he will ever learn his name. The man who was brave enough, foolish enough, to face pirates and expect a better outcome. Keith wipes his blade clean of blood, his thoughts returning to the fervor and desperation in Lance’s lover’s eyes as he demands to know Lance’s location. 

A loyal pirate would have stayed mum. A loyal pirate would have plunged his dagger into this man. 

Instead, Keith lets slip Lance’s location and earns a black-eye in the process. 

Keith looks down at the clean blade and wonders if he can be as foolishly brave as Lance’s dead lover. If, for Lance, that fate was an inevitability. 

The stolen glances persist, and the brush of covert touches endure - Lance’s gaze lingering on Keith just as much as Keith’s own eyes drift to Lance. With touch comes whispered words and secrets shared. With lingering looks comes a boon of longing that fills Keith’s chest and leaves him swaying in the wind. 

Keith doesn’t know what to do with Lance’s declarations, he doesn’t know what to do with Lance’s desperation, he doesn’t know how to hold Lance. But he knows that he wants to. He wants Lance to figure him out and for Keith to know for certain that someone knows him and doesn’t leave him. 

But Keith can’t guarantee that. He knows he cannot. He couldn’t stop Shiro from leaving and he can’t hold Lance because Lance isn’t his. And Lotor’s web feels impossible to pull apart. 

Keith sees Lance’s tears. Hears his soft cries as truth after truth unveils itself. Keith steals more moments with Lance than he ever believed possible. And he still cannot save him. He can’t be brave and foolish. He can’t find his way out of the maze that Lotor constructs, promises made, promises offered, the only things Keith has ever cared about held in Lotor’s vice grip.

Lance… to have and hold him, to believe that Lance deserves more than the world has ever given him. Lance, who Keith doesn’t quite understand, even now. But what he does know, he holds close to his heart. When he closes his eyes, Keith sees the stars that shine above and with them, the crystal, blue starlight of Lance’s eyes. When quiet settles upon the ship, Keith hears the echo of Lance’s laugh, the hint of his bravado and joy and wonder. Keith wishes so desperately to know Lance beyond the shackles of The Galtea. 

Lance held in one hand, Lotor’s grip tight and choking, as in the other, he dangled the morsels of insight regarding Shiro. 

If only Keith is good enough. Proves himself. Then Keith can know Shiro’s fate: alive or dead. He can know if his grieving is for naught and he ought to be searching the vast oceans for his brother. If he should’ve been doing that from the start. 

Keith knows that if he chooses, he gains one and loses the other. Lotor’s goodwill once steadfast and certain has become flighty, his kindness unreliable. 

Lance. Or Shiro. Shiro. Or Lance. 

"It's going to be okay.” His whispered words to Lance. Taking him by the hand and leading him into his embrace. Soft touches that leave bruises and lust and love; Keith honors his own choice, for whatever it will do for him. 

“Just go, it’s going to be okay,” Lance’s words whisper back and force him away as Lance decides his fate for him. Lance gives Keith what he wants. Answers. Shiro. And in the process, Lance closes the door to himself, returning to Lotor’s gilded cage. 

The strikes of a whip feel like nothing compared to glances that Lance will not return. Touches that Lance avoids. 

So that’s all that Keith can give himself. Stolen glances. Soft, surreptitious touches. The feeling of a ghost with no tangibility on the horizon. The feeling of a hope that can never be actualized. The feeling that he can only steal, never have, and hold and love and be loved. Everything fades or is torn from his person through blood or brawls or cruel words or crueler touches. 

Lance is a stolen glance. Lance is a stolen touch. Lance is a hope that Keith clings to when he doubts himself and the world that he has made his home. 

With a desperate act, Lance is all at once there, and his and theirs and -

Keith doesn’t steal glimpses or touches or a hope. No. With a storm raging around them, his heart in his throat as he parries every attack from Lotor, he does the impossible. 

He steals Lance. 

And a storm sweeps them into the vast, endless seas.  

Chapter Text

Keith strives to always be aware of his surroundings. Despite his frustration and the growing feelings of defeat and irritation towards ever finding his brother, let alone a belief that Shiro is alive, Keith knows to check his periphery for threats and concerns. 

That’s how he recognizes that Lance fell behind in the market. That is how, with his heart in his throat, desperate to keep his fears and worries at bay, he retraces his steps and finds Lance crumpled in an alleyway. He sees the dewy tears in Lance’s eyes, the flush of shame in his cheeks, the way he hunches and tries to look small under Keith’s gaze. Keith’s voice is sharp as he orders Lance to stay close. 

And that should be enough, Lance is by his side, Keith’s frustration present but something he can hold back as long as he knows that Lance is by his side. 

Keith feels the warmth of Lance’s hand, his slender fingers laced between Keith’s calloused ones as they walk, as they arrive at a booth, as Lance coaxes Keith with something they know he loves. 

And his hand drops. He pulls away. Believes for a fraction of a second that Lance is still safe beside him. Keith believes for a fraction of a second that history will not repeat itself and someone he loves will not vanish from his sight. 

Keith ought to have known better. 

Time stands still as Keith turns to show Lance his blade of choice. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine Lance standing by his side, perhaps with a distracted look on his face, fidgeting and pulling his shirt sleeve down, perhaps when their eyes meet, Lance’s lips with shape into a bright grin. If Keith closes his eyes he can imagine Lance is safe and by his side and -

Lance is nowhere in sight. 

Lance’s warm, sunny laughter nowhere that Keith can hear it.

Lance’s tan skin and flouncy attire nowhere near. 

Lance. Gone. Again. 

Keith grips the knife tightly in his fist, the handle protesting under his iron fist. He blows out a heated breath, the frustration of his worry for Shiro combined with his growing irritation of Lance’s inability to stay put. He thrusts his hand down and stabs the vendor’s booth, piercing the blade in between the grooves of the wood. 

Keith doesn’t linger long enough to hear whatever protests the seller lobs at him because Keith races. He rushes and looks around and the crowd compresses and widens as he weaves, the swell of people much like the ocean. Threatening to pull him under as he looks worriedly for Lance. 

He first retraces his steps, looking at various booths in the hopes that maybe something shiny or colorful caught Lance’s eye. Or maybe a set of books, Keith knows that even in the short stay, Lance has managed to chip away at Allura’s sizable library. Keith attempts to soothe his growing distress as he creates stories of where Lance could be. Does he need a new sewing kit? Did he find a pistol for sale? He is… Where is he?

Keith’s breath shallows and the endless crowd converges around his vision as he sees not a single sign of Lance. 

Keith stumbles as he pushes people aside, pressing a hand against his chest as a willowy, “Lance,” croaks out, too quiet to make a dent against the chattering of people. Keith trips over his feet as a small bag tangles with his boots, he grunts as he falls, grimaces as he brushes his hands together. Dust and grit tumbles from his palms as he glances down at the discarded item. Keith squints and grips the edge of the bag, prying it open and seeing the set of bullets Lance had newly acquired. 

Keith jumps to standing, his fist clenched around the bag as he looks valiantly for Lance. Any size of sun-dappled tan skin and the blue eyes that shine like the stars against the deep ocean. 

Keith’s heart constricts as the unsettling feeling only grows.

“Lance!”

His voice rings out in the crowd, the sound of footsteps and laughter and noise drowning him out as he cries out for Lance. For any sign of him. Keith’s stomach twists violently as he drowns in his growing dread. 

He doesn’t see Lance. He can’t hear Lance. He doesn’t know where he is and as Keith pulls the bag to his chest, he squeezes his eyes shut and releases a growl. 

Keith grips the bag tightly and takes off running back toward Allura’s, dust kicking up as he races back to the only stronghold he has left. He storms into the home, the door slamming violently as he does so. He screams Lance’s name; not because he believes he’s there, something churning inside of Keith ensures him that false hope has no place here. 

Keith runs into Allura’s offices, not caring if he leaves it in disarray as he looks for something, anything that can help. He will steal, and poorly at that, anything that will help him find Lance. 

Weapons. 

He has those. His hands tremble as bullets strewn across Allura’s desk, grabbing one of her pistols and shakily loads the weapon. He has little experience with guns, Lotor never has them on hand, and Shiro never teaches him distanced defense. But he needed to be ready. For what, Keith doesn’t know. All he knows is that the longer he delays the further Lance may be. The closer Lance will be to Lotor and any chance that Keith will see Lance ever again. 

He doesn’t know the source of Lance’s vanishing act, all he knows is Lance must be in danger. 

Keith needs money to pay the dockmaster for access to his boat. The last thing he stole. With Lance. The memory of the fallen sailor still echoes in Keith’s memories but he shakes off the feeling as he searches for coins. Better yet, Allura and Coran must have a fleet of ships in their care, that would certainly be more than enough to find Lance. 

Keith doesn’t let his thoughts linger long enough to dwell that Lance is still on the island. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to find out, he just needs to get what he needs and hope that Hunk can calm any ruffled feathers Keith creates in his wake. If the other man doesn’t attempt to murder Keith for losing his best friend. Keith doesn’t quite want to contemplate the full breadth of Hunk’s fury. 

Keith’s hand grips a satchel of coins as his eyes catch the name of a ship and its manifest. Perfect. He just-

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Allura stands in the doorway, seething, her body tense despite the fact that she is only wrapped in a silky robe. Stretches of dark skin on full display before she adjusts the robe and steps barefoot into her office. 

Keith lets in a sharp breath, his head swirling as the mere thought of even answering Allura takes time away from searching for Lance. Should he have foregone all of this? Should he have continually madly searched for Lance? Should he- 

“Mr. Kogane,” Allura interrupts his panic and grabs a discarded blade on the edge of the desk. She unsheathes the weapon and points it at Keith, the robe loosely tied as she ignores her own modesty for the sake of leveling her rage at him. “I will not repeat myself.” 

Keith grips the coins tightly and blows out a hot breath, his tongue weighs heavy in his mouth as his eyes close. As darkness settles over his vision, his memories flood him with images of Lance. His eyes sting and rather than words, his throat constricts and he muffles a choked sob. 

Keith grew up with nothing but the clothes on his back and a hunger so familiar he could call it an old friend. Keith grew up knowing that fathers aren’t long for this world and mothers aren’t a part of his story. Keith grew up knowing that Shiro was a boon of good fortune that wasn’t meant to last. Nothing is meant to last. Keith grew up. And he learned that he can have a belly full of food aplenty as long as it follows blood on his hands and deals with devils. Keith grew up and longing wasn’t something he was allowed to act on. He wasn’t meant to have what he wanted, he was only meant to steal it for a time. 

Keith is done with this story. 

He doesn’t want the same ending. 

He squeezes his eyes so tightly he winces in pain, then with a hot exhale he opens his eyes and looks fiercely at Allura. 

He lifts the bag of coins, letting it hover in the air before he catches it in midair and levels the gun at the woman. “What does it look like?” He grits his teeth, his eyes flicking towards the door before going back to Allura. 

Allura narrows her eyes, her lips purse as she takes in Keith’s threatening form and the words that follow it. 

“So you seek to steal from me after I have offered more than enough generosity to your plight?”

Keith tightens his hold on the gun, his eyes focusing on his fingers as the weight of the weapon weighs down his hand. Keith is used to blades and swords, a movement and motions that hold strength in every angle and stroke. He nods stiffly, attempting to ignore his racing heart. 

Allura’s frown remains, seemingly finding his response suspect. “And this has nothing to do with you shouting Lance’s name, moments ago?” 

Keith’s back straightens, his grip on the bag loosens, the soft clack of the coins hitting the wood consumes him. 

Keith’s breath shallows and his eyes sting anew. Allura’s gaze softens, she lifts one hand braced against her robe to cinch it closed as the other wraps around the pistol. Her crystalline eyes bore into Keith’s gaze and she tugs the weapon from his grip. 

The silence hovers between them, the only thing to break it comes from the soft pads of footsteps approaching the office. Allura takes a slow steadying breath, recognizing Keith’s hesitancy to break the silence. 

“Where is Lance, Mr. Kogane?” Her words are sharp and her eyes narrow once more. Keith is under no illusion that while Allura is not particularly fond of Keith, she, like many before her, has become easily enraptured by Lance and his bemusing charm. 

Keith’s head swirls and a tear tracks down his face, “he… we…” he struggles, and his breath quickens as the world spins. “The market, something happened, he - he was there, and now - I…” 

He’d failed. He didn’t protect Lance, he didn’t keep him safe and secure. Keith failed. A sob breaks free of his throat and suddenly a warmth hovers around his body. Allura’s arms slip around him and she holds him as another shudder rocks his body. The shame and guilt consume him. Lance doesn’t need him spiraling in self-pity. He needs Keith to act. He needs Keith to find him. He needs… 

Keith squeezes his eyes shut and in his memories, Lance hovers, blurred around the edges and fading fast. 

Allura pulls back and lets her hands encapsulate Keith’s hands. “You are not the only one who would do unreasonable things for the ones they love,” she informs him, pulling a hand away from Keith’s long enough to motion towards the door where a young blonde woman hovers in the entryway, a sheet wrapped around her as concern creases her features. 

Keith frowns, opening his mouth to protest her words. But Allura lifts a hand and continues. “And you are not the only one who can bear the brunt of this concern.” 

Allura grips Keith’s hands tightly, staring deeply into his dark eyes. “You needn’t steal to seek what you want or need. You simply must ask.” 

Keith wets his lips, his breath shallow with each inhale, every second that passes has his head spinning. 

Then he meets Allura’s mercurial gaze, “Please, help me find Lance?”

A smile graces Allura’s lips and she squeezes Keith’s hands, reassuringly. 

“Gladly.” 

Chapter Text

Sweat trickles down Keith’s back, he suppresses a shiver as Lance takes him firmly by the hand and walks them away from the safety of The Marmora. After a fierce battle and rescuing Lance (well, Keith isn’t sure if he had rescued Lance) from the ship, he would’ve suspected Lance would want to be miles and miles from this prison. And yet, as Lance’s grip tightens around his hand, his expression set and his steps assured. 

Lance looks as confident as Keith has ever seen him. No, Lance exudes confidence in a way that Keith could only dream of, it sends a rush of pride through Keith. Lance had been more than just incredible, he’d shown himself in all the ways that Keith had known lay just underneath the surface and Lance did it with a smile.

Still, Keith wasn’t quite sure why they were making their way to the bowels of the enemy’s ship. 

“Lance, where are you taking…” Keith’s words hover in the air as Lance tugs them along, an assuredness to every step. Then Lance stiffens, Keith frowning as he takes a few steps forward attempting to catch Lance’s expression. 

Keith meets Lance’s gaze off to the side, watching as Lance narrows his focus and presses his lips together. Lance turns to face Keith. Keith looks searchingly at Lance, trying to make sense of Lance’s behavior and what has drawn them here. 

Lance presses a kiss to Keith’s cheek, his lips soft against his rough stubble, Keith takes a slow breath in. His lungs fill with the wetness of the wood and stench of pickled foods and the tang of iron. But his eyes can only focus on Lance. In the low light, Lance’s blue eyes glow, a flash of something secret, something hidden just beneath the surface. Keith opens his mouth to interject again but Lance beats him to it.

“I think,” Lance says slowly, “there’s someone you need to talk to.” He hums and twists his head, nodding towards a form. Keith squints in the darkness and lets his eyes draw away from Lance and toward a hunched figure in the near distance. The figure remains immobile, frozen under their scrutiny. Was it someone else Keith needed to attack? Was it someone who threatened Lance - someone who was a threat to all of them?

Keith feels Lance’s hands brush against his side as his eyes focus on the shadow of a figure with the tilt of a nose and the angle of a chin and the figure turns and somehow, in the dark, dampness of the ship’s surroundings, Keith sees the eyes he had longed to see. 

Keith sharply inhales, his eyes wide as he barely comprehends the image in front of him. 

Shiro. 

Shiro.

Keith trembles and barely registers as Lance gently passes the lantern to him. He runs. He bolts and covers the steps and lets the lantern rest on the floor before he covers the remaining distance. Shiro’s stiffness melts away as Keith sees the shadows cast over Shiro’s forlorn features. He doesn’t let himself linger, he can’t. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro, he hears the shakiness of his own breath as he tries not to panic. 

Shiro remains stiff and unmoving, even as Keith breathes out a whispered, “Shiro…”

And then, like some kind of broken spell. Shiro moves and embraces Keith back. He twists and pulls Keith into a firm hug, only one of his arms moving as he returns Keith’s affections. Keith doesn’t acknowledge the stiffness of Shiro’s movements or the silence coming from his brother. He can only focus on the fact that Shiro is here. Impossibly here. And alive. Keith bites hard on his lip to quell the tears but they come easily, slipping down his cheeks. 

Keith pulls back and rubs violently against his eyes as he takes in shallow breaths. Then he hears a soft sigh. 

The silence was something that Keith adjusted to, in his life he rarely had someone to talk to, and the instances where someone was by his side were few and far between. But Shiro’s exhale sends a rush of familiarity through Keith, he squeezes his eyes shut as dampness returns once more. 

And then Shiro breaks his silence. 

“Hey, Keith,” he greets and just the sound of his name from Shiro’s lips sends Keith careening forward and once more throwing his arms around his neck. 

“It’s okay,” Shiro soothes, patting Keith's back as he continues to be shocked into silence. 

And then as Shiro gently ruffles Keith’s hair, something in Keith settles and he comes back into himself. 

“What- Where,” he shakes his head violently, pulling back and standing, he towers over Shiro’s hunched form and crosses his arms. “You’ve been here… the whole time? Why didn’t you come back?” Keith demands, sounding more like he had when he was fifteen and petulant. 

In the lantern light, Keith catches a glimpse of an amused smile creasing Shiro’s features before sorrow returns, a bridging of brows, and downtilt of lips, “I wanted to, Keith, truly. It was not for lack of trying.” He muses and strangely rubs at his opposite arm. Slowly, he stands. The lantern light distorts the shapes and shadows of Shiro’s features and Keith finally takes him in. 

The scar running across Shiro’s nose stands about as prominent as the stark white hair against his dark locks. Shiro looks like he fought wars and barely made it out to the other side. 

Keith wants to ask, he wants to know, he wants to understand. But he worries, suddenly, that their roles have reversed, that if Keith pushes too hard, Shiro will scurry away and leave Keith behind. Keith wonders just what Shiro saw in him at the age of something near fourteen. Did he, too, believe if he pushed too hard, a young boy with nothing to his name would disappear into the night? 

Shiro hadn’t let that happen, he offered strength and a promise and a hope. And Keith believed it and his life, for a time, was something near perfect. 

So Keith needs to - no, he must extend that same charity to Shiro. 

He cautiously takes in Shiro’s stiff form and notes how Shiro can’t quite meet his eyes. Keith wonders how the shame lances at Shiro’s insides, just as it does for Keith anytime he dwells too heavily on the price of being a pirate. Keith exhales and extends his hand, ignoring his likely red-rimmed and flushed face, ignoring his racing heart and all the questions he wants to spill from his lips and demand to know. 

He ignores all of this and hopes that his words are enough to call Shiro back to him. 

“It takes time,” the words an echo of the past. Keith wets his lips as he offers his hand slowly, the weight of it trembling as his stomach twists. “To find a way back to yourself,” Keith doesn’t know all that Shiro endured, and with the stiff expression marring Shiro’s face, he wonders if he ever will. But he can make a promise. And he can aim to keep it. 

He keeps his hand aloft as he meets Shiro’s dark eyes. 

“I can teach you if you’d like.”

Shiro’s silence moves mountains and then, cautiously, with all the worry and fear and reservations that Keith understands exists, Shiro takes Keith by the hand. 

And Keith leads him back into the light. 

Chapter Text

Keith has grown accustomed to the chilly night sea air as it bites against his skin. He has lived the better part of a half-decade with the salty breeze threading through his hair. Keith knows far more about the intricacies of the sea’s ebb and flow, the undulation and depth of the abyss. He grows used to the taste of salt on his tongue, the sweat dripping down his brow as he scrapes barnacles off whichever ship he calls home. 

He found peace in the life Lotor had provided though coerced. 

He found peace in the glimpses and brushes that he and Lance managed though they tore him up inside. 

He found peace in the idea that Shiro was out there, dead or alive, but he lived through Keith, though that too was a lie. 

He found-

Peace came from a smile. Peace came from that slight way that Lance twisted his lips, the hint of a joke ready to slip past the other man’s soft, supple lips. Peace came from the knowing look Shiro sends his way every time Keith gets distracted by the swell of gentle laughter on the upper deck. Shiro never needs to speak it, but the teasing expression never leaves his face as he nudges Keith with his elbow. Despite the years apart, that aspect of their brotherly bond felt easy to pick up. 

Peace came from a peace of mind that Keith hadn’t known could be possible. Peace came from being surrounded by blue, the waters, the sky, and the light in Lance’s eyes. 

He thinks that he could live in this space forever if he’s allowed. 

The chill of the night air sweeps against Keith’s skin, he tucks the rough blanket tighter around his shoulders, his gaze focused on the amass of darkness ahead. The only light coming from the lanterns lit up below him, and the silver moon above him. The breeze brushes against his cheek, as he brings his palm against his cheek, he wonders if rosiness paints his features. Keith had never experienced a cold so deep he could feel it in his bones, though Shiro has provided vivid enough descriptions of two-toned fingers and breaths that exhale smoke without tobacco nearby. Keith knows that even with the shiver that runs down his spine, they are still nowhere near the frigid cold that Shiro describes. The warm waters of the Caribbean are near, but the chill of the coastline only grows the further north they go. 

Allura has a destination in mind, and she has yet to flounder along the way. The crew she compiled bests any adversary who attempted to set siege on them. Keith lifts the spyglass to his eye, hunkering against the wood panel of the crow’s nest, he peeks through the slats of wood, favoring to crouch after spending the early evening upright and focused. He doesn’t expect movement beyond the gentle flow of the endless ocean. Keith tucks the blanket over his shoulders, letting it hang loosely as he adjusts his hands around the spyglass. He lifts the tool and lets his eye focus on the pinpricks of starlight in the distance, made close enough to feel reachable. 

Keith lowers the glass and lets his head rest against the wood, his eyes closing briefly as he lets in a lungful of cool air. The ship rocks melodically in the waters, the lapping of waves hitting the wooden structure. 

Below, he can hear soft chatter and a clink of glasses. His ears prick up as he hears ropes straining just beneath him. 

Keith opens his eyes and twists his head, he catches sight of looping curls and knows it’s Lance before he sees the glow of his dark eyes. Lance tucks his elbows against the opening of the crow’s nest, leaning against the wooden structure, his feet balancing against the ropes. Keith peers at Lance, catching sight of his smattering of freckles across Lance’s cheeks and nose. His tan skin glows as the moon’s light hovers overhead. 

“Want some company?” Lance asks with a tilt of his head. 

Lance offers a small smile, his lashes low as he waits for Keith’s reply. Keith lifts his blanket as way of an answer and Lance wastes no time to cover the remaining distance into the crow’s nest. Lance snuggles up to Keith, the space becoming a bit snug as Keith scoots closer to the rim of the vantage point. Lance settles against Keith’s shoulder and hums softly as Keith wraps the blanket around Lance’s shoulder. Keith feels Lance’s soft puffs of breath as he scrunches himself as close as the nest allows. Keith flicks his eyes down to Lance, seeing the other brushing his fingers against Keith’s thigh. 

“Everything okay,” Keith asks, his voice low and rough after hours of silence in the crow’s nest. “Did you have a nightmare?” 

Lance looks up, his bright blue eyes iridescent in the moonlight. Lance manages a shrug and brushes his hand against Keith’s palm. While Keith knew that Lance had wanted to take apart all that Lotor had and was, the lingering thought of The Galtea roaming the high seas had not escaped them. Keith had asked Lance if he wanted to pursue but he was often met with a stiffness to Lance’s posture and an uncertainty that Lance does not speak to. If Lance wants to tear down the remainder of Lotor’s past empire he has yet to voice it so readily. Perhaps the fuel of revenge had run its course.

“Mhm, just wanted to keep you company up here,” Lance supplies, flirting around Keith’s concern. 

His finger trace along Keith’s calluses. Whether or not Lance woke and joined him because of the remnants of his memories still plunging him into darkness, well, Keith may never know.

“Oh,” Keith’s lips twitch as warmth fills his body, “Okay - there’s not much to do, though.” He reasons, wondering if boredom will win out for Lance’s inclination to be in the crow’s nest. 

“Mm,” Lance responds, Keith isn’t sure Lance even heard him, as he continues to trace along Keith’s palm. “You can tell me about the constellations,” Lance replies after another beat of silence, pulling back and cuddling against Keith’s chest as he tilts his head up to the sky. Keith peers down at the twist of curls on top of Lance’s head before their eyes meet. 

Keith mirrors Lance, arching his head up and scanning the sea of stars. He adjusts the blanket, slipping his arm around Lance as he pulls him closer. With a cautious wetting of his lips, Keith lifts his hand and traces the star patterns, with each position, Keith tells Lance the name of the constellation.  

Lance hums quietly and whenever Keith looks down at Lance, he sees his fading focus. Lance braces a hand against Keith’s chest, settling his arm around Keith’s waist as his body slumps against him. Keith tries to motion towards another spray of stars when he hears Lance’s soft snores against him. Keith lowers his hand, reaching over Lance to tug the blanket firmly around Lance’s body. 

As Lance sleeps, Keith leans back against the base of the crow’s nest, his hand resting on the top of Lance’s head, running his fingers through his hair. He is fairly certain that Lance’s night terrors woke him, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, guiding him to Keith’s side. Keith doesn’t mind it, and he knows that while they share the dreams that plunge into darkness, he too does not always confess to having them. Sometimes the presence of Lance is enough to soothe the ache of tension and distress the images draw up. Keith knows that for Lance, it’s the same. 

Keith glances down and watches Lance’s chest rise and fall, a peaceful expression on the young man’s face. Keith’s gaze hovers on the puckering scar on Lance’s eyebrow. The man had brushed off the wound when confronted by Keith and Hunk, flashing smiles and cracking jokes. He may never truly know what conspired on Sendak’s ship, Lance stays mum about the experience, and Shiro… Shiro’s expression grows dark and tense, urging Keith to stop pressing. 

Leave it well enough alone.

And so, Keith does. He doesn’t push and he finds himself in a world of adventure. The kind of adventure Lotor promised, if not for the brutality that accompanied that escapade. He finds himself with comforts he never thought possible, the warmth of a full-bellied meal, the guidance of leaders that inspire awe but also deserve it just the same. The love of another. 

Lance squirms a little, pressing his face closer against Keith’s chest before falling deeper into sleep. 

Keith can’t imagine a better life than the one offered to him. One that he did not have to steal to acquire. Or, if he did, his gaze lingering on Lance’s sea of freckles, it would have been worth everything to him. 

Keith casts his eyes towards the sea, moving slowly, he lifts the spyglass and returns to his post. 

Lance doses peacefully in his arms until the spread of dark night shifts and fades and the pinpricks of light begin to glow against the sky. Keith waits for a moment or so, relishing the calm that the beginning of dawn’s light provides. 

“Hey, Lance,” he whispers, the exhale of words soft against the morning breeze, “time to wake up.” Keith watches Lance slowly stir, his nose scrunching as he brushes a hand against his brow. Lance shifts and pushes himself off of Keith. He releases a yawn and stretches as he catches his bearings. Keith thinks he could watch Lance slowly wake up and never grow bored of each intricate movement and soft sleepy sounds Lance emits. 

Lance opens his eyes and takes in the sight of dawn’s early light bathing the sea and sky in a flush of pinks and oranges of every shade and combination. The colors paint strokes against the sky, dusting Lance’s face with a warm tone against his soft skin. 

Lance pushes off of Keith and stands, his hands bracing against the rim of the crow’s nest, the flurry of breeze ruffling his chestnut locks. Keith sits for a moment, watching Lance as his face turns towards the rising sun and he smiles as bright as any beam of light. Then Lance extends his hand, twisting to face Keith, and he shines his beautiful brightness on Keith. 

Keith takes Lance’s hand and knows he will never let him go. 

Keith takes Lance’s hand and knows that all that he lacked drove him to pluck pockets and seek out what wasn’t his. To steal is to fill a space in his stomach or in his pockets that he lacks. A want that only his hands could tend to.

Keith takes Lance’s hand and knows that he is at peace with his life. His stomach no longer chews him up inside. He no longer lifts the sword and fears the consequences. He has Shiro. He has Lance. 

He has peace.