What if Keith really is part Galra, born and raised among them, human blood from distant relatives in his veins, a rare mutation that made his Galran parents have a human-looking child?

What if Shiro’s arm was crafted from steel and real Galran flesh, in a dark room with almost gentle touches from the witch, pressed to his body where his own pulse used to beat and where magic now haunts his new metal-breathing skin?

What if Keith is an orphan for a reason?

What if his last memory of his parents is their whispers of “safe, my sweetest child, you will be safe” as they push him into a capsule, the glass locking over his face before the tiny ship launches into space, and a witch’s magic floods over the face of the only two people he ever loved?

And what if Keith’s first reaction to Shiro’s new arm wasn’t shock, but a flood of recognition –

– because the energy that now pulses in his leader’s veins is what Keith used to call home.

It begins after a battle that leaves the red lion’s cockpit torn open, and a piece of debris from a Galran ship stuck where Keith’s stomach would have been.

Would have, almost, just a second later, death deathdeath, Lance thinks and pushes him against the wall of the corridor when they’re supposed to be leaving for their rooms to recover, but he can’t, can’t go to bed, not when Keith’s eye is swollen and his jaw is bruised black-purple (Galra darkness blooming on his skin, no, no) and he opens his mouth to say something to Lance.

“Shut the fuck up,” Lance growls.

Keith watches him. He’s in sweatpants and a loose shirt, his uniform was burnt through from the explosion and he’ll need a new one because somehow he crawled out of the cockpit before the piece of debris could – before it –

Keith reaches, touches his cheek, says his name: “Lance”, like it’s something strange and sweet on his tongue, sounding like a miracle that he breathes out.

“You could have,” Lance chokes out, “you almost. I hate you, you can’t just…”

“But I didn’t, right? I didn’t.”

God, and Lance wants to slap him, grab his collar and scream his pain-roaring heart out at this boy, because they all need him and his lion and the carefully hidden protected smile that he’s given them the first time when Lance accidentally called their team his home, the night where Keith had taken his hand and squeezed it before running off to his training.

Lance lets his knees give in. Keith slides down with him, back to the wall, legs sprawling out around Lance until he’s wrapped in them, until Lance can crawl against his body in the cold corridor and press his ear to Keith’s sharp ribcage. There’s a heart beat, too fast, but loud. It’s there, clear and wonderful and Lance closes his eyes so he can cry into Keith’s shirt.

Keith puts a hand into his neck. “Lance.” His nails are blunt, small pale half-moons that Lance wouldn’t ever be brave enough to kiss unless he gets permission. “Lance.” Another hand is around his waist, grips him so tight that he could bruise, wringing a sob out of him that he made the last time when his little sister –

But Keith isn’t like her yet. His breath is soft against Lance’s forehead, and he says his name, over and over again, until Lance looks up at him and he stops.

“I’m alive,” Keith tells him quietly.

“I know.” Lance reaches out. He grabs Keith’s hand, putting his fingers right where Keith’s bayard rests during battle, where it’s now empty and healing from the angry red burns. “And I swear I’ll fucking keep you that way.”

The Black Lion’s Scar

“We’ll cut a new pair of lips into your skull,” the aliens had told him. “A bit deeper each day. A bit more each night. After every fight, boy, until we can see your neurons trembling behind that pathetic human flesh.”

They had kept their promise. For each night in the arena, another press of steel against his skin, a bit of blood smearing across his nose for his gladiator kills. When he escapes, he can still feel the metal scrape against bone for the first time in the night before.

One day, when they’re molten together as Voltron and flying home from a mission, he tells them through the connection. Shiro says it like this: that for each life they made him take and thus for each time he survived, they put a cut to his nose, widened the wound. The team is quiet after that. Shiro hears their hesitation, begs in his mind that they won’t ask.

“I’ll be more careful,” Keith finally says. “I won’t wave my sword around anymore when – I mean, it could remind you of – cause it’s just a bigger knife, right?”

Shiro doesn’t correct him.

How could he possibly tell them that the aliens hadn’t used a knife, because it would have been through Shiro’s skull in days?

They had taken a sharp wire, and they had touched it against the bridge of his nose in brutal softness until the skin just reddened, until the flesh deepened a millimeter, the tiniest brush of steel against him.

A wire had been their instrument and Shiro the bow to play it with, because one cut for every kill had to be done, and there were countless, endless, a myriad of lost lives that could only be painted on him with something as thin as that.

They all know that Lance misses Earth. His family is there, memories of a life that ended when he went to become a pilot, and he has nothing of them with him, no pictures like Pidge or even the tiniest note, no message or anything.

Keith has made himself forget what it’s like to miss someone, but this is different for him. It’s better not to remember if they’re dead. Lance’s family, however, is alive beyond the endless horizon of stars and burning gas planets.

When Allura sends out an order to one of the planets they’d liberated, asking for food and material, Keith goes to talk to her. He shuffles his feet when she smiles and asks, “Why do you want me to order that?”

“It’s not for me,” Keith says. The blush crawling up his face is too warm for any lies. “Just. Please?”

Two days later, Allura knocks at his room.

The same evening, Lance finds a small pot filled with earth on his desk. Within the earth, the tiniest three plants are just beginning to peek out in a flash of green. There is a note, Latin scribbled on it, and the dried petal of a pink flower is placed where a signature should be.

Lance doesn’t look up what kind of plant the Latin names belong to. He takes the petal and goes to Keith’s room, vision blurred with tears. Keith can barely open the door after a harsh knock before Lance tackles him to the floor, calls him an idiot in a cracked voice, how much did that cost you even, no don’t answer that, until Keith hugs Lance and lets him cry gratitude and the shy blossom of something new into his shoulder.

The tiniest plants grow into thick leaves a month later. When sixteen weeks have passed since Lance cried, a pale pink flower sits on the plant’s crown one morning, but it’s not noticed until noon comes around and two warm bodies move out of the blanket nest that’s not longer a bed for just one.

Keith finds him on the hill before the house. The others are inside, waiting for answers, an explanation, but Keith touches Shiro’s shoulder and looks at him. They talk. Keith can’t begin to describe how much has changed, how he’s been searching while Shiro had been through unspeakable things that left his skin ashen and hair white and cost him flesh all over his body.

He still reaches for Shiro’s hand. “Let’s go inside,” Keith says, wants to pull him off that hill and somewhere safe, but Shiro flinches away from him. “What?”

“I’m not me anymore.” Shiro looks at the ground, left hand curled around his metallic wrist, knuckles clenching tight enough to lose all blood. “This hand isn’t mine. They put it there, I don’t know what it does, and if I’ll hurt people.”

Keith watches him for a long moment. Then, he says: “That’s stupid. Typical Shiro-thing to say, but still stupid.” This time he doesn’t give Shiro a chance to react. Keith snatches his hand, the cold and sharp-edged one, gripping it as hard as he can.

“Seems like I can still grab you and pull you out of things you don’t belong in. So I guess it works for a hand, meaning it’s yours and it’s you.”

He doesn’t wait for Shiro’s reaction. “C’mon,” Keith says, “they’re waiting.” When he turns to stumble down the hill, Shiro follows without a word, but his fingers squeeze Keith’s hand carefully. The metal is warm now.

Voltron’s Bond.

It’s Pidge who initiates the whole thing without even wanting to.

They’re all exhausted. The team building exercises did nothing for them, they still can’t assemble Voltron again, dinner tastes like slimy slippery goo and it’s so quiet except for the sound of their spoons against the bowls that Pidge can’t bear with it anymore. “I’m done for today. Night. I’ll be in my quarters.”

Everyone looks up, but nobody does anything to keep Pidge from leaving the table. They just watch, young eyes dark and tired, as a thin frame disappears through the door, outworn and hunched over like all of them.

Hunk is the next to stand up, five minutes after. “Pidge’s right. I’m done, too. See you guys tomorrow.” Then he stomps off. The silence around the table thickens, and it’s no surprise to Allura that the rest of the food stays untouched until one after another, the boys get up and nod at her.

It’s Keith next, quiet and with gritted teeth, fists curled by his side. It’s Lance, not even cracking a joke at her, worrying his lip between his teeth. And after he’s stacked the rest of the bowls and mumbled a quiet “thank you for the training today”, Shiro follows after them, having stayed for over an hour since Pidge vanished.

The night has fallen over the planet when Coran steps to stand by Allura’s side. She’d been watching the virtual model of the galaxy, counting planets that needed saving, but turns her head to him. “I don’t know how to get them to bond. They’re so young. They’re scared, and I can’t make their fate easier.”

Coran tilts his head and, for some reason, smiles. “You should see this.”

And she really should. Coran leads her to Pidge’s room, at the very end of the corridor, the door carelessly open. Allura prepares for a lecture about safety in one’s quarters and underestimating the enemies’s stealthiness, but Coran simply points into the room… and Allura can’t help but smile, too.

In a pile of blankets and pillows, the five paladins of Voltron are asleep.

Pidge lies in the middle, legs stretched out long, glasses somewhere on the floor because Hunk’s big hand cradles that fragile jaw and pulls both close against another. They had been drawn here, one by the other – Keith next, legs tucked to his own chest and curled up so tightly that he’s a tiny fraction of his usual temper and red-hot wildness. His nose touches Pidge’s back, and the strong arm around his waist that belongs to Shiro seems to be what holds him together. And there’s Lance, wedged somewhere by Shiro’s hip, head on his stomach and Shiro’s fingers calm in his hair.

Allura turns and closes the door again. She says good night to Coran, walking to her room in silence. She thinks about the paladin’s slow breaths. She thinks about Pidge’s fingers gripping Hunk’s shirt, Shiro’s fingertips reaching against Pidge’s back just below where Keith looked vulnerable. She thinks about Lance, looking in place, belonging, safe.

“Bonding, huh,” Allura whispers to the stars outside the castle. “I see.”