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hello tumblr. here, have a snippet of the angsty keith fic (that's probs gonna fester in my drafts forever) i cooked up while i wasn't supposed to be

Keith goes to sleep lonely, and he wakes up lonelier every passing day.

It's barely been a month since he's left Team Voltron, and as every hour of every day of every week drags along, he's stuck thinking about how wrong that word is. "Team." They were a team, sure, but they were so, so much more. There was trust between them. Love, respect, and a shit ton of experience. They were there for him and he was there for them, and things had been good.

Leave it to Keith to mess it up, though, huh?

The paladins' bond had been sacred and special, and it had been getting stronger, he was sure of it. Hunk had started teaching Keith how to cook (after a series of disastrous tinkering projects). He'd always show up with a new recipe in tow after rough battles, the scent of something—something that Keith had made—that decidedly wasn't space-goo soothing his abrasive edges.

He and Pidge had started drawing together, as absurd as it sounds. Keith has always been restless and Pidge, well, she just needed something to do with her hands that wasn't incessantly hitting keys and fiddling with already-perfect code. Drawing, putting pen or pencil or crayon or whatever, to paper gave them an outlet. To create. To unwind. To distract themselves in a way that wouldn't ultimately be destructive.

And Lance. He and Keith had always had an… eccentric relationship: from a nudge to a push to a shove to caresses and hushed voices in the stillness of dark. A push and pull, an ebb and flow, a constant dragging of each other from the slippery slope. They'd begun stargazing, if it could even be called that. They'd spend nights at the various observation decks scattered around the Castleship, sitting side by side, shoulder-to-shoulder and leg-to-leg, quietly beholding the timeless magnficence of space, the distance between them filled enough with words and sentiments for them to need to speak.

Allura, too, carved a niche in Keith's soul. They may have had a rocky and distant relationship in the beginning, but a few conversations were enough to realize that they had too much in common to truly maintain it. On days when loss bore heavy on their shoulders, when grief hung too low to ignore, when the need to speak was so overbearing it felt like the words were scratching and clawing their bloody way up their throats—

All they would do was talk, really. About everything and anything and nothing, conversations had, not just for the sake of getting their tumbleweeds of thoughts out, but to talk and have someone listen and accept and tuck all the words somewhere they won't see the light of day unless you want them to.

Not that the paladins were the only ones he misses, though. Coran had been the wacky, warm yet wise great-uncle figure he had never known was missing in his life. He'd always turn up at Keith's (metaphorical) doorstep with an outlandish tale to distract him, a long-winding lecture that'd leave him more settled in his skin or a silent, reassuring hug. And Shiro, despite the subtle shade of off that's coated him after they'd gotten him back, was still his big brother. He was still the quietly understanding, infuriatingly stubborn, endlessly strong man with a penchant for knowing what to do to annoy Keith the most at any moment.

And now? Now, he has nothing, and he hates it. He hates that he could've prevented it, that it didn't have to be this way but it is, and he doesn't even have the gratification of blaming anyone else.

Heels of his palms tight against his eyes, Keith curls up into an even tighter ball on his bed, the mattress a touch too different from the ones in the Castleship to be comfortable. He lets out a quiet, shuddering breath, hyperaware of the thin walls of the Blades' base. Kolivan had informed him about that particular structural decision—something to do with making it easy to hear intruders—with an awful knowing gleam in his eye that screamed I-heard-you-crying-and-I-would-prefer-not-to.

Keith tried to keep that memory locked up at the very back of his mind, in a titanium safe he's mentally labeled "Let's Not Think About It." It was bound in iron chains that were almost as rusted as the relationships he'd so eagerly thrown to the wolves.

Self-aware enough to realize how absolutely pathetic he was being, Keith scoffs softly, derisively, the sound trapped in the bubble his body heat made, detached from the memories of strategy meetings tight and tense with anticipation, battlefields stained red with too much innocent blood, grief-laden debriefings with lists of losses so long they left his ears ringing.

Pathetic. Pitiful. Various other synonyms for the word because he sucked too much to even come up with others.

Another quiet sigh.

He turns over, on his back, arms wrapped around himself in a weak semblance of a hug. Distantly, he noted the slight itchiness in his eyes. From being awake too long? From unshed tears? From rubbing his eyes to rid himself of the ones that did escape? He didn't know. He couldn't even recall how long he'd been lying there in his misery, drowning in sadness he didn't deserve to feel and regret he shouldn't have.

In a faraway part of his mind, he wondered how he'd been allowed this luxury. Which is exactly what it was; the Blades may be a sizeable organization, but they were termites compared to the Zarkon's forces, and breaks were few and far between.

Then, with more urgency, Why haven't I been called for a mission yet?

Sitting up with speed he honestly hadn't thought he had in him at the moment, he swung his legs over the edge of his bed—and paused for a couple moments because whoo, blood rush.

As the black spots in his vision slowly receded, he tried to parse through the things Kolivan had told him recently, a particularly difficult task considering the fact that he had approximately one tone of voice: dull, dreary and monotone.

He shook his head, wiggled his fingers and toes, pinched the soft underside of his arm, lightly punched his thighs, all in the valiant effort to overcome the fog that's been slowly growing thicker and heavier ever since… ever since he left. He would've been more worried about it except that it only ever reared its ugly head in the quiet moments. Never on missions. Never during debriefings. Never during training. Only when he was alone (which was the default nowadays), leap years away from other people who saw him and loved him and remembered him—though he wasn't quite sure about any of that right now. He didn't have the guts to ask, to even think about asking, when the very thought of picking up his comm made him want to deadbolt his bathroom door and curl onto its warmth-sucking floor.

#vld #voltron #voltron legendary defender #keith #keith kogane #vld keith #keith voltron #keith angst #writing #my writing #snippet #writers on tumblr #and while it isn't explicitly mentioned #klance #<- because it's always always on my mind #b's fics #b's snips

in many ways, i am not an individual. the first thing i ever drew, proper, was my mother—i still draw hair the way i first drew hers. the first time i cooked was for my father, and sometimes i'll still toast my bread with too much butter. the first person i ever sang for was my little sister, and sometimes i tear up just thinking about that lullaby. the way i laugh was borrowed from a cousin, but my sense of humor was borrowed from another. my childhood friend gave me some of my favorite books; my ex-best friend still lives in my handwriting. i might be unique, yes, but i am not an individual.

#birdweave #it's not even 3am this time why am i emotional today #b's snips #spilled ink #spilled thoughts