-x-

maybe if it left a mark
sharp like glass

-x-

Keith thinks he probably should have learned his lesson about being alone on the training deck after that one time the castle was possessed or haunted or whatever and sent a gladiator after him. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though, and Keith likes being alone more than he likes being with people - even people he considers family, or as close to family as he's had in a while - at least when something is on his mind and he's trying to work out how he feels about it.

Like being part Galra.

Like not knowing how to make his knife do the thing where it turns into a sword on command.

So he's practicing his combat skills, trying to think, trying to reach in deep for whatever he has inside that's worth anything. He still doesn't have answers. He just has more questions than ever and it's hard to be okay with that. It's hard to accept that he might never know. It's hard to accept who and what he is when Allura won't even look at him anymore and he's got this well of guilt flooding his chest over something he has no control over.

He's losing his patience, and losing his focus.

The gladiator turns Keith's thrust aside.

Keith over reaches, and stumbles, and swings the knife down, instead. It goes through Keith's leg like butter, only jarring to a stop once it sticks into bone. He hits his knees hard on the training room floor, the air punching out of his lungs - one hand still gripping the hilt of the blade, the other scraping at the smooth floor, curling into a fist as his body bows inward, locking up against the pain.

Every muscle in his body is fighting not to scream.

"End… end training sequence…" he grits it out between his teeth.

The gladiator lowers it's weapon, raised for a finishing blow, and powers down. Keith gusts out a shuddering breath and doesn't move except to bang his fist against the floor. His leg throbs. The pain is heavy, constant, and every twitch or pull of muscle makes it more pronounced.

Slowly, Keith uncurls his fingers from around the hilt.

His brain is still trying to catch up with what happened. His knife is sticking out of his thigh. Keith stares at it, panting, shaking, sweat beading down his face. He can't see the blood soaking his dark jeans but he can see it pooling bright red on the floor under his knee and feel it streaming around his thigh. Every nerve is alight with fire. The muscles in his leg spasm, and the pain snags his breath.

Should have worn his armour.

Should have told someone where he was going to be.

That's a lot of blood.

He has to get up.

Keith's hand jerks against the floor. He struggles to put his weight against it, to leverage himself upright. Both hands on the floor. Not-injured leg first. Not-injured leg first. It takes him a minute to figure it out. He starts to rise, but accidently puts the wrong foot down. His leg buckles. Pain shoots up into his ribs, digging in deep. His hands jump out to break his fall.

Two quick hands grab him at the elbows and hoist him back up. His body doesn't hit the floor, but he feels like his head does. The room is spinning. The person he's pressed against is warm - or maybe he's just really hot. He feels like he's burning, his pulse racing. His leg is heavy, throbbing. It aches all the way up his side, down to his toes, and it feels like it pulls something out of his chest. Keith claws at his pants without realizing he does it.

"Don't - don't! Keith!"

Two smaller hands grab his wrist. Someone else is still holding him up.

He has to take the knife out.

Maybe it will hurt less with the knife out.

Keith doesn't know when he got on the floor, but suddenly he's looking up at Lance and the light behind him, and he's dazed by it. The light. Or maybe Lance. The look on his face. How blue his eyes are. The way his mouth moves and no sound comes out.

Pidge bobs into view, livid, and smacks him hard across the face.

"Keith! Stay awake!"

"Pidge, relax!"

"How am I going to relax, he hit an artery!"

"It's gonna be okay." Lance's voice is steady. His hands are steady. Keith turns his head, trying to drag his attention toward the voice. He can't move his leg. Lance has it pinned against the floor, both hands squeezing his thigh, leaning all his weight down. The knife is still sticking up between his arms. Blood wells up dark between his fingers. "He does stupid stuff like this all the time, he's gonna be fine."

"This is not the same thing as shooting yourself out of the airlock or nose diving off a cliff, why are you so calm!"

"Because I know he's gonna be alright! Just go get Coran or a first aid kit, something I can make a tourniquet with!"

"I'll get Shiro - if nothing else he can cauterize it. Don't take the knife out!"

"I'm not an idiot!"

"And keep pressure on it!"

"I'm doing that!"

That light overhead keeps turning and fading. Keith watches it, dizzy. Lance is leaning over him again, taking up all his vision, voice snapping with some emotion, "Keith, buddy, you gotta stay with me," and everything else is dark.

-x-

Keith somehow feels worse coming out of the cryopod than he did going in. He's kind of glad everyone else isn't crowded around it waiting on him. It would have just been overwhelming. He's cold and disoriented, and he doesn't have any energy. His hands shake. Shiro pulls a thick blanket around his shoulders and sits him down on the step. Behind him, Allura is jabbing at the panel, saying something under her breath about resources and waste, and Keith is not so numb that he doesn't feel that creeping sense of shame returning.

Shiro's hands tighten slightly while he's bundling Keith up, but when he turns and thanks Allura and asks her to give them a few minutes, it's with an even tone. Allura's tense stride carries her swiftly out of the room. Keith twists the blanket in his hands, burrows his face against his knees, and groans.

Shiro reaches in to take his knee in both hands, and Keith sits up enough to allow Shiro to straighten his leg out. They must have put him in in a hurry; he's been stripped down to his shorts instead of put in a cryosuit. There's no sign of the wound at all. Not even a scar. Just Shiro's thumbs making little dips in Keith's whole and healthy skin.

Once he's satisfied that Keith is in one piece, Shiro lets Keith pull his leg back under the blanket and sits beside him on the step.

"Well, whatever it was," Shiro says, "I think you made your point."

"That's not funny?"

"Lance told me to say it."

"Definitely not funny."

Keith shudders. It's mostly involuntary, and he pulls the blanket tighter. He feels too thin and washed out. He's starving. He hates going in the pod because it always feels like this. He puts his face against his knees and tries to breathe some warmth back into his body, rubbing his arms. Shiro reaches up to do the same thing across his back, wide circles up and down his spine that make breathing a lot easier. Keith wouldn't have asked him to; Shiro just does it.

"You'll feel better after another transfusion. You lost a lot of blood back there." The cryopod does a great job of closing up wounds, but it can't replenish fluids. Before Keith can ask Shiro adds, "Lance is donating."

Keith groans louder this time.

"Just be glad his blood type is compatible with everyone else's," Shiro tells him, smiling sympathetically, "You gonna make me ask?"

"It was an accident."

"Keith, I don't think you would have stabbed yourself in the leg on purpose."

"I don't know what happened." The more he uses his voice, the more aware he becomes of how tight his throat is. "I got distracted. I slipped."

"That's a pretty big slip."

"Yeah, no kidding."

"Keith, you're lucky the others were watching from the observation deck," Shiro says. His tone is more pressing than before. His hand is still now, resting on the curve of Keith's back. It's the one the Galra took from him, and it's heavy. "I don't have to tell you how bad this could have been."

Keith digs his fingers into his arms.

"I know." This is so frustrating. "I know, it was stupid."

"Just take it easy, alright?"

"Alright…."

-x-

Hunk makes the best soup, alien or otherwise, that Keith has ever had in his life. It helps that it's just the two of them at the table. Being around Hunk doesn't make him feel as frazzled as being with the whole group does sometimes, and the soup is so good, Keith doesn't even care what all is floating around in the broth, or that it's this weird blue/green color. He unabashedly holds his bowl up for a second helping, which Hunk divvies out with gusto.

"Glad you're feelin' better, man," Hunk says, then looks a bit sheepish, "Sorry for fainting on you, by the way. I'm uh - I'm not great with blood and it was kinda - kinda everywhere."

He looks a little pale just thinking about it. Keith hadn't even known Hunk was there at the time, so he can't grudge him for his weak constitution.

"It's okay," Keith says, "Sorry for the scare."

"Nah, you're good." Hunk waves a hand. "When you do crazy stuff it keeps everybody on their toes. Good to stay in shape. Unless you're me and you pass out or puke when things get hairy." He looks introspective for a moment, lips pushed together, brow knotted. Then he shrugs and lifts a grin at Keith again. "Guess we've all got some stuff to work on."

Keith really wishes it was that easy. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, "How can you be so good at that?"

Hunk's eyebrows go up. "At what?"

Keith is staring into his bowl, unsure of what he wants to say, or how to say it. He unsticks his tongue anyway, "Y'know, at - that."

He gestures uselessly to all of Hunk.

"Mmm kay," Hunk says slowly, "Pretty sure you're not talking about my food skills, or my rugged good looks, but I'm not catching on to what."

"At…" Keith hesitates, struggling, "At being okay. All the time."

"Oh." Hunk looks kind of stricken. Keith wishes he hadn't said anything. "Oh man. I, uh. I dunno. That's just what I do, y'know? I freak out, and then it's easier to just move right on to acceptance because things can get pretty crazy out here. I mean, yeah, okay, I can be pretty salty y'know - if I'm right and no one's listening to me, or if something is just a mess, but for all that other bigger stuff it's like - I dunno." He shrugs for emphasis, then thinks about it for a minute. The smile on his face is big and soft when he adds, "My Nana likes to say that life is kinda like the ocean."

He obviously means for Keith to pull some profound meaning from this. So he tries.

"It's… wet?"

"...No. No no, it's - scary, but beautiful. Y'know, like - stuff happens and sometimes it's awful, but most of the time it all works out for the better and you just gotta go with the flow."

Keith can't think of anything to say to that. He stares down into his soup, the bowl cupped between his hands, and feels the warmth seeping into his skin. It's not hot enough to scorch him. It should be comforting after his stint in the cryopod. It should be….

"Keith, you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm just... tired."

-x-

He can't find his knife.

Shiro gave it back to him, but Keith feels a little sick when he looks at it now (for a lot of reasons) so he stowed it under the mattress in his room - and it's gone. Hunk is first on his list of suspects because he likes to root around in everybody's stuff, but Hunk doesn't take anything. He's just being nosey. Pidge, on the other hand, takes things if they think it's not going to be missed or it's something they need. Keith's knife is neither of those. He's a little annoyed.

He stops in front of Pidge's workstation, arms folded.

"Where's my knife?"

It's hard to tell if Pidge is too focused on the computer to answer right away, or if they just ignore him. Either way, no answer is forthcoming. Lance is sitting behind them with his elbow leaned against the desk, his chin in his hand. They're going over graphs of Blue's sonar together - depth, distance, effected mass, working out data for their next mission. Lance is the one that looks up and asks,

"Did you check your leg?"

Keith looks down at his leg, confused, before he realizes Lance is just being a jerk. Something hot rises in his chest.

"That's not funny."

"It really is not," Pidge snaps at Lance, who puts his hands in the air and sits back ("Okay, okay."), then at Keith, "And I'm still mad at you."

"Mad at me. I didn't do anything!"

"You almost died!" Pidge throws both hands in the air, a gesture to express just how outrageous this is. "What were you even doing? We were watching for at least ten minutes and you just kept getting worse and worse. Aren't you the one that's at least supposed to be a little proficient in hand to hand combat like Shiro is? The rest of us are mostly long-distance fighters, that's how we stay balanced - "

"What were you even watching me for?" That heat inside is filling him up. It makes Keith squeeze his hands into fists, makes his voice rise, "If I had wanted an audience, I would have asked!"

"We're not supposed to be on the training deck alone! For obvious reasons!"

"You of all people should be able to mind your own business, Pidge! Just gimme back my knife!"

"Fine!"

Pidge slams open a drawer and produces the knife, encased in its sheath. They slam it down on the table. Keith hesitates, anger sputtering out, giving way to surprise. He hadn't expected it to be that easy and can't help feeling like there's a catch. Pidge is glaring at their computer, though, slamming their fingers against the keys with needless force and doing their best to pretend that Keith isn't even in the room now. That stings a lot more than they probably mean for it to.

Lance watches Keith pick up his knife and walk away without saying anything, but he nudges Pidge hard in the shoulder before Keith makes it to the door.

Pidge bumps their fist against the desk, "Hang on," and Keith pauses.

"The Blade of Marmora didn't give you a lot of answers," Pidge says, their voice shifting into something softer, more direct, "I just thought I'd see if there was any information I could find by analysing the knife. You know, fingerprints, DNA, that sort of thing."

Keith doesn't want to get his hopes up. He turns around, anyway, his heart thumping hard.

"Did you find anything?"

Pidge sighs. "No." They nudge their glasses up the bridge of their nose, peck at the keyboard, and spin the computer around. Keith comes back to see what's on the screen as Pidge elaborates, "Nothing you probably didn't already know. Rare metal, destroyed planet, all that stuff. And no DNA that didn't match up with somebody we've accounted for, like Shiro and Lance and that one Blade of Marmora guy. Breaking down the material components just fed me the same results."

"Figures," Keith sighs too, stepping back.

He feels bad for losing his temper. Maybe he wasn't exactly yelling at Pidge... And maybe he understands where they're coming from. He gets angry when he's scared.

He gets angry when he's everything...

"Sorry I took it without asking." Pidge crosses their arms and looks defiant. "But I'm not sorry for yelling. You should be yelled at more often."

Lance grins, snapping his fingers.

"Now that's something we can agree on!"

-x-

Keith can't sleep, and he wants to blame the cryopod. Maybe if his leg hurt he would have a reason to feel so restless. Maybe if it had left a mark of some kind it would feel like it really happened. Instead, it doesn't. Instead, it's just his own brain running senselessly in circles, wearing him out without providing any kind of relief. He keeps thinking about it. He keeps thinking about the pain that isn't there anymore and groping his leg, keeps turning over and yelling his frustration into the pillow.

The event is a little hazy, if he's honest. It comes back in pieces. He wonders why Lance hasn't said anything about it, and thinks maybe he imagined most of it, woozy with blood loss. How his own hands were freezing cold and Lance's were so warm. The lull of his voice.

Yeah, that was probably, definitely, the blood loss.

Eventually, Keith sits up and takes his knife out again, holding it carefully between his hands. He glides his thumb over the symbol in the center, the jagged illuminous outline. The metal is smooth and cold, the edges sharp like glass.

A noise outside makes him jump. He maneuvers the blade away from his fingers, gripping the hilt. He waits a while, listening, and then gets up to investigate. The sleep lights are on in the hallway, but it's bright enough to see by. Keith wanders barefooted until he comes to the kitchen, following his instinct more than anything concrete. A bigger light is on here, thrown across the floor of the hallway and the wall across from the door, and he can hear someone rummaging around when he gets closer.

His thinks it might be Lance and jumps forward that last step - only to realize it's Allura's voice that he hears, soft but clear, "Yes, I know this isn't an ideal snack, but you mustn't be so choosey. You're all becoming quite overindulged."

There's some squeaking in answer, mostly affronted.

"Oh, alright. I suppose one or two to share can't hurt. Now what's in this one?"

Keith hears a container being opened before he steps through the doorway. Allura is in her nightgown, standing in front of the refrigerator - or what passes for one on an Altean ship - peeling open a container that Hunk put away the day before. Leftovers or something. Probably the soup. The mice are crowded together on a tray on the counter nearby, holding assorted fruits and snacks. They squeak in surprise and small greetings when they spot Keith.

Allura starts around as if he'd fired off a blaster.

Keith only notices that he was smiling because he feels it drop all the way to the bottom of his stomach at the look on Allura's face. He can't decide if she's angry or frightened.

Her voice is sharp with both, her hands tight around the food container.

"What are you doing here?"

"I… thought I heard something," Keith manages.

He's surprised his voice comes out at all around the lump in his throat, and Allura talks over him before he even gets it all the way out,

"Obviously you did."

She replaces the container with a snap.

"Allura… should we talk - ?"

"I don't have anything to say to you."

Keith almost wishes she would just say it, so it doesn't have to hang over him like this. He'd rather be crushed by the weight of it than keep holding his breath, waiting on it to fall. Allura closes the refrigerator door, throwing the kitchen into sudden dimness until the sleep lights brighten. She snatches up the tray and the mice, and moves toward the door without so much as looking at him.

Keith automatically draws himself inward, stepping aside. He doesn't want her to think he's blocking the door or stopping her from leaving. He's still holding his knife. Keith sees it, glinting faintly, the symbol glowing purple in the semi dark. He spins the pommel in his hand so the blade is pointed upward, hidden behind his wrist, and moves it behind his back.

The tip pokes into his arm, makes him suck in a breath.

Allura turns her face away from him as she passes through the door. Keith waits until he loses track of her footsteps fading down the hall before he relaxes and flips the knife in his hand.

He rinses the blood off in the sink.

-x-

"Coran… does it bother you?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate," Coran says, as upbeat as he always is, "But I'll go ahead and preemptively answer: No, it doesn't. Very little does these days." He shoots Keith a wink, twitches his mustache and touches the side of his nose before turning back to the monitor. "Tolerance with age and all that. What's troubling you, Number 4?"

"I'm Galra." It's the first time Keith has said it out loud to someone's face. Or just out loud, at least. He can't bring himself to look at Coran. He keeps one hand twisted into the front of his jacket, fingers stumbling over the zipper. "Or… part Galra, I guess."

Coran straightens from poking at the consol and turns to look at Keith. His face is unreadable.

"You want an honest answer?"

Keith's throat tightens.

"Yeah."

Coran shrugs, both shoulders lifting, and says, "It doesn't bother me in the slightest."

Keith let's out a ragged sigh. His whole body deflates with relief, shoulders dropping. He digs his fingers in tighter; feels the fabric strain, the muscles in his forearm tighten under the hidden bandage.

"Why not…?"

His voice is so small and scratched up, Keith wonders how the words come out intelligible. He doesn't notice his vision is tunneling, narrowed down the the space of floor between his feet, swimming, until he feels Coran touch his arm and looks up. He blinks and the tears pooling in his eyes disappear. Coran slides his arm around Keith's shoulders, stepping closer as if it is the most effortless gesture in the universe. He lifts his other hand, index finger in the air.

"For one, I know you personally," he says, "You're a good egg. A little rambunctious, impulsive, strong-headed, and brooding at times, but overall your heart is in the proper place. And second of all - " He lifts another finger. " - 10,000 years ago, I had friends all across the cosmos. Before the war began, many of my closest comrades were Galra. And it stands to reason that many of them will be again, after all's said and done."

Inexplicably, Keith feels so much lighter. Like that whole stardust feeling all over again. Calming, solid. They're all connected and made of the same stuff, and they're not looking to eradicate the Galra, but to break Zarkon's tyrannical hold on the universe. Its reaffirming in a way. Keith looks at Coran for a minute, then looks down again - not out of shame, but in retrospect.

"I guess… I didn't think of that."

"Ah, you're young," Coran says wistfully, giving Keith's shoulders a helpful squeeze, "You're still figuring things out."

Keith hesitates.

"Allura…."

"Also still figuring things out."

It's all Coran offers on the subject. And, to be fair... Keith had expected that.

It still leaves something loose resting in between his ribs, a taste like copper in his mouth.

-x-

(A/n) It's Keith's birthday, so of course I wrote angst. The original idea for this when i was talking about it w/ my brother was actually a lot funnier, like - keith accidentally stabs himself in the leg and is just like...'shit this is embarrassing' and he has to leave it there and drag his ass to go get help and then when everybody sees it they're losing their collective shit and keith is just like 'calm down, it's /my knife' 'wHAT Do yoU mEaN It'S YoUR KNIFE! KEITH!'''

but then i got it started and was like 'what if i wrote angst and lowkey klance instead'?

Please let me know what you guys think! Reviews are appreciated!

-bobtac