Someone is tapping at his face when he wakes up, and it feels familiar or recent or… something. He can't remember exactly why. It's probably not important.

He was asleep, so it's supposed to be dark, he thinks, but fluorescent light filters through his eyelids.

He also can't remember which home this is even though he's pretty sure he hasn't switched homes for a bit. Struggling to place which of them had fluorescents in the bedroom should maybe be distressing. He doesn't know where he is, and he's asleep while the lights are on. Is this one of the families that will hit him for disobeying? How hard? Why do they want him awake when he's so exhausted?

It might be worth taking the punishment later if it means they'll let him rest for now.

…

Wait. Fluorescents. Did he fall asleep at school? How… wait, no. This is a bed, and school doesn't have his bed. So, yes, back to his original assumption: a home.

Everything feels like too much, not his usual healthy distance from sensation. Sick. This feels like being sick. That makes sense actually, explains why he can't think straight too. He'll just heal up and remember which home he's in later… except they're already here, forcing him to wake up.

He hates when they won't just let him be sick. Obviously, he'd control it if he could, but he can't, so they should leave him alone to get through it instead of expecting miracles from him. God.

"Noooooo," he manages to groan into his pillow as the tapping continues.

"Keith, come on," a bastard of a man insists, adult voice familiar but not fully recognizable.

"No," he repeats, already prepared for the potential hurt to follow later. Not now though. Now, he sleeps.

The tapping fingers are replaced with a palm flat against the exposed portion of his forehead. He's not a fan of that much physical touch, but he'll allow it only because he's even less a fan of the idea of moving his leaden limbs to fight the offending hand off in this moment.

"You're burning up. We've got to get you down to the med bay."

Oh. This bastard is kind of nice… but he's not falling for it. His ass will stay right here in the warm blankets because if he can just stay still for long enough, this headache will go away on its own and he won't feel so weak and sick and his arm won't hurt and everything will be better.

Now that he takes the time to notice it, he circles back around to his arm because shit, his arm really hurts, angrily pulsing all the way down to his wrist. Why does it hurt that much?

"Lemme sleep," he whines, unwilling to spend any longer awake and aware of the pain.

"Oh, buddy. I wish I could, but you're not okay. We can come back here after you see the nurse, alright?"

It's stupid, such a stupid thing to do, but he's doing it before he realizes.

His right arm stays firmly against the mattress as he tucks his other digits away to leave just his middle finger straightened. His whole body still aches in response to the effort.

He's confused when what he did catches up to him and it gets an amused snort in response instead of a display of anger.

"Yeah, yeah. You'll thank me later."

And then there are strong arms all over him, turning him and rearranging his overly sensitive limbs before lifting him against a broad chest. He can't stop the yelp when his arm is jostled in the process and begins to burn in earnest. That gets him to open his eyes and give up on sleep.

"Can you both shut the fuck up or get the fuck out?" another voice says from across the room.

Oh. He has a roommate who's not afraid to loudly swear at an adult—must be a group home again. Well, that's one mystery solved.

"You okay?" the persistent asshole asks him without acknowledging the other voice, and he looks so familiar that Keith forgets to respond, but that's okay because he keeps talking regardless. Extroverts. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry—I'll be more careful, okay?"

Something scratches at his brain now. He's… maybe a safe person; Keith hasn't decided yet, but definitely maybe. He knows this guy's name. It's… no. No, he doesn't know it right now, but he definitely goes by a nickname. He's certain on that one.

Keith feels the movement swooping low in his stomach as they cross the small room and doesn't appreciate that in the slightest. They pause after a few steps toward the door of… whatever room this is. He's struggling to place it even though he's half-sure he knows it.

"I'm going to give you one last chance," the man offers, though Keith doesn't remember any first or second chances being offered earlier, so how can this guy be calling it a last chance? "We both know kids can be dicks, and I'm not going to lie to you… if anyone's up this early, they may very well be dicks about seeing you being carried, so… if you can walk, you might want to."

"Mmm," he hums. This person may have proven to be an asshole sometimes—namely, the time he rudely woke Keith up—but Keith thinks maybe what he's saying makes sense, though it's hard to be sure of anything with how scrambled his brain feels.

Someone stole his shoes—the good ones too, with the cool lights that flashed with every step he took—while he slept in one of the group homes when he was younger and dumber, an eternity ago. Maybe if they see him being carried and unable to defend himself, they'll come up and try to steal these shoes too.

People are assholes. People lie. People hurt him intentionally, but… something tells him this guy may be different. He knows he is, even if he can't remember how he knows that. Besides, he was nice enough to try to protect Keith from losing his shoes, so he's got to be an okay guy regardless.

"Okay," he decides. "I can walk."

"Jesus Christ, get out of here!" the other voice interrupts again, and they both ignore him again.

He's not entirely sure of his ability to walk, but when his feet—holy shit, they're bare, did someone already take his shoes? Dammit—are lowered to the floor, he finds his balance and manages to keep it. The guy keeps an arm around his shoulders, which sort of helps. Every step feels like he's about to fall, and maybe the arm is what's keeping him upright.

He's led through the door and along a series of hallways, most of them looking somewhat familiar too.

"Where are we going?" he asks along the way.

"Just to see the nurse. You've got a bad fever and they can give you medicine to help."

"Oh. Okay."

An indeterminable amount of time passes wandering the halls, and he has no idea where he is. He's never seen this space in his life. He doesn't remember why he's here or where he came from.

"Where are we going?" he mutters to himself, tempted to stop and sit down right here so he can try to rub the stubborn soreness out of his limbs.

He looks over to find Shiro walking with him and feels safer but still confused. How did they get here? Shiro glances his way, an expression on his face that Keith doesn't like replaced quickly with a reassuring smile.

"Just to the nurse, bud. You need some medicine, and then you can sleep."

"Okay."

He looks up from his feet what feels like both an instant and an hour later, and his vision doesn't feel right. It's… dim, maybe. Faint? Something's not normal—it doesn't really matter what. It's just not normal.

Maybe he's dreaming.

"Where—" The world tilts a little too far without his permission and he sucks in a breath, worried he might throw up. "…are we going?"

"We're getting help, okay? Hang on just a little longer."

He wants to. Shiro's always right, and Keith usually listens to him because of that, but he can't do what he's asking now. His face is prickling and the world is fading to black around him and blood is roaring in his ears and he can't hang on.

…

"I don't know what exactly's wrong with him," a familiar voice is saying when he wakes up, definitely not in the bed in his dorm. The mattress is firm and… strange. "He's been skipping meals, he hasn't seemed to have as much energy, and I think he's been sick to his stomach but I don't know. I was afraid it was an eating disorder with how he's been acting, but… I found him like this this morning."

"Alright, that's good to know," a completely unknown voice replies. "I'll need you to step out while I examine him."

There's a pause.

"I don't know if that's the best idea. He can be… a lot to handle. I don't know his whole background, but from what I understand, he's spent most of his life in the foster system and it's done its damage. I'm pretty sure I'm the most he has right now. I need to be with him in case he wakes up like this. Trust me. You want me here."

There's another pause, longer. Keith feels bad for whoever they're talking about. He knows exactly what that life is like.

"You're sure he'd allow that if he were in his right mind?"

"Absolutely."

"Fine, but you won't tell anyone I did this."

"Of course not. It stays between us."

Something plastic is nudged between his lips and maneuvered under his tongue, and it beeps in an irritatingly high pitch. There are hands on him then, cold and… not flesh. Ugh, what is that? He cringes away from it, wanting it as far as possible from his neck.

"Keith?" The more familiar voice is back. "You with us?"

No one answers…

Oh. He's Keith. They're talking to him, duh.

"Yes," he blurts out, but his tongue feels uncooperative in his mouth and it comes out more like yeth which would be semi-embarrassing if he knew who these guys were. Unfortunately, something tells him he probably knows who they are, but for now, he doesn't and that's a minor relief.

He feels so high. Is he high? This doesn't seem like a place he should be high… and now 'high' doesn't mentally sound like a word anymore. High. High. High.

The hands interrupt his thoughts by resuming their path along his body, and he realizes after looking at them that they're wrapped in gloves, which explains the texture. The fact that they feel entitled to roam along his skin skeeves him out much more than the texture did. Every slide of the material over him is a reminder of how uncomfortably sensitive he is.

"Why—?" he tries to ask before the one not touching him interrupts.

"I know you don't like it," he assuages, "but the doctor needs to examine you so you can get better."

He tries to let himself relax despite the bone-deep ache, but it goes against everything he knows to let this happen unchecked, especially when they move in to unbutton his top. The one he thought he liked more moves over and helps tug one of his arms out of one of the sleeves, and he decides he doesn't like that man anymore.

He turns to glare, but the man's not looking at him. At least, not looking at his face. His horrified gaze seems stuck on Keith's arm, but it's tilted away and Keith can't see the wound. Right, he's wounded. That particular ache wasn't brought on by what he assumes is his fever.

"Keith, what's this?"

The other man stops feeling Keith up, turning to join the more familiar one in staring at his arm for an uncomfortable stretch. Somehow the intense gaze feels like more of an intrusion than the previous touching.

"That would be the problem," the other says before leveling his face with Keith's. "When did that happen?"

"Umm…" He thinks he shouldn't have to think about it, but the answer's not right there when he goes searching for it. It clicks into place after an awkward pause. "…Friday?"

The man asking the question doesn't react much, but he can tell the other guy—Shiro, that's Shiro, but why is Shiro here?—doesn't like what he said by the sharp intake of breath that follows. Keith clenches his untrapped hand into a fist and focuses on rubbing his thumb back and forth, back and forth over it to keep himself from elaborating and making it worse.

"Alright. What exactly happened?"

"I fell," he says and leaves it at that. He remembers being chased too, but that'll make him look bad and he's not supposed to talk about it because… uhh… there's a reason. He knows he had a reason. He just doesn't know it at the moment, but he won't rob his future self of this secret he's supposed to keep.

"It looks like that's still pretty painful. Did you go to a doctor when you fell?"

He's definitely not supposed to answer that one honestly.

"I got help," he offers instead.

"Qualified help?"

His heart pounds in his chest. He's practiced enough to practically be qualified, right? He nods with more calmness than he really feels.

The doctor sighs.

"Okay."

He stops questioning him to take a closer look at his arm again, and Shiro tries to catch his gaze, but the vibe is not right so Keith won't give him the satisfaction of that bit of connection. He steadies his eyes on a ceiling light directly above him. The doctor prods at his inflamed skin while he chews the inside of his cheek and resolutely ignores him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing his pain.

"Cadet, this is infected. We're going to get it taken care of, but—" The doctor looks like there's a bad taste in his mouth. Keith can relate; his own mouth tastes like he slept for hours and then wasn't allowed to brush his teeth before getting up for the day—"I would not recommend going back to the doctor who stitched this up. It wasn't done right, and you could've ended up in a far worse situation than this."

He nods, continuing his staring contest with the ceiling light.

"The good news is that you got help in time. I'm going to refer you to an urgent care center, and they can confirm the diagnosis and prescribe antibiotics to clear this up. They should give you instructions, but just to be clear: you will continue to take the antibiotics until you run out, even if you feel better. You'll need to get your CO to sign this authorization form to leave campus, and you need to get that prescription as soon as possible, first thing in the morning if you can. I believe they open around seven."

Shiro grabs the piece of paper before Keith can realize he's meant to take it himself.

"I'll take care of this. We'll go together."

"One more thing," the doctor says while hunched over a desk and scribbling something, speaking in small bursts until the scratch of the pen tapers off. "This… will excuse you… from PT and flight sims… until you come back here to be cleared for return to those duties. Come check in on Friday and we'll discuss it from there. You can return to your other classes once you go twenty-four hours without a fever."

Shiro more hastily intercepts that second note, which is probably smart because Keith was definitely planning on losing that one rather than turning it in. PT and flight sims are by far his two favorite classes. Why couldn't he have stolen his physics class instead? That instructor has it out for him, and he could use a break.

"Thank you, sir. Can I take him now?"

"I can't clear him to leave without constant supervision."

"Not a problem. I can't say I was planning to leave him alone for one minute after this."

"Very well. There's not much I'm authorized to do for him here without guardian approval, so if the fever gets any worse before you can get to urgent care, the emergency room is your best option. I… will log this consultation as a simple case of infection. I won't do this again, so handle it."

The two adults share an extended pause and a look and that has to mean something, but what? He doesn't have time to ponder before Shiro is propping him up and clumsily guiding him back into his shirt.

His face is in his personal space immediately after, and he can no longer avoid that gaze.

"How you feeling now? Are you up for giving walking another try?"

"Okay," he agrees, more because he doesn't want to upset him than because he actually thinks he's up to it.

It takes a moment to reorient himself once his feet are under him, but he manages to stop swaying soon enough. Shiro doesn't seem to trust him though, because his arm stays looped around Keith's waist. Keith wants to bark at him over it. It's too familiar. He likes Shiro, yeah, but that's never been enough to ensure a person is safe, doesn't protect Keith from what comes next if he starts to feel entitled to handle Keith however he wants.

He shoves against the arm, only realizing how weak he is when it doesn't budge. His balance is knocked off for his efforts, and he ends up falling deeper into Shiro's side instead, simmering as he realizes he's not going to be capable of walking on his own even if he manages to escape the hold.

That scares him. If something were to happen in the next few minutes, he wouldn't be able to defend himself.

Ignoring that display completely, Shiro unlocks a tablet before quickly relocking it and slipping it back wherever it came from.

"It's still too early to head out, but you must be starving, so how about we see if we can find some food?"

"Okay," Keith agrees again even though he's not hungry at all. He doesn't regret it when he sees Shiro's instant look of relief, and they start walking toward wherever Shiro thinks they'll find food, so it's too late to change his mind regardless.

It's not a far walk, wherever they're going. They pass through a fire door, and suddenly there are a lot of doors that all look the same, one every fifteen feet or so.

Oh. The officer quarters. He's walked through here before, exploring on his first weekend before the homework had had a chance to start piling up.

"This one's us," Shiro says as he stops them at one door in particular and slots a key into the doorknob. "Go on—the kitchen is straight back."

He sees him hang his keys on a hook by the door after flicking on the hallway lights and then disappear in another direction, but Keith obeys and heads straight back, only staggering the first couple of feet before getting a handle on gravity and following the trail of lights to a kitchen island with a couple bar stools lined up on one side.

After cringing at the stool's angry screech when he pulls it away from the island, he takes a seat to wait.

Shiro doesn't come back alone. There's another man clearly trying to argue quietly, but Keith can make out every word.

"Shiro, where are his shoes? Did you make him walk all the way here barefoot? Did you even think to call his parents first?"

Shiro shushes him hurriedly.

"We'll talk about it later. Don't be a dick," he admonishes quietly before raising his voice and faking a less stressed tone for Keith. "What do you want for breakfast?"

That feels distinctly wrong. People don't ask him what he wants; they either tell him what he's getting or they leave him to fend for himself. He's used to that even if he doesn't always like it, and it feels wrong to change the process now.

"Anything's fine," he says instead of explaining all of that.

"Anything? Adam, we have any leftovers from dinner?"

"Ehh, I don't think so. Let's look."

They cross the room together. It's kind of domestic, but Keith's afraid to ask if they're together together, knowing it's probably just himself craving proof of existence of people like him for the millionth time. He will not embarrass himself by asking and inevitably being corrected at best, permanently shunned more likely.

"We got a couple slices of pizza. That was recent, right?" Shiro mutters before calling over. "How do you feel about pizza, Keith?"

It's a gamble. He likes Shiro, and Shiro seems like an okay guy, but they haven't known each other all that long and certainly haven't played this game before. Is he really as easy-going as he's come across so far? Or is Keith about to set him off? Only one way to find out.

"I'd rather not," he admits. "Lactose intolerant."

He knows how he wants Shiro to take that statement, but he braces himself for impact to be safe.

"Not recent either," Adam jabs. "That's from before break. It'd make anyone sick. I don't know why I even let you in the kitchen."

"No dairy? No problem," Shiro adds before his tone sharpens. "And if I'm so terrible, how about you find something then?"

Adam bodily pulls Shiro away from the fridge, throwing a hand between Shiro's skull and the corner of the counter when he goes careening. Bringing his flight path back under control, Shiro laughs. Adam takes up the now free space at the appliance.

"How about sausage?" Adam says as though he didn't just manhandle Keith's mentor right in front of him. "We were going to make that today anyway."

"Okay," Keith agrees, trying to relax again. His stiff muscles ache in protest at the change.

Adam cuts a long sausage into bite size rounds and tosses them onto a plate and then into a microwave mounted above the stove, and Keith sucks in a breath as he realizes he's in a Middle Class Home and breathing Middle Class Air. He glances around frantically and can't find a visible trash can. No janky temporary repairs in sight. There's a thermostat on the wall. Oh, no. He does not belong here.

The two trade places. While Shiro hovers next to the microwave, Adam formally introduces himself and Keith awkwardly—dammit, dammit, he can feel all the words coming out wrong the instant they pass his lips—does the same before Shiro's delivering three smaller plates of sausages, and Keith doesn't miss that he somehow ends up with the plate piled the highest. He'd appreciate the thought if the scent of the meat didn't immediately inspire sharp pangs of nausea.

He watches Shiro and Adam pretend not to watch him pick at his food while they eat their own, forcing himself to take a slightly bigger bite every time one of their gazes stays on him for too long even though he does not feel good about how each swallow settles in his gurgling stomach. They talk to each other, and again he wanders if they're roommates or boyfriends but doesn't have the guts to ask.

"Umm," he eventually interrupts after zoning out of at least three conversations and forcing far too much sausage down his throat with no idea how to politely say what he needs to. There's no time left to think it through. "I might need to throw up. Sorry."

Both of the men burst into a flurry of action at that, unintentionally working against each other before Shiro takes over, pulling him to his feet and guiding him by his shoulders down a hallway and to a bathroom. Keith wills his stomach to hold on until he leaves…

…except he doesn't leave, even when Keith stares him down with his very best, tried and true "leave me alone" glare.

"You heard the medic—you can't be alone right now."

"I don't think… this is what he meant."

"You had a 103-degree fever last time I checked, so sorry if I don't have much confidence in your thoughts right now. Look away and pretend I'm not here if you need to, but I'm staying."

Keith stubbornly presses his lips together. He can hold off maybe. He doesn't have to let go in front of Shiro, who he still only kind of knows and who apparently likes him well enough to feed him in the middle of the night and not force him to make himself sick by eating copious amounts of cheese.

He doesn't want to. People always leave, and usually it's right after they catch a first glimpse of the worst parts of Keith. This seems like a pretty bad part of Keith to the uninitiated.

A strangled burp escapes regardless of what he wants, and then there's nothing he can do to hold back a wave of visibly sausage-filled puke that follows immediately after it.

Well, he's resigned himself to never eating sausage again.

His body insists he keep heaving long after anything is left to bring up, and Shiro breaks away from his place in the doorway to leave him in peace for a couple minutes before coming back closer than before so he can squat behind him, rub a hand along his back, and flush away the mess Keith has made.

He hears the chime of a bell, and jerks back upright, accidentally slamming his back into Shiro. Shit. Classes. Classes he's going to be late to and punishments he's going to amass for it.

"You're doing fine," Shiro encourages, pressing on his shoulder to maneuver him back over the toilet. "Get through this and we can head to the urgent care and get you all fixed up, yeah?"

Keith's not a child and doesn't need to dignify that with an answer. He can't stop dry heaving long enough to give an answer anyway, though he'd love to catch a break long enough to rinse out his mouth. He could probably stop this if his mouth could just stop tasting like vomit.

"I sent Adam to get your forms signed. Give him a bit and then we can leave whenever you feel ready."

Forms. Right. So… no punishments.

"I just…" Keith hiccups. "I just need a minute."

"Take all the minutes you need, buddy."