Archive of Our Own ^beta

☀

i. welcome to keith vale

Keith grows up in a small desert community, where the stars prick brightly against the mostly-void sky, and he pretends to ignore the flashing lights above the Arby’s when he's asleep.

Keith gets locked out of his hometown when he's twelve.

It's weird.

He has to hike, like, a lot. He doesn’t know how far, but, well, the sun rose and fell twice. In Night Vale, sun movements aren’t really a good indicator of time, so Keith could’ve been out in the desert for around two days or two years or maybe a couple of decades, but he’s pretty sure he’s still twelve years old when he leaves. Probably.

Anyway, once Keith was done his hiking, he found a gas station. It was this shitty, tiny little gas station—the type that doesn’t even sell chips or bloodstones or anything, yeah, Keith didn’t know those existed—with the attendant falling asleep at the counter, dozing away the hot sunny day.

Until Keith showed up, plopped a dagger and his Dreadnought Scout badge right beside the attendant’s head—still resting on the counter, a paralyzed look of fear in his eyes, possibly actually paralyzed due to the way Keith’s Boy Scout badge flashed menacingly. Then, Keith asked where the bathroom was.

There was a bathroom. Keith got the key for it. Then the attendant called child services, now that he was able to move his body parts again.

“Wait, where are you from?” the caseworker asks.

“Night Vale. It’s, um, in the desert? With the flashing lights overhead? In the night sky.”

“...Right.” The caseworker clicks her tongue and taps her fingers against her keyboard. “Honey, Night Vale isn't on a typical map of the United States.”

Keith squints at her. “Well, this so-called Colorado isn't on typical maps of anywhere.” He crosses his arms and sullenly blows his bangs out of his face. “And stop being condescending to me! I survived the Summer Reading Program, you know? I got a certificate and I read The Great Gatsby and I hated it.”

The caseworker chuckles, though she’s raising her eyebrows at the same time. “Really?”

“Yeah,” says Keith. “Daisy deserved to let her snake parents cut her off from the inheritance money.”

The case worker looks half startled, a third wary, a quarter amused. “Really?”

“Yeah. Anyway, can I go home?”

But—well, long story compressed into 415 words, Keith doesn’t really get to go home ever again, at least not back to Night Vale Community Orphanage, not really home.

ii. prerequisite knowledge, just so things make sense

It’s odd, to be so unfamiliar.

In Night Vale, things go by familiarity, closeness. You always know the Crows, the neighbors across the street who speak by Spoken Morse and Ancient Sumerian sign language and bloodstone reanimations. You always get a smile from the pawnshop owner, always get a glance from the hooded figures and then you come home shaking with your palms sweating and your heart aflare and your lungs shattering.

It’s familiar. The hooded figures sometimes like to fly kites in the streets at night, specifically every Thursday new moon, so you don’t go outside on those days anymore—

But it’s familiar, it’s routine, and now nothing is.

This—this is the city of Voltron, little trainwreck suburb of big-city-pretty Altea, except this is where all the crime life happens and the electricity cuts off and everything is mechanic-mechanic-mechanical. Lotsa stray cats. Lotsa rain. Clear starry night skies, clearer than Altea at least.

Tea shops and techwork, a cute little house where Keith’s allowed to live with these foster parents who look at him. It’s weird, because adults—they don’t really look at him, but he’s an Orphan, so he’s used to that—people back home didn’t do it much, either.

Actually, maybe it’s more that Keith was a Dreadnought Scout, maybe that’s more the reason people didn’t like to look at him. Too many knives? High risk of irreversible damage to the cornea because Keith’s hair is too long? Whatever.

But his new parents—James, and Krolia—they do look at him. Krolia teaches him to make friendship bracelets, teaches him to fight a punching bag for stress relief, teaches him to sharpen his knives and look, Keith, we can make ducks out of the soap bars James makes—

James makes soap and jokes that Keith doesn’t understand, and he just chuckles and ruffles Keith’s hair and says you’ll figure it out, kid, I know you can.

Well. He likes them.

There’s also new neighbors across the street—the Shirogane family, where a gray-eyed boy with scraped knees and starry-sights lives with his brothers and grandmother.

He picks up the newspaper every day. He sneaks out onto his rooftop with a small telescope in his arms, the cheapest kind you can get on the market, and he likes to watch the stars on the flat edges of the roof and tries not to die by slipping. He’s got three brothers—Ryou, Kuron, and Sven, and he’s—

Well. This is where Keith meets Takashi Shirogane, a kid who’s addicted to stargazing and sightseeing.

Keith still likes being alone sometimes, still misses the desert sky, but he—

He likes Shiro.

Shiro’s nice . Shiro's good. Shiro's—Keith's only friend.

Shiro likes looking at the stars, and smiles at Keith like a friend, and has warm hands, and he—

He makes this place feel more like home than anything else.

Shiro, out of everyone—he feels familiar.  

Shiro likes dragging Keith out to look at the stars, the stars, you see ‘em, Keith? The little shard-show of lights gamma-scattered across the void void void above them all, matching up with the stellar-gray of Shiro’s eyes, and Keith, Keith—

Keith likes his new home.

iii. seeker

Until he can’t anymore.

Takashi Shirogane was reported missing forty-eight hours after no sight of him.

No trace, no clue, except for the sound of shadows laughing and scratches under his bed on the floor of his room.

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. And they don't look hard enough, and they don't see hard enough, the people in this city can't see like Keith is able to sometimes—

So—so from then on, Keith’s not really a wanderer anymore. More of a searcher.

The game is hide and seek, now, but he doesn’t have the patience to count to ten.

☀

1. SPIDER-MAN

As soon as he sees the place, Keith sets off sprinting.

The rain’s been reduced to a drizzle, now—but he’d gotten caught in a total downpour of water, soaking through his jacket, making his hair cling to his neck. There’s been an ever-persisting shiver riding high on his shoulders ever since that first drop of rainwater, and Keith’s sick of trying to impersonate a goddamn drowned rat.

So, when the tea shop finally comes into sight, Keith is pushing the door open a little roughly, trying not to slip on the smooth flooring.

The door clinks open, setting off a bell as Keith steps in. Loud, chiming sound that echoes throughout the too-quiet, too-silent shop. This is the right place, it has to be, this is the address Keith was given—a cute little tea shop that serves and sells all sorts of different blends, with a small sit-down area and dark, laminate flooring that has his soaking shoes squeaking ominously across the tile. The shop smells of herbs and sweets—sugar cookies standing out the most—with flickering yellow lightbulbs in hanging, rounded fixtures, accompanied by clear windows letting in the dark natural light provided by this shitty, cloudburst day.

There's a guy at the main counter—real big guy, wide-set, maybe half a foot taller than Keith, with dark hair pushed back by a cute, orange, flower-patterned headband. Big fingers clasped onto a comparatively delicate mug of tea, still emitting tiny, elegant plumes of steam. A nose that's just a little crooked like it's been broken before, not set properly. There's a display of different teas, pastries, and even incense behind him.

The guy’s flipping through some sort of book, but he perks up when he sees Keith. Warm brown eyes matched with a warm smile. “Hi! How can I help you?”

Keith winces, eyes darting to the near-empty seating area— five or six tables, two or three chairs each. One of the tables is occupied—some kid with this blue hoodie, hood up over his head, absently scrolling through his phone. Keith maybe spends a second too long looking at him, ‘cause the kid’s eyes flit back to him—maritime blue and curious.

Keith jerks and looks back to the guy behind the counter. “Um—I was told I could—…” He trails off nervously, with a wince. “I wanted to talk to the psychic.”

This is probably a stupid prank, and Keith’s probably gonna get laughed out of the shop. Or maybe kidnapped by some sort of tea cult or something, because the guy at the counter can definitely hold Keith down and stuff a rag soaked with chloroform into his mouth—despite the genuinely nice smile on his lips. Except, with a smile like that, Keith might just go willingly. But still.

“Oh,” says the guy. “Hey, Lance,” he calls to the kid at the table—who’s already staring at Keith, pushing his hood down, waving at him with this big, shitty, sleazy grin plastered across his lips. “Here's your guy. Good luck with him,” he says to Keith.

Lance huffs, puffs up his chest and crosses his arms across it. “Oh, c’mon, Hunk, I’m not that bad!”

His name’s Hunk? Keith eyes the guy warily—yeah, that's about right, even with the adorable headband and delicate tea cup.

Hunk smiles benevolently. “Don't worry, he can help you.”

So…Keith walks over to Lance’s table, and sits down.

Keith only wants to see a psychic because he's desperate.

Unfortunately, this psychic is also desperate—in a different way, about a different thing, yeah, sure. But still desperate.

As in, fingers desperately clutching at the shoddy table, staring thoughtfully at Keith from the opposite chair. Lance has short, distressed brown hair, and shaky-as-hell fingers, with big brine-blue eyes and gaunt brown skin. His fingernails are practically splintering the wood, and then he coughs harshly—a loud, bad cough, gurgling and nasal and wretched, an elbow thrown over his mouth to muffle it.

“Sorry,” Lance says blearily, still muffled by his arm. He looks at Keith—narrowed, calculating, contemplating, has Keith shifting uncomfortably under his own skin. Then Lance leans back, gives him an easy smile. “You're the guy from the internet, right? Looking for ghosts?”

Keith nods uncomfortably, slumping further into his seat.

Lance lets out another weak cough into the cuff of his sleeve, at his wrist. Keeps looking at Keith with those clear eyes, with the tea shop’s yellow lights reflecting harshly in his irises. It's not that Lance doesn't look good, but it's that Lance doesn't look good in this yellow lighting—makes him look sickly, makes him look...sharper.

“So, ghosts,” Lance continues. “Kinda dangerous, y’know?”

“I need to find my friend,” Keith interrupts. “It's been—it's been four years, and I still haven't found him, and the cops won't fuckin’ help anymore, and I—” Keith gulps down the horrible spike of worry in his throat. “I—I need him, alright? I n-need to find him.”

He was written off, ‘cause Takashi Shirogane was a goddamn adult man who could damn well fight off any danger in his way, so it was just assumed—just assumed that he ran off. Just assumed that Shiro abandoned his life and his family and his dog and Keith, even though Shiro –

Shiro never would've done that.

“Okay,” says Lance, voice soft. “...His body?”

Keith bristles, can't withhold the snarl from overtaking his mouth. “He's not fuckin’ dead!”

Lance’s eyes widen, the chair just barely screeches across the floor, and Lance doesn't look like he backed up but the sound definitely gives it away. And it's faint, but the shop is quiet enough now that Keith hears the clink of a delicate teacup being set down swiftly upon a counter.

Keith deflates. “Sorry.”

“No, it's—” Lance smiles sadly at him. “That's hard. I’m sorry for you, man.”

Keith slumps further. He’d rather have those blue eyes looking at him in sharp thought than in concern.

“So,” Lance starts. “Your friend’s missing, you wanna make sure he isn't dead. Right?”

“Yeah,” Keith says gruffly. “Yeah. Can you help me?”

Lance—well, shit, he's probably not even a psychic, it's not like psychics are real, Keith’s only here as a last resort. But this guy, claiming to be a psychic, looks about the same age as Keith, with maritime eyes and a sleaze-ridden smile stretched across his mouth—he opens his mouth to say something.

But, he can't talk, ‘cause now he's doubled over the table, coughing.

They—they weren't even eating anything, is he choking? What's he choking on? Does he have tuberculosis? It's that bad cough again, harsher and even louder. Before panic freezes his actions, Keith stands up to move closer, to help Lance, because what is happening –

The self-proclaimed psychic covers his mouth with one cupped hand—and through his slim brown fingers, Keith sees tiny, spindly legs peeking through.

Legs. Tiny, black spider legs.

Lance coughs again, and, oh, okay. Those are spiders crawling out of his mouth. Only a few. Three of them—nope, there's the fourth one. Really small ones, too.

Oh. Alright.

Hunk, still flipping through his book and taking another sip of tea, remains entirely unfazed, only meeting Keith’s eyes once and mouthing don't panic at him.

Alright. Okay. This is fine.

Keith sits back down, unable to tear his eyes away.

Lance finally stops coughing. He winces and shakes the spiders off his shirt, steps on two that landed on the floor, crushes one on the table with the back of his thumb and wipes his hand off on his jeans. With his other hand, Lance reaches into his mouth and nervously picks at his teeth with the nail of his index finger.

Keith dumbly watches the last spider crawl towards him. He crushes it under his own thumb, and then gingerly flicks the arthropod’s carcass to the floor.

What the fuck.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Lance says roughly. His voice is wrecked—harsh and rasping like someone force-fed him a couple packs of cigarettes.

Then Lance smiles awkwardly, sheepishly, even though his eyelashes are slick with tears from how intense and how painful his coughing must've been. Blue eyes dart to Keith’s dumbfounded expression. “Yeah, sorry, that happens sometimes. You're looking for your friend?”

“Okay,” Keith says. “So you’re really not just a con?”

Lance—what the fuck, why’s he acting normal, this isn't fucking normal—he purses his lips.

Maybe this isn’t normal. Maybe this is fucked up. Maybe Keith should react more, but he’s been tired for days-weeks-decades, so. No.

He refuses.

Well, it could be worse. Could've been tarantulas instead of little baby jumping spiders. Could've been scorpions. Those big scorpions, the ones that’re bigger than a man’s face—yikes. What Keith’s getting at here, it could've been worse.

Lance crosses his arms across his chest, gives Keith a petulant glare. “No, I am not a con!” He pauses, contemplating, bites at his lips. “Well. Not necessarily not a con,” he admits quietly.

“Are you a psychic or what?” Keith finally snaps.

“Psychic.” Lance runs his tongue along his bottom lip. His brows furrow. “Hmm. Honestly. That's...a bit of a stretch.”

“I’m just gonna leave now,” Keith says.

Lance blinks. “Sorry,” he says again. But as soon as Keith gets out of his chair, Lance is lurching over the tiny table to grab Keith’s arm. “Wait! Just tell me what you need to do, okay, I might be able to help you!”

“I don't even believe in this stuff,” Keith says. “Psychics, mediums and whatnot. That's not real. I don't really know what I was expecting when I called you. I was just—desperate.” He winces as he admits it.

It's true, though. Keith’s desperate. Keith can't keep bothering the police about a missing person’s case from four years ago, Keith can't keep picking fights with the small-time criminals in the area just to get a lead, Keith can't keep looking for hours and hours in dark forests, streams, old trails, by the sides of streets.

Keith's been looking for years. By himself. And, and maybe he didn't wanna admit it before, but he’s getting tired of it.

The thought makes Keith's chest clench up—no, he's not going to stop searching for Shiro, he can't.

“I doubt you can help,” Keith grumbles. Lance frowns and pulls his hand back, crosses his arms across his chest again. That kind of action usually makes people look defensive, irritated—it makes Lance look like he's trying to protect himself from someone stabbing a hole into his lungs. “Um. What can you do, besides the...spider thing.”

Thankfully, Keith isn't arachnophobic.

“That's not me,” says Lance. He nervously rubs at the hollow of his throat. “Well, it's kinda me, but it's not really me. It's just that—well—okay. Okay, so, I’m not super duper knowledgeable about this stuff, but think of this as—as, like, we’re on a plane.”

“An airplane?” Keith asks.

Lance’s face twists in irritation. “Wha—no, not an airplane. Dimensional planes, buddy.”

“What?” Eh, he's heard of those before, especially as a kid, but he’d never really gotten it.

“Okay,” says Lance. “To put it simply, there's, like, a shitload of stuff normal mortals can't see. Me? Sometimes I see weird shit.” He gives Keith a crooked grin. “Runs in the family, y’know?”

“That's your superpower?” Keith deadpans. “Sometimes you see weird shit.”

“Yep! And sometimes that weird shit doesn't want me to see it—‘cause I’m supposed to be a normal mortal and all?” Lance sniffs haughtily. “Well, that little freakshow you just saw—that's the payback. Revenge. Price to pay. Whatever.” Lance peeks up at Keith. “Anyway! Missing friend, right?”

“I never told you that,” says Keith.

“You did, you just don't remember,” Lance hums. “Sometimes I see dead people, if their spirits are hanging around or something. Is that what you want?”

“...He's not dead,” Keith says weakly.

“But you wanna make sure?”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes. “You're not a con?”

“There's a ghost living in my TV,” Lance says. “D’you wanna meet her?” He grins crookedly. “Or d’you want more spiders? Seriously, I'm not a con.” Then, something like a grimace briefly passes over his face. He smiles weakly again, a little more pained. “I’ll even let you...let you…” Coughing awkwardly—no spiders this time thank god—Lance leans back in his chair, thrums his fingers against the table. “This might be something that lasts a few sessions, so I’ll let you have the first session…” He winces. “Free.”

“You sound kinda strained,” says Keith.

“I don't like doing this shit for free,” Lance snaps. Then he straightens up. “Sorry.” Forces that shitty grin again. “But I don't mind.”

He seems like he minds. Like, a lot. Why’s he even offering? Keith furrows his eyebrows. “Do you, uh…” He clears his throat. “You need anything? For this?” Clears his throat again. “For my best friend? Something connected to him?” Keith has Shiro’s old keys, with its old dollar store Charmander charm and the keys to his and Keith’s shared apartment, his parents’ house, the mailbox. He also has a few of Shiro’s old clothes, but Keith figures the dumb Charmander charm is good enough. Sentimental, kept from when Shiro was a tiny, nerdy little preteen obsessed with Pokemon, when Keith first starting living with him and his family.

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, it could help. You ever went ghost-hunting before?”

“...no?”

“Huh, okay. Just wondering, you seem...unfazed.” Lance wrinkles his nose. “I mean, you're just, like, chill with me and my spider vomit. Which isn't a thing people normally are, you know? Like, I dunno if you've ever thrown up after getting throat-fucked too hard, but let me tell you, nobody likes spiders on their dick. Ever.” Lance blinks. “Sorry, what was I talking about again? Right.” He points a finger at Keith’s chest. “You! Not normal.”

“You vomited spiders on a guy’s dick,” Keith repeats. He tosses Shiro’s keychain onto the table. “You're not normal either.”

“Duh.” Lance gingerly picks up the keychain, snorts at the Charmander charm. “Aw, that's cute. Anyway, you knew to bring something connected to the...maybe or maybe not deceased. So...I dunno.”

“Have I done this before? No, not really,” Keith says. “But when I was a kid, I knew people that knew what to do. Then I moved to another town, so.” He shrugs.

“...was it one of those cults that try to indoctrinate young children?” Lance asks worriedly.

Keith shrugs again. “It was a pretty nice town, the people were kind. But my caseworker from when I was a teenager thought it was something like that.”

“Okay,” says Lance. “Not normal.” He stands up, grabs Keith by the arm and pulls him up as well. “Hunk!” He calls out, interrupting Hunk’s reading once again.

“Yeah?” Hunk asks wearily.

“I actually got a client!” says Lance. “He wants to stick with me!”

“Wait, a client—” Keith starts, but Lance is shushing him as he shoves him towards the shop’s door.

“Hunk, come on!” Lance keeps talking to Hunk. “We don't want a repeat of that one time at the Haunted House on Hanover Street!”

“Never again,” Hunk says seriously. He puts down his tea cup. It’s not steaming anymore. He stands up to follow, sets his heavy down on Keith’s shoulder. “Good luck to you, man.”

“What—” Keith says, and Lance and Hunk basically just push him out the door.

2. COLORING BOOK GAMES

Lance and Hunk are new, new, what’s the latest news, spot the difference in this scene can you circle five—

New factor #1—entire new setting. Lance and Hunk’s apartment is clutter-wrecked and brazen-kept, with delicate objects that try too hard to be teacups stacked up delicately on the stovetops and microwaves, with a few too many spiderwebs and a few too many arachnids clinging for their lives in tiny corners and crooks.

Factor #2, doesn’t match his previous circumstances—the air tastes. Different. As it does, as it does, but it’s—clingy. Sticks inside his lungs, almost like humidity, mostly like taffy. Keith can breathe, but he’s also liable to not breathing, and that’s how humans work, but his tongue is heavy and his ribs ache and it’s—not the same.

Part 3—the screens. The television screen. The laptops and tablets. The shattered reflective glass that glints in the carpet, Lance warned him keep your shoes on, mullet-man, the spiders don’t like blood.

Which, well, alright that. Keith can understand the sentiment.

Spot the difference #4—Lance and Hunk left him. Left him off and alone and to take care of himself and Keith, Keith, he always takes take of himself, he knows how, but—

Some warning would be nice.

Final difference, final fact check, part #5—they didn’t warn him about Pidge.

In fact, this is what happens instead, in the universe where Lance and Hunk don’t introduce Keith to their ghost roommate like normal people do, and just—

This happens instead.

See, Pidge is—interesting to talk to.

It's weird, is the first thing Keith has to admit, and the thing is, most things in Keith's life have been weird. He was a weird kid from a weird town with a weird life and a weird, weird childhood, where everything was about sand dunes and stardust and bloodstones and dream-making. Where everything made sense, even if it didn't.

Pidge, though. Pidge is weird.

She likes texting, and that's the thing—Keith doesn't text, anyone, like, ever. He used to text Shiro a lot, he really did, but only 'cause Shiro used to ask how his classes were doing and if Keith needed a study partner (and man, college in the city of Voltron was weird, weird, where were all the dragonscorpion advisers and school spirit merch—? )

But—that's not the point. The point is Pidge.

Well, the point is Lance dragged Keith off to the apartment, Hunk fluttering off with them like a fuzzy-eyed hawk, weary to make sure neither Lance fucks up and Keith doesn’t hurt Lance, guardian-angel type (though, angels aren’t real, but—)

But. That’s not the point.

The point is Lance.

"Don't touch anything," Lance hissed, with spiders in his teeth and fire-ice in his eyes. "Seriously, don't touch anything! I don't want anything changed, absolutely nothing, you hear me?"

And—alright. Keith can sit still and quiet and not break things.

—...yeah, wait, no. That's not how Keith functions.

Keith functions off desperation and desertification, and this stupid beachside forest town with miles and miles and lightyears and parsecs of stars stretched so far up in the sky, a world so high, no, Keith feels suffocated by the palm trees that block the view, feels sickened-sweetened-sweltered-sheltered.

(No, wait, these aren't palm trees—there are something else, Lance called them pine trees and Keith fucked it up, of course he did, but Keith’s used to cacti and carcino-trees—)

Anyway.

Pidge.

It started just 'cause Keith was knocking-tapping his fingers against the couch pillows. Keith was just tip-tapping rhythms and patterns, looking at the tiny little holes left in the fabric—reminds Keith of the throat-spider infestations people would get back in Night Vale—

—Oh. Lance has throat-spiders. That makes so much sense.

That's why he's so irritated with Keith all the time! That's why he keeps putting spiders in Keith's shoes. Fuck, that makes sense. So much sense.

Yeah.

Lance, for just a short hot second and a half, he makes sense.

Keith's just reaching for the things in life that make sense. He really is.

So, he's watching the old-desolate cathode ray tube television set. Hunk put sticky notes on the screen, all over it, so Keith doesn't think they watch it. But there's a lot, a lot of sticky notes. Different colors—stuff like blue and yellow and lime throat-irritating green, some gray squares of TV screen revealed between the colorful patchwork, and Keith wonders for a second—

No, wait, right. Sticky notes don't come in red, not usually, not the bright red he likes.

So...he's watching the blank empty spaces on the TV set. He's adjusting, he's blinking, he's breathing, and that's when everything flickers and fades just a bit, just a bit.

(See, later, later Keith realizes that this is Pidge. This fuzzy static blurred lines blurred words little girl with fading eyes fading fingers and faerie folk hair, call me Pidge, weirdo.)

Well.

It starts off weird—Keith isn't sensitive to these things the same way Lance and Hunk are, no. He doesn't see properly and he can't sense the Light, his vision stays dark-dark-dark to the truths around it, and he always figured it was for the best—

But things slip through, slide between the shiver-cracks and the shatterlines. Things slip. Things happen. Things break.

TV screens don't break without reason. Keith's shitty Nokia isn't supposed to break, ever, seriously, that's why he has this thing.

It's—it's not supposed to send text messages, though.

(Maybe Lance should've warned him. There is a girl in our television, she's wild and frantic and bitchy and she's gonna fuck with you, mullet-man, so get ready.

Maybe Hunk should've mentioned something. She's sweet if you talk to her, she's sweet if you love her, she's with us, Keith, she's with us.

Maybe Pidge should've just said hi.)

Keith's phone rings, statics, rings again, solid-statics again. It shouldn't make him jump. He should be used to this.

But—

He's getting messages he shouldn't be getting.

hey, man. who the hell are you.

your fingerprint is red. you're not redblue. you're not yellow.

hey, freak. who the fuck are you.

—and Keith's phone smokes and fizzles and he yelps and drops it.

The green stickies on the cracking TV screen flicker-flutter-shatter-float away. His head hurts. Keith's head always hurts these days, it really really does, it really—really—

—really does.

And it's not just the Television—because Keith can see it now, there is a Girl Inside the Television Set and she is as curious as she is bitter, and she's—

It's not just the Television, it's the timing on the microwave, it's the stutter of Hunk's laptop (it's Hunk's because it has yellow stickers on it, Keith is not smart but Keith is not an idiot, he will admit that—)

And it's not just the Television, but it's Keith's phone and the way it shatters.

—It's a fucking Nokia. Those things aren't supposed to break. Keith's dad even said, Jesus Christ.

"Um—" Keith scrambles back into the sofa, hopes he doesn't feel the throat spiders shift. "Uh. You okay, there?"

There's a screech from the washing machine.

"Seriously, I—I don't know how to understand you."

But he kind of does, he can kinda make out the outline of palms pressed flat against against the insides of the screen. Keith doesn't know how it is, not really, but he feels in his bones that it feels—disgustingly sticky. Trapping and clinging like molasses, a sugar-coat of code and a lifetime of upset, hey man help me out here—

YOURE

NOT

FROM

HERE

HUH

BUDDY?

With the shattered phone and the splintering TV screen, the microwave clock is the only place to communicate across.

Keith still sees the hands in the screen, though. The gemstone green eyes that flash parking cone warning orange. The luster of bright teeth.

SO

WHATS

YOUR

NAME?

"Keith," he says, trying to get the weight out of his chest, the wait out of his brain, and he can tell this faerie-spirit is gonna wring him out 'til his fracture world doesn't make sense no more, and Keith's only ever wanted answers, he's only ever wanted sensibility, so that—

“What about you?”

If the person in the Television doesn’t got an identity then he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with.

And that could be—

The worst thing.

PIDGE.

Oh, okay.

She's Pidge. Keith tries to make his bones stop shaking.

And then the front door slams open.

"Keith, we're home!" It's Hunk's soothing voice and bright ignition-aura. "I brought some tea from the shop, might calm your nerves, I hope—oh. Oh, you met our friend, didn't you."

"Her name's Pidge," Keith says, half-shocked, half-sullen.

Lance comes in through the door half a second later, hair messy and eyes wild. "Man, I thought I told you not to touch anything!"

"Sorry."

HEY

LANCE

HEY

HUNK

Lance—physically bristles. "And you, young lady." He gestures across the room with his arm. "Need to clean this up. Stop scaring Keith, c'mon."

SORRY

KEITH

"There we go. Ugh, Keith, get up. Help clean this up."

"But I didn't even do anything—"

"Keith. What did I say."

And—Lance is back to being senselessly irritating.

3. THE TASTE OF INFORMATION

Lance’s hands are shaky, real often, real apparent. Lance watches a spider crawl across his fingernail before he flicks it off, real quick.

“I wanted to smoke,” Lance says dryly. “But there’s too much smog in the air, anyway.”

Keith shrugs, watches the way Lance keeps fidgeting with his hands. His eyes are blue, like the ocean this town is coasted on, but his eyes are as gray as the water, too. They’re on the shitty apartment balcony and the sight of the sea is a little too close for comfort, but Voltron is a port town, a watercrested mecha-mania city.

Not as pretty as Altea, not as friendly as Night Vale, but—strong. Sharp. Lion’s teeth and laser guns.

“This town is a factory town, right?”

“I guess.” Lance is looking past him, looking at something else. Lance tends to do that a lot. He’s got those haunted looks, that quivering mouth. Probably because Lance is haunted himself.

“Lance?” Keith shouldn’t ask. “Is there—a reason, why you see things?”

Gray-blue eyes, not gray-space-starry, more oceanic than interstellar. They narrow, and Lance lets out a semi-amused huff. “Runs in the family, I think. Most people think it’s ‘cause I’m Enlightened, or whatever, but. No, I don’t take that shit.”

“Enlightened?” Keith furrows his eyebrows and Lance’s laugh sounds sharper, scratchier. Keith hopes he doesn’t break into coughs again.

“Yeah. Means you take sunshine—street drug, makes you see the dark parts. Makes you see the things that are hiding. What’s in the dark, what’s in the shadows.” Lance hums, presses his mouth together. Taps his fingers, fidgets like a hurricane. “Good for hide and seek, I guess.”

And. Maybe—maybe Lance shouldn’t’ve said that. “Yeah?”

Lance gives him a look, full of sea salt. “I think you see enough of that shit on your own, man. You don’t need it. Stay scared of the dark. It’s healthier.”

Keith rests back against the balcony railing. The best parts of the dark are the pinpricks of starlight in the sky, but Lance probably wouldn’t appreciate him saying so.

“Right.”

It makes Lance frown, then grin, with shark-sharp teeth. “Seriously, Keith, seriously—don’t even think about it, sunshine.”

4. BAD DECISION TIME

Keith's gonna scream.

Keith's gonna scream-scream-scream 'cause his brain hurts and his eye sockets shake and tremble and everything distorts-distastes-disintegrates, and Keith is, Keith is, Keith is—

Well, he's not allowed to die, not just yet, but this—

This is certainly getting close.

Lance told him not to. Hunk begged him not to. Pidge laughed bitterly, ringing in Keith's head, and then she made text message after glitching text message appear on Keith's shitty old cellphone that doesn't actually have the capacity to show emojis but there were certainly a lot of anger-and-smiley-faces, so—

So Keith knows he shouldn't've done it. Shouldn't've gone past the tea shop, shouldn't've walked up to the guy—real big, real strong, only take it if you're willing to undertake the consequences, this guy named Kolivan with a worried furrow and concern in his gray eyes and Keith, Keith, Keith—

Keith's sick of concern, tired of worry, done with safety, exhausted with security.

Keith just wants his best friend back.

Keith just wants Shiro.

And if Shiro's dead or if Shiro's taken then Keith—Keith has to save him, and he doesn't care what the rules or regulations are.

So Lance—Lance's talent, his signature terror, that deadpan look and shitty smirk-smile and I see demons, buddy, god help me, Lance—

Maybe Keith's seeing what Lance sees.

'Cause listen, listen, there's this drug on the streets of this shitty mystery town—not like Night Vale was sweet in his childhood, not like how desert sunshine tried to help and soothe and invigorate, not like the helpful pawnshop owners with snake eyes and the library-reading-program support-group, no, no, this town isn't sweet.

The city of Voltron is mechanical terror and absolute chaos, where no one is sweet, and trust puts you 7-and-a-half feet underneath the ground, torn apart through lion monster's teeth and carnivorous smiles, and—

There's this drug on the streets, that makes you see demons, amigo kinda deal, sweet and sticky and terrible, makes your blood black and fingertips frozen, hides in your brain and behind your eyes and like all fixes do, it's got a couple of names because—

It's quintessence, 'cause it's the quintessential end of your sweet carefully-crafted world where everything makes sense and sane, and it tears it apart and strengthens you, unveils your bleary-misted eyes and lets you see and now you know how to fight the things in the darkness—

It's sunshine, 'cause it enlightens and beams information light-years at a time and guess what, sweetheart, honey, Mr. Kogane, guess what—

You can see. Everything's illuminated. Shadows are revealed, shadows are unraveled, shadows are brought to light, and—

And Keith can see demons.

It's that kinda drug.

And Lance, Lance, it runs in my family I've seen the dark since I was 12 years old Lance, god, okay, so—he's gonna kick Keith's ass for this, definitely.

5. SUNSHINE-MAN

Lance gets this faded-heartbroken look in his eyes, teethes at the spider bites at his mouth and calls Keith an absolute idiot.

“Really, mullet-man? Really?”

Doesn’t bother to look at him while he does it.

Keith can’t say he disagrees with the sentiment.

6. TEA TIME 

Hunk's always been nice. Observant. Intense.

"Y'know, Keith." He's handing Keith a delicate teacup of his own, as though he expects Keith to be gentle enough to keep it steady, as though he expects Keith to be able to handle it, as though—

As though he expects Keith to make sense.

"Y'know, really, Keith—are you okay?" And Keith jerks up enough for the tea to splash minutely out of the cup, onto his hand.

Pretty teacup, little teacup. Yellow with red flowers. Something like that. Green tea spilt onto his blue-veined hand. The liquid looks black on the cherrywood table.

"I—I'm—" And the shadows are dark, and the bottom of the teacup looks sweet and threatening, and Keith's hands shake. "I'm fine, Hunk. Really."

Hand on top of his. White towel wiping the liquid off in a flash, flash, flash. Doesn't feel like pain, but maybe that's because Keith is too focused on the maggots in his ribs and the pounding of screwdrivers in his braincase.

The sound of KEITH KEITH KEITH YOU MADE A MISTAKE DIDN'T YOU? in his head.

Keith. Well. He sighs.

"I'm okay, Hunk." It's his fault, anyway. "It's—it's nothing I haven't seen before."

It just isn't familiar.

Voltron mechanics are different from Night Vale community. Touchier, somehow. Terror-ful, and tremendous, and tyrannically possessive.

More like incarceration than protection.

More like stalkers than angels.

YOU’RE ONE OF OURS NOW, KEITH KEITH KEITH—

But—Keith is like Lance, now, isn’t he? Keith is like Hunk now, like Pidge.

Just. Maybe not like Shiro. Whatever it is that happened to Shiro.

7. SIGHTSEEING

Keith’s always been different, but sunshine makes him—more derivative. More deviant, more differential. A little extra fucked up.

He sees shadows in the corners of his eyes, but these aren’t—harmless, but then again, they never are. He sees a bit more malice in the mechanical aspects of this mechanical townspace. He sees Hunk’s pitying looks and Lance’s angry-desperate glare.

Pidge keeps texting him, though. It’s through Lance’s old phone, blue-case and maggot-ridden, ‘cause Lance—well, he’s the type to hoard electronics. It makes enough sense.

He can see Pidge now, properly, like she’s in color. Looks like some faerie myth, she does, messed-up hair and worn-down glasses. She has orange and white striped socks and only one shoe. Her sweater is torn up. She sits up on top of the television.

She can’t speak, not properly, not without her voice turning into garbled static and acidic screeching. But this is okay, too, flashing eyes and fading freckles.

She looks young.

Too young to be a girl made of static.

Too young to be a ghost.

Keith shrugs. Keeps tapping his fingers against the top of the teacup. It’s a nice teacup. Hunk is a nice person.

“I still need to find my best friend.” He’s thinking of taking Shiro’s motorcycle out of storage—the Shirogane family might let him, maybe, maybe Ryou would—and maybe he’ll. Use that. Go looking.

Maybe Shiro wandered out of Voltron like Keith wandered out of his desert community, all those years ago.

Keith shrugs. “I was thinking of asking Lance to come with.”

“Maybe Hunk too.” Three of them on the bike might be too risky. Maybe they can rent a car. Or use the shitty blue Civic Lance keeps talking about but refusing to let Keith see—she’s too beautiful for your eyes, sunshine!

Maybe Keith’s gonna have to plan this a little more thoroughly, but—“You can ride along too, can’t you? Possess a cellphone?”

No tea left in the cup. Shadows are keeping their snickers quiet.

“Me too. I think I could use some new scenery too.” He watches Pidge’s feet kick back and forth, nervous habits like the living have, like the living do. “You ever been to the desert?”

That startles a laugh out of Keith. “Like home, maybe. But mostly like sand. And dehydration.”

“He already hates me.”

Keith brings the teacup into his hands again, looks at the gentle drops of liquid left in the glass. It’s not like him. It’s not anything like him.

He’d like to find something more familiar again. And these three, they’re getting close enough for his recognition senses to kick in, anyway.

So.

“I guess I’d have to bring all of you. We could use some sightseeing.”

☀