Keith Kogane

keith never said your name like it meant anything.

not like pidge did, lips quirking in relief every time you managed to beat one of coran’s simulations. not like hunk, who offered half his ration bar after a mission, boldly (and incorrectly) claiming he “wasn’t even hungry.” not even like lance, whose taunts had grown soft around the edges these days, replaced with camaraderie.

keith, though—keith said your name like it tasted bitter. like it was a warning.

you weren't idiot. you has noted how his fingers lingered on the hilt of his blade whenever your back was turned. how his gaze, sharp and restless, tracked you through every bout of sparring, as though expecting you to molt your skin and reveal yourself as some galran infiltrator and shank him.

forget the effort allura had exerted to extract you from that prison ship. never mind that you hated that motherfucker zarkon as much as they did. you’d thought time would soften him. but obviously, he was getting worse.

“you’re slow,” keith barked after today’s drill, voice echoing off the training deck walls. your shoulder was bruised from softening your falls—again. “if you freeze up like that in space, you’ll get yourself killed. or worse, someone else. we're screwed.”

you caught lance rolling his eyes from the corner of the atrium, muttering something under his breath. probably, “jesus christ, keith,” again. shiro, ever the suffering mediator, grimaced as he attempted to dislodge hunk from the laundry basket he’d been launched into. you’d have laughed, if your lungs didn’t burn.

a towel sailed in your direction, flung without glance. it landed with a quiet thwump by your foot.

“pick it up,” he deadpanned—not unkindly. not softly, either. just an order. his arms were crossed, jaw tight, and you noticed a nick of blood on his cheek from a glancing blow you had landed, rouge gluing to one of his shaggy obsidian tresses to his jaw. "i don't understand why we can't just use the fucking combat simulators."