His world burned ablaze— an ache that started as nothing other than a dull pain. It's just a scratch, it'll go away soon. Then slowly but surely tapered into pure fire. It wrapped its way around his lungs, setting them aflame along with his whole being. Around his mind. Around his senses.
He couldn't speak. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. Couldn't think. And he was scared.
He couldn't control the screams, the writhing, the 'please make it stop's.
Then there were hands; gripping, nagging, poking, stroking. And then they were under him, pulling him upward, and he was floating.
Floating sounded painless but god it wasn't. It was something worse than the opposite— pure agony. He gagged and choked on fire that traveled up his throat— on fire that weaved between every joint and every fingertip in fresh ripples of pain.
He tried to pull away, he needed to get away. He wanted down— no more floating. No more pain. Please no more pain.
Stop, stop, stop, sto—
"Keith."
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. The galra— they had him. He had to get away. He had to get away.
"Keith. It's me."
'Me'? A galran that was torturing him. A galran that ripped his skin to shreds. Fed him lies. He continued to struggle between a firm grip.
"Keith calm down. It's okay."
And then he wasn't floating anymore. He was laid neatly on a cool sheet of metal— a metal that seemed awfully familiar. It reminded him of the dread; the pitiful sorrow that pinched at his heart telling him, over and over, that 'no one is coming— you'll be alone through it all'.
They were gonna experiment on him; cut into him, see how long it would take for him to break— how long it would take for him to fall apart.
And there would be no one coming for him.
No one was there to hear him suck in too little of breaths, to see him fumble for his neck so he could claw it open— see him wrap his fingers around his sticky shirt so he could rip through the tight restriction. So that maybe then, he could focus on that pain and breathe in through that wound.
He wanted to breathe something fresh; something other than fire. He craved help. I need help. Please help. It bur—
"Keith!"
That couldn't— it can't— "Keith, just please. Please just breathe with me." Shiro. Shiro? That can't be Shiro. No one was supposed to come.
"Calm down. Just please— breathe. It's okay. You're safe." He soothed. And for what seemed like eternity, he breathed.
"S— shi.." The name tapered into a sob, tugging at his chest. And then fire. But he didn't care. He was safe. He had Shiro.
"Shi.." He gasped.
"Shhh." He was pulled up, and it burned and it stung, but now wasn't the time, he told himself. Now isn't the time.
His head lulled desperately into his shoulder and he sucked in what his battered lungs could manage. He breathed through a thin straw and his world moved in and out of focus.
"Please stay awake, Keith. Please we need you." He begged, but he knew he couldn't hang on.
He felt numb and it was an awful sense of relief. Keith reached out, in the small space between himself and Shiro, and was met with cold, metal armor, but anything was okay.
He focused on his steady heartbeat; breathing in and out and in and out. It was gonna be okay.
"Please. For me?"
He smiled as his world faded white and barely managed a small, "for you."
