There, nestled against my pulse

Chapter 8

—krrtzzrrt—nyone hear me?! Shiro?! Cora—zzzkkff—

Keith? Everything okay with the tour?

—fffhhhzzzzzzzzzzrrrrr—

Keith, come in. Keith?

Hey, Pidge the comms are acting up—

—surgents shot—fffftzzzkrt—dying, Shiro!

Hold up, kiddo, you keep cutting out, I can't hear you—

—krrrrzzztt—much blood, I can't—fffzzzz—

Are you hurt? Keith?

—Princess, something's happened to Keith and Lance.

We need to call off the meeting.

—nce! It's—rrrrrzzzt—

Keith, you're out of range. Are you still in the palace?

Keith?

Keith, if you can hear us, we're coming for you. Hang in there.

—zzrrt—

—sshhhhrr—

—Lance.

Lance? Is he with you? He's not answering his comms.

Keith, are you there?

—krrtzzzzrrrrr—

—They hurt him, Shiro.

I'm going to kill them.

"Hey."

The word is subdued, spoken in the softest tone that Keith's ever heard Shiro use. It still echoes around the room.

Keith doesn't look up, eyes fixed on his dagger. He's seated on the steps beside Lance's pod, a clean rag in his hand and a bottle of polishing liquid on the floor by his hip. Coran gave it to him two hours ago, along with a plate of food.

The bottle is two-thirds empty; the plate untouched.

His right hand guides the rag over the edge of the blade, the slate-grey and black metal gleaming. He can see his reflection in it. Can see Shiro looking at him, too.

"How're you holding up?" Shiro asks.

The muscles in Keith's arm have been protesting for a while now, stuck dragging this soaked-through rag in the same motions since he first sat down. His bicep twitches and his deltoid burns hot, but he ignores it; much in the same way he ignores Shiro's question. It's a stupid question.

Shiro leans his elbows on his knees and links his fingers together. He tries to catch Keith's eyes, but Keith just ducks behind his hair.

"You know he'll be fine, right? We got him into the pod in time. Coran says he'll be out in another twelve hours."