It’s Sheith Week Unlimited. I forgot about it, but saw a post a few minutes ago, so I figured I’d churn out Day 1 right quick while I’m bored at work at 3am.
The theme today is Dreamer
(I think I went a little off book bc how do you not angst??)
(Content Warning: Vague mentions of torture and what the Galra did to Shiro. Nightmares.)
Purple. The colour of royalty, the colour of sunsets, of summer flowers and butterflies. Of children’s drawings and fireworks dancing in the sky.
But not here. Here purple is harsh, it’s burning. It’s the colour of bruises and cuts and the light that seares his eyes. It’s magic and it’s darkness and it’s all he can see.
The lights fade in and out, no pattern to the flashing madness in front of him. Time is meaningless, forgotten behind the pain and the screams. He doesn’t even know what they want anymore, he just knows that they’re always there. Wait, watching, calculating. Time is on their side as they work to figure out what makes the Champion, the Leader of Voltron, tick. It seems pointless, fruitless to go on. He would tell them everything they wanted to hear, if only he knew what that was. But there’s nothing. No questions, no hints or speaking. The only sounds are the strangled noises that rip their way out of his own throat.
He pulls at his restraints, thrashes his head against the hard table beneath him, snarls at their hands and shining instruments. Tears force their way from his eyes as his own violent resistance only adds to the marring of his flesh. But he can’t stop. He can’t just sit there and let them do what they want. So he fights. He struggles. For how long, he doesn’t know. Everything bleeds together here, there’s no way of knowing how long he’s been here, how long he may be kept here. So he screams and fights and dreams a hopeless dream that someone, anyone out there may help him.
Then, a light. Not the harsh, stinging purple, but softer. Gentler. Hopeful. A white light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere washes over him, a sea of calm following it. His heaving chest slows and his screams die out. Finally, a noise not made by him graces his tired, unbelieving ears.
His name. The white light grows stronger. The warmth it brings soothes him, washes over his body in a wave, bringing hope to his eyes and a smile to his face.
“Shiro?” the voice says again. He knows that voice. It’s kind, it’s loving. It feels like home.
He finds his body relaxing into the light. The restraints are gone, replaced by warmth and soft hands. The hard sterile table beneath him is gone, only softness remains, and the harsh purple light and the smell of electricity and pain have disappeared. His eyes are finally able to find focus again in the centre of the light…
“Shiro…are you alright?”
“Keith?” Shiro asks, blinking into wakefulness. Concern and the last dregs of sleep marr his voice, “What’s wrong?”
“You were having a nightmare,” Keith says, propped up on one arm to lean over Shiro. A gentle hand is pressed to Shiro’s chest, enough to soothe him and wake him but not enough to hurt. Enough to ground him right here, right now.
Shiro reaches up, placing his prosthetic hand against Keith’s cheek. He smiles as Keith leans into the touch and he watches the metal shine in the light of the slowly rising sun as he tucks an errant hair behind Keith’s ear. “It wasn’t a nightmare,” he says, looking deep into Keith’s concerned eyes.
“But, you were groaning, and thrashing around. I thought…”
Keith trails off, not trying to hide his confusion. “It was about the Galra,” Shiro explains, “but it wasn’t all bad.”
“How could it not be all bad? After what they did to you. Shiro, I–”
Shiro cuts Keith off by pulling him close and rolling both of them onto their sides. They look into each other’s eyes as dust dances in the early morning rays of light. “It couldn’t be a nightmare, Keith, it had to be a dream. You were there.”