[ answering a yes or no question with another question is a massive red flag. keith should have known to expect that because the one time shiro had ever been forthcoming about his illness had involved confrontation and shouting. resistance now is, arguably, the most normal response, but the sadness in his best friend's eyes paired with that gut punch of a question puts a visible fracture in keith's soul.

all at once, keith is mentally reeling, spiraling, suffocating as the adrenaline spike from shiro's shouting and the dead body in the room down the hall collapses from under his feet. the cabin blurs as tears well in his eyes from the overwhelming exhaustion flooding his system. keith bites his lower lip, eyes squeezed shut in some furious, last-ditch effort to keep it together.

he isn't supposed to fucking cry. the space war has made him come face to face with the possibility of death so many times now, and despite the bone-deep chill in his arteries and veins, he isn't dying now. neither is shiro, for that matter.

except maybe shiro is ... just in some drawn-out process that will silently chip away at his vitality on an accelerated timeline. keith slumps forward, forehead pressed heavily on one of shiro's broad shoulders, grip now slack on his arm.

will you even believe me if I say I’m okay?

fuck. his answer is supposed to be yes. shiro is the expert of his own physical condition. who else is meant to know better? it's just... ]

I want to believe you so badly that I'm scared you'd lie just to make me feel better.

[ the words come out murmured, choked through a heavy clog in his throat as keith leans a little heavier, arm starting to wrap loose around shiro's waist only to pause with a barely audible sniff. ]

You're wet. You need to take it all off, Shiro.