VOLTRON ONE-SHOTS

Keith - Ache

He- he was dead.

Why did he have to die?

Keith curled against the car door, feeling the dull thrum of the engine vibrate against his skin, his eyes squeezing closed as a wave of tears threatened to overtake him, the trees and fields zipping by turning into nothing but a darkened blur before he draped an arm over his eyes, feeling the fat, wet drops soak cold into his sleeve.

...

Fast forward a few days and Keith was uncertainly wandering into his new foster home for the first time, worn boots thumping against wood floors, violet eyes raking over the unfamiliar furniture, walls, rooms. Walking cautiously behind his social worker ("think of me as your special agent," she'd said with a warm smile), she looked to be truly enjoying herself dropping him off in his first home, more than happy to finally get rid of him.

She treated the word "first" as if it were some sort of treat.

He, on the other hand, had a much different idea of the word, ideas that stretched to the point of her bending down to give him a strained smile, blond hair coming untucked from behind her ear, to order in a stern voice that it'd be better if he kept his mouth shut.

He obeyed.

But not for the reason she'd think.

There was no point in trying to explain himself to her, not when he's already tried, not when she did nothing but open her mouth to tell him to shut up.

So he shut up, fists tight, and lips tighter as a door to a room was opened with manicured nails glinting. The thick slab of wood seemed old and rickety, creaking open and revealing cozy livingroom set up. Beige chairs sat around an empty stone fireplace, three figures sitting anxiously on the edge of their seats, heads down as he entered the room, all of them jerking to attention the moment his social worker's heels clacked into the room, that squeaky door closing behind them, shutting them all inside.

Sharp fingertips dug into his back after a moment or two of just blankly staring at the people who would be his new parents as he was hearded to the closest seat in the room, which just happened to be right across from the foster family that'd apparently been anxiously awaiting his arrival.

The first person Keith caught sight upon sitting down was a man, maybe in his middle or early thirties, if he had to guess an age. The beginning fuzz of a beard coated his jaw and equally warm brown eyes locked hold of his, the intensity of the stare making Keith fidget nervously with his hands, eyes diverting down to the patterned carpet that loomed under his dangling feet-

"Mr. and Mrs. Anthony, this is Keith," another light push against his back, urging him to look back up to the family that he'd be staying with, "Now remember to smile. These people have agreed to take you in, Keith, it makes for a good impression on your part."

He didn't smile.

Instead, glancing up through his hair, amethyst eyes locked hold of the small girl sitting alongside the couple. Keith could see through the color of her hair and shape of her chin she was their daughter, dark blonde locks curled and green eyes curious as she met his gaze.

She gave a hesitant smile.

He looked down again.

"I'm sorry, my husband and I are still getting familiar with fostering. Does he have his things with him or-?" Mrs. Anthony sounded concerned, and he could feel eyes raking over him, looking for any type of bag or belonging as he continued to sit there, head down.

He could feel when his social worker began to shake her head, feeling the slight bounce in the couch cushions beside him, "No, I'm afraid he lost all his belongings in the same fire his father passed in."