Chapter Text
Keith had been running drills for what felt like days without end. Shiro’s new training regimen was merciless, a blur of alarms and combat holograms that never seemed to stop. Even when he finally stumbled back to his quarters, the adrenaline wouldn’t let him rest. Every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was the flashing holographic enemies, the counter ticking down, Lance’s voice in his ear telling him to move faster .
It pooled under his skin like static, buzzing against his ribs, refusing to settle.
He’d tried everything to shake it off extra sparring, meditation, hours of staring at the ceiling with his fists clenched in the blankets. None of it worked. The new hours of training had left him frigid and alert.
Tonight was worse than usual. He’d been lying on his back for hours, counting the seams in the ceiling panels, the slow blink of the standby lights. His chest ached.
Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Lance’s grin, taunting him across the training deck. You’re too slow, Mullet. A beat later, Shiro’s voice, cool and level. Again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through it. In, out.
By midnight, his throat felt raw from silent frustration, his stomach a dull, hollow ache. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, cataloging every sore muscle and every missed hour of sleep.
Finally, with a sharp exhale, he threw off the blanket and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
The castle was hushed, only the low hum of the Altean systems vibrating under his feet. He flipped on the light and squinted, suddenly self-conscious to be standing there in just a thin t-shirt and boxers.
He shook the thought off, turning into the kitchen. The automatic lights flicked on overhead, startling him. He squinted against the brightness, feeling oddly exposed.
Just a little something to take the edge off, he told himself, opening the fridge.
Cold air spilled out over his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Rows of neatly stacked containers gleamed under the internal lights. Savory stews Hunk had prepared. Pale green Altean jellies in delicate dishes. A cluster of vacuum-sealed ration bars.
In the center, on a glass platter wrapped in cling film: the leftover chocolate mud cake from Allura’s birthday. A thick slice, frosting clinging to the knife. He remembered Allura smiling when Hunk had presented it with rich layers so heavy they nearly collapsed on the plate.
Keith swallowed.
He wasn’t much for desserts. Usually. But he remembered the taste from the party, dense and dark, the sweetness thick enough to cling to his tongue long after he’d swallowed.
I’ll just have a sliver, Keith decided. He set the platter on the counter, peeled back the cling film, and cut off a thin edge. The frosting stuck to the knife in a glossy stripe, cutting off a small edge with precise care. He brought it to his mouth, biting down. The sweetness hit so fast he nearly shivered. A rush of sugar, an almost immediate soothing warmth.
The first bite was almost overwhelming. Rich and cloying, the sugar hitting his bloodstream in a rush that made his scalp tingle. He chewed slowly, savoring the way it seemed to dissolve against his tongue.
His hands moved without him really thinking. Another slice just a little bigger. He scraped the plate clean with his thumb. He ate it standing over the counter, the cool air of the fridge brushing his bare legs.
Just one more, he promised himself, and took another.
And another.
Each bite felt like something unwinding in his chest, uncoiling from around his ribs. The tension drained away in increments. A slow release he hadn’t realized he was craving.
He started eating faster. He barely tasted the individual bites anymore—just the warmth that followed. When he paused to breathe, he noticed he’d cleared nearly half the platter.
A flush crawled up the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder, irrationally certain someone was standing there, watching him.
But the kitchen was empty.
His stomach was starting to ache in a dull, spreading way. The waistband of his shorts felt snug, pressing into soft skin that hadn’t been there a few moments ago.
No big deal, he rationalized, though his stomach pressed tight and distended, heavy and warm under his shirt. He pulled the fabric down to cover it, feeling absurdly embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t name. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the tight, heavy fullness settling under his ribs.
He looked down at the cake, trying to convince himself he could stop now. But the edge of the remaining piece was jagged and uneven. His hand moved almost without input from his brain cutting off another strip, just to “even it out.”
He scraped the frosting that stuck to the knife onto his thumb and licked it clean. He swallowed, his throat working around the thickness of the sugar. His stomach gurgled softly in protest.
Enough, he told himself. I’ll feel sick if I keep going.
But he didn’t stop.
When the platter was almost empty, he finally forced himself to set the knife aside. His breathing felt shallow. A strange, floating calm had settled over his limbs.
He pressed a palm against the gentle curve of his belly, testing how taut it felt. The swell was undeniable, a soft, solid heaviness under the thin fabric of his shirt.
Despite knowing he should feel an inkling of shame at how much he ate just now, he was decidedly too tired and too satisfying full to care.
He cleaned the knife and wrapped the platter, though there was hardly anything left to cover. His hands shook a little as he fit the cling film over the remaining wedge.
He closed the fridge, flicked off the light, and padded back down the corridor. Each step made him aware of the fullness, how the soft dome of his stomach shifted with gravity, pressing outward in a steady, insistent way. He tugged his shirt lower, though it didn’t do much to disguise the evidence.
When he finally reached his quarters, he paused with one hand on the door panel, catching his breath.
He was tired. Bone-deep, inescapably tired. But there was a strange satisfaction thrumming under the exhaustion—a sleepy, weighted comfort that had nothing to do with the training drills or the mission logs piled on his tablet.
The door slid shut behind him. He moved to the bed and sat carefully, easing himself down in increments. The fullness pressed up under his diaphragm, making his breath hitch.
His heartbeat felt slower. His thoughts dulled around the edges.
I’ll work it off tomorrow, he thought, pressing his hand over the swell of his belly. It’s just one night.
His eyelids slipped closed.
It was the first time in weeks he fell asleep without a fight.