Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11918067.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Voltron:_Legendary_Defender
  Relationship:
      Keith/Kuro/Shiro_(Voltron), Kuro/Shiro_(Voltron)
  Character:
      Keith_(Voltron), Keith's_Father_(Voltron), Shiro_(Voltron), Kuro_
      (Voltron)
  Additional Tags:
      Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, Long_Lost/Secret_Relatives, Past_Rape/
      Non-con, Implied/Referenced_Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Past_Abuse,
      Psychological_Trauma, Blood_and_Gore, Murder, Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-03 Chapters: 1/? Words: 4565
****** sanguinary ******
by roughedup
Summary
     After the abrupt death of his father, Keith is left at the mercy of
     the civil system to be given a new home. However the next day two
     young men appear at the orphanage and introduce themselves as his
     older brothers. Now, Keith has the chance to live the life he's
     always dreamed of, but the itching beneath his skin is becoming too
     hard to ignore.
Notes
     *mario voice* oh here we go
     this is a very trigger-heavy fic so be aware of the contents via the
     tags and warnings.
     tags will update as chapters are posted, so be sure to check them
     from time to time!
     also big a thank you to ohpin who read over this for me! you're a
     life saver, my guy.
See the end of the work for more notes
                                      I.
Red. It was his favorite color. Red shoes, red jacket, red soul.
It was the color tucked away in his veins, hidden in his cheeks, under his
tongue and down the gullet of his throat. It was the initial color of the
beatings, of the cuts, of his crying eyes. Sometimes it spilled from his mouth
or his nose, staining his ill-fitting clothes and splattering onto the peeling
linoleum floor, leaving splashes that he would have to clean up later when Clay
wasn't home. It made him angry, it hurt him, but it brought a sliver of peace
to the itching beneath his skin, and the voice in his head would fall to a
murmur that he could ignore and pass off as a talkative being. He would drown
in that sweet shade if he could, let it fill his lungs and seep into his eyes
and ears and nose, choking the life from him the way his father's hands did. 
But he couldn't. 
                                      II.
He kept his eyes closed when he feigned sleep. He didn't want to see the
monster entering his room, staggering and sweating and panting like a feral
animal. He held his breath before the alcohol could reach him and never let it
go until he woke up the next morning, soft sunlight filtering in through cheap
plastic blinds and highlighting every speck of dust as if each and every piece
were weightless gold. 
The sun was his only witness. The only one to see him strip his sheets and
scrub at them with cold water and wash them with his own two hands and a bar of
soap. They would hang in the shower, draped over the rod and left to drip dry.
He would tend to his wounds in the very same bathroom, licking at the rawness
like a wounded dog and hiding them away under long-sleeves because god dammit
like father like son: they wore the same flannel. 
He considered himself strong for not fighting anymore, instead playing pretend
in his head of all this being some dream, and that one morning when the light
would filter in and encircle his head upon his pillow like a halo, he would
open his eyes to find himself in a different bed, in a different house, in a
different life. 
But he never woke up. 
And the endless nightmare played on. 
                                     III.
His soul left him in a way that was identical to the light leaving his father's
eyes: a sudden, sharp snap that was so quick, you would miss it if you
blinked. 
On a Tuesday night Keith would blindly punch in three little numbers with a
shaking hand and would scream to the woman on the other end, "My father's
dying!" as he would press the other to his father's chest, blood seeping
between his pale fingers and staining his scarred flesh crimson.
The gloves were not on to hide his scars.
The police would arrive before the ambulances, and as he would sit on the
ground beside the run-down trailer plucking at the few strands of grass there
were, he would realize that this was the most fucked up yet simple metaphor for
his life: the help he needed most always came last.
 
===============================================================================
 
"...Kogane, are you sure that's your last name?"
Keith stared at the man behind the desk, dark blue eyes conveying the numbness,
the shock, of having watched your father die right before you. Currently, he
was in a court house in some non-descript room, the blinds pulled shut because
of the storm that was approaching and the overhead lights were burning away
with that eye-squinting, off-white light. The man—H. E. Collins as he had
introduced himself earlier in the lobby—was tired. The blatancy of it almost
made Keith feel tired. Everything about H. E. Collins was as boring and as
plain as the gray sky outside; the way he blinked, the way he typed on his
computer, the way he carried his tone, it was all the same dry, dull, and
painfully lifeless drone of another human being caught in the grasp of one of
humanity's worst jobs: searching for any surviving relatives of newly-orphaned
children. 
"It's the only one I've ever known of," Keith explained. "My mother's surname
was Kogane. She never took my father's." He was proud of himself. His voice
didn't waver, it didn't crack. He was calm, collected, emotionless. A perfected
act he practiced every waking moment of his life. 
Maybe in another life he could have been an actor. 
"Your father," H. E. Collins continued, "what was his last name?" 
His stomach lurched and bile laced the back of his throat, burning and eating
away at his tender flesh with something that reminded him of jagged
fingernails. He swallowed, collecting his inner thoughts. "Clay." 
"Clay?" H. E. Collins repeated as if he didn't understand. 
Keith blinked a second time and in the same voice replied, "Clay." 
H. E. Collins made a noise in the back of his throat and went back to typing on
his computer, searching through old online documents Keith presumed. He took
this opportunity to look away. Eye contact made him uncomfortable, and after
being around complete strangers for the past nine hours, he needed a break. 
Nine hours since Clay's death. Nine hours since the robbery. Nine hours since
the knife that had embedded itself in Clay's chest so solidly that when the
attacker pulled it out, there was the faintest sucking sound, as if the metal
had become attached to flesh. And then the red had come, gushing from Clay's
chest and onto the floor and Keith had screamed—
Keith blinked. His knuckles were white on the chair. 
Behind H. E. Collins was a bookcase partially filled with plaques and awards
along with old books and a sparse collection of family photos. He looked these
over carefully, curious to know more about this H. E. Collins, to see if he
could figure out why he was working such a job. Depicted in colorful
photographs was a beautiful wife, two young daughters, and a squirming Labrador
puppy, but no H. E. Collins. He must have been the one taking the pictures,
then. Overhead a low roll of thunder made Keith flinch. 
"Don't like thunder?" H. E. Collins asked, glancing to him from behind the
screen. Keith forced himself to shake his head. 
"I don't like loud noises—" 
   Thunder was the sound of Clay's truck when he would come home at night. 
   Drunk and loud and violent, his poison of choice in hand and covering his
                                serpent tongue.
 The trailer door would fly open and bang against the wall, scaring him to his
                                     core.
 Clay's voice always made the trailer shake, and his movements only heightened
it, the structure more akin to a boat being tossed about by a stormy sea than a
                              grounded structure.
"—so thunder makes me jumpy," Keith finished, the memory visceral enough to
make his gut twist; however, H. E. Collins chuckled as if they were sharing a
friendly joke.
"You grow out of it as you get older. I used to not like it, too."
Keith warmly smiled, the taste of vomit still fresh in his mouth. "I'm sure I
will."
 
===============================================================================
 
Harbor for Angels was a place Keith would run from. Not because it was run by
several women and chock-full of unhappy children, but because it was a place he
wasn't familiar with. This was new territory. He was miles and miles away
from prison of the little trailer and even farther away from the safety of his
school's unused band room, and while he had hated both places due to their
isolation and meaning, he had been familiar with them. This area was unknown,
and he hated the unknown simply because that's what it was.
However, he fit in quite easily the ten hours he was there, but just because he
fit in didn't mean he belonged, and just because he wanted to leave didn't mean
he could. He was sixteen—technically still a minor yet old enough to legally be
sexually active in a multitude of states—but he couldn't leave. He was puzzled
at that. Old enough to become pregnant and have a child if he bore a uterus and
ovaries, yet not old enough to decide where he went. 
"You have to be eighteen to leave," H. E. Collins had told him when he had
asked, and then added a hushed, "I'm sorry, Keith."
From there he had been introduced to the others, to the three women and the
other children, and he had stayed silent the entire time, not daring to speak.
He did not want to "make friends" as the women had told the other children to
do, and due to his silence one of the children had called him retarded. He had
looked at them, unblinking, and the boy had sneered at him, baring yellow teeth
and a pock-marked face. He reminded Keith of an ugly mole-rat with his pale,
pudgy skin and closely-shaven head. He was something Keith would step on and
crush beneath his heel. 
The women had then scolded the boy, trying to make him apologize, but he
refused to, and so a lull awkward of silence had risen. Finally, after several
long moments and with H. E. Collins now gone, Keith had smiled and held out his
hand. 
"I can speak," he had said. "I just don't like to sometimes."
And everyone had looked at him, shocked, their heads swiveling back around as
if he had grown a new limb. The mole-rat child had appeared the most startled,
his beady black eyes stretching wide in their sockets.
Keith had kept the smile in place, looking as kind as one could be.
Molerat had studied Keith's outstretched hand with chary but eventually stuck
out his hand and took Keith's, which was quite possibly the biggest mistake he
could make. As soon as he had wrapped his fingers around Keith's, Keith let his
smile drop like it was something awful and his face morphed back into the
emotionless mask he wore so well. He dug his nails into the grimy skin that was
wrapped around his and dark blood sprung forth, embedding itself beneath his
nails in a nasty shade of black. A shriek of pain had made him snatch his hand
away as if he had been the one hurt, and with a discrete motion he wiped the
blood from under his nails onto the hem of his shirt. He had quickly stepped
back, the bewilderment upon his face so convincing, he almost convinced
himself. 
The others had then gathered around Molerat, swarming like flies on wound
and began to ask him what was wrong, what had happened, but by the time Molerat
had said what had occurred, Keith was already up the stairs and in his new
shared room, silently shutting the door behind him.
He stayed in that room and never left the safety of the squeaking mattress for
the rest of the time he was there. It was his boat on this stormy sea, and
everything and everyone around him were sharks circling, his blood in the water
drawing them in. When supper was announced, he merely rolled onto his side and
stared at the scribbled-on wall, all of them markings from previous children.
The ghosts of them were still here, ingrained in the walls in the forms of pink
crayon, letters etched into white paint with bent paperclips, and black and
purple sharpie. The hunger pains that hit him as the scent of supper drifted
upstairs were nothing compared to the other trials of his life. He was used to
ignoring hunger. One night without a meal wouldn't kill him.
He had closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.
 
===============================================================================
 
The next time he woke up he realized only a few hours had passed since he had
fallen asleep. It was the middle of the night now and the had house settled
into a loud state of whirring ceiling fans and box fans and stale a.c. blowing
in through floor vents. But even with all three things occurring, he was
still panting like a dog, buried beneath his blankets with his jacket pulled
over him. He could deal with this. It wasn't hard.
And then the storm made itself known.
The first flash of lightning made him snatch the pillow over his head and press
it down hard onto his ear, his arm growing so tight that his muscles started to
cramp; his other ear was pressed against the mattress to muffle out the sounds,
and his stomach was flat against the striped sheets. The seconds started to
tick away and he refused to close his eyes despite there being nothing but
blackness beneath the pillow. After reaching sixty seven times, his chest
started to ache and his mind started to swim. He could scarcely breathe, no air
other than his own exhaled breath reaching him, but even with that fact he
couldn't bring himself to move. He was so paralyzed with fear that if he
did move then his safety would be broken. Clay would be there, waiting,
watching, breath reeking of whatever he held in his hand— 
A sharp explosion made him jerk, the movement so sudden his spine lit up
with white pain.
The house fell into silence.
The power was out.
Heat sank its nails into him and tore at his flesh, leaving trails of sweat
trickling down his pale skin as he struggled to recover from the shock.
He jerked upright without warning, the pillow falling away as he opened his
eyes and sucked in a lungful of air. He flicked his eyes from corner to corner,
searching for anything, or anyone, that might have been waiting for him in the
darkness: Clay, Molerat, the concocted image of his mother, but nothing was
there except for the other child he now shared this room with. There was no
danger, and yet he couldn't stop the tears that came. He furiously rubbed at
his eyes, the tears prickling behind his lids doing nothing but making him
angry and upset, reminding him of why he was here in the first place. He pulled
his jacket back up over his bent knees and buried his face into the worn
leather and fabric, breathing in the scent he knew best: his own. 
He smelled of sweat and fear and rust, of something feral and musky, but it
calmed him. It was mildly rank, and with a muted thought somewhere in the back
of his mind he realized that this was his third night without a shower. The
first night was the one before anything had happened, when Clay was still alive
and kicking. The second night had been spent in the back of an ambulance being
cleaned with harsh disinfectants, and then in a little concrete room with one
lightbulb and two cops. They had questioned him and questioned him, drilled
into him with everything they knew how to do, but he had told them the same
thing time and time again, repeating every single thing that had happened in
chronological order. They wanted him to confess to something he hadn't done,
promised him a lighter sentence if he did so. He was sickened at the thought. 
Eventually they had released him to H. E. Collins, and at a bright and early
eight in the morning he had been given a Coke, his favorite soda, and a packet
of peanut butter crackers as he had been walked through the court house.
Another flash of lightning made him sink his teeth into his cheek, and when the
thunder came he pressed his palms flat against his ears and kept his eyes wide
open. He started chew on his cheek, biting again and again until the entire
left side was ruined, the scar tissue not strong enough to keep his prying
teeth out. When the taste of copper was almost too much, he swallowed down the
blood and bits of cheeks that had come away from his chewing then sucked saliva
from under his tongue to clear his palate. He could feel his cheek starting to
swell, his body rushing to repair the damage he had done. He licked his chapped
lips and blinked, indigo hues settling on the red shoes beside his bed. The
memory of how he had gotten them flooded into his head and he dug his nails
into his scalp, his breath leaving him on a shaking exhale. 
It had been one of the rare times Clay had bought him something he had wanted,
and it had been the only time Clay had given him a choice. 
                              "Do you want them?"
          He nodded, eyes wide as he stared at the cherry-red shoes.
                           "I'll get them for you."
      His heart skipped a beat and he looked up at Clay. Would he really?
                        "I'll even give you a choice."
  Clay placed a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. He had never noticed how
                         large his hands were before.
               Clay leaned down until his lips brushed his ear.
                  "Do you want me to fuck you now or later?"
Keith screamed.
 
===============================================================================
 
Morning came in the form of a palpable humidity, the air so laden with moisture
that the sweat on his skin felt like a protective barrier rather than his body
suffocating in the stifling heat. He rolled onto his back and stared out of the
window that was situated to the left of his head. The dark gray sky was melding
into pink and he watched with red-rimmed eyes as a flock of birds flew high
overhead. Their plumage was a stark white against the swirling sky, and
somewhere, buried deep within his mind, he remembered that cranes were thought
to bring good luck. With one unsteady hand he reached up and pretended to catch
them, closing his fist over the flying birds and cutting them from his vision.
He let his hand hover there for a moment before he slowly brought it down to
lay it on top of his chest, his heartbeat thumping away behind the cage of his
ribs.
His heart felt like a bird, trapped beneath ivory and crimson with its wings
beating against its restraints. He used to wonder if setting it free would be
better for them both, but in the single attempt to take his own life Clay had
made him throw up every single pill he had swallowed, shoving his thick fingers
down his little throat and forcing him over the toilet as he retched. 
                             "You can't leave me!"
And then Clay had kissed him. His mouth had still been dripping with vomit and
saliva, his mind swimming in its own half-dead haze, but Clay had kissed him,
and he had kissed Clay back, sobbing.
He wasn't allowed to leave. 
He had been fucked since then. 
No.
No, he had been fucked since birth. The death of his mother should have taught
him that. 
She had died because of him, died with a shriek of pain and her head thrown
back as he came screaming into the world covered in her blood and embryonic
fluids. 
A heart attack had claimed her just as he was being delivered. 
Clay had made him aware it was his fault, that he was the reason why she had
died, but it took two to tango, didn't it? Two to make a child.
             "You fucked her!" Keith screamed. "You both made me!"
The scar on his face was still there from where the bottle had cut him that
night, a slanted, jagged line down his left cheek that followed his cheekbone
and sliced through his lips. He had laid on the floor for the rest of the
night, unconscious.
A bird landed on the roof in front of the window and began to sing, drawing him
from his thoughts with its flashy colors and repetitive song. He blinked,
rolling his eyes in their sockets before looking back to the bird. It's head
was a crisp blue that faded down into a red breast and belly, and from there
its wings faded from a dark green into a bright splotch of yellow below its
head. It was by far the prettiest bird he had ever seen.
It tapped on the window with its beak of whitish-gray and Keith slowly sat up,
turning his head so that his eyes never left it. He repositioned himself, his
body now fully facing the window with his jacket forgotten behind him, and he
crossed his legs to watch, mind falling silent for a rare moment. 
The bird stayed there for over ten minutes, hopping about and singing,
entertaining him with its quirks that only a bird could contain, and when the
bedroom door opened behind him and a woman called for him to collect his
things, he ignored her, afraid that any movement from himself could make the
bird leave. 
"Keith," she repeated, walking a few short steps into the room. "Collect your
things. Your brothers are here to get you." 
Abruptly the bird flew away with a startled chatter, disappearing from his
sight so quickly he never got the chance to say goodbye or thank it.
He sat there, silently heartbroken, and then with a slow turn he looked at
her. 
"I don't have any brothers." 
She stayed close to the door, wringing her hands behind her back as the hall
lighting silhouetted her. She looked scared, as if he were the animal and not
the other way around. She was the one keeping him contained after all. 
"You do," she said softly. "It's... It's complicated, Keith, but you have
family. They're downstairs waiting—" 
Keith stood up on his bed, cutting her off with his sudden movement. His white
undershirt was still damp with sweat and he peeled it away from his skin with
his fingertips; his boxers were wrinkled and bunched and a size too small, but
they were all he had, and he pulled down the hems of them and stepped onto the
floor. He never said a word as he walked past her and into the narrow hall, his
eyes only leaving her frightened face when it took too much effort to continue
to stare. He counted each step as he walked down them, last night already
feeling like a distant dream as he drifted down yellow pine stairs.
                       One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
Two feet appeared around the corner, then four feet. One wore black combat
boots while the other had on a pair of black loafers. He stopped walking, his
breath catching as his mind struggled to find some memory of someone besides
Clay. He repeatedly drew blanks, his mental search turning up nothing. He
forced his feet to resume their motion. 
                              Seven. Eight. Nine.
The shoes gave way to legs, long, strong legs that were each clad in their own
fitted pants—skinny jeans paired with combat boots, trimmed black slacks paired
with loafers—and those legs seemed to stretch on forever as he descended
further down the flight, prominent calves giving way to knees which gave way to
sculpted thighs. 
                                 Ten. Eleven.
Those legs ended and up came the rest of them: narrow waists—boots with a tight
black t-shirt, loafers with a white button-down rolled to the elbows and a
watch on the left wrist—then two broad chests and a set of broad shoulders
built strong like the rest of them. 
                                    Twelve.
His bare feet stepped onto the wooden floor, toes curling under themselves as
he stared at the two.
They were identical twins. The same face with identical haircuts, the same
forelock of white hair coming from a short cropping of black. The same steel
eyes, the same firm mouth, the same shocking scar across their noses that ran
onto their cheeks. They could have been the poster boys for some 80's movie
about space and aliens, maybe like the ones he used to watch on the VCR when
Clay wouldn't come home during the day. He stared at them, silently watching
with his heart in his throat and his mind repeating the same string of words
over and over.
 they don't look like Clay they don't look like Clay they don't look like Clay
They were in a quiet discussion, whispering to the other with a handful of
folded paperwork between them. The one in the white button-down paused in his
whispering, his bright eyes moving from his twin's face to him. The other
looked as well, half-rotating his body to fully face him. Keith locked his
knees, his heart slamming to a stop.
"Keith?" White button-down said softly. "Keith Kogane?" 
He jerked his head in a nod, his teeth clenched so tightly together that a pain
shot up from his jaw and into his temple. 
"Oh my god," he continued in the same half-whisper. "It's really him, Kuro." 
Kuro. Combat boots was Kuro.
"Easy Shiro," Kuro said. "He doesn't remember us, do you Keith?" 
White button-down was Shiro.
"He- he was just a baby when—" 
"Keith," Kuro cut in. "We're your brothers." And Shiro nodded, holding the
paperwork closer to his chest and giving it a slight squeeze. 
"Right," Shiro said, his voice never losing that tender softness. It was the
tone you would use with a scared animal, or perhaps a scared child. "We're here
to take you home, Keith." Kuro placed a hand on Shiro's shoulder and Shiro
looked back to his twin before looking back to him. "With us," he added. "We
came as fast as we could, we didn't know..." Kuro cleared his throat. 
"We didn't know how you would be holding up." 
Holding up. How was he holding up?
"Keith," Shiro continued gently. "We know it's a lot to take in currently. We
wish..." He trailed off to gather his thoughts, silver eyes pained. "We wish we
could have met under better circumstances."
                               In a better life.
The words were unspoken but god they were there, laid out before him from a
mouth that was similar to his own.
He couldn't breathe.
The ghost of Clay was before him, his hands wrapped around his pale
throat to choke the life from him once again. Keith covered his face with his
hands and sucked in a breath, his fingers trembling with his his heart
threatening to burst.
"Keith?"
The fingers around his neck faded. The ghost of Clay disappeared from his mind.
He slowly lowered his hands.
Shiro and Kuro, they were still here, still standing just a handful of feet
away with their faces contorted into worry—they were worried. 
Oh god they were worried about him.
He took a staggering step forward, tears filling his eyes and blurring the
scene before him into a painting a blind artist might create, one filled with a
mixture of dripping colors that all swirled together into one piece. He took
another step, and then another, and he continued until he walked right into two
open arms. His feet left the ground and he became weightless, floating against
the two bodies of warmth that surrounded him. Even with his eyes squeezed shut
in a sob, he could still see the colors; they were everywhere, and they were so
full of life.
Outside the Painted Bunting resumed its song.
End Notes
     the pacing is supposed to be very fast and in your face for this
     first chapter, but it'll (probably) slow down in the chapters to
     come. also hoorah! i'm finally writing one of my favorite thing to
     write since i feel a little more confident in myself! let's see how
     long that lasts OTL
     bother me on tumblr if you want! kingprynce
     also here's an image of a male Painted_Bunting! i love these little
     birds.
     also if there are any errors don't hesitate to tell me!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
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