Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defender. Vague spoilers for season 4.

Breathe

He could feel himself slowly suffocating with each passing day. The oppressive weight, grasping at his neck, tightening with every mission, filled him with a restless unease made worse with each receding footstep in the corridors and the sometimes curious, often sharp glances that accompanied them. He endured - he had to - but it was becoming overwhelming. No matter how much of his sweat covered the training room floor, how badly his lungs ached for breath as he lost count of the amount of laps he'd run, how numb his mind grew from searching through every scrap of near incomprehensible data he could get his hands on, it was never enough. He wasn't doing enough. They wouldn't allow him to do enough.

Like trying to catch a cloud, he felt Lotor slipping through his fingers faster with every one of his suggestions brushed off. They were only suggestions, of course, his status as the pilot of the Black Lion having faded to no more than a living puppet, the queen on a chess board to be picked up and forced into position on command. And the longer Shiro was back on the ship, the firmer the clamp he learned to keep on his tongue. The increasingly intense looks of exasperation and concern over his heated pleas to track down the Galra prince wore him down, at last confining his provocations to moments where he and his chess master were alone.

Not that doing so made such moments any easier. No, if anything, he had merely traded a crowd of silently criticizing jury members for one imposing, condemning judge. Thinking of the closest thing he'd had to a family member in a decade as such made his throat constrict even tighter, his hands shaking at his sides.

He hated this. He hated the apprehensive looks whenever he walked into a room. He hated his own uselessness, forced to play escort and bodyguard while his search for Lotor left him empty. He hated the smiles increasingly being directed at anyone but him. But above all he hated the disappointment on Shiro's face.

No one would argue that his brief time as leader wasn't a failure. He'd made reckless decisions, Lotor had evaded him at every turn, and none of his fellow Paladins trusted his input. He had been a stop gap, a poorly disguised imitator ruling from a throne of twigs ready to crash beneath him at any moment. And yet he selfishly clung to the belief that he knew what was best. Over and over he was told to focus on the mission at hand, but his mind drifted elsewhere, simultaneously convincing himself that he had more important things to do and berating his stubbornness. Even when he stayed quiet, keeping his mutinous words to himself, Shiro always seemed to know what he was thinking, and his dark eyes would bore into him, shaming him to his very core.

The air grew thinner. Every breath took more effort than the last, his lungs gasping, groaning under the pressure constricting his chest. Until finally an escape presented itself.

He was running away; he knew this was true. And yet the promise of freedom from the oppressive stares and frowns, even if only for a short while, beckoned to him, enticing in its masked mystique, cold and emotionless. The brief periods of excitement that coursed through his veins allowed him to enjoy deep gasps of stale air, and his thoughts ran mad with the new information it greedily gobbled up.

However the more he retreated into the icy arms of deadly missions and impassive comrades, the more accusing the eyes around the castle grew. This was not the first time he'd felt both alive and dead, nor was it a feeling he'd ever hoped to experience again. But here he was, stuck between his selfish desires that drove him forward and the agonizing apathy to fill a role he was never meant to play.

Keith hated the disappointment in Shiro's eyes, the concern in Allura's glances, the disgust on Lance's face, the irritation in Pidge's crossed arms, the distrust in Hunk's frown, the resignation in Coran's sighs. But most of all he hated himself for being unable to let go of his own ambitions. His personal drive was dividing the team, cutting him off from those he knew deep down he wanted to remain by. But no matter what was in his heart, it was his head, his legs that had been his guides from the very beginning, and following a different path after so many years was far more terrifying than the numbness he knew would come from his own self exile. He would live through it as always, and if it allowed Shiro to finally retake his rightful place, as both chess master and queen, then the universe would be better off for it.

A/N: I mean, honestly, considering my TMNT preferences, is it any shock to see me latching on to Keith and writing an angsty drabble? For those not in the TMNT fandom, the answer is, "Not in the slightest."

As always, critics and grammar police are appreciated!