Hi guys! My first Voltron Fic, of course it has to be angst! Enjoy this crap, and review!

Change was supposed to be slow, barely able to be detected by the eye. Change was supposed to be as slow as the totem rocks in the desert, by his home, only changed by the decades of wind and rain.

Any change that happened fast, without warning, was always the worst, most unbearable thing for Keith.

There was no warning when his mother died; struck by some strange illness he couldn't find medicine for. Two days were all it took, because she refused to visit a doctor. Her change from a smiling, vibrant woman to an emaciated, sunken-faced corpse was too fast.

Every foster home was a blur, none of them were good.

The garrison, however, was his place, only changing like school in the most mundane ways, but it was just that – mundane. He couldn't stand it, not with his memories of his mom's sun filled apartment, filled with knickknacks and little things she like best about the world. A bonsai tree, a jar of rainwater, a mobile of shiny rocks – all of them she cherished and kept.

When he entered a giant blue lion with a Latino, a Hawaiian, a fugitive, and a little nerd, it felt more like the start of a bad joke, but soon there it was again: change. Rapid, crazy, and shaped like a wormhole.

Alarms went off then and had been going off ever since in Keith's head. Something awful was coming. The worst was that damn Galra ship, getting splashed by quintessence. He had prayed the burn to go away, and was shocked that it did, but being honest with himself, he knew it was no burn.

It was skin.

Purple skin.

It didn't appear again for months after the wormhole incident.

Perhaps it all began one night at dinner – one of the rare occasions where everyone was actually present, and not in a healing pod, or asleep, or working on their lions. Even when they were done with their food, it had turned into 'Story Time with Coran'. He reminisced over a place of leftover food - the real kind - that they had gathered the day before off of a beach planet. "I remember the first time I shapeshifted – scared the pants right off my grandfather when I walked into the room looking like a Visconian Drishough!"

Hunk eyed Coran warily. "I thought you loved the guy."

Coran fiddled with his mustache in irritation, something Keith noticed he did a lot. "My grandfather and I got along famously! But young Alteans have difficulty controlling out species' chameleon abilities. Even Allura once-"

"We don't need to discuss that, Coran!" Allura cut in sharply, glaring at him hard enough to burn a hole through his head.

"Ah, well," Coran swallowed. "Point is, it takes a while for us to gain full control."

Lance scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "So what, Altean kids don't even look Altean? That must've been confusing!"

"Well, it certainly was tricky, but it's something that actually occurs in later years." Coran dipped his head, "Usually triggered by stress, since it originally was a defense mechanism in our ancestors."

"X-men." Hunk whispered.

"Alien puberty," Pidge deadpanned. Hunk shot her a dirty look for ruining his reference.

"Ha!" Lance crossed his arms. "I would love to see that!"

Keith was silent for the whole conversation, not adding to the group's quips or taunts, or jokes directed towards Hunk's supposed attraction to a certain Balmeran ('you should've been Altean, Hunk!').

Changing one's appearance on a whim to deceive others – how many times had he done that, even before his time of being a Voltron paladin? Although he had done all that before with no regrets, now something just didn't sit right with his stomach. It felt like a pit was forming and causing knots to form all the way up his guy, making his dinner turn sour in his stomach, like spoiled milk.

Keith shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to get his stomach to settle. He didn't want to leave first and spoil the mood. Shiro had told him it was polite to stay until the meal was done, and good for team bonding.

Dinner eventually dwindled in its enthusiasm, but it took a solid hour of bantering and near-disasters.

Pidge was the first to go, with Shiro tailing right behind her. They claimed that they were going to do some diagnostics on Black and Green, and 'pulling out some dents' from the last battle. Hunk and Coran excused themselves to do cleanup. Keith hadn't even noticed that Allura had left in the chaos, and Lance was going to turn in early for bed, but not before turning around to look back at Keith.

"Did you get some sun or something yesterday?" He asked, "Your skin is actually darker."

Keith was astonished. Mostly because Lance's commentary was on something other than his mullet, but also because he was positive that he couldn't tan. He shrugged, looking down at his hands. Lance was right, though – his skin was darker than his usual pale complexion, but not in a tan way, just… darker.

"Maybe you still have some hope," Lance quipped, "You won't be an emo child forever!"

Lance dashed from the room and out of sight, Keith screeching after him about for as long as he could hear the stupid Blue Paladin's cackles. Keith slumped back in his chair. "I'm not emo. Damn you."

That night, in the confines of his own room, Keith sat cross-legged on his bed, inspecting his skin closely. Lance was right, no doubt about it, his skin was noticeably darker. Darker, but not tanned. Which was weird. In his entire stint living alone in the desert back on Earth, he had remained pale (yes, he'd admit it) as ever – and somehow living on a space ship, and always wearing a full suit of armor on their excursions, he had darkened his skin.

It was strange, because on their trip to the beach planet the day before, he was positive that he had been covered head to toe in his paladin armor. Lance and Hunk were the only ones to shed their armor in favour of a swim, and to look for some fish.

Was it space radiation? Not likely. Probably more of crystal radiation, or something leftover from over-exposure to the healing pods? Who knew – there could be hundreds of different reasons for the change. He couldn't agonize over it.

He had been training hard on the training deck, for several hours, but something seemed off. His hearing was too sharp – he dodged too early and would get tripped up by the gladiator on its easiest setting. His eyes would pick up subtle things he had never noticed before, and it distracted him for the actual swings the gladiator was throwing. Keith's lack of attention earned him a solid knock in the chest, and a fit of laughter from Pidge.

Keith called for the simulation to end, huffing on the floor.

Lance sauntered up to him, leaning over Keith with that signature smirk. "Dude, you sucked quiznak!"

Keith coughed, "I was distracted."

The Blue Paladin offered Keith his hand. "You're flaking on us!"

"Yah, you might stand a chance against my little finger now." Keith snagged Lance's hand before he could pull it away. He drew himself into a stand, shaking his head, trying to clear it.

Pidge had stopped laughing to herself, and when her eyes scanned Keith, they widened, "Woah, Keith, did the gladiator actually get you in the face?"

Keith's hand immediately went up to his face, and came away with blood. He could taste the metallic tang in his mouth. Yep, his lip was busted. His brow scrunched up. He didn't remember being hit in the mouth.

"I guess so." He wiped the blood away with the heel of his palm.

Lance swapped places with him on the training deck, calling up the gladiator and settling into the simulation. He recently had been trying his luck with the staff, since it had been his primary weapon after they all had been separated and his bayard damaged in the crash. The repairs were going well, but Lance wanted something to work on in the meantime, even if he was useless at close range combat.

While the others were distracted, Keith ducked out of the training room, looking to retire to his bedroom and get a grip of himself.

All of their quarters were close together, situated in a single corridor that was in the 'west' wing of the castle (or what was west when the Castle of Lions was still situated on Altea), so Keith was grateful that no one else appeared to talk with him on his way to the room. They would worry over his now bloody face, and the red smeared on his pants.

He doused his face with water in his bathroom, soaking his hair and neck, and watching red swirl down the drain with the water. He spit once more into the basin to be sure he was done bleeding, then reached for the towel next to the mirror.

It was then that he froze, staring at his reflection – slack jawed and wide eyed. He didn't remember having teeth quite like that. Keith lurched forward over the vanity, lifting his upper lip to inspect his impossibly long canines. What the hell? They were long and pointed, and now, upon realization, had been the cause of his bloody mouth. They couldn't have possibly grown so fast… but then again, there they were, completely different from how they were that morning when he brushed them.

Probably Coran's food goo, or something. Keith tried to dismiss it, but he couldn't.

He crawled into bed, head spinning. Tomorrow you'll wake up and this will have all been a bad dream.

It had been three days after his teeth had given him a bloody face, and Keith was still getting used to them. He inspected them every morning, hoping it had just been a dream, but they remained in his mouth, wickedly sharp and hauntingly real.

He had bit his lip a couple more times since that initial incident, but he had felt it, and was able to suck the blood up before any of his companions noticed. It was leaving his mouth sore, and the inside of his lip swollen, which led to more accidental biting.

He had never thought he'd have to consider filing his own teeth down.

Keith's skin was also progressively getting darker – it was just barely noticeable, but Keith could see it. He covered himself pretty well around the team, and he had taken to wearing long sleeve shirts for training, instead of his usual tee.

It was on the morning of this third day that Keith noticed a purple splotch on the back of his hand. It was small, hardly the size of a nickel, and blended well into his new skin complexion, but it was enough to send Keith into a panic. He plunged his hand into the sink, scrubbing harshly with scalding water. It's just like then. Just like the Galra ship with that quintessence.

"Out, damn spot!" Keith growled at it, rubbing and scraping and cursing until his hand turned raw, and the spot looked darker purple than before. "Shit!"

Keith retreated from the bathroom, head skittering dangerously. He started to pray – he thought he was. On the Galra ship is was more of him mentally screaming at whatever space god would bother to listen. Keith had had lots of religious foster parents, who did the mealtime prayers and whatnot, but asking for things from a God who let his mother die – that wasn't usually his thing.

This purple splotch on the back of his hand, however, prompted him to try for at least two seconds before giving up.

Keith fell back onto his bed, cradling his hand to his chest. He cursed at himself, frantically trying to figure out what he was going to do.

Allura had scheduled time slots for training activities, and he usually would never be caught dead trailing behind the usually late Lance. It would alert the others that something was wrong, and he couldn't allow that.

Keith snatched his gloves off his nightstand, tugging them on, and being sure that the left one covered the splotch.

Nobody knew before, nobody needed to know now.