Archive of Our Own ^beta

They never talk about it. Any of it.

Keith tells Shiro he loves him, and falls into the abyss of space with him; no, not falls, lets go, because he promised, for Shiro, as many times as it takes, but Shiro promised nothing, and that’s what Keith realizes when they’re standing together, but not really together, not anymore, on Atlas’s bridge.

Shiro looks at him without ever really looking. Keith says, “Is everything okay?”

And Shiro smiles, small and vacant, and says, “Of course, Keith.”

But everything isn’t okay. Because when Zethrid has her hand around Keith’s throat on the edge of the volcano, Shiro is right there, standing, watching, and he does nothing, says nothing. It’s Acxa who speaks, who talks Zethrid down, and Keith stares at Shiro and thinks, What did I do?

But he knows what he did, what he said. He knows he said ‘brother’ because it seemed the only word to even come close to naming the bond between them and the depth of what he felt, no, feels, for Shiro. Any other word felt too cheap, too dirty, somehow – to him, Shiro is family. The way Keith loves him is not quite like a brother. But he has loved so few people; the emotion is difficult to grasp.

He knows Shiro hesitated at the words, froze as if struck by lightning, and he knows that when the Galra arm was ripped from Shiro’s body, the way Shiro said his name then, Keith, was like there was no one else in the Universe, like he was sorry, like he could say nothing else but Keith, Keith, Keith.

But he doesn’t say Keith anymore in any sort of way. He says paladins. He does not lay his hand on Keith’s shoulder and he does not meet him on their last night on Earth atop the Black Lion under the setting sun. After Lance leaves, Keith waits; waits and watches the horizon as if at any impossible moment, the person he so desperately wants, or maybe needs, to see, to touch, to forgive, will emerge from the crumbling canyons and welcome Keith with open arms.

But Shiro does not come.

Shiro avoids him like the plague and when he cannot avoid him, when they are left alone together at the Clear Day celebration, Shiro has the audacity to act like nothing is wrong. He tells Keith to relax. He smiles. Keith leaves to do his damn job. Shiro wins an arm wrestling competition. He looks so happy. He is happy. Without Keith.

Shiro never needed Keith the way Keith needed him and the realization is chilling.

But Keith pushes on. He thinks, if Shiro can do just fine, then so can he. The Universe is ending, anyway. Keith wants to give up, sometimes. But he looks to Lance and Allura and he sees the happiness in their eyes, and the fear of losing that happiness, of losing each other, and he thinks all he ever wanted was to see the same in Shiro’s eyes, just once, only once.

But Shiro does not look at him, anymore.

Shiro does not look at him until they stand in the blank white nothingness of the last reality strand, and Allura tells them what she must do.

“Wait,” Keith says, unnerved by the easy resignation in her voice and unable to accept that it should end like this, with losing the incredible woman who set this adventure into motion and led them with all the grace and power of the ruler she was born to be. He steps forward. “Why don’t we all go?”

Shiro turns, slowly, to gaze at him with something like curiosity, something like sorrow. Once, Keith thought he knew him better than almost anyone else. Now, he’s little more than a stranger; there is no guessing what thoughts lay quiet but heavy in his head.

“Huh,” Hunk says. “Maybe we should. The more quintessence, the merrier, right? There’s a lot of realities to fix.”

“Maybe with all of us, the quintessence of Voltron will be sacrificed, too,” Keith adds. Allura’s eyes widen, then grow thoughtful.

Allura sucks in a sharp breath and Honerva, crumpled at her feet, eyes them dully. “I would not ask this sacrifice of you, Paladins…”

“And we wouldn’t ask this of you,” Lance says, and takes her hands, squeezing tight. “Not alone. We’re a team. Right?”

“Right,” Pidge says, stepping forward beside Keith and Hunk. “Let’s save the Universe, go out with…” She swallows and sets her jaw. “Go out with a bang.”

Allura bites her lip, eyes shining, and nods, leaning into Lance and stealing a quick, shivering kiss. “Very well. Together, then. Thank you, all...it has truly been a journey to remember.”

Shiro is quiet, staring off into the white void with a contemplative frown. “Shiro?” Keith asks.

“Okay,” Shiro says, looking back at him. “Yes.”

Keith blinks. “Really?” What he feels is not hurt, not exactly. Maybe it’s relief.

Shiro just nods. Allura steps towards the light, leading Honerva close behind her. “I cannot say for certain what will happen, Paladins,” she whispers, “but I fear this may be the end.”

“Or the beginning,” Lance says, offering her a smile, and she smiles back, tears falling like so many diamonds.

“We’re doing this,” Hunk mumbles, and closes his eyes. “Yeah. We’re doing this.”

“I love you guys,” Pidge says, and grabs Hunk and Keith’s hands. Hunk reaches for Lance’s, and Lance holds Allura’s, and Keith is left looking up at Shiro, the space between their fingertips seemingly vast as space itself.

“You don’t have to,” Keith says, trying to memorize the lines of Shiro’s face. “You aren’t part of Voltron anymore, after all.”

Shiro shakes his head a little. “You’re still trying to save me,” he whispers, and takes Keith’s hand, interlocking their fingers, skin warm through Keith’s gloves, a shock to his system. “Even now.”

“I told you,” Keith says, eyes stinging, “as many times as it takes.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Shiro says. “Not for me.”

“But I did,” Keith says. “I did. I would have done anything for you, Shiro, anything.”

“I know,” Shiro whispers. “That’s why I couldn’t let you.”

“No,” Keith whispers back, “that’s bullshit, and you know it. I told you I loved you. Did that mean nothing to you? Even though you don’t feel the same, I thought you were better than this. I thought I meant something to you.” His voice breaks. “Anything.”

Allura disappears into the light, Lance close behind.

“Keith,” Shiro says, and Keith wishes Shiro was easier to hate, wishes his cruelty was blatant and ugly. Even then, though, Keith doesn’t think he’d be able to let go.

Hunk smiles at them over his shoulder, a beam of sunshine frozen in time, and the light swallows him up. Pidge follows, holding her head high, tugging Keith along with her

“Goodbye,” Keith says, stepping forward, closer to the growing light, and Shiro’s face crumples. “It’s the end, anyway. What’s done is done.”

Shiro squeezes his hand, and lifts his other hand to Keith’s cheek, brushing silver fingers across the fading scar there. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then there is nothing but blinding silence and the echo of an eternal apology shrouding the words Keith truly wanted to hear, and never will, not in this lifetime.

The Black Lion roars in the hollow space they leave behind, tapering off into a haunting, keening note, until even it dissolves into silence, utter and final.

The realities explode outwards, winding and intricate and endless, each one humming with potential, sighing and whispering their secrets to one another, growing and blooming and never ending, more realities than there are stars, more possibilities than there are lives.

The Universe is saved, and its Paladins are gone.

But between the tangled strands of reality, two whispers rise and fall, and one says, I love you, and the other says, as many times as it takes, and this time, he means it.

*

SEATTLE

2018

Shiro steps onto the Link light rail wearily, brushing his rain-soaked silver hair out of his eyes and stifling a yawn behind his hand as he searches the crowded train car for a single vacant seat.

It’s looking like a lost cause, but Shiro just walked a mile across the UW campus on the night of a Huskies game half the damn city is going to, his feet hurt, he’s unpleasantly damp, and he might love astrophysics but grading freshmen’s astrophysics papers is, Shiro is convinced, the torture of choice in the innermost circle of Hell. He needs sleep. And coffee. At this point, he drinks so much coffee that caffeine might as well be a mild sedative.

Just as the train doors slide shut, Shiro sees his savior — an empty window seat towards the back. With single-minded determination, he presses towards it, hastily pushing past and apologizing to a couple of grumbling elderly Japanese women, a freckled girl in an oversized sweater clutching a cup of boba like a baby, and a man who may or may not be Jeff Bezos’ distantly related cousin.

Once he nears the seat, though, he understands why it’s the only empty one on the train.

The man sitting in the aisle seat has perfected the art of a resting bitch face, and resolutely makes eye contact with no one, thick brows furrowed and black hair hanging into his eyes. He sips his Starbucks drink and does not look up, even when Shiro is standing right next to him and the train jolts into motion.

Shiro peers down at him. He has dumped his black backpack onto the window seat, but his legs are crossed, huddled into his own space. Shiro clears his throat and taps the man’s shoulder. “Uh, excuse me —”

The man’s head jerks up, eyes huge and startled, and Shiro almost crashes into the lady across the aisle in surprise. The guy’s well-hidden earbuds fall out, and he gawks at Shiro like he’s speaking in tongues.

“Sorry – is that seat taken?” Shiro asks, pointing to the seat in question.

The man’s eyes, which are really rather pretty, dart from Shiro to the seat and back again. “Um,” the man says, and coughs, hunching down further. “No?”

“Okay,” Shiro says, gripping the metal seat bar with admittedly white knuckles as the train gains speed, “mind if I sit?”

“Oh,” the man says, and shuffles around, piling his bag into his lap, “um, no, just, go ahead, I —”

The train rounds a sharp corner and Shiro stumbles, jostling the stranger in his seat and making his eyes widen further. “Sorry, sorry,” Shiro says as the man stutters out a similar apology, why is he apologizing, Shiro bumped into him!

Thankfully, the train slows, and the man slides into the window seat, and Shiro all but collapses into the aisle seat, unable to contain his sigh of relief. The man gives him a sideways glance. Shiro catches him looking, and the man flushes, holding his cup closer to him and gulping the coffee down nervously.

“Thanks for the seat,” Shiro offers, not wanting to be the annoying chatty stranger but also not wanting to be rude to the stranger with the pretty eyes.

The man glances up at him through dark lashes. “No problem,” he says. “You, uh, look like you had a rough day.”

Shiro snorts. “Yeah. You could say that. Know anything about quantum field theory?”

The man shakes his head slowly.

“Neither do any of the students in my Astrophysics 102 course,” Shiro sighs, slumping into the seat in defeat. “It’s halfway through the quarter and the average on the last exam was a 63.”

The man blinks at him. “You’re a professor?” he says. “Huh. Kinda young.”

“Thanks for not assuming I’m an ancient because of the hair,” Shiro chuckles. “And I’m only adjunct, anyway. Twenty-seven, fresh out of grad school.”

The man regards him with mildly bemused amusement. “You got a name, ‘twenty-seven fresh out of grad school?’”

Shiro’s ears burn. “Oh! God, it really has been a day. Shiro. I’m Shiro. Nice to meet you…?”

“Keith,” the man says, and reaches out to shake his offered hand. “Twenty-three, fresh out of still figuring it out.”

The moment their hands touch, something happens. Shiro can’t describe it, not with all the technical terms in the world, as anything other than a spark. Not static, either — it’s a tremor that goes through him as Keith grasps his hand and shakes firmly, a tremor that is not nerves or electricity or imagination but familiarity, the shiver of deja vu and muscle memory buried deep within him.

Keith holds his hand for longer than is strictly necessary, a sort of hazy look on his face. “Huh,” he mumbles, and lets go.

“Nice to meet you, Keith,” Shiro says, hoping his voice sounds less breathy to Keith than it does to his own ears.

It doesn’t, judging by the slow curl of Keith’s mouth. “You ride this train a lot?” he asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“Every day,” Shiro says, and smiles back.

*

They find each other on the platform after that, or Keith gets on at the Ave Station and saves him a seat, and sometimes brings boba or chai lattes with strange flavoring that is usually variations of lavender; honey lavender, berry lavender, lemon lavender, and the particularly confusing rose lavender.

Shiro learns that Keith is taking community college classes, works at Starbucks because in Seattle that is one’s lot in life, works weekends as an auto mechanic, does art “among other things” on the side, and that UW is too big and intimidating for comfort but he likes the library and the parties, and most of his friends go there.

Allura is their unofficial leader, a biochemistry grad student with a penchant for botany and mice, of which she has four and lavishes with adoration. She plans to travel the world and join the Peace Corps, using her knowledge to help communities in need around the world. Her boyfriend, Lance, is a junior undergrad studying nursing, but according to Keith, changes his major every other week. He loves Allura so much it would be gross if Keith wasn’t so happy for both of them, has a bit of a reputation on Greek Row, and is a beast at beer pong.

It is heavily implied that Keith also considers himself a beast at beer pong. Secretly, Shiro wants a demonstration.

Lance’s childhood best friend, Hunk, goes to culinary school nearby and is, in Keith’s words, a flavor genius with a heart of gold and a part time gig at his dad’s mechanic shop, which is how Keith got the gig. Hunk’s girlfriend of four years, Shay, works at the Daybreak Star Indian Cultural Center in Discovery Park, and teaches Lushootseed language and culture in schools and other tribal centers.

Pidge, a freshman computer science student, all but forced her way into their group during a particularly heated library debate in which she and Hunk developed a bitter rivalry over “double vs single modulation, whatever that is,” and emerged friends, albeit friends who still fiercely debate nerdy shit.

Shiro enjoys the tales about Keith’s friends, but he can’t help but notice that Keith says very little about himself. To be fair, neither does Shiro, because most of it is depressing or boring as hell, and Keith deserves none of that mess.

Keith gets off at the Pioneer Square Station to go to work, and Shiro disembarks right after, in the International District, to go home. Their train rides are never long enough. The more days pass, the more Shiro is drawn to the rich tenor of Keith’s voice, the expressive arch of his brows, the soft tilt of his lips, the slow flutter of his lashes, and the sharp, strong, stark beauty of his profile as he turns, just so, to look out the window and comment on the world as it flies by.

Shiro rarely falls for people, but when he does, there’s no escaping it. He tries, albeit halfheartedly, and ends up floundering deeper and deeper into a baffling sea of growing, aching fondness.

He brings Keith a coffee one day to mix it up and they end up with four assorted coffee drinks, and Keith, laughing, gives Shiro his number so they can coordinate who’s bringing what next time.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Keith adds later, taking a sip and giving him a pained smile.

“What is it?” Shiro asks worriedly. “Is it bad? Do you prefer it black?”

Keith shakes his head, smiling a little. “No,” he says, “no it’s great, Shiro. Just not used to...people doing stuff like that for me.”

“But you bring me a drink every time,” Shiro points out. “Wouldn’t it be kind of selfish to not return the favor?”

Keith’s smile falls and he nods. “Guess so,” he says.

*

One day, after a week of nothing but rain, Keith welcomes him to their usual seat with a discounted Starbucks drink and says, “Do you believe in alternate realities?”

Shiro hands Keith a chai, takes his drink, takes a sip, hums approvingly, and raises his eyebrows. “Is this an astrophysics question?”

Keith raises his eyebrows back. “Guess.”

“I’m guessing you don’t want me to explain the Multiverse Theory,” Shiro sighs in mock disappointment.

“Rain check,” Keith says, and there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes. He leans closer and lowers his voice. “We’ve known each other, what, a few months, now?”

“Three and a half months,” Shiro says, too quick.

Keith’s lips quirk. “Right. So you won’t think I’m crazy if I tell you I’ve been having really weird dreams?”

Shiro frowns, leaning his chin in his palm. “Okay, I’ll bite. Weird how?”

“They’re...about these lions,” Keith says, furrowing his brow and looking away like the first time they met, like he’s suddenly embarrassed again. “Colorful lions, except...they aren’t real. They’re like robots. And it’s...well, you’re there.” Shiro’s eyes widen. “I mean, everyone is, my friends, Allura and Hunk and Lance and Pidge and you, we’re all...in the lions, like we’re controlling them.” Keith scratches the back of his neck.

Shiro takes a minute to process that. The dull roar of the train surrounds them in a comforting cushion of white noise. Keith watches him, steady, and bites his lip. “Are they good dreams?” Shiro finally asks.

Keith’s gaze lowers. “I don’t know,” he admits. “When I wake up...Shiro, I’ve never had dreams like these before. They feel so vivid, more like memories. And the things I feel in the dreams, the emotions, they...they don’t go away when I wake up.”

“I used to have pretty shitty dreams,” Shiro muses. “Those were fever dreams from too many meds, though, these sound different. You’re not taking hallucinogens, are you?”

Keith doesn’t laugh. “Never mind,” he sighs. “It’s weird. I just wanted to know if you had any like them.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Sorry, none.” He pauses. “Wait, what am I like in these dreams?”

Keith clears his throat. “Uh,” he says. “You have a glowing purple prosthetic arm that can shoot lasers out of it.”

Shiro whistles, holding up his high-tech but sadly laser-free right arm and wiggling the fingers. “Dream Me sounds way cooler than the nerdy reality, huh?”

Keith laughs, and mercifully changes the subject.

*

The next day, disaster strikes.

The ticket inspector boards the train at the University Stadium Station and Keith shrinks down in his seat, gritting his teeth. “Oh, shit,” Keith breathes, glancing from the door to the ticket inspector and back again. She’s on the opposite end of the car, but she’s moving fast.

Shiro pats his Orca Card in his pocket, just to make sure it’s still there. It is, of course. “What’s wrong?” Shiro asks, raising an eyebrow. “There wouldn’t happen to be a problem with your ticket, would there?”

Keith gulps and stares at him. “I don’t have one,” he says.

“Keith! Wait, have you ever had a ticket –” Shiro starts, silenced by Keith’s desperate glare.

“We gotta get off this train,” Keith declares.

As if Shiro could ever say no to him. “Okay,” he agrees easily, setting his law-abiding citizen self aside in an instant.

Keith blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. What else are friends for? C’mon, stay behind me, I’ll cover you.” Shiro stands, judging the distance between them and the door. “I’m guessing we have about fifteen seconds, twenty, optimistically —”

“You? An optimist? Funny.”

“Oh, shut —”

Darkness washes over them as the train plunges into a tunnel. Shiro, giddy with the thrill of rebellion, grabs Keith’s hand without a thought and leads him down the steps and into the crush of people. Keith gasps, stumbling in the dark and falling into Shiro, grabbing blindly for his jacket, and Shiro steadies him with a hand on the back of his neck, and Keith looks up, eyes wide and lips parted, and Shiro knows it makes no sense but he swears Keith’s eyes glint where they catch his, the faintest glint of vivid gold.

The train barrels out of the tunnel and towards the station. In the pale wash of fluorescents, Keith’s face glows with surprise. Brakes screech as the light rail rolls into the station, and the doors hiss open, and Shiro yanks Keith across the threshold and onto the platform as the ticket inspector turns to them with a suspicious glance.

Capitol Hill Station is bustling with rush hour crowds, so the two of them manage to slip through the churning mass of people, evade any other inspectors, and bolt up the escalator like a pair of giddy thieves. They don’t stop running until they’ve crossed the mezzanine and scaled two flights of stairs to freedom, at which point the station spits them out on Broadway and they stand, panting and grinning and victorious, in front of the buzzing red neon sign of Dick’s Drive-In.

Keith turns to him. “Burgers on me?”

Shiro’s heart skips a beat. “Sure,” he chuckles, “as long as you let me buy you a light rail ticket, you delinquent.”

Keith’s grin is crooked. “Delinquent,” he repeats, and snorts. “Do you seriously think I rode free every day?”

Shiro blinks. “I – I don’t know, did you?”

“Duh,” Keith says, shrugging and crossing the street with a smirk. “Money is just a social construct. Stick it to the fuckin’ man, Shiro. Down with the capitalist agenda.”

“You know,” Shiro says, jogging after him, “I think you’re joking, but I’m not sure, and the uncertainty is worrying.”

“Stay uncertain,” Keith says over his shoulder. “It’s how they keep the masses subdued.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Delinquent,” he whispers. Keith flips him off, and buys them burgers and shakes for the remarkable price of $10. Shiro missed fast food. The grease is to die for.

“I’m not a communist. My dog ate my Orca Card last night,” Keith explains around a fry when they’re sitting down on a nearby park bench.

Shiro chokes on a pickle and Keith smacks his back. “You — you have a dog?” he manages.

“Yes,” Keith says. “His name is Kosmo and this is the third Orca Card he’s destroyed.”

“Kosmo,” Shiro repeats. “Cute, minus the smart card destruction. What breed?”

Keith shrugs. “Big,” he says. “Kind of blue-grayish. Lance thinks he’s a wolf.”

It’s a very Keith thing to not know if he’s housing and feeding an actual wolf. “Is he?”

“Don’t know, don’t really care,” Keith admits. “He’s mine, anyway. Found him in an alley as a puppy a few years back, and raised him since then.” He smiles at the memory, swirling his straw through his milkshake. “You have any pets?”

“A cat,” Shiro says. “Her name is Axion.”

Keith tilts his head. “Cool name. What’s it mean?”

Shiro winces. “It’s very nerdy,” he says.

“Okay,” Keith says, nonplussed. “Tell me.”

“It’s...so, you know dark matter? UW has this project, the ADMX or Axion Dark Matter Experiment, and it uses a, um, super strong magnetic field in the local galactic dark matter halo to try to find and convert cold dark matter axions to detectable to microwave photons…” Shiro clears his throat.

Keith is leaning forward with an expression of undeniable fascination. “Are axions theoretical, then, like dark matter?”

Shiro is screwed, as if he wasn’t before. “Yes, they’re hypothetical proposed elementary particles.”

“And what about the galactic dark matter halo? Are you saying you’re searching the entire galaxy?”

“Halos are also theoretical,” Shiro explains, “but they would explain irregular patterns in galaxy rotation curves and —” He takes an apologetic bite of his burger. “Basically I named her Axion because axions are in dark matter and she’s a black cat.”

“And because you’re a huge nerd,” Keith says, leaning on his elbows, smiling wide. “It’s a good name.”

“Thanks,” Shiro says, throat very dry. “Kosmo is great, too. Are you, uh, into space?”

Keith looks down. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Always wanted to be an astronaut, actually. But it was one of those ‘what do you wanna be when you grow up’ kid dreams.”

“Kid dreams are still important,” Shiro says, and Keith looks up.

“Did you want to be an astronaut?” he asks.

Shiro swallows. They’ve known each other for almost four months. But he can count on one hand the number of people who know about his condition.

“Not exactly,” Shiro says. “I wasn’t sure I would have much of a future, most of the time.” Keith’s eyes widen. Shiro waves his metal right arm, and Keith’s eyes zero in on it, uncertain. “Don’t worry about it, it’s good, now. All good.”

Keith’s brow furrows, unsatisfied with that, as he should be. “What happened?”

Shiro chews his lip. “I was sick,” he says. “Really sick.”

Keith makes a soft sound and doesn’t press. “Ah. And now…?”

“All clear,” Shiro says, offering him a little smile. “Somehow. I’m not complaining, though.”

“Neither am I,” Keith says, and gives him a fry. It tastes like happiness.

It’s strange, being with Keith outside of the confines of the train. Out here, in the wide open world, he seems wilder, a barely contained force of the best kind. The wind tousles his hair and raindrops settle in black locks like starlight and it is all at once too much and not enough.

They walk back to the light rail station as the rain begins to fall in a soft drizzle, and Keith tips his head up to the sky and says, “I miss thunder. And lightning.”

“Huh,” Shiro says, staring up at the inky black clouds with him. “Why is that?”

“I’m from Arizona,” Keith says as if that explains everything.

“Get a lot of rain in Arizona, do you?” Shiro jokes.

“We get all our rain in one go,” Keith replies. “Summer monsoons. Streets flood, power lines go down, trees snap in half — not like the rain here. Seattle rain is constant but...gentle, I guess? Monsoons are pure force of nature. I used to lie in bed at night, listening to the rain pounding against the roof and feeling the thunder rumble through the air and the earth and the house, and I would count the beats afterwards, until the lightning struck over the desert, and lit up the night.” He tilts his head, lips curving in fond memory.

“Wow,” Shiro whispers. “That sounds like...something else.” He isn’t just talking about the storms.

“It is,” Keith sighs. “It’s like nothing else.”

“Why did you leave, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Arizona is a shithole,” Keith says with a wry grin. “My shithole, but still. Had to get out. Glad I did, even if I miss it.”

“Think you’ll ever go back?”

“I hope so,” Keith murmurs. “Eventually.”

The light turns green and they walk across the rainbow crosswalk, and Shiro looks at it as subtly as possible as they pass, but apparently not subtly enough, because Keith remarks, “Huh. Forgot they had these in Cap Hill.”

Shiro glances at him. Keith’s expression is unreadable and it is nerve-wracking. “They’re nice,” Shiro offers, trying to keep his tone neutral, trying to convince himself he won’t be utterly devastated if Keith disagrees.

“Uh-huh,” Keith says, still equivocal. He pauses. “The rain makes the colors so much brighter, look.”

They cross the street and stand there together, looking at the rainbow crosswalk which gleams with the vibrance of wet pavement under the shifting traffic lights.

“You’re right,” Shiro muses, tilting his head. “I’ve never noticed that before.”

Keith turns. “They should paint more crosswalks like that,” is all he says. It’s all he needs to say for the fearful weight to lift from Shiro’s chest, and for hope to settle in its place, fragile but comforting.

Shiro hums in wholehearted agreement, and smiles more than a little helplessly the whole way back to the light rail station.

Once there, he makes good on his promise to buy Keith a ticket.

“You don’t have to,” Keith insists, face scrunching up when Shiro side-eyes him and inserts his credit card. “Hmph.”

“No, I don’t have to,” Shiro agrees, handing him the ticket as the machine spits it out, “but I want to.”

Keith’s fingers brush his when he takes the ticket. Rain clings to his eyelashes, darkening them when he blinks. “Yeah?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and nudges him towards the stairs. “Go catch your train. See you on Monday.”

Keith hesitates. “Actually...are you busy Saturday night?”

Shiro’s heart thuds violently. “No, just grading papers,” Shiro says, folding his arms. “Why?”

“I dunno what kind of music you’re into,” Keith says, “but one of my roommates is in a punk band and they’re playing a house show on 11th Ave and Hamlin Street tomorrow night, doors open at six. The house is slated for demolition in a couple months so the tenants can do whatever they want with it...so they turned it into a free venue and a playground for college kids, basically.”

A punk house show? God, Shiro aspires to be as cool as Keith. “Um,” Shiro croaks, “won’t it be weird for me to come if it’s for college students?”

Keith gives him an unimpressed look. “My roommate is twenty-six, and the band’s drummer is thirty-something. It’ll only be weird if you show up in your professor uniform.” Keith’s gaze rakes over Shiro’s gray sweater vest and black slacks. “You do own other clothes, right?”

Shiro huffs, face hot under Keith’s critical eye. “Of course I do!”

“Cool,” Keith says, losing his brief bravado and shuffling towards the stairs. “So, I’ll, uh, text you?”

“Please do,” Shiro says, and Keith smiles, waves, and takes the stairs down two at a time, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder.

*

Shiro watches his Lyft drive off and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling very out of his element already. The house is a Victorian monstrosity, sagging porch overflowing with laughing people, cigarette smoke, and wafting curls of weed, the front door flung open and spilling warm yellow light out onto the dark porch steps and street.

Cars line the curb and trash speckles the patchy grass like flowers – beer cans, cigarette butts, condoms, questionable ziplock bags. A few people glance at Shiro with vague interest as he picks his hesitant way through them and towards the intimidating maw of the venue Keith has informed him is humbly called “The Empire.”

There’s a guy sitting at a card table in front of the door with a cash box full of crumpled bills. “Five bucks to get in,” he says, arms folded.

Shiro swallows. “I, um, Keith invited me?”

The guy raises an eyebrow. “Keith? Keith who?”

It is then that Shiro realizes he has no fucking clue what Keith’s surname is. “Um,” he squeaks, and fumbles for his phone. “He – he’s friends with someone in the band –”

The guy’s eyes narrow. “Oh, yeah? Who? Which band?”

“I – don’t know?”

“Listen,” the guy sighs, “do you have five bucks, or not?”

“Shiro! You made it!”

Keith walks out of the doorway in a leather jacket and jeans that look spray-painted on. His hair is smoothed back in a casually messy black mane, and maybe Shiro’s imagination is just playing tricks on him, but his mouth looks redder, shinier. A beer bottle hangs from his fingers and when he reaches Shiro, Keith throws an easy arm around his shoulders and tugs him past the card table. “Hey, Sal. He’s with me.”

The guy grunts, rolls his eyes, and lights a cigarette.

“Keith,” Shiro says as Keith drags him into The Empire, the smell of alcohol and fresh paint hitting him full force, “good to see you.”

Keith smiles and lets go of him, gesturing vaguely to their surroundings. “You too. Well, what d’you think? Pretty wild, huh?”

“Wild,” Shiro repeats, looking at the walls and their layers of psychedelic murals and garish graffiti, “definitely.”

Keith laughs, and grabs his wrist, leading him out of the foyer and towards the back of the house. “C’mon, let’s get you a beer.” Keith looks back at him. “If you want one, that is. They got water and soda too...oh, and I think Hunk brought cider.”

“Cider sounds good,” Shiro manages, and stumbles when Keith beams at him. “Are all of your friends here?”

“Most of ‘em.” They walk through what looks like someone’s half-hearted attempt at a bedroom and then they’re in the kitchen, which is significantly more chill than the rest of the house. Through the windows overlooking the backyard, Shiro can see a roaring bonfire surrounded by dark silhouettes. Someone yells, distantly, BURN, BABY, BURRRN!

Keith pats his shoulder. “You look freaked out. Don’t be, you get used to it.” Then he pauses, and takes a step back. “Hey. You do own other clothes.”

Shiro tugs at the sleeves of his white Henley and shrugs. “Yeah. Just a few.”

Keith mutters something under his breath, then says, “When do nerdy professors have time to hit the gym?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “I make time,” he says, inwardly preening because Keith noticed.

Keith purses his lips, avoiding eye contact. “Uh-huh.”

“Keith, my man!” A big guy with dark skin, a bright orange sweatband, and an armful of cookies and drinks rounds the corner, grinning when he sees them. “And hey, you must be Shiro! Nice to meet you, I’m Hunk.” He dumps the container full of cookies and the six-pack of cider on the counter and gives Shiro an enthusiastic handshake which threatens to break his knuckles in the friendliest way possible. “Hey, Lance! Keith’s here, and he brought Shiro!”

The back door busts open and a tall, skinny guy with slightly singed hair and piercing blue eyes stumbles in. Shiro would bet money he was the one yelling about burning shit. “Heyyy!” Lance exclaims in Shiro’s face. “So he does exist. You know, I was pretty sure Keith was making you up, dude.”

“Nope, I’m real,” Shiro chuckles. Keith’s arms are crossed and his face is red. “Why, what kind of stories has Keith told you?”

Lance giggles and swipes a cookie from Hunk, who swats him upside the head. “Oh, y’know, stuff. Things.” He winks and Keith narrows his eyes at him. Lance, who seems to have an attention span of five seconds, turns in a full circle and says, “Has anyone seen Allura? She took my drink and also I wanna kiss her a lot.”

“Ugh,” Keith groans, and pushes him towards the other door. “She went to help set up Zee’s drums with Pidge.”

“Pidge is here?” Shiro hisses as Lance leaves with Hunk, who tells them to take as many cookies and drinks as they like. Keith nods. “But she’s – a freshman –”

“You haven’t met her,” Keith says grimly. Not thirty seconds later, someone very short with fluffy light brown hair and owlish glasses wanders in, a mini wine bottle in each hand. “Speak of the Devil,” Keith sighs. “Hey, pigeon. This is Shiro.”

She squints up at them and puts a hand (and wine bottle) on one hip. “Hi. I’m Pidge. Lance stole my joint. Again.”

“Tragic,” Keith says, and hands her a cookie. She takes it, savagely bites it in half, and saunters out.

“I see,” Shiro says, a little awed. “Wow. She’s kind of a badass.”

“And freshman you wasn’t?” Keith asks.

Shiro barks out a laugh and grabs a cider, because he’s gonna need it, especially if he has to talk about his first year of college and look at Keith’s cherry red mouth while doing it. “Uh, no,” Shiro says. “I was a mess.”

“You, a mess?” Keith leans back against the counter. “Can’t picture it.”

“Like I’m so put-together,” Shiro snorts, but Keith doesn’t laugh.

“You are,” Keith says. “You’re smart and adult and you’ve got your shit figured out. Bet you have a gym membership and a 401k and everything.”

“I – okay, I do have that – I have both –” Keith bursts into laughter and Shiro splutters. “I like to be prepared! It’s important to plan for the future!”

Keith’s smile is so soft it hurts. “It is,” he agrees. “You just actually do it. The rest of us just…”

“Have fun?” Shiro sighs and snaps open the cider can. “Fun is important, too.”

Keith shifts closer, brows scrunched together. “Isn’t that what you’re here to do?” he murmurs.

Shiro licks his lips and drinks his cider. “I’m trying, yeah.”

In the next room, a guitar strums and an amp screeches. Keith jerks his head towards the sound. “Fun is that way,” he says.

“I’ll follow you,” Shiro promises, and he does.

*

Lost in a cloud of smoke and sound, they dance together, jumping and screaming to the pound and clash of drums, the wicked snarl of guitars, and the steady heartbeat of the bass. The lead singer’s voice arches above them in strident peals of half-heard words, but Shiro thinks the chorus goes something like this: You’re my home and I hate when you’re gone, to love you is to lose you, to hate you is to miss you.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Keith shouts in his ear, lips brushing his jaw, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, peering at her over the banging heads and pumping fists. “That’s your roommate?”

“Uh-huh, Acxa,” Keith says. “Coolest chick I know.”

Under the strobes Acxa is a bold figure in black and purple, her mouth a black-lipstick slash as she finishes the bridge and shreds the guitar solo. Behind her, the bassist, a redhead with a wild grin, colorful tattoo sleeves, and a ponytail down to her waist dances around the small stage, kicking up her heeled boots and narrowly missing the amps in a chaotic display of energy. And behind her, the drummer looms over her set, teeth bared and sweat dripping down her face, eyeliner streaking and magenta mohawk plastered to her skull.

“They all look like cool chicks!” Shiro shouts back.

Keith presses closer to the stage, dragging Shiro with him. “They’re called General Femme for a reason!”

“Because they’re lesbians?” Shiro asks, confused and tipsy.

Keith chortles and shakes his head. “That too!”

“Badass lesbians,” Shiro says firmly, waving his right hand around to the music and grinning. “Hell yeah!”

Keith cheers loudly with him, almost falling into Shiro in his haphazard dancing. Somewhere between the third song and the fifth, someone passes around shots, and Shiro spills vodka half into his mouth, half down his shirt. Keith tries to dry it off and only succeeds in unintentionally feeling him up. Shiro feels everywhere Keith touches him in high definition, his warm weight against Shiro’s side and clumsy hands on Shiro’s chest threatening to unbalance him in every sense of the word.

Keith gets another beer and chugs half of it in one go, pressing the rim of the bottle to Shiro’s parted lips while Acxa screams hoarsely into the mic and the crowd surges in approval.

You’re not the you I remember, hit me like you mean it, sweetheart, or leave me in the dark. Keith stares up at him with moonlit eyes and the beer is warm and tingling on Shiro’s tongue and the zippers and buttons on Keith’s jacket dig through thin cotton, leaving cold metal kisses on his skin. I’ll save you on my life but you, won’t lift a finger, a fucking finger, how hard is it to say you love me too?

The lights cut and the crowd loses it, demanding an encore and crashing into each other in a perpetual mosh pit. A glass shatters. Keith’s breath is hot on his throat and Shiro wants another drink.

“It’s warm in here,” Keith says.

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers, and for a second, so quick he almost misses it, the world shifts, and they are alone, surrounded by dark nothing, and he stares up at Keith and Keith says, I’m not giving up on you, and holds his hand like a lifeline, and light rushes up around them and swallows them whole.

Shiro starts, taking a step back. “What the —”

“Shiro?” Keith's voice is slow, staticky and muffled in his roaring ears. “Hey, you good?”

“Fine,” Shiro gasps, shaking himself. “You —”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Keith’s heat leaves him in a cold, unwelcome second, the cause of it a gloved hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“Lotor,” Keith says, making no move to push him away. The stranger named Lotor leans into Keith’s space too much for Shiro’s liking; he’s tall, well-dressed, and too handsome to be trustworthy, long silver hair tied back in a bun that spills down the nape of his neck in thin, shining strands. His gaze on Keith is familiar and his lips curl. “Shiro,” Keith says by way of introduction, and Lotor’s hazel eyes flit to him with a hint of intrigue.

“Pleasure,” Lotor says, and immediately turns back to Keith. “The show’s almost over – do you have a moment? Promise I won’t take up too much of your time...”

“Right,” Keith says, and squeezes Shiro’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll be back in a sec.” Then the two of them are gone, leaving Shiro alone in the teeming crowd. Lotor keeps his hand on the small of Keith’s back as he leads him away and Shiro feels sick, thinking of cherry red lips.

The last song is slow and almost too soft.

Sunsets were ours, we counted the stars, and you called me baby, and I called you mine, so sing me to sleep, ‘cause you’re my lullaby.

Keith’s face in the void, bare with grief and desperate longing, haunts him. Shiro gets ahold of another shot from the generous crowd and downs it, hands shaking. This isn’t normal. It can’t be. Maybe he’s been drugged. That’s the only explanation. His drink was laced with ketamine, or ecstasy, or some unholy mixture of the two...but he knows in his gut that isn’t it.

It doesn’t feel like he’s seeing things that aren’t there. It feels like he’s reliving a past he never had, watching stolen clips from someone else’s life, and yet...it also feels right. Like it belongs to him. Like Keith belongs…

He shakes himself, trembling with uncertainty and nerves. Keith is the stranger on the train with pretty eyes, nothing more.

So why did he feel like Shiro’s entire world in the moments when the party faded away and left only the two of them behind?

It’s killing me when you’re away, so give me mercy...this one’s for you, it’s always for you, who else could there be for me, baby, my baby?

Shiro’s head pounds and he stumbles away from the stage, rubbing his temples. The room swims and tilts and he grits his teeth, straightening up and forcing his way out of the crowd; the house is choking and claustrophobic and he needs out.

He leans on the doorframe heavily to catch his breath, and a mural catches his eye; a symbol he’s never seen before but that fills him with vague dread, painted in sharp streaks of angry violet, vaguely M-shaped, glowing in the dim foyer.

The images flash through his mind with sudden violence; wet sand beneath his feet, blood dripping down his hands, a crowd cheering all around him, a sword swinging through the air, a shadow falling over him, glowing yellow eyes and sharp teeth, and then a slice of white-hot pain across the bridge of his nose, blinding in its agony; he doubles over and clutches his face in breathless shock.

Then it’s gone, and there’s a guy shoving past him, huge and muscled and with a gnarled tattoo crawling up and over his left forearm. He grimaces down at Shiro. “Watch where you’re going,” he growls.

Still shaking with adrenaline and at once remembering the somehow familiar snarl of sharp teeth and yellow eyes, Shiro punches him in the face.

His metal fist connects with a sick crunch and the guy reels backwards, spitting out blood and lunging for Shiro in retaliation. It happens fast – he slams Shiro against the wall and Shiro has never been a fighter, not against other people, anyway, but it’s like muscle memory when he ducks and kicks and lands another hit, only to stumble to his knees when a massive fist catches his cheekbone in a ringing thud of dull pain and white fireworks.

“Fuck is wrong with you?!” the guy demands, kicking him while he’s down, and Shiro snarls wordlessly and surges up; the guy shoves him down again and under his crushing weight Shiro panics, scrabbling against him, metal fingers digging into his bicep as hard as possible.

A meaty hand closes around Shiro’s throat and Shiro gasps desperately for air, landing another solid punch before his vision starts to spot and bile rises in his throat and he can’t see the man anymore; no, what pins him to the beer-stained floor of The Empire is not a man, but a beast, violet fur and needle white teeth and an eye that is slitted and yellow and an eye that is not an eye at all but mechanical, red and glaring and relentless.

The man’s lips do not move but he says, clear as anything, Victory or death, and Shiro tries to scream but there is no oxygen left in his lungs.

Someone else does scream, though, and the hand around his throat is ripped away, the weight of the man shoved off, and Shiro curls into an instinctively defensive ball, breathing hard, trying not to puke his guts out.

“You stay the fuck away from him!”

Keith, Shiro thinks, pressing his right hand to his eyes.

“Crazy fucker punched me first! Bet he’ll hit you too, get offa me!”

No, Shiro thinks, his thoughts a bleary mess of cobwebs, I don’t want to hurt anyone . But I had to. Why did I have to?

“Sendak.” Lotor’s cool voice cuts through the cacophony of the house. “You always were good at making scenes. Enough.”

“Get him out of here,” Keith orders, and brief sounds of a scuffle follow, men grunting and bodies shoved into walls.

Sendak swears, and his footsteps recede down the creaking porch steps, and into the distance.

Keith kneels beside him, helping Shiro up carefully. “Don’t,” Shiro whispers, swaying on his feet, “don’t touch me…”

Keith’s lips thin. “Sorry, I have to or you’ll fall on your ass. How much did you have to drink? Jesus, Shiro.”

Shiro hangs his head. “I didn’t...I don’t know what’s happening.”

Keith sighs, tucking his arm around Shiro’s waist and leading him to the door. “You gonna punch me, huh?”

“No,” Shiro whispers, horrified. “I didn’t mean to, he just…” He swallows. “Reminded me of someone.”

“Sendak is a dick, especially when he’s drunk,” Keith mutters. “Who did he remind you of?”

“Someone bad,” Shiro says lamely, squeezing his eyes shut. “Dunno.”

Keith’s grip tightens. “Someone who hurt you?”

Shiro nods slowly. “Think so.”

Keith sucks in a breath. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna get you home, okay? Oh. Hey, Allura.”

“Keith, I’ve been looking for you all night. Oh, my. Is everything alright? Lance said there was a fight...”

Shiro peers through his sweaty hair at her; she peers back with worried, bright eyes and as their gazes meet for the first time, a sensation of utter calmness and peace  washes over him. She offers him a small, uncertain smile.

“Hello, Shiro, my name is Allura,” she says gently, and blearily Shiro thinks he would win a war for her if she asked him to.

Oblivious to Shiro’s awed epiphany, Keith says, “Yeah, Sendak was choking him out when I found them – he’s okay, though. Just shaken up, slightly bruised, and...wasted.”

“I have so many papers to grade, Keith,” Shiro groans, and slumps into his side.

Allura covers her mouth. “I see. Hm. Well...I do hope we get to meet Shiro again, under less...unfortunate circumstances.” She nods to him. “Keith will take good care of you; he’s a good friend and one of the kindest people I have ever –”

“Right, thanks, Allura, later,” Keith says in a rush, and manhandles Shiro out the door and down the steps.

“That was rude,” Shiro slurs, “she was complimenting you…”

“She was exaggerating,” Keith grumbles, opening the Uber app. “And anyway, you’re drunk, so shuddup.”

“You’re drunk too,” Shiro says petulantly, poking his face. Keith smacks his hand away and Shiro tries not to feel too totally crushed by the rejection.

“I don’t have a black eye,” Keith snaps, “and for once, I didn’t start any fights, you did. The goody two shoes professor. Who knew?”

Shiro goes quiet, and stays quiet until they pile into the back of the Uber, and Shiro, face mashed against the cold window, mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

Keith glances at him and sighs, shaking his head. “What? For getting in a fight? It happens.”

Shiro lifts his head with effort and looks at Keith through bleary eyes. “I think I was a bad person,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You asked about alternate realities...I think the other me is bad, Keith. I think he hurt people...or worse.”

Keith stares at him with eyes that look too similar to the dream’s. “You’re not a bad person,” he says. “Shiro, punching one dude doesn’t make you —”

“Keith, listen to me,” Shiro whispers. “They were scared of me. You were…” He buries his head in his hands. “I don’t want to fight anyone.”

Keith’s hand settles warm and hesitant over his own, and Shiro peeks at him through his fingers. “Then don’t,” Keith murmurs. “You don’t have to fight, here, now.”

Shiro lowers his head and slumps back against the seat. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“It will be,” Keith promises, and fumbles for his hand, tangling Shiro’s trembling fingers with his own.

*

Keith’s U District apartment is empty and dark when they arrive. As soon as Shiro steps over the threshold, he staggers and clutches at his head, groaning as a killer mixture of head trauma and vodka pounds through his skull. Keith makes a soft sound. “How bad is it?” he mutters. “Should I have taken you to the hospital?”

Shiro jerks away and immediately regrets the sudden movement. “No,” he snaps. “No hospitals.”

Keith steps away, brow low. “No hospitals,” he repeats, and gets bowled over by a huge bundle of dark fur.

“That’s a wolf,” Shiro mumbles as he collapses onto the nearest couch, which actually turns out to be a dog bed. Consequently, the wolf pounces on him, next, sniffing accusingly at his face and, after reaching some apparent conclusion about whether or not he is worthy to be in Keith’s presence, slobbers all over his face and sits on him.

“Kosmo,” Keith says, pushing ineffectually on the wolf’s side, “don’t kill Shiro. I like Shiro. Bad dog…”

Kosmo barks and drools on Shiro’s shirt. Shiro closes his eyes and accepts his fate. “Wolf,” he corrects. “You have a wolf, Keith.”

Kosmo barks and sniffs Shiro’s right arm before trying to fit his entire mouth around the metal bicep. “Kosmo, no!” Keith shrieks. “That is not a toy!”

“It comes off,” Shiro snorts, wriggling to try to detach it. “Your wolf wants to play fetch with my arm...heh.”

Keith finally wins the battle to free Shiro and Kosmo huffs in reluctant defeat, trotting off to the kitchen with his fluffy tail held high. Shiro stays flopped over in the dog bed until Keith hauls him up, inspecting his prosthesis for bite marks. “Kosmo is not playing fetch with your arm,” Keith says firmly. “This thing’s gotta cost a fortune…”

“Uh-huh,” Shiro says, wiggling the metal fingers. “Quarter of a million.”

Keith almost drops him. “Fuck.”

“You could probably sell it on the black market,” Shiro adds. “You could almost be able to afford living in Seattle…”

Keith snorts and shakes his head. “I think you might miss it.”

Shiro almost crashes into the wall; Keith tugs him closer and walks him into the bathroom in one piece, miraculously. “Maybe,” Shiro says as Keith sits him down on the toilet seat, “but it’s still not the real thing. I miss that more.”

Keith eyes him while rummaging through the medicine cabinet and knocking various things out into the sink as he does. “When’d you lose it?” he asks absently, as if not really expecting an answer.

Shiro stares at the white ceiling and shivers. “When I was twenty,” he sighs.

Keith kneels down next to the toilet with antiseptic and an ice pack Shiro doesn’t remember him getting. “What happened?”

Shiro hums when Keith presses the cold pack to his face. “Osteosarcoma,” he says. Keith tilts his head. “Stage 4 bone cancer,” Shiro adds, and Keith blanches, almost dropping the ice.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Shiro doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Keith, but he touches Shiro’s face a little more gently.

After a few minutes, Keith clears his throat and nods to the bloodied tissues in the trash. “Think I got all of it. Keep the ice on, yeah?”

Shiro nods slowly. “Thanks, Keith.”

Keith sits back on his heels and leans his head against the cabinets. On the white bathroom tile at Shiro’s feet, he looks so small, but his unfocused eyes are intent; magnetic, powerful. Shiro is but a moth to flame.

“You should stay the night,” Keith says.

Shiro is too tired to argue. “Alright.”

With difficulty, they both stand up and stagger out of the bathroom and into the hallway. They’re greeted by a dark figure, her hands on her hips. Shiro tries to move in front of Keith, something hot and protective surging up in his chest, but Keith holds him fast and yawns, “Acxa. Good show.”

“Uh-huh.” Her lipstick gleams in the low light, a soft curve of polished iron. “You two got fucked up.”

Keith shrugs. “Shiro punched a guy.”

“Who?”

“Sendak.”

“Huh.” Acxa’s lips quirk. “Probably deserved it. He’s not exactly a pacifist.”

Keith snorts. “No. Aren’t you proud I didn’t deck him this time?”

“Proud is not the word I would use,” Acxa sighs. “Did Lotor find you?”

Shiro stiffens and Keith nods. “Yeah. You were right, he knows what he’s doing.”

“Glad to hear it.” She reaches out and squeezes Keith’s shoulder. “Tell me about it in the morning, okay?”

Keith nods, Acxa says goodnight, and Shiro numbly lets Keith lead him into a dark room. “I can take the floor, um, if you’re not cool with –”

They both topple onto the bed and Shiro blinks dumbly at Keith’s sleepy face. “I’m cool with it,” Keith slurs, closing his eyes. “‘Night, Shiro.”

It’s too easy to relax into the soft mattress and warm body nestled beside him. “G’night, Keith,” Shiro sighs, and crashes into the deepest sleep he’s had in months.

*

He awakes in Keith’s bed with a deathwish.

“I want to die,” Shiro says, squinting into the wide yellow eyes of the wolf-dog standing over him. “Can you please kill me? Put me out of my misery?”

“Bork,” Kosmo says, and licks his face. Shiro takes that as a no. Disappointing.

“Kosmo, off. Glad you’re awake, how’s the hangover?”

Keith is standing in the doorway, looking practically angelic, at least compared to how Shiro feels. He’s holding a plate of eggs and fruit and something that smells like heaven. Shiro bolts upright and Kosmo scrambles off in alarm. “Coffee?” Shiro leans forward eagerly.

Then he realizes where he is. Who he’s talking to. What he said last night...what he did last night. What did he do last night? The details are fuzzy and Shiro is not a fan of that.

Oblivious to his silent panic attack, Keith tosses him a water bottle. “Drink that first. Ease into the coffee.”

Shiro catches the bottle and eyes him. At least all his clothes are intact. “Got the hangover cure down to a science, huh?”

“Unfortunately. Here.” Keith sits down on the bed next to him and hands him the plate of food only after he takes a few generous swigs of water. He keeps the coffee mug hostage.

Shiro gapes at him, scandalized. “You want me to eat on your bed?”

Keith shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Good to have the Shiro I know back.”

Shiro huffs and snatches the coffee from him. “You mean the goody two shoes? I remember that, and I resent it.”

Keith leans back on his elbows and chuckles. “You did break Sendak’s nose. Not that good, after all.”

Shiro swallows. “I did? Shit –”

“Hey, calm down, you’re fine,” Keith murmurs. “Lotor will make sure he doesn’t press charges or anything.”

“Lotor,” Shiro repeats, and sips his coffee fiercely. “Friend of yours?”

Keith gives him an odd look. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of. He’s more Acxa’s friend than mine, she introduced me to him a couple months ago.” Keith fiddles with his hands. “He’s got a rich dad, deep pockets, knows all sorts of people. He’s a good person to have on your side.”

Shiro’s gut churns. “Sounds like it.” He sets the plate aside; the mere thought of food is suddenly nauseating. “I better get back...thanks for letting me stay the night, and for, well, everything. I promise I’m usually not such a shitty friend.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “You’re not –”

“See you on Monday,” Shiro says, giving Kosmo a pet and apologetically handing Keith the plate. Keith blinks at him, a line between his brows. “Doubleshot on ice?”

Keith nods slowly. “Sure, Shiro.”

*

But Shiro does not see him on Monday. Shiro stays late Monday for student conferences and Way Too Adult conferences, and is close to tearing his hair out before he finally leaves near midnight.

Keith texts him around six: you ok?

Shiro replies: Stuck at work. Sorry :(

Keith replies, fast: that’s ok. i’ll drink an espresso in ur honor

Please do. Around eight, he sends, Keith, if I don’t make it out of here, I want you to have my cat.

Keith: you’re gonna make it, shiro

Five seconds later,

Keith: you better make it bc i think kosmo would eat ur cat

Snickering in between meetings, Shiro sends, :0 !!! NO!

Keith: he’s licking his chops rn, watch out axion

Shiro: Don’t you dare >:(

Shiro gets another text from him around ten: had another weird dream last night

Then, you were in it

And then, you were on some kind of hospital table? i knocked out some creepy doctors & got u out. also lance was there

Shiro doesn’t reply for ten minutes, because...hospital table? Creepy doctors? Lance?

Shiro: Why was I on a hospital table?

Keith: idk, u were passed out. but your hair was different & u were wearing weird torn clothes

Shiro: Huh. Weird indeed.

Keith: kinda feels like the universe is trying to tell me something.

Shiro: Like what?

Keith: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Shiro returns home to a needy, noisy cat who winds around his ankles and demands thorough pets after food. “I hear you, Axi,” Shiro groans, laying on the couch on his stomach in utter defeat as she walks all over his back and meows. “Give me like...five minutes to…rest...”

He’s out before he can even finish the thought.

His dreams are peaceful and quiet. He’s in a desert he has never seen before, speeding through the sand atop a hovering bike, and there is someone with him. It’s Keith, young and laughing, throwing his head back to the mercy of the hot summer wind. They stop together on a high bluff, overlooking the stained pink-orange of the setting sun. They’ve done this before, more times than Shiro can count.

They’re friends, close friends, but the way Keith looks at him is almost worshipful. The sun casts his face in gold. Shiro thinks if anyone should be worshiped, it should be Keith.

He opens his eyes to faint sunlight streaming in through the blinds and a furry black creature burrowing against his chest, purring. The dream lingers like the residual warmth from a good blanket, and it’s difficult to get out of bed and face reality.

He checks his phone, hoping for a text from Keith. There’s one from Veronica, one from Sam, and a couple from Slav – great – as well as a whole slew of anxious student emails. If James Griffin sends one more 5 paragraph essay style email at 3 A.M., Shiro is going to stage an intervention.

Keith, bless him, sent a pic of Kosmo drooling happily over some runaway eggs on the floor. Shiro sends him a pic of Axion stretching luxuriously and shedding all over his pillow, smiling to himself the whole time.

Shiro has to stay late in the office again despite his best efforts, because his students do come first, even if his students are anxious perfectionist messes who are way too hard on themselves.

“Did that help?” Shiro wearily asks James after nearly an hour of talking the sophomore down from an academic cliff while attempting to explain the magnetic properties of electrically conducting fluids in a semi-coherent way to someone clearly on the verge of a breakdown. “Magnetohydrodynamics sounds complicated, but I promise, it’s not so bad,” he adds.

James gathers up his huge stack of papers. “Yes, sir, it helped a lot. Thank you, I...I really want to do my best in your class.”

“Then with all due respect, please get some sleep, James,” Shiro says, folding his arms. James’ eyes widen. “Sending emails after midnight every day is not conducive to a good night’s rest, or to understanding magnetohydrodynamics.” His voice softens. “And if you need an extension, remember, just let me know in advance. I’m not here to punish you, I’m here to help you learn. Got it?”

James flushes and nods jerkily. “Yes, Dr. Shirogane. Thank you, seriously.” He bites his lip. “This material is super difficult but you teach it in a way that’s super clear, so, I guess I’m just saying, you’re doing a great job? At your job. Um. I should...go.”

“I think that would be best, yes,” Shiro says, amused despite himself. “Goodnight, James.”

“Night!” James squeaks, and high-tails it out the door.

Shiro checks his phone. No new texts from Keith, but their previous conversation reads:

Keith: late night again?

Shiro: Yeah. It’s that time of year, I guess.

Keith: some other dude sat next to me

Shiro: Bet he wasn’t as charming.

Keith: not by a long shot. you smell much better, too

Shiro: Yikes.

Keith: he didn’t even bring me a drink. rude

Shiro: I’ll have to bring you something special to make up for the last few days.

Keith: you don’t have to

Shiro: What’s your favorite lunch place?

As he’s checking the conversation, Keith replies.

i like banh mi...

Shiro smiles, resting his chin in his hand. I can do banh mi. See you tomorrow.

get home safe, shiro.

Shiro victoriously boards the train the next day with a banh mi and a Thai iced tea for Keith, who is sitting in their usual spot, gazing out the window. When he sees Shiro in his peripherals, he starts, as if he didn’t expect him to come, and a smile unfolds across his face like a sunrise.

They eat their banh mi together in companionable silence.

Then Keith says, “I’m getting off at University Street today.” Shiro lifts an eyebrow. “Meeting Lotor for coffee,” he adds, far too casually.

Shiro sets down his sandwich. “Oh. Have fun.”

Keith hums around his straw. “Thanks. We’re going to Storyville Coffee, have you been?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Oh, well. It’s good.”

Their silence is slightly less companionable after that.

When Keith stands to leave, Shiro catches his wrist and says hastily, “I wanted to apologize for the last couple of days.”

Keith tilts his head. “You don’t need to apologize, Shiro,” he says, and gets off the train.

*

Keith says little on the next week’s train rides.

“How was coffee?” Shiro asks, and Keith looks at his shoes.

“Fine,” Keith says.

“You don’t look fine,” Shiro murmurs.

Keith frowns. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just...sometimes I wish I was someone else.”

Shiro inhales. “Definitely not fine, then.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Keith sighs.

Shiro worries about it.

*

On Friday, Keith says, “Lance is turning 21 this weekend.”

“That should be...exciting.”

Keith shrugs. “You’re welcome to come, if you want. We’re going to the Unicorn, near Pike and Pine.”

Shiro’s eyebrows lift. “The Unicorn?”

“Heh, yeah. Weird decor, kitschy as hell, but cool place. They have an arcade, too. Sometimes they have drag bingo nights.” Keith’s lips quirk. “Those are fun.”

“Uh-huh.” Shiro leans back in his seat. “Yeah, okay. I’m intrigued. What time?”

“8 on Saturday.” Keith eyes him. “Try not to punch anyone this time?”

Shiro flushes and looks away. “Noted.”

*

Shiro does not punch anyone. He also barely drinks, wary of a repeat of the inexplicable visions from Empire. This is probably for the best, because he would be embarrassed to order half the things on the menu. Not out of some misguided assertion that the drinks at Unicorn are “too girly,” but because, unlike Keith, who enthusiastically orders three of them for the table, Shiro cannot say “Unicorn Jizz” with a straight face.

He orders the least offensive drink he can find, a whiskey cocktail called Smoke & Mirrors, and some mac & cheese which is admittedly heavenly.

Keith orders Unicorn Balls and Narwhal Balls for himself and Lance, respectively. Shiro doesn’t know how he would be dealing with this fully sober. He’s not dealing with it as it is.

Lance, Allura, Pidge, and Hunk welcome Shiro into the group like he didn’t make a total ass of himself the first time they met. Lance has a few more friends there; Nadia Rizavi, who is doing shots barely five minutes after arriving, Ryan Kinkade, who is content to chill with Hunk and Shiro and sample the uniquely awful food selection, and Ina Leifsdottir, who has a frankly horrifyingly high alcohol tolerance.

Shiro is enjoying himself despite Keith’s insistence on ordering drinks that, objectively, Shiro knows are cloudy vodka, but which resemble their nasty name to a disturbing degree. He does his best to ignore this, and Keith, who is doing karaoke with Lance and, because the universe is cruel, doesn’t actually suck at it and knows all the words to Sweet Caroline. Nadia was doing karaoke with them, but she’s currently busting a move on the dance floor and haranguing the DJ to play Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.”

Allura giggles next to him, watching the two dueling it out over Neil Diamond onstage, sipping her Pink Flamingo and shaking her head. “And to think, all they needed to get along was a few drinks.”

Kinkade snorts. “A few? Keith had at least three.” He’s drinking a Coke. Smart man.

“Wait, all of those Unicorn Jizzes were for him?” Hunk exclaims.

Shiro winces. “That is the worst drink name, Christ.”

“Personally I think The Cereal Killer is worse,” Pidge says, holding up her garish concoction of fruit loop vodka and grenadine. “Tastes like a leprechaun threw up in here.”

“Ew,” Hunk grumbles, and shoves a Unicorn Ball in Pidge’s mouth. “Can’t believe you use your fake ID to get that abomination. And anyway, you’re wrong, Cheap Date wins every time.”

Shiro steals a sip at Hunk’s insistence. “Huh,” he says. “It does taste like a cheap date.”

“Ha,” Ina says, sipping a drink that could be radioactive. “Ha, ha.”

“Have you had many cheap dates, Shiro?” Allura asks, idly braiding Pidge’s hair, which is a feat in and of itself.

Shiro shrugs. “A few. Grindr was a dark period in my life, let’s leave it at that.”

Hunk chokes on an ice cube. Pidge hisses something into his ear. Oblivious onstage, Keith belts out “TOUCHIN’ ME, TOUCHIN’ YOUUUU” and trips over a mic cord. Lance catches him and they continue singing like Keith didn’t just almost brain himself on a speaker.

“Oh, dear,” Allura chuckles, “I can only imagine there were as many unsolicited dick pics as Tindr.”

Shiro sympathetically clinks his glass with hers. “So many. What has been seen can never be unseen.”

“Was it a total bust, then?” Kinkade asks with mild curiosity. “I mean, I met my boyfriend online.”

Shiro blinks, relaxing incrementally. “Well,” he admits, “some of them were nice dicks.”

Allura cackles and buries her face in Pidge’s shoulder. “Shiro! Scandalous!”

He shrugs and smiles. “Just being honest.” Shiro turns to Kinkade. “Is your boyfriend here, Ryan?”

“He should be soon,” Kinkade says thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder. “James is late to everything that isn’t school-related, though.”

Shiro pauses. “Wait. James…?”

Kinkade raises an eyebrow. “James Griffin, yeah. Know him?”

Shiro stares into his glass in despair. “Oh, no.”

Pidge’s face lights up in devilish delight. “He’s one of your students, isn’t he. Isn’t he!”

“Stop,” Shiro pleads. “Oh my god.”

Kinkade gawks at him. “Holy shit, you’re Dr. Shirogane? Huh. I think your class is breaking my boyfriend, thanks.”

“No, no, nope, we are not talking about this,” Shiro moans, burying his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

Kinkade elbows him. “Hey, dude, it’s chill. He thinks you’re great. But, just saying, James might die of embarrassment if he sees you here.”

“Me and him both,” Shiro mutters, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave.”

No sooner has he said it, Keith faceplants onstage with a terrific screech of mic feedback. Unperturbed, Lance keeps singing, and Nadia takes Keith’s place for a truly spectacular rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.

“I think someone else needs to leave,” Pidge mutters.

“Here, help me with him,” Hunk sighs, standing up and gesturing for Shiro to follow. They retrieve Keith together, but much to Shiro’s chagrin, Keith slumps completely into him, mumbling incoherently against Shiro’s shirt. Hunk snickers. “Nevermind, I think you’ve got him.”

Shiro frowns down at Keith. “I can get him a Lyft home…”

Hunk waves a hand, distracted and clearly considering joining the karaoke train wreck. “Do what you gotta, my man. Let’s just say I’ll pity that Lyft driver, though. Drunk Keith is kind of...a lot. He could single-handedly cause a car accident from the backseat, somehow.”

“Mmm,” Keith says, head leaning into Shiro’s side, “I want another Unicorn Jizz.”

“Bad idea,” Shiro tells him, patting his shoulder and herding him away from the bar. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. Bye, Hunk. Thanks for the invite. Tell Lance I’m sorry I had to leave early.”

“It’s like, midnight, dude, don’t worry about it. Glad you could come.” Hunk sends him off with a hug, which is followed by Keith puking all over Shiro’s shoes.

Needless to say, Shiro does not want to set Keith loose upon an unsuspecting Lyft driver. He gets a Lyft for both of them back to his condo, which is in hindsight maybe not the best course of action, but Shiro is tipsy and tired and desperately needs to clean his shoes, and Keith won’t stop clinging to him like a human barnacle.

The International District is alive and thriving at night, the hilly streets filled with locals and tourists lining up for hot pot and sushi, laughing over sake and boba, running amok in the parks and pagodas. Shiro’s condo is tucked into a quieter corner of the area, and the building is old and mostly empty; so few of the original residents can afford living here anymore.

Keith seems to realize he’s in a strange place as soon as the door shuts behind him, and he blinks up at Shiro with slight alarm. “We left the party?” he asks, words slow and sticky like syrup.

“Yes,” Shiro says, gingerly removing his shoes and throwing them in the sink. “You could barely walk, so…”

“I can walk,” Keith protests, taking a wobbly step forward and immediately stumbling. Shiro makes a grab towards him instinctively, and the result is a messy collision which ends with Shiro on the floor and Keith on top of him, braced on his chest with an expression of startled curiosity.

“Uh,” Shiro says. “Shit, you’re really drunk. Really, really…”

He trails off into silence as Keith’s thumb traces the corner of his lips, then moves up to the scar over his nose, rubbing the edges of it with slow wonder. “How’d you get this?” Keith murmurs. His breath smells like vodka and regret.

“Accident,” Shiro whispers. “I was a kid, it... uh.”

Keith’s lips press against the scar tissue clumsily and Shiro holds his breath. “Sorry,” he slurs. “Must’ve hurt.”

“It did.” Shiro gulps. Keith is heavy over him, apparently unaware he’s shifting on Shiro’s hips like he can’t stay still. This is bad. Shiro needs to get Keith away from him, ASAP. He needs to…

Keith kisses him, sloppy and wet, and Shiro forgets how to breathe. Keith’s mouth is sugary sweet, tongue sliding into Shiro’s mouth far too easily. It’s the best goddamn thing Shiro’s ever felt, and when he kisses back, Keith squirms over him and makes a breathy noise against Shiro’s lips, trying to get closer, to feel as much as possible.

Then Shiro comes to his senses, jerks away, and sends Keith tumbling off of him and onto the carpet, stunned, eyes half-lidded and mouth hanging open.

“Right, then, you can take my bed,” Shiro declares, heart hammering and face hot. “I’ll go, uh, get that set up for you. Do you want to take a shower?”

Keith stares at him, propped up on his elbows, and blinks, slow and purposeful. “With you?”

“That’s a no, then,” Shiro wheezes, and hurries out of the room, immediately locking himself in his bedroom and bracing himself on the wall, gulping in air. God. Fuck. What the fuck. Keith just kissed him.

“He’s drunk as shit, Takashi,” Shiro whispers, rummaging through his drawers for pajamas that will fit Keith. “Doesn’t mean anything. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t do it. Vodka is a powerful and dangerous force.”

Someone knocks on the door and Shiro nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Hey,” Keith calls. “Where’d you go? Your cat is staring at me. Freakin' me out, man.”

Shiro opens the door despite the very real urge to hide on the balcony and never come out. “She’s probably hungry,” he mumbles, shoving the clothes into Keith’s arms. “Here, PJs.”

“Thanks.” Keith peers up at him, hiccups, and starts to lean precariously against the doorframe. “You’re so nice, Shiro…”

“Mrreow,” Axion grumbles, winding around Keith’s unsteady ankles.

“You’re my friend,” Shiro says, choked. “Friends help each other out.”

“Uh-huh. Friends.” Keith’s eyelids droop. “G’night…”

Shiro helps him to the bed. Keith flops down on his belly, face mashing into the pillows, and groans happily. Just as Shiro is about to book it out of there before Keith starts stripping or something, Keith says, “Who’s in that picture? Parents?”

He turns, a lump in his throat. Keith is gazing at the framed photo on his nightstand, a black and white portrait of a young Japanese couple in traditional dress, a man and a woman, standing very close together.

“Grandparents,” Shiro whispers. “They raised me.”

Keith hums. “They look nice, like you.”

Shiro has always thought they look stern and formal in the photo, as they do in almost every photo, but he offers Keith a weak smile. “Yeah. They were...good people.” He gestures to their surroundings. “This was their place, their home.”

Keith’s face scrunches up in concentration, processing this. “They...left it to you?”

“In their will,” Shiro says. “Yes.”

“Thanks, Shiro’s grandparents,” Keith says loudly to the ceiling. “This is a fucking great bed!”

Shiro escapes the moment before Keith unzips his jeans and prays, fervently, that the ghosts of his ancestors aren’t about to curse him for generations to come, if they haven’t done so already.

That would explain a lot, actually.

Axion stares at him, unimpressed, as he dumps a can of food into her bowl. “A little support in this trying time would be appreciated,” Shiro tells her.

She sniffs, whiskers twitching judgmentally, and goes to town on the cat food.

Shiro sighs and assembles a makeshift bed on the couch, sitting down heavily and petting the sated cat when she makes herself at home in Shiro’s blankets.

He stares at the strip of dim light under his bedroom door until it finally switches off, and exhales, sitting up and detaching the prosthesis, sliding off the compression sock and carefully setting both aside on the coffee table.

The metal gleams in the moonlight streaming in through his kitchen window, and as he stares at it, he swears its glossy surface changes, darkens, violet lines of light appearing in a circuited grid over it, deadly and alien…

He shakes his head and the violet vanishes.

Frowning, Shiro stands up, stretching and creeping past the dark bedroom, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door tight behind himself. His reflection stares back at him, colder than he remembers. Gray eyes flicker with the same violet light he imagined on his arm, but they’re gone in a blink, and his face in the mirror looks as freaked out as he feels. Shiro blames it on the whiskey, because that’s the only thing he feels capable of confronting right now.

He goes about his nightly routine with quick efficiency, not lingering on the sight of his scarred socket as he soothes away the day’s usual soreness with the winning mixture of cold-pressed coconut and jojoba oil he’s perfected over the years. The redness isn’t too bad today, but it never hurts to be safe.

Shirt back on and sleeve tied to make sure the oils don’t get all over his couch, Shiro does pause to examine the scar over his nose. It’s faded a lot over the years, and he’s gotten so used to it that it’s as mundane to him as his nose itself. But running his fingertips across it then, he recalls the blurry childhood memory of a crowded emergency room, hot tears running down his face, stinging the bleeding cut on his nose more and more.

Daijoubu, his grandfather said firmly, and then in a whisper, with the English he was so reluctant to use but which he forced Shiro to learn before his native tongue, Everything will be okay, Takashi.

Afterwards, his grandmother stood with him in front of this very mirror, fussing over the bandages and telling him he needed to be more careful, just like his father, always playing the hero and getting hurt.

The mention of his father had just made him cry more, and his grandparents rarely displayed affection towards him, much less physically, but she had hugged him then, drew him close and frantic to her chest as if he might be ripped away from her at any moment like her son and daughter-in-law had, and she whispered, Daisuki, daisuki, until his tears were all dried up.

It was the only time he can remember either of his grandparents ever saying “I love you.”

His reflection moves; he swears it does. Shiro’s head jerks up, and stares at himself, and wonders if the other him had better luck. He doesn’t know if the answering sardonic smile is his own, or not.

Shiro turns off the bathroom light and returns to the couch, contorting his body into a semi-comfortable ball in order to fit. After months spent in hospital beds, he’s confident he can sleep most anywhere. The couch is an upgrade, honestly. At least there’s no one waking him up to take his vitals every hour. And he has a cat.

Axion hops up onto the couch and curls up above his head, giving his hair a few idle licks before settling down and tucking her head under her paws. Shiro soon follows suit, trying not to think of Keith or family ghosts, in all their many haunting forms.

*

Shiro wakes up to the sound of the front door clicking shut.

He yawns, squinting at his surroundings, and falters — Keith is gone. His bedroom door is open, and the PJs he lent Keith are folded neatly on the coffee table next to the prosthesis. Axion is sitting in the middle of the room, grooming herself obliviously.

“Shit,” Shiro says.

*

Keith doesn’t reply to his texts or appear on the train.

Shiro doesn’t panic. He doesn’t. Because he is an adult and he is calm and patient and refuses to be put out of commission because of heartbreak and alcohol. He’s not heartbroken. He’s not. For all he knows, Keith is straight as an arrow and just likes making out with people when drunk, regardless of gender or even who they are. Shiro was just there, in his way; the closest warm body. That’s what he tells himself.

That is why he is perfectly cool and collected when he runs into Allura that Tuesday in the UW greenhouse. Perfectly.

“Allura!” Shiro exclaims as he almost runs into her, and promptly drops the textbook he was carrying directly into a thorny succulent.

Allura somehow manages to catch it halfway, handing it to him with a small smile. “Shiro,” she says, and folds her arms. “Or should I call you Dr. Shirogane on campus?”

“Please, Shiro is fine,” Shiro sighs, shuffling uncomfortably in place. “How have you been?”

“I’m quite alright. Lance’s party was all in all a success, though he swore to me he’ll never drink again after the hangover he had the next morning.” She purses her lips. “I believe he’s already revoked that, considering he plans to hold his title of reigning beer pong champion at Sigma Alpha Epsilon this weekend.”

“Best of luck to him,” Shiro says.

Allura wrinkles her nose. “Don’t encourage him. One of these days, he’ll figure out his talents lie elsewhere, but today is not that day.” She nods to their surroundings. “So, what brings an astrophysics professor to the greenhouse?”

“Oh,” Shiro says, glancing around and clearing his throat, “I just like plants.” She’s laughing at him with her eyes. “They’re peaceful. Grounding, I guess. I always end up killing the ones I bring home, so...it’s nice to go to a place where I’m not responsible for the lives of the plants around me.”

“Sounds like you need a cactus,” Allura remarks. “Keith has a cactus, and he’s managed to keep it alive for three years, despite forgetting to water it for three months.”

Shiro clutches the textbook with white knuckles. “Wow, that’s impressive.”

She peers at him, not with judgment, only kindness and faint worry. “Hunk said you got Keith home safely on Saturday night. Thank you for that.”

“He’s my friend,” Shiro says, flapping a hand. “It’s important to look out for your friends.”

“Yes,” Allura agrees. “It is.” She tilts her head. “Listen, are you free right now? The weather outside is lovely, and you look like you could use a coffee and a stroll in the sunshine.”

“I –”  Shiro opens his mouth to object, only for it to snap shut at her defiant expression.

“It’s important to look out for your friends,” Allura emphasizes, and Shiro winces. “Come on. The Ugly Mug isn’t far from here, and I think we can rest assured that the cosmos will not undergo a drastic shift while you take a break, Shiro.”

Shiro chuckles weakly, his chest tight. “The Ugly Mug?”

She gasps. “You’ve never been? Oh, then we must go! Charming little place with the quaintest decor. Best chai lattes in the city, on my word.”

“Well...come to think of it, I never really had lunch,” Shiro admits. “Alright. I can spare an hour or two for a coffee shop with a pun name.” He smiles at Allura. “And you, of course.”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, eyes bright. “You are a charmer. Let’s go, then, before the clouds come back!”

*

The Ugly Mug is adorable, and they have delicious bulgogi. The outing is made all the more enjoyable by Allura’s presence. Not only does she seem to know everyone, she has a way of setting Shiro entirely at ease, which is an incredible feat considering he often feels like the human embodiment of stress. With Allura, however, relaxation and enjoyment comes easy. Shiro has never had any particular interest in the swarming habits of honey bees, but Allura manages to spin a fascinating tale of unbelievably nerdy proportions that he can’t help but listen and ask questions, utterly transfixed.

He also meets Allura’s family-friend-turned-uncle, Coran, who apparently frequents The Ugly Mug daily, and whom all the staff know. He has an impressive ginger mustache which he has a habit of twirling as he speaks, and he insists on buying them both biscottis and “coffees for the road.” Shiro honestly doesn’t understand half the things Coran is talking about, but he says them with such confidence that Shiro is sure he must be making sense to someone.

By chance, Lance finds them when they’re walking down the Ave after lunch, soaking up the sunshine while it remains, and he falls into step easily with them, dramatizing the struggles of his tutoring job until Allura nearly collapses from laughter upon hearing the tragic tale of a first grader who shoved crayons up his nose so he could “smell the colors.”

Shiro observes their shenanigans with amusement and slight surprise – separately, he can’t imagine them ever being a functional couple, but together, they just...click. The way they look at each other is genuine and so fond Shiro is almost embarrassed to watch. But it’s more than that – they’re friends, too. Lance jokes with both of them in the same playful, familiar manner, and Shiro barely feels like a third wheel despite the fact that Lance and Allura are holding hands and refer to each other as dear, sweetheart, querida, princesa.

When Lance scampers off to his next class, Shiro clears his throat and asks, “How long have you two been together?”

Allura flushes. “Not long, honestly. He asked me out...oh, six months ago?”

“Only six months?”

“We met a year before that.” Allura stops in the shade of a tall oak and gazing up into its dark branches. “I was just graduating, and he was a sophomore...it was at a party. I must say, my first impression of him was not the best, but then again, my last year as an undergraduate was...difficult, to say the least.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Shiro says carefully. “Did the stress get to you?”

“Everything got to me.” Allura sighs. “My father passed away at the beginning of that year, and I’m fortunate that he was so successful, but his business and finances were thrown into a state of utter chaos. My mother and I struggled to stay afloat amidst it all. She is the strongest woman I know, and if not for her, Coran, and Lance, eventually, I don’t want to know where I would be, now.”

Shiro frowns. “It’s good you had support. Losing family has a way of upending even the most stable of lives, unfortunately.”

“It does,” Allura agrees. “That was actually how I met Keith. Lance introduced us, with the hopes that maybe Keith could help me, and empathize with my situation better than Lance could...and he was right. He often is...don’t tell him I said that.”

“Ah,” Shiro says. “So Keith’s father…”

“Died when Keith was thirteen,” Allura murmurs. “His father was a firefighter. Keith went into the foster care system, afterwards.”

“Is he close with his adoptive family?”

“He was never adopted,” Allura says after a mournful beat. “He aged out of the system.” She looks at Shiro. “Keith doesn’t make friends easily, you know. He doesn’t put himself out there. But he did with you.”

“I just sit next to him on the train,” Shiro says, taken aback.

“There is no ‘just’ about that,” Allura replies. “Nine times out of ten, Keith would have found a different seat, taken a different train, ignored you until kingdom come.”

Shiro swallows. “He’s ignoring me now. Texts, calls...train.”

“He’s scared,” Allura says matter-of-factly, tucking her hands into her pink raincoat pockets. “He runs from what he’s afraid of.”

“That doesn’t sound like Keith,” Shiro mutters.

“Let me rephrase that.” Allura’s eyes are cutting glass. “Keith runs from what he’s afraid to lose.”

“I don’t understand,” Shiro says, because he can’t, he won’t.

“No,” Allura sighs, “neither does he.” She squeezes Shiro’s arm. “It may take a little while, but I think he’ll reach out. When he does...please be there to catch him. He’s been let down far too many times. Speaking from personal experience, it becomes easy not to hope for more, and to expect nothing from anyone. But then..." She smiles. "People surprise you, and that makes all the difference."

Shiro smiles back, just a little. “Thanks, Allura. I hope he’s okay.”

“He will be,” Allura says. “Goodbye, Shiro. Let me know when you figure out all the secrets of the Universe, alright?”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Shiro promises. “May be awhile, though.”

She blows him a kiss. “If anyone can do it, it’s you, Shiro. Until next time!”

Shiro catches her kiss and holds it close to his heart like the treasured gift it is.

*

Shiro has been in and out of too many doctor’s offices to count, but this one feels familiar.

Not because Dr. Honerva is anything less than professional – her manner is always rather cool and detached; at best she is polite and courteous, and she never greets Shiro as anything other than Dr. Shirogane, with a firm handshake. But she has stood by while he wept in relief after she gave him the test results which officially confirmed he was in complete remission five years ago. Since then, he visits her every few months, because without her, he also would never have gotten his prosthesis.

Dr. Honerva is, by all accounts, a genius who refuses to accept the apparent limitations of science and computerization, at least when it comes to developing robotics. As a result, she’s one of, if not the, best prosthetics engineers out there. Sometimes, Shiro feels like he owes her his life. She is always quick to inform him that all she gave him was an arm, and it was not freely given by any means.

But it is a very good arm. That is what Shiro always tells her. And that, at least, she accepts. She does excellent work and she knows it.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Dr. Honerva announces, stepping away from the examination table with her arms folded. “Have you been experiencing any issues beyond the basic functioning of the prosthesis?”

Shiro shakes his head, flexing the fingers as Dr. Honerva watches with evident pride. “None. Just the occasional irritation and pain at the socket.”

Her eyes narrow. “Have you been using the compression sock regularly as I recommended?”

“Yes, of course. And coconut oil and jojoba at night, which does seem to help.” Shiro sighs. “I just can’t help but wonder if my shoulder is getting worn out, and I’m afraid of the muscle atrophying if I rest it for too long…”

Dr. Honerva purses her lips and scribbles something onto her clipboard. “I see. Do you remember the surgery I suggested to you last visit?”

Shiro frowns. “The prosthetic grafting surgery?”

“Yes. It’s a relatively new procedure at Galra Medical, but those who had it done are overall very satisfied with the results. If you feel that your shoulder is getting too strained, grafting the sensors into your body and making the prosthesis a more permanent addition could help with support and reduce any pain or phantom sensations,” Dr. Honerva explains.

Shiro stares at the shiny floor and hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I...I like it like this, I think. I like being able to take it off, even if sometimes that’s...difficult. It’s a great limb but it isn’t mine, not really. Besides, I think maybe I’ve had enough surgeries for a lifetime or two.”

Dr. Honerva is silent. Then a careful hand falls upon Shiro’s shoulder, and he looks up at her, startled. “Dr. Shirogane,” she says, “I understand. The procedure is not at all necessary and your arm is in very good condition; you are taking excellent care of it and doing everything right, even though it may sometimes feel like fighting a losing battle. It is your decision, as it has always been.”

Shiro smiles, his eyes a little damp. “Thank you, Dr. Honerva. I like what we’ve been doing so far and I do feel a lot more comfortable with it than I did a few years ago. I just...worry.”

“If you are worried, then I would suggest taking more breaks with the prosthesis,” Dr. Honerva replies. “Not just at night. If not in public, then at home. Allow the limb to breathe a bit more and your body will thank you.”

It won’t be easy, but her advice has never failed him yet. “Okay,” Shiro agrees. “Will do. Is there anything else –”

Someone knocks on the door. “Mom? Luca told me you were in here.”

Dr. Honerva jumps slightly, and for the first time since Shiro met her, she looks flustered. “Oh! Dr. Shirogane, excuse me, I lost track of time.” She clears her throat. “Come in!”

Someone peeks his head into the room. Shiro freezes. It’s Lotor.

Lotor, who looks rather out of place in his black fur trim biker jacket and what Shiro is pretty sure are Roberto Cavalli jeans complete with priceless silver embroidery and bedazzled seams, steps into the examination room and holds out a Chinese takeaway box to Dr. Honerva along with a Starbucks cup. “Apologies,” he says to them both, inclining his offensively beautiful head. “But it is lunch time, Mom.”

“I know, I know,” Dr. Honerva huffs, snatching the box and the coffee from the man who is apparently her son. Shiro’s world is imploding, slightly. “Dr. Shirogane, this is Lotor, my son.”

Lotor smiles at him, eyebrows lifting in a way that suggests he absolutely remembers meeting Shiro at a college party where he got wasted and broke a dude’s nose. “Hello, Dr. Shirogane. It’s good to finally meet my mother’s favorite patient.”

“Lotor,” Dr. Honerva warns, but her face is pink and there is no venom in her tone, only exasperated fondness.

“Your prosthesis was one of my mother’s first and most ambitious projects of its kind,” Lotor adds by way of explanation. “From the looks of it, I’d say it’s working well for you?”

“Very well, yes,” Shiro replies, forcing himself to relax and unclench his jaw. “She does brilliant work. Six years later and it’s still in prime condition!”

“It is built to last,” Dr. Honerva says primly. “I promise nothing less.” She clears her throat. “Thank you for the chow mein and coffee, Lotor. Don’t forget your father’s taking us out to dinner tonight.”

Lotor laughs, leaning insouciantly against the doorframe and winking at Shiro like he’s in on some private joke. “Already in my calendar; I look forward to it. Ciao.” The door clicks shut.

A few minutes later, as Shiro is making his way out of Dr. Honerva’s office and trying to make sense of what just happened, he almost runs into Lotor at the water fountain. “Sorry!” Shiro exclaims, holding up his hands.

Lotor straightens up, and there aren’t many people who are taller than Shiro, but Lotor manages to be, because of course he does. “It’s alright,” he says. “Happens to the best of us.”

He doesn’t leave, so neither does Shiro.

“I didn’t realize Keith’s friend was my doctor’s son,” Shiro says.

Lotor’s eyebrows go up again. “Keith’s friend,” he repeats, and smiles pleasantly. “Indeed, the universe works in mysterious ways. Aren’t you also Keith’s friend?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, not defensive whatsoever. “We ride the train together.”

“Well, isn’t that charming.” Lotor tilts his head. “Your black eye has healed, I see. The same cannot be said for Sendak’s nose.”

Shiro inhales. “Right...sorry about that. How is he?”

“Sendak is fine.” Lotor chuckles. “I think he actually wanted a broken nose, truth be told. Thinks it makes him look intimidating and experienced in the delicate art of battle.”

“He looked plenty intimidating before,” Shiro mutters.

Lotor grins. “He did, didn’t he?” His bright gaze softens. “It was good to see you under different circumstances, Dr. Shirogane.” He turns to go.

“Wait,” Shiro blurts, and Lotor pauses, glancing at him quizzically. “Have you...heard from Keith, lately, this week? Is he alright?”

Lotor blinks. “Alright? Yes, Keith is well. I talked with him yesterday. Why do you ask?”

Yesterday. The same day Shiro texted and called him again, without response from either tactic. Shiro exhales and nods. “Nothing, I was just...I’m glad he’s okay. That’s all.”

“He is alright,” Lotor repeats, his brow low and thoughtful, and leaves Shiro standing beside the water fountain, both relieved and hurt, tapping his newly-polished fingers against his jeans in an anxious rhythm.

*

Keith calls him three days later at one in the morning.

Groaning, Shiro fumbles for his ringing phone, ripping the charger out of the wall in the process, and puts Keith on speaker. “H’lo?”

“Shiro.” Keith’s voice is ragged and rasping, words hitching up at the ends. “Sorry, I — did I wake you up?”

Shiro sits up, immediately alert and concerned. “Keith? Are you okay? You sound…”

“Drunk an’ sad?” Keith hiccups. “Uh-huh, that’s me. I miss you.”

“I missed you on the train, too. Is everything —”

“Not on the train,” Keith whispers, so soft Shiro almost misses it. “You left...remember? Kerberos…”

Shiro stares at his phone in growing alarm. Why is Keith mumbling about Pluto’s moons? “Do you need me to come over, Keith? Are you home? Is anyone with you?”

“No,” Keith mumbles. “Acxa got the night shift and everyone else is out...Shiro, you promised you would come back, you promised.”

“I’m coming over right now,” Shiro tells him, already rolling out of bed and reaching for his prosthesis. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

Keith hangs up on a sob.

Panicking, Shiro gets his arm on in record speed and changes into something resembling a presentable outfit, grabbing his jacket, keys, wallet, and after a moment’s hesitation, grabbing his bag and throwing several things into it. He texts Keith, what’s your address?

To his relief, Keith starts typing, and sends him something legible.

On my way, Shiro sends after calling the Lyft.

Keith replies: why

Shiro blinks at the message, perplexed. He’s still looking at it when he gets into the car.

Keith you’re my friend, Shiro sends.

Keith reads it but doesn’t reply. The twenty-minute drive up to the U-District is nerve wracking. He types in the code Keith sent him and takes the elevator up five silent floors before it lets him off with a soft beep, and he stands in front of Unit 513, knocking and pulling out his phone to text Keith before the door swings open, and a pale face peeks around the edge. Keith looks confused and more than a little afraid. “Shiro…?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Shiro says gently. “Can I come in?”

Keith nods jerkily and lets him in, the door thudding shut behind them. Kosmo pads over on clicking claws and whines at Shiro’s feet. “I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Keith mumbles, leaning against the counter. There’s an empty wine bottle next to him.

“Of course I came,” Shiro says. “Did you drink all of that?”

Keith winces. “Shouldn’t have...keep seeing things. Hearing things.” His frightened eyes catch on Shiro’s. “I keep seeing you. But not you. I –” He sucks in a harsh breath. “Remember the weird dream I told you about?”

“About the robot lions?”

“Yeah.” Keith closes his eyes. “I think they’re talking to me.”

“What – the lions? Keith –”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Keith whispers fiercely. “Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

“Maybe you’re drunk as hell,” Shiro counters. “Although wine doesn’t normally cause auditory hallucinations…”

Keith swipes a hand over his face. “They aren’t,” he insists. “They’re like memories, dreams – and you’re in every single one of them.”

Shiro swallows. “Keith…”

“I feel like I’ve known you for a thousand lifetimes and then some,” Keith breathes, hands trembling where they grip the edges of the counter.

“Keith, we’ve known each other for four months,” Shiro whispers, stepping towards him.

“No,” Keith says, face open and shining with vulnerability. “Don’t you feel it, too?”

“I don’t know what I feel,” Shiro admits, stepping into his space. Keith accepts the hand on his shoulder with an expression that is nearly pained, like Shiro’s palm burns him. “But I know that I care about you, Keith, and I’m worried about you.”

“I’m afraid,” Keith admits, hands curled into fists at his side. “I’m just so…”

“Hey, hey,” Shiro says, and gathers Keith up in his arms the moment before he starts crying, tears wet over Shiro’s throat. “What are you afraid of?” he whispers, hand curling around the back of Keith’s head, stroking his hair without quite being aware he’s doing it.

“After I lost my dad,” Keith whispers into the crook of his neck, “I had to be the strong one every day, all the time. There was nobody to lean on...just me. And I really thought...I thought I could live like that. But I’m tired, Shiro. I’m tired of being the only one I can count on. I miss my dad. I miss having someone else to look out for me, ‘cause let’s be honest, I’m doing a shit job at it.”

Shiro tucks his nose into Keith’s hair. It smells like cherries and coffee and the scent brings him all at once back to a sun soaked desert and a boy with wild laughter lilting on the wind like a lullaby.

“You’re not doing a shit job, Keith,” Shiro murmurs. “You’re doing your best.”

“I’m drinking entire bottles of red wine and seeing things that aren’t there,” Keith retorts. “If that’s my best then I’m doomed.” He’s shaking, and Shiro shushes him, walking him over to the couch. Kosmo follows, snuffling at Keith’s socks in concern and pressing his wet nose to Shiro’s hand.

“Mind if I ask why you drank an entire bottle of red wine?” Shiro brushes Keith’s hair out of his bloodshot eyes and reaches into the bag he brought, handing Keith a box of tissues. Keith takes the box with slow disbelief, holding it in both hands like he isn’t sure it really exists.

“I, um.” Keith sniffles and blows his nose, eyes averted. “I’m meeting my mom for the first time tomorrow.”

“Oh!” Shiro exclaims. “Your mom, wow, that’s – Keith, that’s great!” Keith’s chin quivers dangerously. Shiro leans forward, sensing impending disaster. “Keith, hey, it’s okay, what –”

Keith promptly bursts into furious tears, curling away and covering his face like he will turn to stone if he makes eye contact. Kosmo does a panicky puppy shuffle and hops up onto the couch, forcibly jamming his face against Keith’s chest and trying to wriggle into the armadillo-style ball Keith has curled himself into.

Shiro is very glad he brought his bag, and squawks uselessly, fumbling before he finally manages to pull out the fleece blanket and drape it awkwardly around Keith’s shoulders. Keith stills. Kosmo whines and paws at Keith’s legs. “I have tea,” Shiro mumbles, scooting closer, shoulders hunched and uncertain, wanting to help Keith in every way he can but not knowing where the boundary between them lies, or should lie.

“Tea,” Keith echoes, and lets out a choked laugh. “Tea is probably better than wine, huh?”

“Probably,” Shiro agrees, and bumps Keith’s shoulder gently. “You don’t have to tell me everything, or even anything, if you don’t want to. But you’re not alone, Keith. You’re not the only one you can count on. You have people who care about you so much more than you know – I can promise you that much.” Keith makes a quiet noise. “I know reaching out can be hard. But you’d be surprised at how many people will help you when you ask for it.”

“It is hard,” Keith agrees, wiping his hand across his nose. Shiro hands him a tissue. Keith huffs, and then sighs. “Once the world convinces you the only person who’s gonna help you is you...Shiro, I don’t know how to go back from that. I don’t know if I can.”

“You reached out to me,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith sucks in a sharp breath. “Why?”

“I’m drunk,” Keith mumbles, trying to go full armadillo again, stopped by an onslaught of relieved doggy kisses that he flails away from. Undeterred, Kosmo flops half on Shiro and slobbers over his sweatpants.

“Sober enough to call me,” Shiro counters. “And text me. And talk about feelings with me.”

“I’m gonna regret this in the morning,” Keith groans, bowing his head.

“Are you?”

Keith looks up. Shiro looks back at him. Keith’s mouth quirks. “Maybe not,” he concedes. “I mean, if I hadn’t called you, or you hadn’t picked up...I’d just be here crying alone.”

“Instead, you’re crying on a couch with Dr. Takashi Shirogane and he’s about to make you the best tea in the world and a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s if you’re down, so I’d say that’s at least a slight improvement,” Shiro says.

Keith’s mouth falls open. “You brought ice cream?” He touches the blanket around his shoulders and blinks in rapid realization. “And a blanket? Shiro.”

Shiro scratches the back of his neck. “I brought a bunch of stuff,” he admits, picking up the bag. “Might help, might not, but…”

Keith lunges forward and snatches the bag, eyes widening as he rifles through it. “How many Studio Ghibli movies are in here?” he demands.

“Uh. All of them? All the best ones, anyway –”

“Chocolate? Fuzzy socks? Is this a happy lamp, augh –”

“Seasonal depression is real and it helps, okay!”

Keith stares at him. “Are you real?”

“I think so,” Shiro jokes. “Gotten a lot better at dealing with dissociation over the years, so I can say with 99% confidence that I am, in fact, real and present – oh!”

Keith barrels into him with a bruising hug, squeezing tight around Shiro’s middle, face mashing unashamedly into Shiro’s chest. “I’m glad,” he whispers. “I’m glad you’re real and here and – and with me. Thank you.” He pulls away, tilting his head up to Shiro’s with frightening proximity. “You even brought Cherry Garcia. My hero.”

And just like that, Shiro is quickly reminded that Keith is definitely still very drunk, and is then violently reminded of the last thing Keith did with him while drunk.

Face hot, Shiro pats his back firmly like bros are supposed to do, even when their bros are drunk and clinging to them in a very un-bro-like way. “Glad you’re a fan. And I’m glad I came too.”

Keith squints at him. “What, because me getting snot all over your shirt and tellin’ you my tragic backstory is such a fun time?”

“Because I feel better knowing that you’re being taken care of instead of crying alone in an empty apartment with a worried wolf,” Shiro corrects.

Keith’s face reddens unexpectedly and he flops back onto the other side of the couch, bouncing said wolf in the process. “Guess you are a doctor, huh?”

“Oh, hardy har, that's a new one,” Shiro snorts, and holds up the Cherry Garcia. “I prescribe a bowl of this, for starters.”

“Fill that prescription for me, doc,” Keith giggles, rubbing his face on the couch cushions and idly playing with Kosmo’s fluffy tail. “And tea, too…?”

“Of course,” Shiro assures, and rises from the couch to bumble around Keith’s kitchen. Keith drapes over the back of the couch and watches him lazily, eyes drooping – it’s half past two. Shiro is already mentally composing the ‘class cancelled’ email he’ll be sending to his students tomorrow.

As if on cue, Keith frowns while Shiro is struggling to scoop ice cream with a too-small spoon and says, “Hey...don’t you have work tomorrow?”

Shiro shrugs. “It’s okay. I have some sick days saved up, and it’s been a while since I used any.”

Keith’s frown remains. “How’d you get to be such a good friend, huh?”

Shiro pauses, tossing the spoon in the sink after figuring Keith won’t care how ugly the ice cream scoops are. “You asked how I lost my arm.” Shiro brings the bowl and spoon over, and gets to work on the tea.

Keith nods slowly. “Cancer, you said. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shiro says a mental apology to his grandmother and shoves the mug of water into the microwave. “I mean, it was...I won’t sugarcoat it, I was gonna die. That’s what they told me. Five months to live, all that.” Keith’s brow creases. “But...I didn’t. They put me on some trial chemo meds; I was that desperate, so it was kind of like, worst case scenario, you die, but you’re going to die anyway, so. Might as well try this untested new drug.”

Keith’s eyes light up. “Is that why your hair is silver?”

Shiro snorts, shaking his head. “No, Keith. It’s silver because I dyed it. But good hypothesis, that’s a new one.”

“You’re welcome,” Keith says. “Go on, I’m listening – guess the meds worked?”

“Destroyed 90% of the cancer,” Shiro replies. “It had metastasized to my lungs but they got the rest out pretty quick via surgery. My arm was...not so lucky.” He coughs. “Anyway, the doctors don’t really know what the meds did to me, longterm. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll wake up with wings or purple polka dots or...something. So...in the meantime, might as well make it count. For everyone, not just me.”

“Do the most good you can, while you can?” Keith murmurs.

Shiro nods. “Exactly.”

“Hmm.” Keith pillows his head on his forearms, having polished off the ice cream. “That was my dad’s motto.”

The microwave beeps and Shiro adds the tea leaves and strainer, carrying it over carefully. “Makes sense...Allura mentioned he was a firefighter.”

“Uh-huh.” Keith takes the tea, their fingers brushing. “He stared down death every day...and he never backed down, not when people’s lives were on the line.” Keith swallows, gaze distant. “The day he died, he saved a baby. I wanna be mad, y’know? I wanna hate that family for causing the fire that killed my dad. But then I think about that baby...that kid. She never would’ve had a future without my dad. She never would’ve known the world and the people in it...and he gave her that. That’s what he wanted to do in the world and he did it.”

“But you were left behind?” Shiro asks, settling back down on the couch. “Were there no relatives?”

Keith shakes his head. “None who wanted me. It was – is – complicated.” He inhales the drifting steam of the green tea and his eyes flutter shut. “My mom left when I was a baby. I only ever saw her in pictures, and even those, I barely remember.”

“Why did she leave?”

“My dad always said she had to go,” Keith whispers. “That she wanted to stay so bad, but she couldn’t. He loved her so much. He never stopped loving her.”

Shiro pets Kosmo thoughtfully. “You should ask her why, so you can hear it from her,” he suggests. “When you see her, tomorrow.”

Keith shivers. “Maybe I won’t,” he mumbles. “Maybe I’ll cancel the meeting and skip town.”

“No, you won’t,” Shiro chuckles. “You’re going, Keith. I’ll go with, if you want, since tomorrow is looking very free for me.”

Keith bites his lip. “You don’t have to,” he starts, and falters. “But...the only other person who will be with us is Lotor, and he’s not...great at casual conversation…”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Lotor will be there?”

“Uh, yes,” Keith says, yawning and setting the tea down to snuggle with Kosmo. “I mean, he’s the one who got us in contact in the first place, so…”

“Wait.” Shiro shakes his head. “Lotor helped you find your mom?”

“Yep,” Keith mumbles. “His dad knows people...maybe too many people...but he’s Acxa’s friend, she said he could find my mom, I trust her judgment...took awhile, but we finally found her.”

“I see,” Shiro murmurs. “I, um...sorry. I sort of thought you and Lotor were, I don’t know…”

Keith cracks an eye open. “What?”

“A thing?” Shiro croaks.

Keith snickers into Kosmo’s fur. “Me and Lotor? C’mon. I’m a trashbag from Arizona who lives with three other trashbags working minimum wage.” He hiccups. “Lotor is the heir to a land development fortune from, I dunno, a much cooler, bougier place than Arizona where everyone has perfect hair and wears Dolce & Gabbana.” He yawns, still laughing a little. “Not my type. Or his.”

“You don’t like Dolce?” Shiro asks, not sure whether to be relieved by this turn of events or not.

Keith snorts. “On you, sure.”

Shiro makes a strangled sound, because what does that even mean?

Keith yawns again, bigger this time, and struggles to sit up. “I wanna go to bed. You should sleep. You need more sleep, Shiro.”

“Thought I was supposed to be taking care of you,” Shiro tries, and grunts when Keith all but yanks him to his feet with shocking strength.

“Sleep,” Keith insists. “I woke you up, I gotta make sure you get rest now.”

“You only have one bed –” Shiro starts.

“Don’t get all no homo on me now, Shirogane,” Keith slurs, tugging his hand down the hall and into his bedroom. “It’s a bed. Sleep in it.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Shiro wheezes. “No ‘no homo’ – I mean, that’s not – it’s not homo, no homo required or expected whatsoever, I just –”

“Could be homo,” Keith says under his breath. “Nothin’ wrong with a little homo.”

“You are so drunk,” Shiro says miserably.

“Sure am,” Keith says, and collapses face-first onto his bed, fast asleep within seconds. He still has Shiro’s blanket wrapped around him.

Shiro looks down at Kosmo, who followed them in hopes of more snuggles. “Help me,” he says.

Kosmo sneezes unsympathetically and hops onto the bed, curling up dutifully at Keith’s feet. Keith is also wearing Shiro’s fuzzy socks. They’re purple polka dotted. It’s so adorable it’s absurd. If Shiro wasn’t so smitten, he’d be angry.

“I hate you,” Shiro says to the sadistic forces of the Universe that led him to this point of no return and throws up his hands in defeat before climbing into bed with Keith and setting himself on a solid course to self-destruction.

*

Shiro stirs awake with a warm weight in his arms and Keith’s hair in his mouth.

Keith makes a sleepy sound that turns into a pained groan halfway through, and opens his eyes before Shiro can move away.

“Good morning,” Shiro manages, a moment before Keith yelps and rolls off the bed. Shiro crawls to the edge of the bed and peers down at him, feigning innocence. “Um. You good?”

Keith stumbles to his feet, rubs his head, and has a minor coughing fit, avoiding eye contact all the while. “Uh-huh. You, uh – stayed the night?”

Shiro wishes he was so lucky as to have amnesia of last night, but unfortunately every moment that he saw Keith’s earnestly lovely face is burned into his memory. “Yeah, you were pretty insistent,” Shiro says, sitting up with a stifled yawn. Keith blanches and Shiro eyes him curiously. “Don’t you remember calling me? I came over and made you tea…” He trails off.

Keith blinks and reaches out, brushing his knuckles over Shiro’s fleece blanket. “I remember now,” he says, and his shoulders slump in what could be relief. “Thanks for that. I probably already said thanks last night, huh?”

“Several times,” Shiro chuckles, stretching and shaking his head. “But it’s no problem, Keith, really. I’m here for you. Literally, if you need me to be.” Keith bites his lip and looks away again. “Speaking of which...my offer to come with you to meet your mom still stands.”

Keith’s head jerks up. “Shit – you don’t need to do that, really, I was just freaking out and paranoid and you’ve got stuff to do, so –”

“Keith.” Keith’s mouth snaps shut. “If you want me to be there, I’ll be there. Do you want me to be there?”

Keith’s brows draw together. He’s quiet for a long, long moment. Then he gives the tiniest of nods. “Yes,” he admits. “Yes, I want you to be there, Shiro.”

“Then I’ll be there,” Shiro replies, getting out of bed and not missing the way Keith quickly crosses the room, widening the space between them. So much for no ‘no homo,’ Shiro thinks, not without bitterness. He isn’t proud of it, but then again, he’s been here before. And it doesn’t matter. He’s Keith’s friend, in whatever way Keith will allow him to be. Shiro won’t allow himself to hope for more.

But as they’re leaving Keith’s room, Keith looks up at him, a moment caught in time between them like butterflies in amber, and whispers, “I know I said it already, but thanks. Again. It means a lot that you’re here, Shiro.”

Shiro shrugs and smiles, playing off the violent thud of his pulse. “Where else would I be? C’mon. Let’s get some breakfast. I promise I’ll even eat it this time.”

*

In the end, they not only eat breakfast together, but sit on the couch with Kosmo and watch Spirited Away because Keith insists it would be a waste not to. Keith doesn’t say much during the movie, but when Chihiro is on the train with No-Face, he murmurs, “I’m sorry I ghosted you after Lance’s party.”

Shiro tenses and swallows his tea with difficulty. “That’s okay,” he says. “Sometimes people just need some space. I get it.”

Keith frowns. “No,” he sighs. “That night, I…”

“Keith, really, it’s –”

“I think maybe I did something and if I did do that thing I am so fucking sorry –”

“Keith,” Shiro snaps, harsher than he meant, “it’s fine.”

Keith flinches, and burrows deeper into Shiro’s blanket. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Okay.”

Shiro wants to strangle himself. Instead, he passes Keith a Hershey’s kiss during the movie’s credits. “Still plenty of chocolate left,” he wheedles, and Keith glances up at him, some of the tension melting away. “I did bring it for you.”

Keith’s expression is unreadable. “You did,” he says, and accepts the kiss.

*

They meet Keith’s mother not at a coffee shop, but in an art museum.

The small museum is always free to the public, and in the late afternoon people mill about the eclectic exhibitions with a sort of confused curiosity, convincing themselves that the modern sculptures and flashing screens contain profound symbolism and untold secrets of life’s deeper meaning. Maybe they do. Shiro has never looked long enough to find out.

But Keith’s mother is in the last gallery, the original one, standing in front of a huge oil painting in an elaborate golden frame. Her back is turned to them, but Lotor stands unmistakably beside her, murmuring something to her as they both admire the artwork.

Keith stops short. The painting is a beautifully haunting scene of a great castle aflame beside the sea, orange and red reflected on the pale water’s calm surface in angry, twisting tendrils.

Shiro doesn’t think before taking Keith’s hand and squeezing. Keith starts and looks up at him. “It’s going to be okay,” Shiro tells him.

Keith nods, a little desperately, and lets go of Shiro’s hand, walking forward slowly.

Lotor catches sight of him and turns, and Keith’s mother with him.

For Keith, it must be like looking into a mirror. She is as tall as Lotor, with thick black hair tied back in a short braid, dark and expressive eyes, and lips which curve in the same small, uncertain line Keith’s often form. Her face is sharp and pointed but soft when she looks at Keith.

“Hello,” she says to her son. “I’m Krolia.”

Keith swallows. “Keith.”

Krolia tilts her head. “It’s been too long,” she murmurs. “For years I searched for you, but in the end, it was you who found me.”

“You searched for me?” Keith asks.

“Of course,” Krolia says. Her gaze drifts to Shiro, then back to her son. “Can we talk, Keith, just you and me?”

“Yes,” Keith says. “Please.”

She wears the ghost of a smile, and the two of them walk away together, past the burning painting and endless golden frames, drifting closer together as they leave like two rogue planets fallen into orbit with each other.

Lotor says, “Hello again, Dr. Shirogane. Do you like art museums?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Especially the free ones.” He forces himself to look away from Keith’s receding figure. “How was your family dinner?”

Lotor hums, gaze wandering over the looming oil portraits, each with eyes that seem to follow the two of them as they walk the length of the gallery. “Very good, thank you. My parents are busy people, but...family is important to them. As it should be, I think, to all of us. Don’t you agree?”

Shiro pauses beside an idyllic landscape of rolling green hills bathed in yellow sunshine. Sometimes he feels that his grief heals like a bruise, growing uglier and bigger with age. “Yes,” Shiro agrees. “Family should never be taken for granted.”

Lotor studies him. “Not all family is by blood, you know.”

Shiro doesn’t answer. He just nods absently and stares at the painting, half-wishing he could fall into it, and lay in the long summer grass, watching the clouds drift by, caring about nothing and no one at all.

Eventually, the museum closes, and Keith and Krolia are nowhere to be found. Lotor, who has been staring at a particularly perplexing exhibit of a pair of combat boots nailed to a wooden board, remarks, “Well, hopefully she didn’t kidnap him after all the trouble we went to to find her. That would be unfortunate.”

Shiro rolls his eyes and texts Keith, You good?

Shiro’s phone buzzes as he and Lotor are leaving and casting matching disgruntled looks at the dreary gray sky. Raindrops splatter Shiro’s phone screen as he peers down at it.

Keith: turns out I have a pretty cool mom. you were right. everything may not be okay now, but it will be. thanks, shiro :)

*

Keith isn’t on the train the next day. Or the next, or the next. A full week passes, by the end of which a potted plant appears on his desk, along with a note on sparkly pink stationary which reads:

A little bird (Lance) told me Keith is doing much better, and something tells me you were involved...anyway, here’s a little gift. Peace lilies improve air quality and are quite hard to kill. Plus, they’re very pretty! ❤❤❤ Allura

There’s a phone number scribbled at the bottom with a big smiley face and “in case you need flower pro-tips!” next to it.

Shiro puts Allura’s number into his phone and carries the plant home carefully, shielding the fragile white flowers with his body when an evening drizzle catches him on the way to the train. He inspects them on the lonely ride home, gently wiping the clinging raindrops off of the wide emerald leaves before realizing water is good for plants.

He finds the plant a place hopefully out of Axion’s reach at the kitchen window, and finally gets a breather to read Veronica’s long text to him from earlier that day – she’s finally back in town and all but demanding a kayaking trip. Shiro looks at his right shoulder, which is bared to the air and behaving so far. “What d’you think?” he says to it, eyebrows raised. “Feeling up to the challenge?”

Shiro flexes and is satisfied by the lack of pain or strain – Dr. Honerva’s advice is apparently paying off.

Before he can reply to Veronica, however, his apartment buzzer goes off. Axion meows in irritation and stalks across the room, tail held high. Shiro answers it, frowning and glancing at the clock – it’s almost seven, and he wasn’t expecting anyone.

"Shiro?" It’s Keith.

“Keith,” Shiro says, eyes wide. “How did you...what’s up?” he finishes lamely.

"Sorry, I made a note of your address when I stayed over,"  Keith says. " Kinda creepy, but I swear I just...wanted to remember it."

"You stayed over?" Another voice. Krolia. Shiro’s stomach flips.

“Is that your mom with you?” Shiro asks.

"Uh, yeah. She wanted to meet you, and I owe you from a few nights ago, so I brought dinner, if you’re hungry and like Ezell’s chicken?"

Shiro’s traitorous belly grumbles while his brain short circuits with KEITH BOUGHT DINNER FOR ME ?!?!?! in huge flashing red neon letters.

“I love Ezell’s,” Shiro says. “Okay, sure. I’ll let you up.”

It’s only after he hits the buzzer that he realizes his freaking arm is on the other side of the room. “Shit,” Shiro says, scrambling for it, then panicking when he remembers he tossed the compression sock and totally forgot where the package of new ones was. Axion watches his mad dash down the hallway, pausing mid-lick and blinking with mild concern.

Knock, knock. Shiro exhales forcefully, lifts his chin, glares at his stump and just-barely-too-short-to-tie-off sleeve, and hurries to open the door. Keith is standing there with a bag of Ezell’s and Krolia close behind, glancing around the hallway with open curiosity.

Keith takes in his flustered appearance and frowns. “Sorry, did we catch you at a bad time?” Then his eyes land upon Shiro’s right arm, or what’s left of it, and Shiro feels naked in the worst way.

He shifts his body so it’s hopefully out of Keith’s line of sight. “No, it’s all good,” Shiro says. “Come on in. That chicken smells great, Axion might try to steal some from you.”

“Axion is your cat?” Krolia asks as they walk inside. Axion is sitting on the counter, where she is definitely not allowed.

“Yes, she’s kind of spoiled.” Shiro shoos her off and she sulkily curls up on the couch. Krolia follows her and offers her hand for a discerning sniff.

“She is beautiful,” Krolia says, smiling when Axion deems her hand worthy and lets Krolia pet her head. “I don’t think I’d be able to resist spoiling her, either.”

Keith huffs, setting the bag down on the counter and folding his arms. “You never give Kosmo that much love.”

“Kosmo is very large and fond of drooling on my clothing,” Krolia retorts, gasping in delight when Axion primly licks her wrist. “Oh, what a good kitty!”

Shiro forces himself to relax and sits on the couch next to Krolia and the cat. “She can be, yeah, after she’s fed. Good kitty, Axi.”

She swats him with her tail and continues licking Krolia. Keith snorts, and carries over plates of chicken and plastic utensils. Shiro rises to help but Keith sits him back down with a single stare. “My treat,” Keith says, handing him a plate. “Least I could do after everything.”

Krolia glances at the two of them as Keith sits down next to Shiro, leaving Shiro between the two of them, nervously eating his chicken left-handed. “What exactly was ‘everything’?” Krolia asks. “Keith has been quite cryptic about it.”

Shiro coughs and Keith’s eyes narrow as he bites savagely into a buttered roll. “He was just having a rough night,” Shiro says. “He called me and I came over with ice cream and tea, et cetera.”

“What time was this?” Krolia asks.

“Uh.” Shiro clears his throat. “I think it must have been...around midnight…”

“On a weeknight?” Krolia purses her lips.

“Shiro is a good friend,” Keith interrupts, and Shiro focuses on his chicken to avoid addressing his crumpling heart.

“Mhm.” Krolia wipes her hands on a napkin and tilts her head. “Keith tells me you’re a professor at the University of Washington?”

“Yes, ma’am. Astrophysics, for now.”

“Smart,” she remarks. “There is certainly much to learn about space. Keith likes space, too. He had a mobile of the Solar System for his crib when he was a baby, he would always try to kick the Sun with his tiny feet –”

Keith chokes on a chicken wing. “Mom!”

“That’s very cute,” Shiro says. Keith kicks his shin and Shiro kicks him back. Axion decides this is too much kicking for her liking and hops onto the coffee table to investigate the chicken.

“He was a very cute baby,” Krolia says with definite pride. “Chubby. Small when he was born but drank plenty of milk, it’s good I ignored all of that hype about using formula instead –”

“Oh my god,” Keith groans, putting his head in his hands, “we are not talking about breastfeeding right now, Jesus.”

“It’s alright,” Shiro says, holding back laughter and patting Keith on the back, “it’s very natural.”

“He understands,” Krolia declares, leaning back against the cushions and folding her arms.

Keith shakes his head and grabs another roll. Shiro clears his throat. “So, uh, seems like you guys have had a good week of reconnecting?”

Krolia nods, sobering slightly. “I only wish it could have happened sooner.”

“Me too,” Keith says.

“You said you couldn’t find Keith, and that’s why it took so long?” Shiro says carefully.

Krolia sighs. “Yes. But I had limited resources. I did not want to leave Keith, please know that. I wanted nothing less. But...it is difficult to escape a prison sentence.”

“A prison sentence?” Shiro echoes in disbelief, glancing to Keith.

Keith nods, but his expression is thoughtful, not angry. “I became involved with dangerous people from a young age,” Krolia admits. “Too young. I was raised in the Navajo Nation, and the police do not arrive quickly, if at all, there. It’s the perfect breeding ground for crime...for gangs. I tried to get out, around the time I met Keith’s father.” Krolia folds her hands in her lap and twists the golden wedding band on her right hand slowly. “He was a good man. He tried to help. But my past caught up to me, and it wouldn’t have been right to drag my family into it.”

“So you left?”

“So I left,” Krolia says, “and served my time. By the time I got out, of prison and of the gang, Keith’s father had died and my life was in ruins. The foster care system is...not helpful.” She grimaces. “So many years searching, so many dead ends. It was only when Lotor contacted me earlier this year that I discovered Keith’s whereabouts.”

“She was still in Arizona,” Keith adds. “She’s one of the founders of a nonprofit that helps kids get out and stay out of gangs, and now that she’s moved up here, she’s joined their Seattle sector.”

“You moved up to Seattle?” Shiro exclaims.

“For my son? Of course,” Krolia replies. “We’re in South End, just Google ‘Aid of Marmora.’ Visitors are always welcome, especially if you bring snacks.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shiro says. Bitterness is rising in his throat and he shoves it down. He’s happy for Keith and Krolia. They found each other. They’re happy. They’re helping people. Keith continues talking about Krolia’s work with evident enthusiasm, and Shiro half-listens, gaze unconsciously drifting to the butsudan in the corner. One of these days, he’s going to throw the whole thing out. Eventually.

Krolia nudges him and he snaps out of it. She points to the butsudan. “Is that a family altar?” she asks casually. “The craftsmanship is masterful.”

“Ah,” Shiro says, ignoring the slow numbness setting in. “Yes, it belonged to my grandparents, they brought it over from Japan.”

Keith sets down his chicken. “This place was theirs too, right?” His tone is hesitant, unlike Krolia’s straightforward bluntness.

“It was,” Shiro says.

“Did they raise you?” Krolia asks.

“They did,” Shiro says.

“And your parents?”

“Dead,” Shiro says, and puts down his fork. The air is suffocating and his mouth is too dry.

“I’m sorry,” Krolia says, brow lowering. “How –”

“Mom,” Keith protests weakly.

“Car accident,” Shiro says.

Her expression is calm but sad; resigned. “Is that how you got the scar?” she asks, tapping her own, unmarked nose.

Keith inhales. Shiro stares at the butsudan and nods. “I don’t remember it,” he lies. “I was just a kid, so. My grandparents took it from there.”

“I’m glad they were able to raise you,” Krolia says earnestly.

Shiro thinks of their remarkable ability to deny and ignore and malign the most important secret about himself that Shiro ever entrusted them with, and sighs. “Me too.”

Shiro can hear Keith’s breathing. He hears the couch shift as Keith moves and starts to say, “Shiro, we don’t have to talk about –”

“It’s late,” Shiro says, standing abruptly. Keith shrinks back on the couch in surprise, and Shiro walks past him to toss his empty plate in the trash. “Thanks for the dinner. Nice to meet you, Krolia.”

Krolia is frowning and Keith looks stricken. Because of him. Shiro did that.

“You as well,” Krolia says after a beat. “We can leave if you are busy.”

“I am,” Shiro says. “That would be best, I think.”

“Shiro…” Keith trails off, arms hanging limp at his sides as he stands. “Do you want to keep the rest of the chicken and rolls?”

Shiro shakes his head and Keith’s shoulders slump. “The Marmora kids would probably eat more of it than me,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Keith mumbles, and puts the leftovers back into the bag. “Goodnight, Shiro.”

“Goodnight, Keith. Krolia.”

Keith casts a last glance over his shoulder at Shiro just before the door swings shut. That look, that single fucking look, is enough to make Shiro want to cry. And he hasn’t cried in…

Shit. He doesn’t remember the last time he cried.

Mechanically, Shiro finds the lighter in its kitchen drawer and walks over to the batsudon, opening the fine wooden cabinet and lighting the four candles inside with shaky fingers. He forgets to light the candles. His grandparents never forgot. They left offerings, too, but Shiro doubts they would appreciate fried chicken.

So instead he stands there in front of the pictures of his family, his mom and dad whose faces he can barely remember, whose photos almost look like strangers; his grandparents whose faces he will never forget, though in his mind they are immortalized in twisted anger and disapproval.

He knew how to pray properly once, but standing there then, the only word that comes to mind is sorry.

He blows out the candles after a while, when the flickering illumination of their faces becomes too much to bear.

Axion winds around his ankles, staring up at him. Shiro picks up his phone.

Sure, he sends to Veronica. Sounds like a plan to me, I could use an escape.

Uh-oh sounds like we need a full weekend getaway. Don’t tell me those undergrads broke you already, Veronica replies.

“He’s not an undergrad,” Shiro mutters to himself. “But he is breaking me.”

*

The weekend on the islands with Veronica is perfect, except for the dreams.

They flicker behind his closed eyelids like candlelight; fragmented, haunting, and almost always of Keith. Once, he dreams of Veronica, her expression somber, dressed in dark clothing...some kind of uniform. Something roars, distant and awful, and she looks to Shiro like he can fix it. Captain, she says, what are your orders?

Fire, Shiro says, and everything explodes into heat and light and screams, and Shiro is in the backseat, pitching forward, seatbelt slicing through his chest –

Shiro awakes in a cold sweat in their tent. Veronica is peacefully asleep in her sleeping bag, drooling on the pillow. Outside, an owl hoots, and the pines and firs rustle around them like so many whispers.

There’s no way he’s falling asleep after that dream. As quietly as possible, he crawls out of the tent, bringing his phone for a flashlight but deciding against it under the silver moonlight. After so long in the city, the silence is both welcome and uneasy. Shiro walks through the forest, his footsteps too loud, though he walks as lightly as possible.

They’re near the water, and yet Shiro is wholly unprepared for the vast expanse of formless black sea as he emerges from the treeline. He stands atop a cliff, which slopes down to the rocky shore, and as he stands there, marveling at the ceaseless sighing of the Salish sea, a giant emerges from its dark depths.

He sees the face first, the distinctive white spots like narrowed eyes, and the pale underbelly, marking its long jaw. Then the dorsal fin breaches the ocean’s surface, a towering black fang, as tall as he is. Steam rises in the cold night as its head lifts, lifts to the air, to him, and it breathes in a victorious plume of saltwater spray.

The orca swims closer to Shiro’s cliff, and in the moonlight he can see the huge, shining black body move just beneath the waves in graceful glides, white markings glowing an eerie blue-green, painted in shadow.

In the starry moonlit night, the orca speaks to him.

Shiro. It sings his name, sings in a lilting, echoing, alien note that stretches on and on. Paladin, it says, sighs, croons, my paladin.

“I don’t understand,” Shiro whispers, knowing he must still be dreaming though the cold sea wind stings his face and the orca is too strange and beautiful to be imagined by any human mind.

I have searched the stars for you, the orca tells him, silver foam rising as its great tail cuts gently through the waves. Just as he did, for you, for you, all for you.

“Who?” Shiro asks, though the name rests on the tip of his tongue, heavy and sweet and forbidden.

My paladin, the orca repeats, rolling onto its back, slipping backwards under the water in a brilliant white crescent. My last paladins…

Then it’s gone, without a trace.

Shiro walks back to the tent and opens his eyes to sunshine and Veronica hovering over him. “C’mon, sleepyhead!” she exclaims. “We’re wasting daylight!”

Later, when they’re kayaking along the pine-speckled shores, Shiro says, “I think I saw an orca last night.”

Veronica’s eyes widen. “Really? Where? Just one?”

“Near the campsite,” Shiro says, searching the waves; nothing. “Yes. Just the one.”

“That’s strange,” Veronica muses, “it’s not really orca season. Too cold, too few salmon. Maybe it was lost?”

“No,” Shiro murmurs, thinking of its voice, its song, settling in the core of his being with a familiar and complete rightness he cannot explain. “I think it was exactly where it meant to be.”

*

That Monday, Keith hands him a coffee on the train and says, “I wanted to tell you I’m moving in with my mom in South End. I gave Starbucks my two weeks’ notice yesterday, so…”

“Two more weeks of train rides, huh?” It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, maybe because he’s been expecting something like this from the start. Shiro takes the coffee and hands Keith his cup, with the order he’s memorized. “I’m glad you and your mom are getting on so well.”

Keith’s brows pull together. “I wanted to say sorry for Friday night.”

“Sorry?” Shiro shakes his head. “Why?”

Keith swallows. “It just seemed like...you were upset. Were you upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Your family,” Keith mumbles. “Your parents and your grandparents...I didn’t know.”

“It’s in the past,” Shiro says with a shrug.

“Shiro, if you want to talk about it –”

Shiro gives Keith a look. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Keith’s shoulders slump and he looks away. Guilt floods Shiro like poison. “Okay,” Keith mumbles. “If you say so.” He hesitates and adds, “I know I can’t imagine what you went through. But I was alone for a long time, Shiro. Almost half of my life. If you don’t let anyone in, then it doesn’t get better. Reach out to people; you might be surprised who helps you when you ask for it. You taught me that.”

Shiro stares at his shoes, half wishing he’d never met Keith, half yearning for what he cannot have. “I’m here for you,” Shiro says quietly. “But I would never ask anyone to shoulder my problems, Keith. Nobody should have to deal with that.”

Keith’s eyes narrow. “Deal with that?” he repeats in blatant disbelief, almost anger. “What, you think being your friend is an ordeal or something? Are you kidding me?”

“No, I just, I don’t want to be selfish, Keith. You’ve finally found your mom and that’s amazing, and I won’t ruin that for you –”

Keith’s jaw works. “Shiro,” he says, low and dangerous, “who the fuck told you that you were selfish?”

Shiro looks desperately to the front of the train. They’re still two stops away from the International District. Goddammit. There is no escape. “My ex,” he admits, shifting away from Keith as much as the small seats will allow.

Keith stares at him fiercely. “Well, she’s wrong,” he snaps. “You aren’t –”

“He,” Shiro says.

Keith falters. “What?”

“My ex,” Shiro repeats. “Was a he.”

Keith stares at him for a few agonizing seconds, some of the fierceness fading. Then he says, “And an asshole.”

Shiro blinks. “I – he wasn’t that bad –”

“An asshole,” Keith says with feeling. “Shiro, you’re not selfish. Talking about what’s eating you up inside isn’t gonna drag me down, okay? You’ve helped me out, let me help you.”

Shiro licks his lips, gaze darting away. “It’s not that simple,” he says.

“Sure it is.” Stubborn.

“Thank you,” Shiro sighs. “But honestly, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about most of it, Keith.”

“Oh.” Keith’s brow creases. “Well, when you are…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Shiro lies.

But Keith is satisfied with this, and leans back in his seat. “Good.”

*

Shiro doesn’t know what he’d do without Dr. Samuel Holt. He’s the Astronomy Department chair and is always giving Shiro new recommendations of scientific papers and sci-fi novels to read. He is also, apparently, Pidge’s father. Shiro finds this out on accident when he opens Dr. Holt’s office to give him some paperwork and walks in on Pidge complaining that Matt broke her Switch and Sam patiently telling her that Switches don’t grow on trees and professors don’t make as much bank as she apparently thinks they do.

“Uh,” Shiro says. “I can come back later?”

“Oh, great,” Pidge says when she sees him.

“Katie!” Sam exclaims. “That’s rude. Katie, this is Dr. Shirogane; Shiro, this is my daughter Katie.”

“Pidge,” Pidge grunts. “People only call me Katie when I’m in trouble and they’re my parents.”

“You are in trouble and I am your parent,” Sam reminds her.

“I just wanted to drop this off,” Shiro says hastily, handing the stack of papers to him. “Should be all good, but let me know if anything needs fixing.”

“Thanks!” Sam replies. Pidge watches Shiro suspiciously as he leaves, her gaze screaming “snitches get stitches.” Shiro has gotten enough stitches and also has no desire to explain to Samuel Holt that he went drinking with his daughter a few weeks back. Nope. Some things are better left unsaid.

In any case, one afternoon Sam corners him in the astronomy lounge and says, “Are you feeling up to a challenge?”

Shiro wipes doughnut crumbs off his face discreetly. “What kind?”

“I want to make a robot for my daughter’s birthday,” Sam declares.

“Huh,” Shiro says. “I was on the robotics team in high school…?”

“And you’re one of the smartest people on campus,” Sam finishes, beaming up at him. “Plus, we can use all the help we can get. Know any other smart people?”

“Maybe a few,” Shiro says, thinking of Veronica and several other people from grad school he’d rather avoid speaking to again at all costs.

“I call it Project Rover,” Sam says, rubbing his hands together in glee. “It’s going to be amazing!”

*

Project Rover is a bit of a disaster, partly because all of Pidge’s friends are there and so is Sam Holt and his wife, which means Shiro has to pretend he doesn’t know any of them the entire time.

This proves impossible when he finds out that Veronica is in fact Lance’s older sister.

“How did I not know this,” Shiro bemoans in the kitchen while Veronica devours the brownies Hunk made.

“You never asked,” Veronica points out, spraying crumbs across the tile. “Weird coincidence, though. Small world.”

“Too small,” Shiro says, grabbing a brownie to drown his sorrows in.

“Was that a dick joke I heard?” Lance pops his head around the corner and wiggles his eyebrows, only to blanch when he sees Veronica is there too. “It better not have been, Shirogane!”

Pidge’s freshman friend, Romelle, peeks around Lance. “Dr. Shirogane is making dick jokes?”

“Do not call me that,” Shiro hisses. Romelle purses her lips and whips out her phone, texting furiously. “Hey. Stop it. What are you typing!”

“Nothing,” Romelle says. “Just thought my friend in your class might be interested, she thinks you’re super uptight.”

“I teach astrophysics, there’s no time for dick jokes, or any jokes, especially inappropriate ones!” Shiro squawks, beyond flustered.

“You’re teaching astrophysics wrong, then,” Lance declares, folding his arms. “Here, I’ve got one. Ass trophysics. Done. See how easy that was?”

Shiro is a thousand percent sure Romelle is taking a Snapchat video of this. “Don’t you dare post that,” Shiro warns in his most threatening Dad Voice. Considering she’s a whole nine years younger than him, it’s not very effective.

“Go on,” Romelle says, “make an astrophysics dick joke, I believe in you, Dr. Shirogane.”

Shiro makes a strangled noise of absolute disgruntlement and exasperation. Romelle apparently deems this worthy of Snapchat, because she stops recording, grinning down at her phone and typing again.

“Shiro doesn’t make dick jokes,” Keith deadpans, elbowing Lance as he walks by, arms full of haphazard robot parts.

For some reason, even after all of Romelle’s needling, this is what finally makes Shiro bristle. “I could make dick jokes,” he retorts. Keith stumbles. Romelle almost drops her phone.

Lance catches Keith’s arm to steady him and glares at Shiro like it was his fault, somehow.

“It’s true,” Veronica continues, taking another brownie. “Shiro makes very good dick jokes.”

“Oh my god,” Romelle whispers in delight.

“Shiro is making a dick joke?” Allura walks into the kitchen with Hunk.

“He better be!” Romelle exclaims.

“No, he can’t do it on command,” Veronica tells her. Romelle pouts. “It’s a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

Allura nods sagely. “As all good dick jokes are.”

“I prefer puns, personally,” Hunk says, casually blocking Veronica from grabbing another brownie. He points to the pan. “Do I get brownie points for making these?”

“That was so bad, man,” Lance groans.

“Yes!” Allura giggles. “You do!”

“Okay, maybe not that bad,” Lance relents, staring obviously at Allura’s happy, glowing face.

Veronica coughs. “Shouldn’t somebody be helping Sam and Colleen with the double-modulated code?”

Hunk turns around slowly. “Why,” he says, aghast, “are they double -modulating?”

“Sounds like you better get over there and find out,” Shiro says.

“You’re coming with me, and no, Romelle, you are not coming with to get more blackmail material on Shiro,” Hunk says, and grabs Shiro’s hand. “And you, Keith, we need those parts. Why do you have the entire robot exoskeleton, anyway?”

Keith hurries to keep up with them as they walk through the house to the garage. “I was painting them in the backyard,” he says.

“You paint?” Shiro blurts out.

Hunk’s grip on his wrist turns bruising. “It was just spray paint,” Keith says, face pink. “But yeah, I do some art. When I have time. I think I mentioned it, awhile back.”

“You never showed me any of it,” Shiro replies.

“Keith’s real good,” Hunk says, letting go of Shiro and smiling at him, leaving Shiro confused and with a sore wrist. “He draws people a lot.” Hunk pauses, and looks directly at Keith. “A lot.”

“And other things,” Keith mutters. “Birds, and buildings, and...stuff.”

Shiro feels like he’s missing something important. “That’s awesome, Keith! You’ll have to show me some of your drawings sometime. If you’re comfortable with that, of course.”

“Or you could just steal his sketchbook,” Hunk suggests. Keith turns red as a tomato.

Shiro frowns. “That would be a total invasion of privacy, I would never.”

“Thanks, please don’t,” Keith says in one breath, and half-jogs to the garage.

“Is he embarrassed about his art?” Shiro asks Hunk.

“Not really,” Hunk says. “He’s doing a sweet oil painting of Pidge for her birthday, so you’ll see that – you are going to the party, right?”

“I wasn’t exactly invited –”

“It’s a surprise bonfire party on the beach, consider yourself officially invited,” Hunk says. “Relax, Sam isn’t gonna be there, and we’ll talk to Romelle about not making it weird.”

And that is how Shiro ends up on the beach with Pidge, Matt, Romelle, Veronica, Hunk, Shay, Allura, Lance, and Keith, who has decided to forgo a shirt despite the chilly night, because why would life go easy on Shiro, just once? He had hoped Keith would at least have an imperfect physique, but unfortunately, his lean chest and broad shoulders are pretty much straight out of Shiro’s decidedly not straight fantasies.

Thankfully, he puts a shirt on halfway through the party. Unthankfully, he couples the shirt with a leather jacket. Oh, well. Keith would be beautiful in anything – denim on denim, cowboy boots, a sheet, a damn sandwich costume. Shiro is doomed regardless.

The beach is beautiful, too, all sleek dark sand and pale driftwood smoothed by the sea. The Olympic National Forest looms behind them, and before them waves crash with lazy irregularity, flowing around the jagged sea stacks, pieces of forest broken away from the rest of the land, as if they wish to be carried away by the ocean, little by little.

The bonfire’s glow casts the dark water into something more inviting, and in its orange-gold cast, everyone’s faces are rendered smiling and strange. With cider warm and tingling and sweet in the back of his throat, Shiro imagines they are otherworldly beings, breaking through the veil of their eternal dusk to seize the cool night wind and spill of stars so far above and yet, if Shiro closes his eyes, he swears they’re close enough to touch.

Laughter rises and falls around him, some of which is his own. Words pass his lips like honey, flowing thick and sweet, forgotten as soon as they leave his tongue. Shiro doesn’t remember the last time he was so warm, so content. It isn’t just the cider, either – it’s the fire, the people, the laughter, god, there is no better sound.

“Love you guys,” Pidge slurs, and across the fire, through the twisting flames, Shiro can see her leaning into Hunk’s side, Romelle’s arm draped over Pidge’s shoulders on her other side. Shay is next to Hunk, leaning her head on his shoulder with a sleepy smile, and Allura and Lance are next to Romelle, feeding each other s’mores which stick hopelessly to their fingers in a mess of gooey marshmallow and chocolate. Veronica and Matt are a little ways off, searching in the tide pools for crabs and anemones, and Keith is next to Shiro, lying carelessly beside him on the wet shore.

“Aw, love you too,” Hunk says, ruffling her hair.

“Y’know,” Pidge admits, “in high school, I didn’t really...didn’t really have many friends. Kids are mean, y’know? And I’m,” she hiccups, “a big nerd. Like. So big, wow.”

“You are a nerd,” Romelle tells her, “but you’re the best nerd!”

“Number one nerd in my heart,” Lance agrees, and Hunk highfives him, then hugs Pidge for good measure.

Shay gives her a soft smile. “Those kids in high school were missing out,” she adds. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re glad to call you our friend, Pidge.”

“Thanks,” Pidge sniffles. “I’m really fuckin’ glad I have you guys, okay? I don’t wanna get sappy, but man.”

“Sappy is good,” Allura assures, leaning forward and grabbing Pidge’s hand, squeezing tight. “You’re like a little sister to me, Katie, and I am so lucky to know you, truly. You are so smart, and so funny, and so beautiful, and so kind, and you’re going to do great things, I just know it!”

“I’m the ugliest crier, stop it,” Pidge says, wiping at her eyes, knocking her glasses askew, and smiling uncontrollably. “I can’t believe you made me a robot, what the hell. I love it so much. Rover is my son. My goddamn son. I’m gonna take such good care of him, you don’t even know. Gonna give him all the software upgrades. He deserves it.”

“No, Pidge, you deserve it,” Lance says earnestly, and hands her another can of cider. Hunk discreetly removes the can of cider from Pidge’s flailing hands. Pidge, completely oblivious to the loss of more cider, bursts into tears and hugs the nearest person clumsily, which quickly turns into a heap of tearful embraces.

“Guess it’s feelings time,” Keith remarks from beside him, looking up at the stars and the smoke curling towards them, ever upwards.

Shiro rolls onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm to look at Keith. “If it’s feelings time, then I’m happy.”

Keith’s lips quirk and his eyes dart to Shiro, then back to the stars. “Yeah? Happy is good. You deserve to be happy all the time.”

Heat rushes to Shiro’s face, spreading through his chest and pooling low, lower. “So do you,” he says.

Keith chuckles, rumbling like the waves over the rocks. “We really need to stop getting wasted together,” he says. “It’s not healthy. Probably.”

“I’m not wasted,” Shiro argues. “Just happy.”

“Hmm.” Keith sits up, shaking sand out of his hair. “Only one way to find out just how sober you are.” Without warning, he leaps to his feet and takes off across the beach, sprinting towards the piles of driftwood and dark smudge of trees.

“What –” Shiro struggles to his feet, glances back at the bonfire, and then to Keith, who leaves a neat trail of footprints in his wake. Shaking his head, Shiro huffs out a laugh and chases after him, blood roaring in his ears, skin warming with exertion against the cold wind. As he runs, the sky opens up, rain catching him bright and swift across his cheek, his shoulders, his chest, soaking his white T-shirt without quarter.

Keith keeps running like a bat out of hell, throwing his head back to the night and laughing, sound carrying on the breeze and wrapping around Shiro’s heart, squeezing until he’s breathless and dizzy. Oblivious to the power Keith has over him, Keith leaps effortlessly over a driftwood log, and scrambles a little less gracefully over a bigger one, finally ducking towards the massive beached trunk of a sequoia. Shiro follows with more caution, pausing at the base of the sequoia, where someone has stacked smaller driftwood logs at an angle against it, creating a sort of lean-to shelter.

Before Shiro can look any further, he’s yanked downwards, into the secret shadow of the sequoia, and half on top of Keith.

“Hi,” Keith says, dripping with mischief.

Out of the firelight, he looks a different kind of ethereal; heavenly, ghostly. His lashes cast long shadows over his fine cheekbones and his eyes shine with starlight. Shiro can’t not kiss him.

Keith makes a soft sound against his lips, not of protest, but of surprise, and shivers when Shiro draws him closer, afraid to touch too much but needing to all the same. Keith doesn’t stop him. Hands curl into Shiro’s wet shirt and tug, overbalancing them both, sending them tumbling down together. Shiro catches him and crushes him to his chest and Keith clings just as fiercely, licking into his mouth, tasting like cider and sugar; not cloying and sour like the last time, though Keith kisses like he did the last time, like he fully expects Shiro to push him away at any moment, and is determined to make the most of it until then.

But Shiro never pushes him away. How can he, when Keith is arching soft and hard and wanting under him, every breath when they break away the shape of Shiro’s name, his lips parting for Shiro again and again? Keith makes kissing feel like plunder and offering all at once, and Shiro doesn’t know which side he’s meant to be on. He knows only that when Shiro kisses him, Keith turns uncharacteristically pliant and pleading, though not with words – yet – in a way that belies a desire much deeper than simple drunken lust.

It’s raining harder, and the driftwood cannot keep all the water out. But Shiro doesn’t want to stop kissing him. He doesn’t know, honestly, how he’s gone his whole life without kissing Keith. He has lost time to make up for, and Keith has no complaints. He moans around Shiro’s tongue and his spine bends obligingly under the warm palm sweeping over it, then down, under the leather jacket and thin shirt.

Their hips slot together and Shiro has to rein himself in, snap himself out of it before both of them end up with sand in places it should never be. Keith whines, actually whines, grasping clumsily for Shiro’s neck to drag him back down, and Shiro silences him with a firm squeeze to his narrow waist, single handedly hoisting him up to his feet. Keith sucks in a swift breath, stumbling into his arms. Shiro feels Keith’s heart pounding a few inches below his own, eager thunder.

“Don’t leave,” Keith breathes, fingers tracing Shiro’s jaw in a frantic sweep. “Shiro –”

“I’m here,” Shiro promises, and kisses him again, dips him out of sight behind the driftwood, away from the prying light of the bonfire, and the waves crash and the wind howls and the rain falls and somewhere he swears he hears the orca, singing, crying, calling his name, or Keith’s, or both; they blur together like ocean currents.

“C’mon,” Keith gasps, tangling their fingers together and tugging him towards the trees. “I want –”

“Not here,” Shiro whispers, glancing again warily to the bonfire and the silhouettes moving around it. He thinks his fear is irrational, but it claws at his throat relentlessly, born of survival and judgment.

“I’ll text them,” Keith says, fumbling with his phone. “Tell them we left early…”

The pines close in over their heads, plunging them into Cimmerian gloom. Fog drifts through the swaying ferns, beading their green fronds with dew, and Keith’s fingertips brush the leaves as they walk, up the path through the forest to the parking lot Shiro knows must be there, but which seems an eternity away. Standing among the moss and mist, Keith looks back at him, and presses a finger to his lips.

Shiro stops short, following Keith’s gaze – just up the path, standing on a rise, is a bull elk, standing still as a statue, red-brown pelt bright, golden eye shine unblinking. Had it not been for its breath rising in a slow gray plume, Shiro would doubt it wasn’t an apparition, a forest spirit surveying its domain. Moss hangs from its thick dark mane and many-pronged antlers like the remnants of rope, as if the forest itself had tried to chain the beast, only for it to break free, and wear the evidence of its wildness like a crown.

Keith takes a step forward, and Shiro catches his wrist. “It won’t hurt us,” Keith whispers, like the elk has told him this personally. The elk stares at them, and then turns, walking slowly away into the forest as if it wants them to follow.

“Come on,” Shiro says, leading Keith up the path and towards the cars.

Keith watches the elk disappear into the brush, and says, “Did you hear that?”

Shiro listens. Leaves rustle and twigs snap. The rain patters around them, dissolving into shrouded mist. “Hear what?”

“It almost sounded like you,” Keith breathes, and goes up on his tiptoes, cupping Shiro’s face in his hands. “You, saying my name…”

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, just to indulge him, and Keith shudders, head bowing into the crook of his neck. “Let’s go home, Keith.”

“Yes,” Keith says, lips brushing his throat, his jaw, his cheek. “Home.”

They walk up the path and into the quiet parking lot, past Hunk’s Jeep and Allura’s Lexus, to Krolia’s gleaming motorcycle which Keith settles astride easily, slipping on his helmet and nodding to the trunk bag. Shiro finds an extra helmet there, and hesitates before sitting behind Keith, the two of them pressed flush on the leather seat. Shiro’s palms sweat. Keith smells like salt and earth and smoke, and Shiro wants more, so much more it scares him.

Keith’s profile turns slightly towards him. “Calm down,” he murmurs. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

Shiro makes a soft sound and leans his head between Keith’s shoulder blades, anchoring himself. He wraps his arms around Keith’s waist, pulling Keith more securely into the cradle of his thighs with a kind of tentative force, and Keith hums, twisting around in his embrace to nudge his nose against Shiro’s.

“Hey.” Keith strokes his hair, touch lingering. “Trust me?”

“I trust you,” Shiro sighs, and closes his eyes. Keith revs the engine, its roar carrying through the night, trees blurring past, stars watching them from above.

*

Keith’s hair is wet silk against Shiro’s palm as they slip into Shiro’s dark apartment, kissing in slow intervals of ragged breath. Shiro backs Keith up against the counter and Keith tilts his head back, dragging Shiro down, panting loud and harsh when Shiro’s mouth finds his neck and sucks, teeth and tongue following. Keith squirms between his body and the granite and Shiro holds him fast, pausing when something brushes against his ankle.

Shiro slowly looks down.

“Mrreow?” Axion says.

Keith follows his gaze and promptly bursts into laughter, covering his mouth with a hand when Shiro huffs at him and stares at his cat in betrayal. “Seriously?”

Keith pushes his shoulder playfully and ducks out of his grasp. “Go feed your cat. I’ll be waiting.”

Shiro does not gawk at Keith as he sidles away down the hall to Shiro’s bedroom, but it’s a near thing. Axion yowls louder and Shiro rubs his temples. “Awful,” he tells her. “You are awful.”

But he leaves a kiss on the top of her little head after feeding her, anyway.

Shiro isn’t sure what he expects when he opens his bedroom door. It certainly isn’t Keith standing on the balcony, leather jacket, shirt, and shoes discarded on the floor. Shiro approaches slowly, and Keith leans his elbows on the railing, eyes falling shut as the breeze tousles his hair and the rain clings to his bare skin. The Space Needle shines in the near distance, plunging unmistakably up through the Seattle skyline, bright white, almost alien, and yet oh so familiar.

“You got a nice view,” Keith says, lips pulling up at the corners, shoulders low and ass pushed out in a way that’s got to be purposeful.

Shiro sits down on the edge of the bed, and lets himself look. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.” He isn't talking about the Space Needle.

Keith turns on his heel, and Shiro is unprepared for the predatory glint in his eyes, the dangerous slice of his grin. “Could be nicer,” Keith suggests, shifting his weight onto one side, gaze assessing. “If you like.”

It was a long motorcycle ride from the beach to the city and if he’s being honest, Shiro has wanted Keith since they first locked eyes on that crowded train months ago. Shiro generally prefers to use his words, but right now he’s done talking, and sees only the shocked dilation of Keith’s eyes as Shiro yanks him forward without warning into a searing kiss. Keith melts into it, licking at Shiro’s lips when they open to him in hot invitation.

Shiro lets Keith kiss him for a few more minutes before pushing Keith down to his knees between Shiro’s spread legs with a heavy hand on the back of his neck. He watches Keith’s reaction carefully, pleased when his hypothesis proves right – Keith’s breath shortens, unresisting, and he shuffles closer, hands resting lightly on Shiro’s thighs, nuzzling over the zipper of his jeans and making a low, deep sound in the back of his throat, almost a purr.

“Go on,” Shiro murmurs, petting Keith’s hair, pushing it out of his face and behind his ears. Keith glances up at him, flushed, and unzips Shiro’s jeans, fingers deft and quick, practiced. The thought of Keith doing this with anyone else is far more upsetting than it has any right to be. He has no claim to Keith, not even Keith on his knees before him, exhaling over thin tented fabric and sticking out his tongue to taste, teasing until Shiro’s grip tightens and Keith bites his lip and draws Shiro’s cock out, hands rough and warm, nails scratching through coarse hair, his pretty eyes bright with intent.

The intent shifts to awe when Keith gets a good look, and Shiro can’t help but smirk. “You,” Keith says, and swallows. “You’re gonna kill me,” he adds faintly, but doesn’t sound mad about it.

“Only if that’s what you wanted,” Shiro says, and Keith inhales sharply. Shiro leans down, tilts Keith’s face up to his own with a single metal finger. “What do you want, Keith?”

Keith’s lashes flutter. “Anything,” he breathes, and then, softer, “everything.”

“Yeah, okay,” Shiro agrees, voice rough, and guides Keith’s head to his cock. “We can do that.”

Keith’s moan is muffled as he sinks down, relaxing into Shiro’s grip. His nails dig into Shiro’s thighs through denim, and Shiro barely stops himself from chasing Keith’s warm mouth and clever tongue, holding himself carefully still as Keith takes him apart with kittenish licks and obscene hollowed cheeks. Keith isn’t making it easy. It’s almost like he’s goading Shiro on. Keith’s tongue swirls from base to tip, slow and so, so wet. Shiro grits his teeth.

When he does finally rock up into Keith’s throat, it’s on accident, almost reflex. But instead of pushing him away Keith groans and nods and Shiro groans, too, watching the wet slide of his cock past Keith’s swollen lips and managing to keep it together for thirty more seconds before coming in a shocking flare of pleasure, grabbing at the sheets and Keith’s hair, probably too rough, but Keith takes it.

Shiro swears under his breath, then louder when his cock falls from Keith’s mouth, a total mess. Keith’s tongue darts out to taste, only serving to make a worse mess, both of his face and of Shiro.

Keith blinks, his previous intense focus softened to something more dark and hazy, and leans his head against Shiro’s inner thigh. He almost looks like he’s about to fall asleep there, if not for the visible bulge in his pants and the high flush to his face.

Sweat drips down the pale stretch of his throat and Shiro’s eyes zero in on it, hungry. Shiro cards his fingers through the hair curling at Keith’s nape, and Keith leans into it, his expression turning uncertain, a line creasing between his brows; he doesn’t know what comes next.

Shiro does. If he doesn’t touch Keith in the next minute he thinks he might die.

Keith lets out a startled grunt when Shiro seizes his wrist and hauls him up into his lap for another kiss, which Keith returns with a halting moan that implies he thinks Shiro is kind of nasty for wanting to kiss him with Shiro’s cum all over his face, but is also too turned on to care much. His moan shifts to surprised when Shiro squeezes his dick through his jeans, and Shiro chuckles, leaning back against the pillows with Keith perched wide-eyed atop his hips.

“What,” Shiro murmurs, “did you not expect me to return the favor?”

Keith licks his lips. “You don’t have to –”

“Shut up,” Shiro scolds gently, and rolls Keith down onto the bed under him. Keith lands with a bounce, chest heaving as Shiro’s gaze rakes over him. “Do you have any idea how hot you are?” Shiro asks him, and Keith colors brilliantly, beautifully red, and after a moment’s pause, gives a small, slow shake of his head.

Shiro sits back on his heels, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and tugging his jeans and briefs down and off. Keith’s legs spread wider. Shiro throws his jeans off the side of the bed, reaching then for the hem of his shirt, damp from the rain. Shiro knows he looks good, knows how to arch and flex as he eases his shirt up and over his head, his right shoulder straining only slightly with the unnaturally performative movement. Keith stays where he is, pinned to the bed by an invisible force, as if caught in a trance.

Shiro’s hand curls around his own dick, the metallic touch cool and strange even after all these years. Keith makes a little, hurt sound, grasping at the sheets and staring with blatant greed as Shiro touches himself in lazy pulls, silver hair hanging into his face. With Keith right in front of him, visibly hot and bothered, mouth red from blowing him, it isn’t difficult to coax his cock back into arousal.

“Well?” Shiro says, brow lifted. “Are you just going to lay there and watch all night?”

“Fuck, no.” Keith squeezes his eyes shut briefly, sets his jaw, and unzips his pants, shimmying out of them and kicking off his briefs, freezing when Shiro’s left hand falls upon his upper thigh. Shiro crawls over him, slow enough for Keith to stop him, but Keith does not. Keith barely breathes, and his belly sucks in sharp and sudden when Shiro moves his right hand from his cock to Keith’s, rubbing the textured pad of his thumb over the leaking tip and watching the way it makes Keith gasp, head lolling into the pillows, panting soundlessly.

“You’re so sensitive,” Shiro marvels, and leans down to run his tongue along the grooves of Keith’s chest and abs, hard muscle under his lips, lapping away Keith’s sweat and dignity in one fell swoop. That’s okay, Shiro left his dignity somewhere by the cat dish; he should be mostly sober by now, but being near Keith, kissing Keith, touching Keith, making Keith squirm, makes him feel drunk all over again.

Keith flaps a hand, breath hitching when Shiro twists his wrist and slides his lips teasingly along thick veins and tender skin. “Been awhile,” he gasps, “too long, fuck, oh fuck, Shiro, you should fuck me.”

Shiro groans, smoothing his palm up Keith’s side, flattening over his ribs, unsure whether he wants to worship or bruise. He settles on both, teasing Keith’s peaked nipples between thumb and forefinger and dragging biting kisses over his collarbones and neck, unconsciously rutting against Keith, who bucks under him, fingers digging into the meat of Shiro’s ass, demanding and desperate. Who is Shiro to deny him?

“How long has it been?” Shiro asks, breaking away to reach for the nightstand drawer, yanking it open with such urgency that it almost breaks. He searches for condoms and lube while Keith catches his breath, cock curving hard and red over his stomach, which is peppered with the marks Shiro left on him.

“Long,” Keith admits, and stretches as Shiro returns to the inviting sprawl of his legs with the box and bottle. “But I – mm. Do this to myself…”

Shiro takes a moment to breathe, or maybe wheeze. Keith laughs quietly at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and Shiro looks at him, and Keith’s laughter tapers out. There are too many words on Shiro’s tongue, too many emotions tangled up in his chest, and the worst of them are fondness and fear, and he can’t risk voicing them, and making them real.

He kisses Keith and presses slick fingers to his hole, and Keith’s mouth falls open, trying to kiss Shiro through it, giving up when Shiro presses in, letting Keith adjust to one twisting finger, then two. He curls the two fingers deep for a while, exploring the tight clutch of Keith’s body, Keith’s cock dribbling over his abs when Shiro finds his prostate, and spends just enough time there for Keith’s face to crumple into near-tears and his voice to tremble and crack.

Shiro shushes him, dropping kisses over Keith’s face, and tells him he is so lucky to have Keith here with him, tells him he’s going to make him feel so good because he deserves it, tells him sweet nothings that feel too much like somethings, because everything with Keith is so real, painfully real, and Shiro can’t run from it anymore.

Maybe Shiro is enjoying watching Keith fall apart around his fingers a little too much, because in the end it is Keith who hisses out a curse and practically manhandles Shiro into him, rolling on the condom for far longer than necessary, spilling lube all over Shiro’s cock and the sheets and his thighs and lining him up with a determined fist.

Shiro braces himself over Keith, hitching one of Keith’s legs up and around his waist, and Keith’s eyes roll back when Shiro finally sinks into him, inch by inch, marveling at the ever-widening stretch of Keith’s rim around his girth. Shiro keeps a close eye on him, breathless, waiting for any sign of pain or protest but finds nothing but insatiably welcoming heat in Keith’s ass and overwhelmed disbelief on Keith’s face. It’s a good look on him.

Keith’s abdomen ripples as his body sheathes Shiro’s cock, and when Shiro is fully seated in him, Keith turns his head to bite the pillow and slams his fist down on the mattress, knuckles ivory. Shiro covers Keith’s shaking fist with his hand and brushes his lips over the corner of Keith’s mouth. “You feel so good,” he whispers. “Taking me so well, baby.”

“Gnnnhhhh,” Keith groans, but turns his head to mash their lips together in what could generously be called a kiss, so Shiro thinks he’s okay.

What’s not okay are the noises Keith makes when Shiro starts to move; he chokes on pitchy moans when Shiro pulls out and loud whimpers every time Shiro thrusts back in, some of which resemble Shiro’s name. At this rate, he’s not going to last five minutes and his neighbors are all going to hate him.

Worth it, though.

Shiro smothers his sounds as best he can with kisses, moving harder, faster, when Keith claws at his back and nearly begs, and then Shiro slows to an excruciatingly slow grind that leaves Keith whining and writhing, desperately seeking friction and sensation that Shiro gives him only in teasing doses, and then all at once when Keith gasps, please, and then Shiro strokes Keith’s cock loosely and nails his prostate while Keith buries his face in Shiro’s throat and cries out, strangled and wordless.

Shiro missed this. Not sex itself, exactly, but he missed...being with someone. Having someone else to pour his attention and affection on, bringing someone else pleasure, as much as Shiro has to give and then some.

And having that someone be Keith feels right. It feels right when Keith surges up to kiss him and whisper Takashi, yes, yes, in a dizzy litany. It feels right to hold Keith in his arms and to be inside him, to be close to him, to feel his pulse pound and catch his rolling tears as they fall. And it feels right to look into Keith’s eyes, his eyes which drew Shiro in from the very start, eyes he swears he’s seen before, long ago, in a memory before memory.

Keith shouts when he comes, Shiro, fuck, please, and there is something about it that haunts Shiro even as he comes soon after with a soft moan, nosing under Keith’s jaw and holding himself up on one arm, trembling from effort.

Keith sighs and shifts under him, and Shiro slowly and reluctantly pulls out, tying off the condom and tossing it in what he hopes is the trash. He tilts Keith’s face towards his own and murmurs, “You okay?”

Keith’s face breaks into a smile, incredulous and dopey, and Shiro is flooded with relief. “Uh-huh,” Keith chuckles, dragging a fingertip over his messy chest and holding it up. “I think there’s cum in my fucking eyebrows.”

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles sheepishly, and Keith snorts, shaking his head.

“No! I think it’s mine!” he exclaims, and laughs harder at Shiro’s flabbergasted expression. “I know, right? Wow.”

“Wow?” Shiro echoes, and lets out an oof when Keith flops half on top of him, lips quirked and face pink.

He pokes Shiro’s nose. “Yeah. You. Wow.”

“Eloquent,” Shiro teases, pausing when Keith reaches out and touches his right shoulder, fingertips trailing over heavy scar tissue. He thinks about pushing Keith away, but then figures he’s done enough of that, and says instead, “It doesn’t hurt.”

Keith hums, his whole hand curling around what’s left of Shiro’s bicep, visibly fascinated by the join between flesh and metal. “I’m glad it doesn’t hurt,” he whispers. “You have to take it off, right?”

Shiro swallows. “At night, yeah. Usually.”

“Are you going to take it off tonight?”

“I don’t have to,” Shiro starts.

Keith frowns, seeing right through him. “It’s okay, Shiro,” he says, and it’s three simple words, but Shiro feels instantly lighter.

“Okay,” Shiro whispers back, and sits up, about to disassemble it, then looks back at Keith, sweaty and fucked out, and thinks better of it. “Let me take care of you first?”

Keith’s brows lift, intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe a shower,” Shiro hedges, shivering when Keith’s eyes darken and lips part. “If you’re feeling up for it.”

Keith sits up. “Oh, I’m up for it.”

“Famous last words,” Shiro retorts, and scoops Keith up in his arms, bridal-style. Keith shrieks, first with indignance and then with laughter, and Shiro totes him off to the bathroom.

“The Universe really must’ve had an ulterior motive when it created you, Takashi Shirogane,” Keith babbles ten minutes later under the warm shower spray with Shiro kneeling on the tile floor giving him the best blowjob of his life.

Shiro pulls off with an obscene sucking sound, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes with his remaining hand. “Oh, yeah? And what was that?” His voice is wrecked already.

“To kill me,” Keith moans, scrabbling uselessly at the frosted glass. “You’re fucking – ah!”

“Didn’t quite catch that,” Shiro says as he bundles Keith up in a towel later. Keith smacks him with a washcloth, then pecks his cheek, and puts a hand on Shiro’s arm when he reaches for the prosthesis waiting beside the sink.

“Leave it,” Keith murmurs. He hesitates. “Can I stay the night?”

Shiro almost laughs, then sees Keith’s serious. He cups Keith’s jaw and nods. “Of course,” he says, and smiles. “Though you may have to fight Axion for her spot in bed.”

Keith’s brow furrows. Shiro leads him out of the bathroom and back to the bedroom and sure enough, Axion is curled up asleep on her usual pillow. “Hmm,” Keith says, “looks like we’re gonna have to snuggle.”

“Some sacrifices must be made,” Shiro says, shaking his head grimly until Keith grins. Shiro wishes he could carry Keith over to the bed again, but settles on grabbing his hand. They shed their towels and dress in comfortable quiet, and when Shiro lays down, Keith folds into the curve of Shiro’s body like he belongs there, and maybe he does. Shiro is starting to think maybe he always has.

“G'night,” Keith says, draping his arm over Shiro’s hip and closing his eyes.

“Goodnight, Keith,” Shiro sighs, hoping with all his heart that he won’t wake up to an empty bed.

*

That night, Shiro dreams of Keith.

They are standing on a metal island floating in the menacing maw of deep space and Keith is begging for his life, and Shiro is going to kill him.

He can only watch, helpless, from a fixed outsider’s perspective somewhere just out of reach, as he lunges for Keith, their swords clashing, the sound swallowed up by the nothing pressing down around them, and by the strident sound of Keith’s voice, and the lower, furious snarl of his own.

His hair is not silver but dark on the sides and top, with the same white forelock. The face is the same, the scar across his nose is the same, but the expression is not his own, it is hardly even human, it is cold and murderous and laughs at Keith’s pain as he goes down hard with a sick crack. Keith’s pain is its aim, its very purpose for existing. That is all it wants, all it will ever want.

His glowing hand presses its glowing sword closer and closer to Keith’s face and Keith screams, aching and terrible, the blade leaving a smoking red slice of scar in its wake. The other him laughs without joy, without any feeling at all.

Then the perspective shifts and Shiro sees the glowing violet tubes surrounding them, and sees their contents, sees the hundreds of himself standing awful and inert, perfect carbon copies waiting to be unleashed, unleashed upon Keith.

The two of them reach an impasse, opposing forces evenly matched, but Shiro knows with cold certainty that he wants, no, needs to win this battle more than Keith does. Keith’s fighting is defensive, and the conflict and hurt in his eyes is evident. He doesn’t want to fight Shiro. And Shiro doesn’t understand why, doesn’t understand until Keith gasps, wounded and anguished, Shiro, please. You’re my brother. I love you.

And for the first time, the other Shiro stops, his concentration waning, his eyes widening, and Shiro hears his thoughts as if from underwater, and then it hits him in an uncontrollable blur of color and sound and feeling, a history between them that spans light years, planets, galaxies, and beyond. It is terrible and wonderful and Shiro knows, as this other him knows, that when Keith says my brother, what he means is my everything.

Shiro wakes up with a strangled gasp and aching skull, soaked in sweat and breathing hard as he leans back against the headboard. His right shoulder burns, though the pain fades with each waking moment. It was only a dream, he tells himself, and the words ring hollow, but Shiro clings to them, because the alternative is not something he can think about before coffee.

No sooner has he caught his breath, however, Keith lets out a scream of raw pain and terror, clawing and writhing in the sheets, scaring Axion off the bed with a frightened hiss as he writhes in a blind panic.

“Keith!” Shiro grabs his arms before he can shatter the lamp or hurt himself, and Keith is crying, gulping in frantic breaths, and when his eyes snap open he screams again, fighting to escape Shiro’s hold.

Shiro lets go, bewildered, and Keith stares at him in horror, flinching away when Shiro reaches out. “Don’t touch me,” Keith pleads.

Shiro tries to reach out again, saying, “Keith, wait, it’s me, it’s me ,” and Keith gasps, “Who are you?” and Shiro wrenches away as if struck.

“Keith,” Shiro says, scared.

Keith squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m losing my goddamn mind,” he whispers, voice breaking, edging on hysteria. He scrubs at the tears drying on his face and gets out of bed on shaky knees. He doesn’t look at Shiro, and gathers up his clothes in his arms. “Gonna change in the bathroom,” he mumbles, hurrying for the door.

“I...I’ll text you?” Shiro says, but Keith is already gone.

Shiro doesn’t leave the bed until he hears the telltale thud of the front door slamming shut.

His apartment feels emptier than before. Axion stares mournfully at him from where she’s hidden under the coffee table, and Shiro goes down on his hand and knees to look at her. “Mew,” she says, and twitches her whiskers nervously. Shiro sighs and picks her up, sitting down with her on the couch. She kneads his thigh and rubs her face on his hand, self-soothing, and Shiro stares numbly into space. Maybe Keith’s right. Maybe they’re both losing their minds. Or maybe it’s just Shiro’s fault, somehow. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Then something white moves in his peripherals, and his gaze falls upon the peace lily on the windowsill. One of its flowers has just fallen to the floor, and Axion hops off his lap to investigate, sniffing at the fallen blossom and batting at it with her paw.

Shiro rescues it from her, cradling it in his palm and narrowing his eyes.

He’s been running for long enough.

*

Allura meets him in the Arboretum.

He finds her among the rhododendrons, standing alone in the peaceful glen, staring up into the twisted branches laden with cotton candy pink flowers. She’s tucked a fallen flower into her long silver curls, bright and warm in contrast to her pale blue dress and gray tights. She smiles at Shiro when she sees him, and beckons him over.

“I wandered off a little,” she apologizes, and nods to the glen of rhododendrons in full bloom. “But I’m glad I did.”

“I’m glad you did, too,” Shiro says. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Allura says, folding her arms. “But I don’t think you asked to meet me here to discuss how I’m feeling, Shiro.”

Shiro sighs. “No. I didn’t.”

“You went home with Keith last night,” Allura says, and Shiro flinches. She is unyielding. “Or rather, he went home with you. I know. I checked with Krolia and Acxa. So either Keith is a missing person, or you two finally fucked.”

“Finally?” Shiro splutters.

“Oh, please,” Allura grumbles. “I have eyes, Shiro. Consider it a good thing that I didn’t bring it up sooner – if I had, it would have been because I thought you were bad for Keith and wanted you nowhere near him.” She purses her lips. “I don’t think that; quite the opposite, but if you’re here now, I’m guessing things didn’t go well.”

Shiro looks down. “They did go well,” he says, “until this morning.” He hesitates. “Allura, I had a dream. And I think...I think Keith had the same dream, or something very close to it. I don’t know. All I know is that we woke up seconds apart from each other, both from nightmares.”

Allura’s lips part in obvious alarm. “Nightmares?” she demands. “What kind, what happened?”

They walk further into the glen and find a bench together underneath violet rhododendrons and a towering magnolia. Shiro leans back and shakes his head. “Do you believe in other universes, other realities, other lives? Any of that?”

Allura rests her chin in her hands. “Like reincarnation?”

Shiro shrugs helplessly. “Maybe. I don’t know. I saw someone else’s life, Allura, but it was – the someone was me. Another me. He looked like me, and he felt like…”

“Like you,” Allura finishes. Shiro nods. “Judging by your tone, this other life you saw was not a good one.”

“No,” Shiro whispers. “I mean – in the dream, I was fighting Keith. In space. With – with a sword – listen, it sounds crazy. It is crazy. But then I saw our entire lives –”

“Our?”

“The other me,” Shiro says, “and...and Keith. The other me knew Keith. We were – I think we were together. Or supposed to be.” His head hurts just trying to remember it. “There was – so much, and I don’t –”

“Shiro.” Allura lays her hand on his arm, searching his face. “I believe you. I…” She inhales. “I had a similar experience, actually, not long ago. Not quite so extreme, from the sound of it, but…” She flushes. “I saw Lance. Not the Lance I know, though, and the me in the dream was...different.” Allura’s gaze grows distant, fond. “She looked like a princess, a queen, and she called to me, told me she was watching over me.” Allura shakes her head. “I hardly remember it now. I didn’t think much of it, then – it was a pleasant dream. And then I awoke, well, with Lance, and I suppose…” She taps her lips. “We’ve been together ever since.”

“Would you have been together otherwise?” Shiro asks.

Allura gives him a quizzical look. “Er, yes? It was only afterwards that I had the dream – it was less of an instigator to our relationship and more of an affirmation that I – that we – were where we were meant to be. Assuming this dream was somehow real, of course.”

Shiro swallows, tasting bile. “So, then...for Keith and I, maybe this was the opposite. Not an affirmation, but a warning.” He puts his head in his hands. “Maybe we were never meant to be together, not in this life, or any of the others.”

Allura opens her mouth, then closes it. “Shiro,” she says slowly, “how did the other you know Keith? How did Keith know you? Tell me. From the very beginning.”

Shiro closes his eyes, straining to remember. “There was a school…and a flight simulator...and a sunset. That was how it began.”

*

By the time he returns home, the memories he told to Allura are fainter, more like the vague recollections of a story he once read. But the best of them linger in the back of his mind, warm and comforting, and when he closes his eyes, it’s too easy for his thoughts to drift to Keith’s face.

But he isn’t sure if it’s his Keith, or the other one, and he doesn’t know if any of the Keiths were ever meant for him. There’s a part of him that doesn’t care, a part of him that wants Keith so badly it hurts no matter what the cost, and then there’s a part of him that’s afraid, and he doesn’t like that part very much, even though it’s the most logical.

Shiro spends Saturday in an anxious purgatory, going to the gym for much longer than usual to try to calm his nerves and only succeeding in keying himself up more. He hangs out at Veronica’s place just to escape his now-foreboding apartment, but then feels bad leaving Axion alone and buys her way-too-expensive cat food as an apology, along with a cactus, because the lily looks lonely.

He checks his phone near-obsessively for a message from Allura all the while. She promised she would talk to Keith as soon as possible.

Around ten, when Shiro is cramming stir fry, his stress food of choice, into his mouth and watching The Good Place, which is bringing him steadily closer to a full-on existential crisis and was perhaps in hindsight not the best show to choose, his phone buzzes.

Shiro picks up immediately. “Allura, hey.”

"Hello, Shiro. I spoke with Keith. He’s very rattled."  She pauses. " You were right. He had the same dream you did."

Shiro drops his fork. “Wait, seriously? How...how similar?”

"To the T. Except...well, I suppose it makes sense, but he saw the other Keith’s life, not the other Shiro’s. And I’m not sure he got as clear of a picture as you did. If there truly is another you, another him, and they’re trying to tell you something, then it’s possible things got lost in translation."

“He only saw bad things?” Shiro guesses.

"No...not quite. He said...he said the other Keith loved you. And that you, well...didn’t."

Shiro exhales. “Oh. I...I see.”

"He’s afraid, Shiro," she murmurs. " More afraid than I’ve ever seen him."

“Of me?” Shiro whispers.

Allura is quiet. " Just give him some time,"  she finally says. " Maybe there will be more dreams. Better ones."

“Right,” Shiro says. “Thanks anyway, Allura.”

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Shiro."

*

Shiro goes to sleep alone and wakes up in a field of stars.

“Hello?” he calls, turning in a wary circle. Feeling silly, he adds, “...Keith?”

Keith is not here.

It’s his own voice, but it isn’t coming from him. Impossibly, the stars coalesce and brighten into a humanoid shape, a man, himself, but this other him is dressed in armor, black and white, and the light in his eyes is otherworldly. He is a ghost, translucent violet, and yet Shiro knows with certainty that he was real once, alive

“You’re him,” Shiro says, and takes a step back. “The one who hurt Keith.”

The other Shiro does not flinch or argue. He just nods. Yes.

Shiro’s hands curl into fists; in the dream he has both, he is whole, he is strong and furious. “Why?” he demands. “Why would you do that to him? He trusted you – us. He loved you.”

The other Shiro gazes at him impassively, with a hint of what could be sadness. The one who attacked Keith was not me, he says, but you’re right. I hurt him in other ways. So many other ways. He turns, staring out into the abyss of space.

“Why would you show us that dream?” Shiro whispers.

We wanted you to know the truth, the other Shiro sighs.

“And what is the truth?”

The truth is that he pledged his life to me and I failed him. He turns to Shiro again, and his face is etched with pain and sorrow. Please, do not do the same. You must save him, one last time. Only then can you save each other, and things will be as they were meant to be. As they should have been.

Shiro shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no, Keith doesn’t need saving, and especially not from me. I don’t know what kind of bad shit happened to you, but enough happened to me, and it could happen again. I wouldn’t be saving Keith, just hurting him more. He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want me, okay? And maybe...maybe that’s for the best.”

You’re wrong.

Shiro freezes. Standing across the field of stars stands Keith. The other Keith. He is tall and sad and scarred and beautiful, and he strides towards Shiro like a banished prince returning to his beloved kingdom.

I wanted you to love me back more than anything, the other Keith tells him, wry smile laden heavy with grief. More than the Universe itself.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, at a loss for anything else to say that will do him justice.

The other Keith’s expression crumples. I know you are, he murmurs, and touches Shiro’s cheek with a gloved hand, cold as the night wind. You’re a good man. He’s lucky to have you.

“He doesn’t want –”

Takashi, the other Keith sighs, there is no reality in which I don’t want you.

It’s an ultimatum, and it shakes Shiro to his core.

“Oh,” he whispers, taking the other Keith’s words and tucking them close to his heart, wanting to remember them even if he doesn’t know quite what to do with them yet. Then he frowns, and shakes his head. “But he’s scared. Of me, of us...please, go to him, like you are for me right now. Tell him this is his choice but I want to try to make this work...if he’ll have me.”

Or you could tell him that yourself, the other Keith suggests.

“He won’t speak to me,” Shiro admits.

The other Keith smiles at him, small and soft. He will, he says. Be gentle with him, Takashi.

“Always,” Shiro promises, and wakes up to a single text message.

hey, shiro. can we talk?

*

Shiro rides the Link light rail south alone on Sunday morning.

The sun is rising later and later; it’s still dark as the train winds over Beacon Hill and Mount Baker. Shiro lays his hand across the glass, watching the first hint of dawn peek over the mountains, illuminating their snow capped peaks little by little.

There’s only one other person on the train, a big guy cast in shadow on the other side of the car, and it’s only when he looks up that Shiro recognizes him.

It’s Sendak.

Shiro’s heart hammers against his chest, but Sendak just looks at him, and lifts a large, ringed hand in vague greeting. “Hey. Shiro, right?”

Shiro nods, still gripping his seat tightly. “Yeah, that’s me. Good morning, Sendak.”

Sendak snorts. “Not morning just yet,” he mutters. He squints at Shiro, and taps his cheekbone. “Your eye healed up good.”

Shiro swallows. “Thanks. So did your nose.”

Sendak touches his visibly bent nose with something like pride. “Sure did. Feel like hitting me again, just let me know.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Shiro says. “I was drunk, and out of it. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, huh?” Sendak grins. “Yeah, you look it. Did you sleep, man?”

“Uh.” Shiro scratches his head. “A little. Had a weird dream, couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“Ah. Weird dreams.” Sendak nods sagely. “The best kind.”

“You think so?”

Sendak grunts. “Know so.”

A few minutes later, as they’re chugging through SoDo, vibrant murals on the sides of abandoned factories scrawling past through the urban gray, Shiro says, “Do you believe in soul mates?”

Sendak eyes him. “You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m asking the PA system,” Shiro grumbles. “Yes, you.”

Sendak shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. “Does it really matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“Way I see it,” Sendak says, leaning forward, “doesn’t really matter if there’s someone you’re destined to be with. Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. But if there is – you’ll find them, right? And if not, fuck it. Find ‘em anyway.” He leans back. “If you spend all your time questioning why things happen the way they do and how the world works, you’re gonna miss out on actually living in it.”

Shiro pauses. “Huh,” he says.

“Huh,” Sendak mocks, and stands as the train pulls in to Rainier Beach. “Word of advice? Clearly you got some serious unresolved shit you need to deal with. But nobody ever said you had to do that alone, genius.” He gives Shiro a sarcastic salute and steps out onto the platform.

With the dream fading fast in his mind, Shiro can’t quite remember who Sendak was in his other life, but he thinks he must have been a friend, albeit kind of an asshole.

*

When Shiro walks up to the address Keith sent him, there are two motorcycles idling out front. Krolia sits on one of them, and on the other is a man with dark skin and hair streaked through with gray, long braid falling down his back. They look up as Shiro approaches, and he falters – the man has a long, pale scar over his right eye. Krolia reaches out and touches his shoulder, and the man frowns, scrutinizing Shiro like a bug under a microscope.

“Hi,” Shiro says, venturing closer. “Is Keith here?”

The man frowns deeper and nods to the building. “Inside.”

Shiro bites his lip. “Is he okay?”

The man’s gaze is piercing. “No. He is not.”

Shiro winces. “Oh.”

“This is Kolivan,” Krolia adds, nodding to the man who is still glowering critically at Shiro. “Keith expressed that he wanted to speak with you privately, so we will be leaving, however…”

“We will not be far,” Kolivan warns.

“Noted,” Shiro manages. “I’ll do my best to help.”

Krolia smiles then, and Kolivan looks as surprised as Shiro feels. “Yes,” she says. “I know you will. The code is 3672.”

And with that, their bikes roar to life and they ride away down the street, zooming from streetlamp to streetlamp, dodging potholes and beer cans like they’re joyriding teenagers.

Shiro enters the code on the gate and it lets him in. The apartment is old yet homey, and as he climbs the creaking stairs, he looks at the picture frames hanging on the wall. He stops in front of one of the older photos, of Krolia and a handsome, smiling man in front of a small house in the desert. In Krolia’s arms is a dark-haired baby wrapped in a red blanket, waving his tiny fists in the air.

Shiro smiles, and this time the ache that he feels is not bitterness, or envy, or grief. Sendak’s right. He does have some serious unresolved shit he needs to deal with. But the world didn’t end when his parents died, and it didn’t end when his grandparents died, either.

Shiro didn’t end, either, against all odds. He doesn’t want to end, and that, he thinks, must count for something. The epiphany settles warm and strong in his chest.

He keeps climbing the stairs.

He almost trips over a huge bundle of dark fur on the landing, and it raises its head and growls at him, before he says, “Kosmo?” and the wolf-dog cocks his head, ears lowering, and whines.

Shiro scratches behind his ears and a big fluffy tail beats against the floorboards, yellow eyes peering hopefully up at him. “Is Keith up there?” he asks, pointing towards the second floor, and Kosmo huffs, getting to his paws and trotting upstairs. He sits on the floor outside the second door down, and Shiro pets his head. “Thanks, buddy.” Kosmo licks his wrist and bounds back down to his post on the landing, where he lays back down.

Shiro knocks on the door lightly, but it just creaks open on its own. It’s Keith’s bedroom – messy with boxes from moving, a simple twin bed and a wide window on the far wall, overlooking the train tracks and the sleepy city as it stirs slowly awake.

Keith is sitting on the bed, knees curled up to his chest, eyes closed. “Hi, Shiro,” he says without opening them. “I wasn’t sure if you would actually come.”

“I promised,” Shiro says, taking an uncertain step forward. “I was worried about you.”

“You did promise,” Keith whispers, eyes cracking open. He’s clearly been crying, and the sight fills Shiro with the overwhelming urge to hug Keith and never let go.

But he wants to give Keith space, if that’s what he needs, so he hovers beside the bed though every fiber of his being screams at him to get closer, to touch, to comfort.

“You wanted to talk?” Shiro asks.

“I really like you, Shiro,” Keith says, heart-wrenchingly genuine. He looks down, shoulders hunched. “And I don’t want to lose you.”

Shiro’s brow creases. “Keith, hey. I like you, too, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you.”

“You weren’t,” Keith whispers, “not in the dream. In the dream, I lost you, and I kept losing you, and I just kept trying and trying to save you but there was always something else, some one else, I…”

“Keith.” Shiro sits down on the bed and Keith’s breath hitches.

“How can you give so much to someone and get nothing in return?” Keith pleads. “You probably think I’m silly for getting so upset but – it happened; I don’t know where or when or how but it did and it hurt so much I wanted to die.”

“Keith,” Shiro says again, and cups his face. Keith tenses beside him, and holds his breath when Shiro drags his thumb over where the scar was, the scar the thing that looked like him put there. In this life, the skin is unbroken, unharmed. Shiro is determined to keep it that way.

Keith’s pupils dilate. “You saw it too,” he whispers. “Didn’t you?”

Shiro shakes his head. “I saw you, I saw us,” he whispers back, “but that man, that wasn’t me.”

“It’s different versions of us, I think,” Keith says, breath catching when Shiro brushes his hair out of his face. “I don’t know if they’re real. How could they be real?” He swallows. “But it felt real. It hurt like it was real. Like you were —”

“I would never hurt you,” Shiro swears, soft and serious. “Never.”

Keith’s eyes fall shut like a sacrifice. “Please,” he says, a single word, and yet Shiro knows – in the very pit of his soul, his soul which feels suddenly shared, suddenly older and bigger than he himself could ever be – exactly what Keith needs, what they have always needed: each other.

Shiro wraps his arms around Keith the way he aches to and kisses him, both of them tumbling down to the bed in slow motion. Keith sighs as if in relief, but his brows furrow when they pull away, though he stays close.

“I’m sorry I ran, especially after...that night,” Keith says, flushing. “I...I know you aren’t him, whoever he is.” Keith rubs a thumb over Shiro’s lips and they both smile helplessly. “You’re good, Shiro. Really, really good.”

Shiro nudges his nose against Keith’s. “So are you,” he says. “And for the record, fuck the Universe’s plan for us, if that even exists. I have a plan for us, and I’m sticking with that.”

“And what,” Keith says, eyes sparkling, “is your plan for us, Shiro?”

“Well,” Shiro murmurs, “it’s gotta be your plan, too. Takes two to tango.”

Keith hums, considering. Then he leans into Shiro’s chest, pulling the blankets around them both and closing his eyes. “I didn’t get much sleep. And you’re warm. And cuddly.”

“Yeah?” Shiro tucks his head over Keith’s and gazes out the window, through which dawn creeps over the horizon in a faint but promising glow. “Sounds like a solid plan to me.”

Keith makes a sleepy noise against his shirt that might be thank you. Then he lifts his head and mumbles, “Just say you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I’ll be here,” Shiro swears, and kisses his forehead. Keith’s eyes flutter shut. “For as long as you need me, and then some.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Keith agrees, curling closer, breath evening out into easy slumber within mere minutes. Shiro looks down at him. He’s smiling.

Shiro kisses his cheek for good measure and looks back out the window. As he watches, the rising sun bathes the silver peak of Mount Rainier in pink and gold and violet, and for a brief moment, the hanging gray clouds shine with color and light and warmth. It’s beautiful.

In his arms, Keith sighs, and Shiro hopes he never loses his soft expression of simple bliss. That’s beautiful, too. Keith’s beautiful, in every way, and admitting this to himself is a breath of fresh air he wishes he’d found a long, long time ago.

Shiro strokes his hair and thinks of pretty eyes on the train, of warm coffee, of rainbow sidewalks, of cheap burgers, of crowded parties, of quiet bedrooms, of bonfires and driftwood and elk and orcas and stars and dreams and souls. He thinks of the future. He thinks of Keith.

Shiro touches his lips to Keith’s brow and says, with more certainty and peace than he has ever had in his entire life, I love you.

The Universe breathes a collective sigh of relief, and somewhere, far away, yet not so far as one might think, two stars collide at last.