Archive of Our Own

Keith’s sweating by the time he steps onto Garrison property and starts trying to blend in. All around him are bright happy young things popping out of their parents’ sedans or pulling their bags out of taxicab trunks. No one else has their arms clamped to their sides to hide the damp and darkened fabric. No one else has exactly one ratty backpack slumping off their shoulders, its bent and creaky zippers straining against its contents. Everyone seems to have someone, even if it’s just a paid driver. So, his face red as a hammer-slammed thumb, he sticks out.

The pink sheet of paper half-crumpled in his hand reads CAMPUS MAP at the top. And then there’s a line drawing of the Garrison, each building marked with a number or letter that corresponds to a list at the side. He squints, eyes stinging from sweat, trying to find something like “Dorms” and failing.

“Hi! Can I help you find your room?”

Keith looks up (and up) into the face of some tall fresh-faced jock type with broad shoulders and a glittering smile, and he’s never wanted a shower more in his life. “Uh, I’m fine.”

But the map damns him. “First day?” the guy asks. “That map’s awful, isn’t it? Every year we beg them to redo it, but…” He shrugs. “I’m Shiro, by the way.”

Keith scrubs his palm on his jeans as unobtrusively as possible and shakes Shiro’s hand. “Keith. And can you just point it out to me on here?” He holds out the map.

Shiro jabs a finger at one corner. “Here you are. Residence Hall. You’ll see it’s marked ever so clearly…” His smile broadens, the corner of his mouth twisting.

It is imperative that Keith stop looking at Shiro’s mouth, so he stares down at the paper instead. The Residence Hall, apparently, is just a rectangle marked “RH.” There is no corresponding note on the list. “Oh, sure. Can’t believe I missed it before.”

“Yeah. You’re in good company, don’t worry. I’m going that direction anyway—want some help with your bags?”

“This is it.” Keith jerks his thumb over his shoulder at his backpack.

“Just one?” Shiro’s frowning; Keith prays he doesn’t ask. “Jeez, it looks heavy. I could give you a break?” His fingertips land on Keith’s shoulder.

Keith slaps his hand away. “I’ve got it.”

Shiro rubs the back of his hand where Keith struck him, lips set in a thin line.

It sinks in, and oh, god. He’s only just set foot on campus and already he’s fucked up.

“Hey, man,” Shiro says, and his voice is weirdly soft, like he’s talking to a stray cat, and part of Keith hates it and part of him wants to curl up into that voice and never leave. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without asking.”

Around them, the stream of chattering students has come to a halt, their altercation drawing eyes, attention, judgement. All of Keith’s absolute favorite things. “It’s whatever.” The back of his brain screaming: sorry, I’m sorry—but as always, those words will stay inside him, howling uselessly.

Shiro glances at the people gathering at the edges of the sidewalk. “You look beat. How far’d you walk?” He’s changing the subject, giving Keith an out. Keith tries, tries to be grateful, but the fact that it’s needed in the first place grates against him, ripping at his self-control.

“Just the bus stop.”

“The bus—Keith, that’s over four miles.”

“I’m aware?”

“It’s almost a hundred degrees out!”

“I brought water.” Keith needs to defend himself somehow; needs his decision to be recognized as reasonable, since he didn’t even have another choice.

“You could have—we could—”

“Listen.” The center of his chest has frozen solid; his voice is flat and he knows it’s weird and he doesn’t care. “I don’t have a phone. The Garrison doesn’t operate a shuttle. What did you want me to do? Not everyone has parents with some fancy fucking air-conditioned car to drop them off, all right?” Keith spins and glares at the small crowd around them. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

The wide-eyed students back up, back off, and resume getting on with their lives and staying out of his. Good.

Shiro doesn’t leave. “I get it, you know. I came here alone, too.”

“And by the power of friendship, you’re not alone anymore. Yeah. I’ve heard it before. Doesn’t work for me that way.”

“That’s not exactly how it went.” Shiro shrugs. “But you must be exhausted. Let me get you to your room?”

Keith would like to argue, but the fire’s gone out of him as quickly as it flared, leaving behind the usual wreckage. There’s sweat soaking his shirt beneath his backpack and he’s covered in dust. All he wants is to strip off the events of today, wash them down a grubby shared shower drain, and arm himself for the next round. So he lets Shiro lead him along paths he won’t remember later, nods when Shiro points out buildings that are probably important, and says “Thanks” at the door of his room when they arrive.

“See you around,” Shiro says.

“Yeah, see you.” Keith isn’t expecting any such thing. The guy would probably rather drop dead than seem impolite, that’s all.

* * *

The day it occurs, no one tells Shiro. It’s not until the next morning that he realizes something’s amiss—he goes to his classes as usual, but every time he walks through a door, the room falls silent and only the echo of the whispers reaches him. His classmates land on extreme poles of openly staring at him or carefully behaving as though he’s invisible.

He texts Matt between Relativistic Astrophysics and Observational Cosmology: did something happen?

haha, things are always happening around here! Matt’s attempting evasion, which is enough to confirm he knows what’s going on.

meet me in the cafeteria. 12:45. be ready to explain, please

At lunch, Matt fidgets, prodding his fried chicken with a fork. He has so far failed to put any of it in his mouth.

Shiro waits patiently for some time, until it’s clear Matt needs a bit of a shove. “You’re acting like you have to tell me my cat died. And I don’t have a cat.”

“No, god no, it’s not like—a sad thing, exactly, and you’re going to hear about it one way or another, so—”

“Matthew,” Shiro says. “Just say it.”

Matt takes a deep breath. “Someone broke your speed record for Red Canyon Maze.”

“That’s all? Everyone’s been tiptoeing around me and talking under their breath because someone beat one of my scores?”

“It was on level twenty-five.”

The final level. The one Shiro had designed for last semester’s term project. The one he could fly with his eyes closed, both hands tied behind his back, steering with his knees or his forehead or something. “Wait, that’s awesome!”

Matt’s pinched eyebrows relax into a look of irritated relief. “Oh, right. You like this kind of thing. People reaching their highest potential, even if it’s above yours.”

“How far ahead of me were they? Who was it?”

“Point-three seconds, and it was some first-year named Keith.”

“Holy shit. Whoa. I gotta go. Matt, you’re fantastic, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Matt calls after him. “Enjoy being your abnormally-inspirational self.”

Shiro doesn’t spend the day looking for Keith. If he scans the halls a little more intently, if he peers hopefully into classrooms, it’s just him being efficient. It’s not like he’s taking extra time to search. The routes he takes between buildings might be a touch more circuitous than normal, but it’s a nice day out. No harm done.

Night falls, bringing with it a light misting rain, and he hasn’t caught one glimpse of Keith. It occurs to him that he could drop by Keith’s dorm room, but that seems like a bit much.

—And then he runs into Keith, literally, smashing into him headlong while rounding the corner of the observatory. “Shit, sorry! Are you okay?”

Keith takes a large step backward, eyes wide, rubbing his nose where he’s bashed it on Shiro’s sternum. His dark hair is frosted in tiny raindrops that glitter in the walkway lights. “Damage is minimal,” he says. “Uh. Hi. How are you?” He’s watching Shiro like he’s just encountered an unfamiliar Rottweiler and is at this moment choosing between fight and flight.

Shiro would prefer it if he did neither. “I’m good. Really good. Heard you obliterated my score on that level I built.”

“You built that?”

“Yeah. What’d you think?”

The tension in Keith’s shoulders eases slightly. “I think you like torturing pilots.”

“I just like keeping things interesting.”

“I had to do loops through rock arches at the end!”

“And? How was it?”

Keith presses his lips tight, pinning down a smile and keeping it out of sight. “It was pretty fun, I guess.”

“That’s what I thought.” Shiro runs his hand through his hair. Watches as Keith’s eyes follow the motion. “Actually, I was gonna ask—do you want to meet up and run through sims together sometime?”

Just like that, Keith goes all strung-tight again. “No thanks. I don’t need some Garrison golden boy taking pity on me.”

“Then it’s lucky I don’t pity you, huh?”

Keith opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

“I was going to ask you to show me how you outscored me. If you’re willing to share your secret, that is.”

“You want me…to teach you.”

“I didn’t get to be the top-ranked pilot by ignoring other people’s talents. Maybe you can show me something I can use.”

“I don’t know if I can do it again,” Keith hedges. “Might have been a fluke.”

“Don’t you want to find out?”

Keith narrows his eyes. “How about we find out right now?”

It’s not like Shiro’s doing anything better at the moment.

* * *

Keith beats his previous score by seven-tenths of a second, spinning and rolling through towering spires and canyon walls. When he sets the jet down at the end, there’s barely even a jolt.

Shiro turns to him, and in his eyes—

Keith has never seen anyone look at him with awe before. He wants to crawl under the seat. He wants to run five miles. He wants to do it all over again—burn the memory into Shiro’s mind so at least one person will never forget him. “So…you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be? All it means is I gotta make a level that’s even harder, just for you.”

“Oh, like you’d really do that.” Keith reaches for the master switch for the sim console and shuts it down. The only light now is the faint yellow glow of strip lighting leading out of the sim, back to the real world where the Garrison’s best pilot isn’t focusing all of his attention right on Keith. Keith’s in no hurry to leave, but if he sits here too long, Shiro’s gonna start asking questions.

“Hey,” Shiro says. “It’s lights out in twenty minutes. Can I walk you back to your room?”

“Not sick of me yet?”

Most people laugh when Keith makes self-deprecating jokes. In no way is Shiro like most people. “Not in the least. I could talk to you all night.”

The intensity in Shiro’s voice causes a minor catastrophe: Keith’s train of thought jams, tumbles off the rails, and—ever so gently—sets itself on fire. “I guess we’d better get going,” he says. Even though staying up with Shiro is a tempting idea, Shiro’s probably not serious.

They trade numbers before Shiro leaves Keith at his room. Keith doesn’t look at his holopad until he’s got his door shut behind him, which is a good thing because the contact entry reads SHIRO :) and Keith needs to sit down immediately.

This is not good. This is, in fact, a disaster. Somehow, Keith’s caught the attention of an impossibly talented and unfairly attractive upperclassman, and now he’s got a flustered little crush invading his heart just because someone’s being nice to him. If he doesn’t find a way to shut it down, Shiro’s going to notice. It’s not that he expects Shiro to be angry at him for it—that would be easier, because then he could hate Shiro and be done with it. No, Shiro’s obviously the type that rejects people gently. And that’s worse, because Keith will still crave his company, but actually being in his presence will feel as if Keith is holding his hand over a candle flame. At first he’ll think he can bear it, but if he lets enough time pass, the pain will leave him damaged and gasping. It never goes any differently than this.

* * *

Thus far, Keith has been trying to analyze Shiro and his actions via the assumption that Shiro is attached to politeness, generosity, and overall good behavior above all else. So when his holopad dings at 0530 one morning, he doesn’t anticipate Shiro’s name popping up on the screen, let alone the message:

> wanna see something cool?

“Something cool” turns out to be a maintenance tunnel leading to narrow and rickety metal stairs, which Shiro immediately starts climbing. By the time they reach the top, Keith is struggling to calm his heartbeat, which probably means he needs to hit the training rooms more often, because it certainly has nothing to do with Shiro’s thighs being three feet in front of his face as they ascended.

Shiro pushes open a heavy door, and Keith steps through onto the roof of the residence hall. “Voila, my secret hideout.”

In the east, behind the silhouettes of craggy hills, layers of fluffy pink and purple clouds sprawl across the sky, their bellies painted gold by faint rays of light. The yelping laugh of quail echoes out of the dark scrubland. “What do you need a secret hideout for?”

“Oh, you know—brooding, sulking, napping. And other shenanigans. The usual assortment of Garrison-approved recreational activities.”

“Are we even supposed to be up here?”

“Nope.” Shiro grins. “You hungry?” Not waiting for Keith to answer, he drops the large duffel bag he’d hauled up with them and crouches to unzip it. He pulls out a ragged red blanket, which he shakes out grandly and spreads out on the roof. Then he piles the other contents of his bag on the blanket: a large thermos, sugar packets, a half-pint of cream, a clear plastic box of grocery-store croissants, two chipped coffee mugs, and a miniature jar of strawberry jam. Finally, he pulls off his boots and sits down crosslegged. “Gonna join me?” he asks.

Keith snaps his mouth shut, as his jaw had dropped sometime around the appearance of the croissants. He drops to his knees on the blanket. “What is all this?”

“Breakfast. I like eating up here and watching the sunrise, so I thought I’d bring you with me this time. Here, have some coffee. You like a lot of cream and sugar, don’t you?”

Keith nods, accepting one of the mugs. Shiro’s hair is damp from a shower and slicked back, although one tuft in the front keeps falling over his eyes anyway; Keith ends up distracted every time Shiro scrapes it back from his face again. The air smells like soap and dust and coffee, and he’s suddenly starving, although he doesn’t usually eat this early. He grabs a croissant and splits it open with his thumbs, then adds jam and takes a bite. It’s really, really good jam; the tiny size of the jar makes sense now.

The blanket and the breeze and Shiro’s gaze are all soft on Keith’s skin. Shiro normally keeps this whole experience for himself, fancy jam and all, but today, he’s chosen to let Keith be a part of it. This is the exact opposite of something that will help Keith shut it down. His next breath is terribly shaky, and he bites hard on his lower lip, attempting to steady his mind. It only partially works.

Shiro points to the east, where the sun has eased further into the sky, and the shadows of spiky yucca and towering saguaro stretch across the earth. “That’s how it felt, coming here. Like I was stumbling around in the dark, tripping on rocks and prickly pear, and then light spread through me and I finally knew myself.”

“See, you saying shit like that is why they make you do the speeches at schools.”

Shiro stretches out one foot so he can kick Keith gently in the leg. “Hey. I mean it. Hasn’t anything changed for you since you arrived?”

A lot of things have changed; namely, Keith has gained a huge, stupid heartache over one stupidly gorgeous pilot, who won’t even be around in a few months since he’ll be on a spaceship to Kerberos, but he can’t very well tell Shiro that. He shrugs instead. “I mean, my classes are cool and I feel like maybe I could go somewhere with all of this. I guess I was kind of lost before.” He speaks before he thinks it through, but finds that the words he’s saying are true. He did feel aimless prior to the Garrison, with so much pent-up energy and nowhere to aim it. His fuse isn’t as short anymore, and sure, it’s because of his classes to an extent. But mostly it’s because of Shiro. Which is another thing he isn’t ready to say.

* * *

Shiro keeps taking Keith to the roof over the next few weeks, always in the early morning, when they’re less likely to be noticed sneaking around. One night in early fall, though, there’s a knock on Keith’s door, and it’s Shiro, with the familiar duffel bag. “Full moon tonight,” Shiro says. “Care to come with?”

Keith doesn’t need to be asked twice.

This time, Shiro’s bag holds hot chocolate and whipped cream and biscotti. Despite the late hour, the rooftop is bright with the full moon. Shiro’s hair catches moonbeams, gleaming with streaks of white light, and Keith tries not to stare too much while they drink hot chocolate and chat. At one point, Shiro catches Keith shivering, and makes Keith take his leather jacket. It’s warm with Shiro’s body heat, and the tremor that runs through Keith’s body then is not because of the cold.

“I have an observation,” Shiro says, after the hot chocolate is gone. “If I’m out of line, please tell me, but—”

The pause burns like spilled coffee, spreading quick across Keith’s skin. It could be anything. It could be bad. “Just say it.”

“I’ve noticed that in the sim, you’re different. Other students—they breathe hard, their hearts race, they go all white-knuckled on the controls. When it’s over, they’re relieved. Especially when they’re new. But not you.”

Keith doesn’t say anything, but he gives Shiro a little nod to let him know it’s okay to keep going.

“You look more relaxed in the sim than anywhere else. When you finish, that’s when you tense up. I just...noticed, that’s all. It’s not a bad thing.”

“Just weird,” Keith says. “Yeah, I know.”

“Unusual, would be my word for it.”

They’re both masked in shadows. Nightjars chirr in the sky, invisible. The stars permit Keith to speak freely. “All my life, I’ve been like—” He racks his mind for the right phenomenon. “A tornado. I draw people in, suck up their lives, and spit them out miles away from where they started. Dented, cracked, missing a few shingles. I’m the one people don’t see coming till it’s too late.”

Shiro’s brows have pinched together, and there’s pain in his eyes; he looks like he’s about to argue, but Keith still has more to say.

“The first time I got into a sim was the first time I ever felt like I was in charge. When I’m flying, I’m outside the tornado. It’s not possessing me anymore. In the sim I feel like one day, maybe, I can get away from it for good. It’s dumb, I know.”

“Then I’m glad you found flying. Everyone needs a place where they feel calm and in control.”

“Yeah? What’s yours?”

“Whenever I’m with the ones I love. They know me, so I know who I am.”

“Must be nice.” Must be nice to have a family, that is, but Keith kind of knows what Shiro means anyway. Around Shiro, he’s started to know himself, too. “I—” But the words fall away as soon as they’ve come to mind. The thought seems too big to say aloud, even in the cover of night. Shiro is two feet away, half-reclining on his side on the blanket, close enough that if Keith rolled sideways, he’d end up in Shiro’s arms. But since the day they met, Shiro’s never tried to touch Keith. Never even asked to.

“What?” Shiro’s eyes are so gentle, and it would be so easy to say something and ruin everything.

“I was just—” Wanting you to touch me. Wishing I could touch you. “It’s nothing.”

“Keith. You can ask me for things. You know that, right? Things you need. Or things you want.”

Sometimes Keith thinks Shiro might have guessed more than he lets on. Keith’s careful efforts to keep himself wrapped small and unobtrusive could be for naught, but that doesn’t mean he’s able to loosen the bindings. He shakes his head at Shiro’s statement. No, he can’t do any such thing. Can’t place a need on anyone’s shoulders other than his own.

A bright flash among the stars catches his eye.

Shiro sees it too. “Falling star,” he says quietly.

“Meteor,” Keith says. “Happens all the time. Nothing special.”

“You could make a wish. For the thing you want.”

“How do you know I want something?”

“Don’t you?”

“Even if I made a wish, I couldn’t tell you. It wouldn’t come true.”

“Keith,” Shiro says again, and it’s really not fair how Keith’s heart threatens to come leaping out of his chest every time Shiro says his name.

“It’s stupid.”

“I won’t think so.”

“I know you won’t,” Keith whispers, because that’s sort of the problem, isn’t it? Shiro keeps peeling him open, revealing the tender places inside him, coaxing his fears into the light where they vanish like dew. But the fear of losing Shiro if Keith speaks honestly is too deep inside of him, so far down Shiro probably won’t ever reach it.

“I did plan to talk to you about something else, actually,” Shiro says, and Keith’s brain instantly tears off in a million directions of possible conversation, all of them awful, but he keeps his face carefully neutral. “You know I’m going to Kerberos in a few months, right?”

Keith nods. Of course he knows. The posters are everywhere, and Shiro’s face is on some of them; he’s been considering stealing one for himself. Shiro would probably even sign it if he asked.

Shiro pushes himself up so he’s sitting facing Keith. “Is it all right if I touch you?” he asks.

It’s blunt. It’s weird. It’s not something anyone’s ever asked Keith, although by now he’s pretty used to Shiro being both blunt and weird most of the time. “Knock yourself out,” he says, as if this kind of thing happens to him every day.

Shiro puts his right hand on Keith’s shoulder and leaves it there, and Keith barely stops himself from flinching. Despite how badly he wants Shiro’s hands on him, it’s no less a lightning strike to his nerves. His veins are blue fire branching through his whole body, and he has to dig his nails into his palm to center himself and concentrate on what Shiro is saying.

“Could you promise me something?”

Keith would promise Shiro anything, as a matter of fact. “What is it?”

Shiro squeezes his shoulder. “I’m enjoying getting to know you, and I hope it’s not too soon to say I consider you a good friend. I’m sorry to be leaving so soon after we met. I just want you to know that you belong here—you’re talented as hell, so please don’t give up on yourself. Not that—” Shiro clears his throat. “I mean, I don’t think that me being around is the only thing—you have many reasons for being here, is what I’m trying to say.”

Shiro’s not the only thing, but he is a significant percentage of Keith’s determination. “I won’t give up,” he swears, and immediately wishes he’d stalled or something, because Shiro pulls his hand back.

“Good,” Shiro says, and the smile he gives Keith just about makes up for the loss of his touch.

* * *

Keith refuses to believe Shiro’s birthday is on Leap Day, so Shiro pulls out his ID and proves it in the lunchroom one afternoon. “See? Technically, I’m turning, like, four and three-quarters next year.”

“Congratulations. Excited for preschool?”

“Oh, yeah. And when I grow up, I’m gonna be an astronaut.” Shiro dodges Keith’s elbow with practiced ease. “What about you—when’s your birthday?”

“In a few weeks, actually.”

“Got any plans?”

“I don’t really do birthdays, so… No, I’m just gonna go to class, catch a nap, do my homework. The usual.”

“Huh,” Shiro says, making a mental note of this new Keith Fact.

“Stop looking thoughtful, it’s freaking me out. And don’t throw me a surprise party or anything, okay? I hate those.”

“Surprises? Or parties?”

“Not a big fan of either one.”

“Good to know.”

Without a specific date, Shiro just has to make his best guess, so he waits until it’s almost the end of October and then catches Keith at the end of their classes one day. “Got you something.” Shiro opens his backpack and digs around inside it. “I didn’t wrap it, so it won’t be a surprise.” He resurfaces, grinning, holding out his offering to Keith: a sketchbook, nothing fancy, just a bound book of smooth paper with a plain black cover. “Oh, and this goes with it—” He presses a set of five drawing pencils into Keith’s hands as well. “You don’t have to call it a birthday present if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to have it. Saw you like to draw in your notebooks.”

“It’s just doodling,” Keith mutters.

“Really good doodling,” Shiro tells him. “Now you have a little more space for it.”

Keith’s cheeks have gone pink and he clutches the sketchbook and pencils close to his chest. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, as if it’s an afterthought, although he’s been thinking about it all day. “The Garrison Halloween party is this weekend.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You gonna go?”

Keith shrugs. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

Shiro covers up his disappointment with a joke: “Like birthdays?”

“Exactly like birthdays. I don’t like people all that much, and there’s a lot of them at parties.”

“That is true,” Shiro agrees. “Well, maybe some other time then.”

* * *

The party is cheesy and ridiculous, and so is Shiro’s extravagant vampire costume, and all he wants is to crack jokes about it with Keith. Matt finds him in the corner, sipping a red plastic cup of punch that is some kind of red fruity juice and some other kind of fizzy soda of indeterminate flavor.

“You know,” Matt says, “it’s a costume contest they’re having tonight, not a Best Moping contest.”

“What?” Shiro says, gazing across the dance floor. “Oh. Right. Yeah. No, I’m not going to be in the contest.”

“That’s not—” Matt sighs. “Never mind. If you’re so bored, why don’t you just go find that guy you’re all heart-eyed over?”

Shiro splutters into his punch. “Keith? I’m not heart-eyed!”

“Uh-huh. You’re sad in the corner at a perfectly good Halloween party—”

“By some definitions of ‘good’—”

“—so if I were you, I’d get out of here and go do something I actually enjoyed.”

Which is how Shiro ends up standing outside Keith’s room in a swirly black cloak and tight black pants with dark eyeshadow smudged thickly around his eyes. He’s taken off the stupid fangs and shoved them in his pocket, so this is as normal as he’s gonna manage to look for now.

Keith opens the door, and—well, he doesn’t laugh at Shiro, so there’s that. What he does do is turn bright red. “Uh…hi, Shiro.”

“Trick or treat?” Shiro tries, although technically he’s the one who’s brought Keith a plastic bag full of candy. He’d never be so bold as to call himself a treat.

Keith drags his eyes up to Shiro’s face, having been stuck on the black pants for the past several moments. It seems to take great effort, and Shiro tries valiantly not to read into that. Keith’s probably just shocked to see Shiro wearing anything other than a Garrison uniform or jeans and a sweater. “Is that a poet shirt?”

Shiro tugs at one of the white ruffles on the front of his shirt. “I was going for authenticity.”

“What, you got yourself a copy of Vampires of the Southwest United States and did your research?”

“Okay, enough,” Shiro groans. “I already know it’s a stupid costume. The party wasn’t any better, so that’s why I came here. You wanna hang out or would you prefer to keep making fun of me?”

“It’s not a stupid costume. It looks nice, actually. But yes, I want to hang out.”

Shiro nearly gets stuck on it looks nice and nearly forgets what he came here to offer, but recovers admirably, in his opinion. “I thought we could spar,” Shiro suggests. “Or whatever you want.”

Keith does want to spar, to Shiro’s complete lack of surprise. At the gym, Shiro strips off his cloak and shirt, leaving on a white tank. He has a pair of shorts in his locker, but his pants are presenting a bit of a problem, and he has to perform an embarrassing series of wriggles in order to free himself.

“Do you need help with that?” Keith asks, voice wrecked by barely-contained laughter.

Shiro yanks at the waistband harder and curses under his breath. “I do not, Keith, but thank you so much for offering.”

“Anytime.”

Just then the waistband finally comes down over Shiro’s hips, and Keith thankfully turns away then to finish getting changed himself, because the other thing about really tight pants is what they have to be worn with. Or, more accurately, not worn with.

“All set?” Keith asks, once Shiro’s decent again, and they head to the training room.

They’ve sparred before, but always in short bursts and always under instruction from a Garrison official. This time they have a little more freedom. There was a dance at the party, but this is more Shiro’s kind of dancing: facing off with a skilled partner and trying his damnedest to take them down. There’s still plenty of grace and stamina involved, however.

The thing about Keith is that he may be small, but he’d perfected his technique long before arriving at the Garrison, although he’s never explained who taught him. Shiro being so much bigger has never fazed Keith, and they’re about evenly matched in terms of number of pins. Keith loves sparring with Shiro in particular: he doesn’t laugh when he’s in a match with anyone else, but he does with Shiro. He’s laughing now, in fact, even though Shiro has him on the ground in a headlock. He slaps Shiro’s arm to be released and says, “Again?” There are black smudges on his face and arms—Shiro wiped off most of his makeup before they started, but some of it ended up on Keith anyway.

They go again and again. There’s no one to tell them which holds to practice or when to stop, so they’re running on instinct and adrenaline. It’s Shiro who tires out first; though to be fair, he’s had to socialize this evening while Keith relaxed in his room.

“Or you’re just outta practice because you’ve been flying more than fighting lately,” Keith needles him as they leave the gym. The sunset’s light is fading, but there’s just enough left for Shiro to see the gleam in his eye.

“I could end you,” Shiro threatens in a friendly manner, and there Keith goes, laughing again. Shiro would like to make that happen as often as possible before he leaves.

* * *

“I have something for you,” Shiro says on Christmas Day. “Come with me.” He leads Keith to the sims, which are supposedly locked up for the duration of the holiday break, but Shiro’s got a key card that gets him into a lot of cool places. Sims included.

Keith slides into the pilot’s seat, and the screen flashes on. “What is this?”

“I told you I was gonna make a level for you. So, here it is.” Shiro looks extremely proud of himself, and—well, he should be; the graphics are gorgeous. “It’s a battle scene,” Shiro explains. “And it adapts to how you fight it each time. It won’t play the same way twice. See, those ships in the distance are guarding a planet, and there’s an asteroid belt you have to get through before you can even attack…”

Keith plays it fourteen times, gets killed a dozen different ways, and flops backward in his seat at the end of round fourteen. “You sure you didn’t build this to be unbeatable?” he grouses.

Shiro grins. “Heh. Even I’m not that talented, but thanks for thinking I am. Try it again. Fifteenth time’s the charm?” He pats Keith’s shoulder, and Keith growls and reloads the level.

He makes it through the asteroids without crashing, creeps up on the enemy ships using a cloak, and—

Every time he’s reached this point, he’s started firing on one ship or another, and every time, they’ve blown him to bits within minutes. It doesn’t seem to matter which ship he attacks first. He glances sideways at Shiro, whose expression is inscrutable. And then he keeps his ship cloaked and flies straight into the open hangar on the side of one of the ships. When he looks at Shiro again, Shiro’s got a tiny smile on his lips. “I’m going to use the speeder from here,” he informs Shiro, and the screen changes—now he is flying a speeder through the massive, dark interior of the ship, through airlock doors and down twisting corridors, blasting anything that moves with laser fire, until he reaches the bridge. He takes out all the combatants on the screen in seconds and announces, “I’ve taken over this ship.”

Shiro is full-on grinning now.

Again the visuals on the screen shift, and Keith is presented with a new set of controls. “This thing has a cannon?”

“It has a lot of things,” Shiro replies, unhelpfully.

Keith shrugs. “Let’s see what it does, huh?” He turns the ship until it’s facing another enemy craft, takes a deep breath, and fires. There’s an explosion, and when the flames clear—no more enemy. Keith wastes no time firing on the other ships in the vicinity, and when he’s the only one left, he flies directly to the planet, which unlocks a mini-level where he rescues prisoners of war. When the last prisoner is clear of the planet, the screen flashes green letters: VICTORY!!!

Keith rips off his seatbelt and flings himself halfway into Shiro’s lap, latching his arms around Shiro’s neck. “That was amazing,” he breathes. “Are there other ways to win? I want to play again!”

“There are other ways, yes,” Shiro says, laughing, and hugging back just as hard. “And for the record, I’m starting to think you’re the only one in the universe who can fly like that.”

Keith hides a smile in Shiro’s shoulder. This is the best present he’s ever had, ever. “Hey,” he says. “I have something for you too. It’s not—it’s nothing like this, sorry.”

“Whatever it is, I love it already.” Because it’s Shiro, Keith knows he’s not lying.

Keith takes Shiro to his room, grateful he’d thought to clean up a little today. His heart is racing as he pulls open the dresser drawer where he’s stashed Shiro’s gift—there wasn’t really a way to wrap it, so it’s just…sitting there on top of folded dress pants. “Close your eyes,” he tells Shiro, and picks up one of Shiro’s wrists so he can slide the piece of paper between Shiro’s fingers. “Okay, you can look now.”

Shiro stares down at the drawing Keith handed him. “Wow,” he breathes. “This is…”

It’s a picture of the desert from what Keith thinks of as their spot on the roof—an exact copy, as near as he could get it. He had spent weeks on the thing, up on the roof whenever he had free time and Shiro was in class. Whatever Shiro says now—he’d like it not to matter, but it matters more than anything.

“No one’s ever given me anything so beautiful before,” Shiro says. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith’s heart swoops, on the greatest roller coaster ride of its life. “I’ve been practicing,” Keith explains.

“I’ll say you have. This is incredible. Seriously, I’m taking this to Kerberos with me. Or—” Shiro frowns. “I don’t want it to get damaged. I can take a photo of it to look at up there. Could you hold onto it for me when I go?”

“Yeah, of course.” It hits Keith then that the mission is only a bit more than a month away. Only weeks left until Shiro’s gone from his life for over a year of no contact. His stomach starts to hurt as he realizes: he might have more of a problem than a frustrating little crush.

* * *

“A buddy of mine is having a New Year’s Eve thing off-campus tonight,” Shiro says a few days later. “You want to skip that party, too?”

It’s a gentle dig—and a challenge. Keith rises to it: “I could drop in.” Just to watch Shiro’s eyes widen the tiniest fraction. “You gonna pick me up?”

“Is there some other tough guy with a hoverbike whose waist you wanna hang onto?”

“You,” Keith says, “are not a tough guy.” Leaving aside the crack about Shiro’s waist, because he’d rather eat cactus spines than admit he loves the excuse to wrap his arms tight around Shiro like that. But more than Shiro’s stomach under his hands, more than the back of Shiro’s neck so close to his mouth, he loves putting all of his trust in Shiro.

At the party, Keith doesn’t get drunk, exactly—just downs cups of whatever punch concoction someone’s set out, until he’s flushed and laughter comes easy. He treats himself to this excuse, and lets his hands land on Shiro’s shoulders and arms much more often than necessary. The glowing numbers on his watch tick along to his doom or his destiny, until someone starts the chant of ten!—nine!—eight!—

And then it’s midnight. Around them people laugh through champagne and kisses; all sorts of kisses. Quick, sweet pecks; ravenous, messy collisions; long and slow and deep explorations. He looks at Shiro, and Shiro’s looking at him, and if he were better—braver—then maybe this would be different. But he’s not, he’s neither, he’s nothing; and he breaks away and shoves through the crowd, bullish and bruised, until he finds a door and stumbles out into a dark January night. A new year arrives and finds him the same old Keith. Figures.

The door behind him eases open, and there’s Shiro—which does not surprise Keith, but it doesn’t quell the ache in him either. “Hey,” Shiro says, and that’s all he says, because Shiro knows him like no one else ever has. Knows him in a way no one else has ever tried to. Shiro won’t question him until he freezes over with shame.

“I wanna go for a walk,” Keith says abruptly.

* * *

Keith leads them into the desert along a narrow footpath. His head is bowed, and he’s scuffing his feet; little puffs of dust kick up with every step he takes. Every angle of his body suggests a force field—any touch would receive an explosive rebuff. With Keith, there’s a bittersweet irony: Shiro often feels at a loss with him, yet never lost; somehow, in the months leading up til now, Keith has become his touchstone, his Polaris. In Keith, Shiro finds both truth and home.

art by Nemo // [full size]

Up ahead, there’s a mass of rock jutting out of the earth, and Keith picks up his pace to reach it. He climbs up onto it, leaving space beside him. Cautiously, Shiro follows, and Keith allows him to fill that space.

Keith turns his head and lets himself slump against Shiro’s shoulder, his body tensed even so. "I don't think you notice," Keith mumbles into the sleeve of Shiro's jacket.

"Notice what?"

"Can't tell you. Mess everything up."

"You can tell me anything. If you want to."

Keith mashes his face harder into Shiro's arm. "Not this."

"Can I tell you something, then?"

"Sure."

"I'm happy you came to the party with me."

Keith's laugh is rough, ground out between his teeth. "I'd go anywhere with you."

Shiro turns his face to the sky so he won't look down at the top of Keith's head. If he looks too long at Keith, he might make a bad decision. "That so?" The stars—he’ll be among them just weeks from now, and if only Keith could really go anywhere—

Keith won't, or can't, or just doesn't answer.

Shiro doesn't push it. More than just in simulations, flight forms the core of Keith's soul—he's been running his whole life. The only way to keep him close is to let him run to Shiro.

After awhile, Keith's weight grows heavier, and Shiro realizes he's actually fallen asleep. And as much as he wants to stay like this, he also wants Keith to get an acceptable amount of rest. (Keith has, on multiple occasions, informed Shiro that he’s “relentlessly responsible.”) So he nudges Keith awake. “You should get to bed,” he whispers.

“Yeah…okay,” Keith mumbles.

Shiro starts walking him back to the dorms. Once, Keith stumbles on the rocky ground, and without thinking, Shiro puts his arm around Keith’s shoulders. But Keith doesn’t duck away from him, so Shiro leaves his arm like that, just to keep Keith from tripping and falling.

When they arrive, Keith glares at the doorknob in front of them as if it has personally insulted him. "This is my room."

"Yes," Shiro says. "This is your room. Where you sleep. Which you should do." Eloquent, Shirogane.

"But I wanna stay with you tonight."

Shiro's entire soul drops into his stomach, compresses itself into a tiny ball of dense and freaked-out mass, and finally explodes like a supernova. "You—" he says, drawing on everything he ever learned in a public speaking class. "What?"

Keith leans into him again, and Shiro's arm tightens around him entirely without permission. "Please? I just—I don't want to sleep alone. Can't I stay in your room? I won't get in your way, I promise. You won't even notice I'm there."

Yes, Shiro will notice him, but there's no good way to explain that right now. And he's not too proud to admit when he's completely fucking defeated. "You're never in my way, Keith. Of course you can come with me."

When they reach Shiro's room, Keith heads straight for the little futon couch across from Shiro's bed. It's barely big enough to seat two people, but he curls up tight, tucking himself around his folded knees.

"I'll get you some water," Shiro says. "And I've got extra blankets."

Keith shakes his head hard, eyes already squeezed shut. "'M fine," he says. "Just gonna sleep."

"Good night," Shiro says quietly. Maybe too quietly, or maybe Keith's already asleep, because once again he doesn't answer.

He pulls the comforter off his bed. It's the warmest blanket he has and he'll be fine with a thinner one. Keith's already found a throw pillow on which to rest his head, and Shiro gently drapes the comforter over him. Then he pads to his mini fridge for a bottle of water, which he sets on the floor next to the couch.

Then, for longer than he'd ever want to admit, he just stands there looking at Keith. His hair curls like wild black flames, and the tightness around his eyes and mouth has softened. Shiro would love to be the cause of Keith's relaxed expression—but it's just sleep, he reminds himself, and this is all Keith wants from him. A safe place to rest, and not to be alone. Shiro would give him anything. Doing this is easy.

He crawls into bed and shuts off the light on his nightstand. In the darkness, all he can make out of Keith is the sound of his breathing, slow and deep.

* * *

Keith wakes regretting his very existence on the planet. Which, to be honest, is a common state of affairs. It just doesn’t usually come with the inside of his skull vibrating like a jackhammer at the mere suggestion of sunlight.

Shiro, shower-damp and far too alert for Keith’s sanity, reaches over from his bed to shut the blinds. “Okay there?”

Shiro. He’s in Shiro’s room. And far too hungover to cope with that fact. Can’t even pretend he was too drunk to know what happened—the memory’s as clear and brilliant as a summer sky.

I wanna stay with you. He’d clung to Shiro like a kid on the verge of a tantrum and outright begged, and Shiro—too kind to say no—had let him get his way. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Shiro will look away long enough that Keith can slip out unnoticed, and they can just pretend like—

But Shiro’s rising from his bed and coming over to the couch. Keith groans and pulls the blanket over his head.

He feels Shiro’s weight settle somewhere near his knees. “I’ve got coffee brewing. Want some?”

Keith wants a lot of things, none of which are going to happen.

* * *

After getting some coffee and toast into Keith (which makes him look quite a bit less like death), Shiro suggests they watch a movie, which turns into several movies, which turns into Shiro’s arm around Keith’s shoulders. They’re on Shiro’s bed with his laptop, backs against the headboard, laughing at some line in a comedy, when Shiro looks over at Keith and notices something’s off about his expression. Shiro pauses the movie. “You all right?”

Keith looks at him but says nothing.

The wound must be hidden—a contusion whose colors haven’t risen to the surface. Shiro presses lightly, searching for the source of the pain. “Did something happen last night?”

Keith mumbles something, but all Shiro catches are the last couple of words: “…didn’t happen.”

There are plenty of times Keith doesn’t want to be pushed to talk, but right now he’s not drawing in on himself. He seems to want to be held and worked open gently like a mis-tied knot. On occasions like this, becoming undone is a relief for him. “What didn’t happen?”

“Just had a stupid idea.”

Now they’re getting somewhere. “When have I ever thought one of your ideas was stupid?”

Keith snorts. “Fine. It was—unrealistic. Pointless. Unlikely.”

Shiro waits while Keith bounces his leg on the bed and thinks of his next words.

“I wanted to kiss someone at midnight, that’s all. It was dumb.”

Shiro used to take ice baths back in high school after track meets. Felt kinda like he does now, a wash of brutal cold sinking into every cell. “You couldn’t find anyone?” he asks quietly.

“No, I found someone.” Keith turns to look at him, a strange pleading look in his eyes. “But I don’t think they wanted to.”

Shiro huffs, taking faux offense, trying to lighten the mood. “Could’ve asked me,” he says. “I’d have filled in.”

“You’d have kissed me in front of everyone like that?”

Shiro’s heart pitches itself right off the cliff of his ribs and ends up thumping away somewhere around his navel. He tightens his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Of course I would’ve. Hotshot cadet like you? I’d be lucky. Honored even.”

“It was you,” Keith whispers, but his meaning doesn’t break through the fog in Shiro’s mind.

“What?” Shiro says, stupidly.

“I wanted you.” Keith’s voice is clearer now; he sounds more sure of himself. “Last night at midnight.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Should I—do you still want me to—” Shiro can’t look away from Keith’s bright eyes, his pinched mouth. He’d like to kiss that trembling lower lip more than anything. What if it was a one-time want? A fantasy only redeemable at midnight, and now that the clock’s gone rushing past, he’s lost his chance? “It’s not New Year’s Eve anymore.”

“You won’t be here for the next one,” Keith points out.

"You have a point," Shiro murmurs. Ensnared by Keith's gravity, he tumbles out of orbit and rockets down through the atmosphere, burning up from the inside out. As Shiro crashes to the surface, Keith rises to meet him with a kiss like oxygen, like water, refreshing and rebuilding him. The kiss is not the impermanent flash of fireworks. Rather, it’s the slow crackling heat of a hearth fire’s warmth, spreading through his body and deep into his bones, leaving glowing coals steadfast within him. If there was ever a hope of getting Keith off his mind, it’s nothing but ashes now.

Keith pulls away to steal a shaky breath, but he leaves his mouth in range of Shiro’s—hopeful and uncertain at once.

“Now what?” he asks, resignation in his voice, as if he’s been here before and never likes what comes next. But who could ever leave those eyes behind?

“Well,” Shiro says, “I was thinking we could do that again, and then we could ride into town and get some terrible diner food for lunch.” Keith squints at him, clearly distrustful, so Shiro opts to dispel any lingering uncertainty. “To be clear, I’m asking you on a date.”

And there’s the smile Shiro loves.

* * *

Now that Keith knows it’s okay to touch, he can’t seem to stop. The days pass in lectures and papers; the nights pass warm in Shiro’s bed. One morning the weekend before Shiro leaves, they wake together—and this time Keith lets his hands travel new terrain.

“Keith—Keith.” Shiro puts his hands over Keith’s, stopping the exploration. “What are you doing?”

Keith swallows; he’s overstepped. “Sorry.”

“No, I mean—it feels good, Keith, I just want to know it’s what you want. I’m leaving…really soon.”

“I know,” Keith whispers. “That’s why I want it. If you want it too, then just—please, Shiro, let me have that with you? If you’re thinking I’m gonna regret this—what I would regret is if you went up there and I had to wait a whole year for this.” Keith buries his face in Shiro’s shoulder, breath hitching. “Please,” he whispers. “I want to do as much as we can before you leave. I want to know everything about you.”

Shiro rolls onto his side to look at Keith. He’s mussed and sleepy in an oversize Galaxy Garrison T-shirt and black shorts. “There’s something I should tell you first.”

Abruptly, it’s like the last few months haven’t happened, and Keith is jerked straight back to how he felt on his first day here, when every new face was a danger and letting anyone close would only open him up to pain. Here it is: Shiro’s just like everyone else. Shiro’s gonna leave too, not just for Kerberos, but for always. “Of course there is,” he says flatly, hoping to sting Shiro before Shiro can wound him first.

The barb lands, and Shiro’s brows pinch together. Keith’s stomach flips; the reality of the hurt in Shiro’s eyes sickens him with guilt even as he’s satisfied by his perfect aim. “What do you—hey, it’s not a bad thing,” Shiro says.

Keith feels even sicker, because he can’t seem to get this right no matter how badly he wants it. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Shiro’s arms are around him in an instant, pulling Keith close to his broad, powerful chest. Keith allows himself to be drawn into the safety of Shiro’s body, tucking his head under Shiro’s chin.

Shiro’s hand slides into Keith’s hair, combing through it in long, rhythmic strokes that threaten to send Keith to sleep again. “I was gonna say—I’m going to come back to you, Keith. You’re not just a fling to me. I’m in this, and I want more than memories of you. I want a future with you, if—if that’s something that you want. If you don’t, that’s okay, and it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I’ll still come back and be your friend. But I thought you should know where I stand.”

Keith has never been eloquent. Shiro speaks with laser precision, whereas Keith’s more of a sledgehammer. He takes a deep breath and does his best anyway. “I want you to come back. I want to be with you and I don’t want to wait. I want to think of you every day. I—” He knows what people say here; he can feel the I love you caught in the back of his throat. But he can’t get it out. “You’re my best friend,” he says finally, and it isn’t enough; he could never say enough to explain what Shiro means to him.

The smile Shiro gives him lights Keith up like fireworks, setting off little bursts of warmth and joy inside him. “You’re my best friend too, baby.” Then his eyes widen. “Sorry, it just—slipped out, I didn’t mean to call you—that.”

Keith presses his red face into Shiro’s T-shirt. “I don’t mind,” he says softly. “You can call me that if you want.”

“Yeah? Okay, baby.”

Heat pulses low in Keith’s stomach, and he can’t not touch. He goes for the drawstring on Shiro’s pajama pants, tugging open the little bow—

Shiro grabs his wrist. “Done this before?”

Keith scoffs at him. “Sure, lots of times.” But Shiro waits until Keith sighs. “Okay, twice. But I’m not scared or anything. I liked it.”

“I believe you,” Shiro says, but he doesn’t let go of Keith’s wrist. “But I like to go a little slower. Will you do that for me?”

It feels like Keith’s been waiting his whole life for someone like Shiro. “How much slower can we go?” he asks, hating the petulant tone in his voice. Of course he wants to make Shiro feel comfortable; he just doesn’t understand what Shiro means.

Shiro brushes his lips over Keith’s cheek, landing finally on Keith’s mouth. “Like this,” he murmurs. He lets his tongue slide against Keith’s, but before Keith can get into it properly, Shiro is already moving away, leaving a line of kisses down Keith’s throat.

With each press of Shiro’s lips, Keith’s nerves flash like a pulsar. He wants bare skin; he wants to move and arch and cling. He wants nothing between their bodies anymore, and he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, but Shiro bats his hands away.

“Not yet.” Shiro’s palms are warm on Keith’s chest, warm even through the cloth of his T-shirt, and he presses Keith into the bed and kisses his collarbones until Keith’s breathing quickens. Then, finally, he grasps Keith’s shirt and shoves it up to his armpits, exposing Keith’s belly and chest in one move. But Shiro sits back, just looking at him laid out like that, no longer touching him.

Keith squirms, impatient. “Come on,” he begs. “Please, Shiro, will you just touch me?”

“Touch you where, baby?”

“You know where!”

“Humor me.”

Keith puts his hands over his face and yells in frustration. They’re never gonna get anywhere like this. Then he lowers his hands, looks Shiro in the eye, and makes his decision. Shiro wants to be told what to do? All right. Keith can do that. “Take my pants off,” he orders.

Shiro’s eyebrows rise, but he hooks his fingers in Keith’s waistband and pulls the pants down until Keith can kick them off. Shiro doesn’t do anything else, though, and appears to be waiting for further instruction.

Keith looks down between them. He’s got his legs spread on either side of Shiro’s thighs, his dick curving up against his stomach. But he can see through the thin fabric of Shiro’s shorts that Shiro’s already hard too, so at least they’re even. “Come down here,” he whispers, reaching for Shiro. Shiro lowers his body to cover Keith’s, and Keith peels Shiro’s shorts off, kissing the laughter out of Shiro’s mouth.

“You still haven’t told me where you want me to touch you,” Shiro reminds him.

Keith wraps his legs around Shiro, pushing up to grind against him, reveling in the shocked little moan that spills out of Shiro’s mouth. “Don’t you get it?” he asks. “I want you to touch me everywhere. When you’re gone, I want to remember your hands on my skin.”

“Everywhere?” Shiro asks, voice as deep as a roll of thunder.

Keith’s stomach drops with the promise of a storm. His skin is buzzing all over as if he’s tangled up in lightning; he needs Shiro’s hands to break him free. Keith isn’t looking for someone who to make him whole, and Shiro would never try. Shiro is the one who sees past cracks and stitches. The one who never asks Keith to be anything other than himself.

Shiro is the one, and maybe Keith can never tell him so, but it doesn’t make it any less true. “Everywhere, anywhere,” Keith says, and finally, as Shiro opens his mouth to Keith’s tongue, he reaches between them, takes Keith in one hand, and begins to jerk him…slowly. Keith whines, thrusting into Shiro’s hand, but Shiro only slows down further,

“I told you, I want to take my time with you.” Shiro’s staring at Keith as if mesmerized. “I’m going to remember every minute of my hands on your skin.”

It’s so intense Keith wants to close his eyes, but he makes himself look right back at Shiro, letting Shiro’s gaze bore deep, straight into the core of him where he’s hiding a nameless, endless ache. He wants Shiro to tear him open; find that ache and ease it. If it’s Shiro, it won’t hurt a bit.

Shiro lets go of him so he can push both hands into Keith’s hair, and he rolls his hips instead, the heavy, hot length of him sliding slick against Keith.

Keith wants this, and he’ll be damned if he gets in his own way. So he lets himself relax beneath Shiro’s weight; lets Shiro bring him to the edge and over it. He holds onto Shiro’s sweat-slicked shoulders and watches Shiro come. With Shiro there’s nothing to fear, and the lack of fear is frightening in its own way, but Keith’s about ready to tell his terror to go to hell.

Shiro tips sideways and lands on the bed beside Keith, tucking himself close to Keith. “If I could stay—” he begins, but Keith shakes his head.

“You’re going to be great,” he tells Shiro. “And then you’re gonna come home and tell me all about it.”

* * *

Shiro will be gone before Valentine’s Day, and well before his birthday. “Think of it this way,” he tells Keith, “I won’t have a real birthday until next year, so you’re not really missing it.”

“That’s not the point,” Keith growls.

Shiro comes back to his room from class that evening to find Keith waiting with a chocolate cake and a box wrapped in shiny paper.

The box holds a notebook, small but thick, and when Shiro starts to open the cover, Keith puts his hand over Shiro’s. “Wait till you’re on the ship.”

So Shiro dutifully packs it away.

* * *

The last few days pass too quickly, no matter how Shiro tries to draw them out. Keith would spend the entire time in Shiro’s bed if Shiro would let him, and Shiro wants to let him, but Keith can’t just stop going to class this close to the end of the year. So every morning Shiro gets up, makes coffee for them both, and pushes Keith out the door with a lot of deep, lingering kisses to ease the way.

Then it’s the last night before launch day, their time together crumbling into a few final hours. Shiro cracks, lost in a sudden bout of crying. Somehow, Keith doesn’t break down with him—just holds him close and rocks him, telling him it’ll all be okay, that he’ll be waiting when Shiro returns.

Later, when Shiro feels normal again except for his stinging eyelids, Keith puts Shiro on his back on the bed. “Hold still,” he tells Shiro, and then he sucks Shiro off in a maddening, leisurely way. “I’m going to take my time with you,” he says, the spark in his eye letting Shiro know Keith is getting him back.

Shiro would let Keith take this kind of revenge on him any time he wants.

After Keith decides to let Shiro come, after he’s gotten Shiro cleaned up, he lies next to Shiro, tracing one fingernail up and down Shiro’s chest. “I wish I could remember you like this.”

Shiro thinks of all the photos they’ve taken of each other, all the selfies of them together. They each have copies stored in their holopads, arranged by date like scrapbooks. “You could take a photo,” he suggests. “Just one?”

Keith sits up halfway, leaning on his elbow, studying Shiro’s face. “Really? You’re okay with that?”

“Sure. I trust you.” Shiro pulls the sheet up a little to cover himself, but leaves it low on his waist. He places one hand on his stomach, the other behind his head, and waits.

Keith digs under his pillow for his holopad, opening the camera app and tilting the pad just so.

“Not my face,” Shiro says quietly.

“Of course not.” Flash-click goes the camera, and Keith puts a lock on the photo. “There. For my eyes only.”

Shiro’s face is heating up. “I can’t believe you really did it.”

“I can delete it,” Keith says, finger hovering.

“No—keep it, baby. I want you to have it.”

“All right.” Keith yawns and turns off the screen of his pad. “Fuck,” he groans. “I wish I could just stay up with you all night, but…” His eyes are already half-shut.

“Hey, we both need some rest before tomorrow. Let’s just sleep, okay?” Shiro shuts off the light and pulls Keith into his arms, and he waits until Keith’s breathing slides into an even rhythm before he closes his own eyes. “Love you,” he breathes, though Keith can’t hear him, wishing he’d had the nerve to say it sooner. He’ll say it when he comes home. It’ll be the first thing out of his mouth when he sees Keith again.

* * *

The desert endures throughout any and all extremes, refusing to wither and die even in the hottest, driest heat. Keith’s a desert man, born and raised in a barren land, and he too knows how to live on almost nothing.

At least he has a little bit more than almost nothing, he thinks, watching the Kerberos ship disappear the next morning. He’s got photos, videos, voice recordings, and some of Shiro’s belongings that Shiro asked him to keep safe. He is, at this moment, wearing Shiro’s leather jacket even though it’s too big for him and always will be. He’s laid up a year’s worth of provisions, and he’s done what he can for Shiro as well: by this time tomorrow, Shiro will have read page one of the notebook, which explains that Keith’s written him a note for each day that he’s away.

Keith bites his lip, remembering the secret Shiro let slip when he thought Keith had already fallen asleep. He regrets that he hadn’t just opened his eyes and said it back. But together they will survive a year without rain, and he’ll say it the moment Shiro is back in his arms. “Love you too,” he whispers to the sky.