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A sputtering hiss, and the match lit. Overhead, the derelict shuttle groaned under the weight of its solitude, its punctured hull whistling like a chorus of ghosts trying to entertain.
Keith took a breath of a moment to aim carefully, dropping the match into the scavenged material. Thankfully they burst to life, fire instantly warming the grey coldness of the abandoned vessel. He watched as Shiro uncoiled his arms, which had been tucked securely under his armpits, fingers seeking out the heat of the flame.
Caught in the uncertainty of a string of sentences, long overdue at the back of his throat, he continued to gaze at Shiro wordlessly.
It was a reconnaissance mission on the dead moon Xeretur, one of the four that hovered in the orbit of the gas giant Leron. Thousands of years ago, Xeretur was a thriving outpost for the Galra, but one too many experiments caused a permafrost to touch every corner of the landscape. A concerningly darkened purple storm was constantly churning, spitting out sleet sharp enough to draw blood on exposed skin.
Shiro and Keith, under the guidance of the Blade, were to go in and observe, collect information on why the once abandoned, frozen over moon was now home to a couple dozen Galra and their sentries. The eternal storm too dangerous to lose the Black Lion from simple inability to communicate, Keith had offered to take one of the many stolen fighter ships into the glacial expanse of the unknown.
At no fault of Keith’s (Shiro insisted with a signature shoulder touch), the storm destabilized the fighter pilot and they crashed unceremoniously into the snow, several hundred yards from the Galra outpost.
“Well, we got our intel despite everything” Shiro said in his usual self-deprecating humor. “Who knew they were trying to see if the blizzard could be another source for quintessence?”
Keith knew it was an opening attempt to get him to sit down by the fire, and so he did, sheathing his blade with a flick of his wrist. Long unmasked in the presence of Shiro, he also gingerly took off his hood, gloved hand running nervous fingers through his unruly hair. When Keith looked up, he caught Shiro’s gaze for just a second, before he also abruptly turned away. Strange.
A bubble of laughter wormed its way through his throat, and Keith couldn’t help but smile. “I didn’t want our first mission in such a long time to be so… disastrous.”
“Well, we have a knack for that.” Shiro replied easily. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been stranded on a planet with nothing but a campfire.”
Somehow, it was like breathing, the way they fell back into place. Sharing the same knowing look, as if watching each other from across the hallway, or meeting in the middle of the cafeteria. As if no time had passed.
As if nothing had changed.
Keith leaned in a little closer, grinning. “You’re faring a bit better than last time, if I recall.”
“You’re right but…” The playfulness was now gone from his eyes. “Promise you get that looked at as soon as you’re back with Kolivan?”
A hand went up to his shoulder, makeshift bandage wound taught against where a particle gun had just grazed him. He had almost forgotten it completely, the initial adrenaline of escape had slowed to a dull throb Keith was unfortunately all too familiar with. He nodded at Shiro silently, determinedly.
The white of their breaths in the frigid air intermingled, obscuring Keith’s view of Shiro as he opened his mouth, maybe to ask about if he remembered the time they took a joy ride on his bike out in the desert, or maybe how he was doing with the rest of the paladins. Instead his ears heard the crunch of heavy footsteps. Eight, maybe nine enemies, quickly approaching.
“We also have knack for… getting ourselves out of our messes, right?” Keith now pulled himself up into a crouching position. In a shimmer, his mask reappeared, knuckles white around the hilt of his blade.
Faintly, Shiro’s arm began to glow purple, activating in the lowlight of the fire. He flexed his hand expertly before clenching it into a fist, eyebrows knitted. “We always find a way.”
The blade glimmered, lengthening to a sword as Keith took a practice swing. “I’m ready,” He murmured, his voice taking on the eerily robotic edge of the Marmora mask.
“Remember.” Shiro kneeled against the shuttle wall, wind howling as it spread a fine sheen of snow over his armored boots.
“Patience yields focus.” Keith answered, and Shiro was sure there was a smile on his lips.
Together, they leapt out of hiding and into the naked eye of the storm, prepared to strike.