Archive of Our Own

Shiro says goodbye in the desert, looking out towards the horizon with his back against his flyer, helmet tucked beneath the crook of his arm and gleaming in the low light of the setting sun.

“You’re not leaving for another week,” Keith says, settling down next to him, scuffing the heel of his boot back and forth across the sand. He’s forgotten his sunglasses but secretly relieved to have an excuse to keep his head tipped low. It will be easier, he thinks, if he doesn’t have to look at Shiro while they have this conversation.

“Yeah, and everyday leading up to it is just going to be more and more hectic.” Shiro winces, over-exaggerated but not insincere. He turns it back into a smile when he says, “I wanted to make sure I had a chance to do this properly.”

Keith shifts his weight from one leg to the other, debating with himself before giving into the urge to lean against the solid line of Shiro’s arm, almost shamefully pleased when Shiro presses back. Silence stretches out between them like a string of taffy, long and slow. Keith’s always appreciated how easy it is to be quiet with Shiro, how he’s never in a rush to fill the natural lulls that fall into their conversations.

When he speaks again, it’s for a reason: “Will you do me a favour?”

Keith glances over. He has to lift his hand above his eyes, squinting against the sun. “What’s that?”

Shiro grins, nudging at Keith with his elbow. “Try to stay out of trouble.” He pauses, canting his head before adding, “Well, big trouble.”

Keith snorts. “I could stay out of trouble if I wanted to.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow.

“If I wanted to,” Keith repeats, slower this time, letting a smile through.

Shiro laughs. He turns, catching Keith by surprise when he hooks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in even closer than he was. They’ve hugged before―when Keith was accepted into the Galaxy Garrison, when the flight scores were first posted with his name topping the list and when Shiro was granted a leave so he could go back to space―but Keith’s stomach still flips when Shiro reaches for him, preemptively embarrassed and undeniably happy.

“I’m going to miss you,” Shiro says. Plain and simple, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it’s nothing. Keith’s ears burn hot. He presses his face into the sun-warmed leather of Shiro’s jacket, keeping it there so he can hide.

“I’ll miss you too,” he mumbles.

A hand folds over the back of Keith’s neck, fingers fitting in neatly along his spine. Keith squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard against the tight knot swelling inside his throat. He’s not crying (he hasn’t cried in years) but suddenly he’s terrified that he might.

“Hey,” Shiro’s voice drops low, creeping along the edge of a whisper. “I’m coming back, you know.”

“I know,” Keith says, keeping to himself how little that seems to matter right now. The gap Shiro leaves behind will be there regardless of when he returns to fill it.

(He regrets that thought, later. Sitting alone in the dark, his desk overturned and phone smashed. Shiro’s absence weighs on him like a physical thing, crushing the breath from his lungs and the marrow from his bones―infinite and inescapable.)

“Keith,” Krolia says. “Something’s wrong.”

Keith pushes back from the controls, trusting the Black Lion to remain on course without the reminder of an engaged the autopilot. A sharp spike of pain flares through his leg the moment he puts pressure on it, bolting from the heel of his foot straight up towards his hip, and for a moment Keith wonders if he’s hurt worse than he thought, if something’s been fractured or torn, left to bleed on the inside where it can’t be seen. But then Shiro makes a noise, a guttural, rasping sound, and Keith no longer has the luxury of caring about his own injuries.

Krolia looks up at Keith's approach, bright eyes narrowing as she takes in the uneven gait of his limp. She has Shiro’s head resting on her lap, gliding her fingers over the smooth arc of his brow, claws careful and delicate against his skin. Shiro turns away from her touch, flinching, teeth clenching together so hard Keith’s surprised he can’t hear the grind.

He drops to his knees, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that shoots across his calf he tucks his hands beneath Shiro’s shoulders, transferring him smoothly from Krolia’s hold to his own. She doesn’t try to stop him, reaching out only to straighten the corners of Shiro’s blanket, pulling the edge back up so it’s resting snug beneath his chin.

Shiro jolts in Keith’s arms, gasping like he did when he first woke up, sucking in air like a man half-drowned and desperate for it. His fingers spasm against the floor, blunt nails scraping over metal. Keith catches the hand in his own, squeezing.

“What’s going on?” Keith asks.

“I don’t know,” Krolia says. “He was peaceful, until now.”

She stands up and steps away, moving towards the front of the cockpit. Keith hears the crackle of the communication system being engaged, the calm flow of Krolia’s voice and Allura’s startled response, but he keeps his eyes on Shiro and can’t focus on what they’re saying.

“Shiro,” Keith says, emboldened when Shiro’s fingers twitch in his grasp. “Shiro. It’s me.”

Shiro’s ribcage heaves and collapses. A hacking cough shudders through him, tearing at his throat and leaving him curled in further towards Keith’s chest, brow pressed against the hard shell of his armour. His lashes flutter, bleached white like his hair and nearly invisible against the pallor of his skin, glinting in the dim light like shards of ice or glass.

He cracks open his eyes. Keith catches a glimpse of colour―deep, coppery brown, rich and warm―and it makes him want to cup Shiro’s face between his hands, to tip up his head until they’re looking at each other properly and Keith can take his time categorizing every little thing that’s changed about him. In Keith’s mind Shiro still exists as a fixed point, with dark hair and unmarked skin, a wide smile that grew rare and ceremonious after his capture. Keith needs to unwind that image, let it linger in memory but fade in the light of what Shiro has become. It’s not fair to either of them, otherwise.

“Hey,” Keith says. He bows his head, shoulders rolling forward, trying to curl around Shiro as much as he can. “Everything’s fine. You can go back to sleep.”

A stubborn line creases the skin between Shiro’s brows. He blinks, slow and heavy, lids rising only to drift back down. He forms the shape of Keith’s name more than he manages to speak it, tongue moving sluggishly behind his teeth.

“Yeah,” Keith says. He shifts his hold, palming the back of Shiro’s head. “Hi.”

“Where am I?” Shiro croaks.

A spike of fear carves through Keith, piercing his chest and scraping along his spine. His grip around Shiro tightens, fingers squeezing at the metal cap now molded around the remains of his right arm.

“Black Lion. We’re heading towards a coalition planet. Do you― can you remember what happened?”

Shiro squints at him, considering the question for a long time before his chin lowers in what might be a nod, a soft hum rising in his throat.

“Good. That’s good. You’ve been pretty out of it.” The edge of Keith’s mouth quirks into a smile. He takes a deep breath, waiting for the tension that’s been coiling inside of him to fall loose, but it settles into the pit of his stomach instead, taking root and making his skin prickle and buzz.

Shiro grumbles, a cranky little noise that has no right being as endearing as it is. He shifts, unfolding his arm from where it’s been caught between his body and Keith’s chest, blinking at his hand as he rolls his wrist back and forth, making the bones crack and pop like dry wood set to flame. The blanket falls back along with the sleeve of the oversized sweater they’ve changed Shiro into, and Keith can see the muscles working beneath Shiro’s skin, pulled taut and rigid, straining against the movement.

“Hey,” Keith says, trying to catch Shiro’s hand only to be brushed away. “Don’t―”

Shiro reaches up, fingers bumping clumsily against Keith’s chin, knuckles trailing along the smooth slope of his jaw.

Keith freezes, lips parted, breath hovering in his throat. Shiro’s long fingers graze over his cheek, rolling along the raised edge of his fresh scar. He follows the shape of the mark upwards before departing from it completely, fingertips drifting towards the sensitive skin at the corner of Keith’s eye. He leaves them there, letting his palm settle, cupping the side of Keith’s face with a tenderness that makes something inside of Keith’s twist and flutter, swelling beneath his ribs like it’s trying to break free.

“Okay?” Shiro asks, and for a moment there’s a sense of clarity sharpening his gaze, his eyes clear and focused and impossible to turn away from.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes.

Shiro doesn’t smile, but the edges of his mouth move like he’s about to. He turns his face into Keith’s throat, breathing a warm sigh against the rapid beat of his pulse, and Keith has to catch Shiro’s arm when it falls limp, cradling his wrist before laying it carefully over Shiro’s heart.

“Is he resting?” Krolia asks.

Keith’s head snaps up. The heat Shiro’s touch has left behind seems to linger and spread, a warm flush traveling down Keith’s neck and over the tips of his ears. He jostles Shiro a little, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. “I think so.”

Keith’s voice catches, sounding strained and raw to his own ears. If Krolia notices she’s kind enough not to comment, her attention directed towards Shiro, tilting her head curiously as she crouches down.

She says, “Your princess wants to know if we should find somewhere to land.”

“I don't know. He seemed all right when we were speaking.”

Krolia nods. “Then we’ll remain watchful, for now. Let me see to your leg.”

“It’s fine. I need to―”

“Keith.” Krolia waits for him to look back to her, holding Keith’s gaze steadily in her own. “You can’t care for him if you neglect yourself.”

Keith pauses, unsure how to argue against that but tempted to do so anyways. Krolia deflates slightly, shoulders slumping as she rolls her eyes. It’s a gesture she adopted from Keith during the two years they spent together, and seeing it makes him feel a strange, fond and exasperated all at once.

“Okay,” he says, hesitating before adding, “Mom.”

It’s not the first time Keith has called her that, but the word still feels awkward and foreign in his mouth. He tells himself it will get easier, that it’s worth it to make the effort.

They lower Shiro back down, straightening out this blanket and making sure his head is supported by the square, flat pillow they found amongst the Black Lion’s emergency supplies. Keith takes a moment to push the hair out of Shiro’s face, brushing his forelock back from his brow and letting it linger on the tips of his fingers. Krolia turns away instead of watching, offering as much privacy as she can. A small gesture, but one that makes Keith grow warm with affection.

“Wolf,” he says.

She blinks into being with a flash of white light, pawing at the floor and letting out a high-pitch whine as she yawns. Keith’s unsure where she's been hiding untl now, and not for the first time suspects that Wolf sometimes slinks away into some kind of in-between dimension when she’s not in view. 

He reaches for her, carding his fingers along the thick line of fur that flows down her spine, digging into the scruff and scratching at her neck.

“I need you to stay with Shiro,” Keith tells her.

Wolf blinks at him with her large, yellow eyes, ears swiveling back and forth. With a canine huff she trots away, curling up at Shiro’s side and laying her head down over his stomach. Keith strokes a hand over her muzzle before standing, moving back towards the head of the cockpit as Wolf’s tail thumps out a happy rhythm against Shiro’s leg.

It takes nearly six hours to reach the closet ally planet. Shiro wakes periodically throughout the trip, mumbling as he rolls over onto his side, tossing his arm across Wolf’s back and burying his face into her fur. Keith thinks of all the pictures he’s seen of Shiro with his grandfather’s dog, a brown and black mutt with a short snout and floppy ears. His favourite had always been one of Shiro scooping the animal up despite it being entirely too big to be held, the dog’s tail a delighted blur of motion, Shiro’s mouth split into a wide, laughing grin.

Krolia stands at Keith’s back for most of the trip, wandering away to heave Shiro upright only as they near the end of their journey. She leans him against the wall, sighing when he tilts right back into Wolf, now sitting as his side and watching curiously as Krolia moves about. Shiro asks where he is for a second time but not a third, and eats and drinks the things Krolia pushes into his hand without argument, his head drooping down sleepily as he chews.

“You should be careful,” Lance says, eyeing Keith through the viewscreen, leaning in almost uncomfortably close to the camera. “What if he chokes?”

“He’s not choking,” Keith says, though he glances over his shoulder to make sure.

Shiro doesn’t seem to notice he’s drawn Keith’s attention. His chin drifts down further towards his chest before he shakes his head and lifts it back up, passing Krolia the remains of his water packet. He says something Keith can’t quite catch, muttering about sleep. Krolia takes Shiro’s shoulders and guides him back down without complaint, telling him it’s fine.

The exchange makes Keith’s stomach twist in a not entirely unpleasant way. He smiles at Krolia when she come back to stand by his chair, her hand folding warmly over his shoulder.

“I like him,” Krolia says. There’s a strange tone to her voice, like she’s just come to an important decision and not merely stating her opinion.

Keith snorts, amused despite himself. “You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“We’ve said enough.” Krolia bends down, touching her brow to the crown of Keith’s head, a low purr rolling in her chest.

“Looks like we’re here,” Keith says, tapping his finger against the monitor, bringing their destination into focus.

The planet is small and covered almost entirely by sand, surrounded by four moons so unremarkable they could almost be mistaken for asteroids or debris. A meager portion of the rebel fleet is already waiting to greet them once the lions set down, their eclectic squadron of ships and fighter vessels scattered haphazardly across tundra.

“Are there any locals?” Pidge asks, lowering the green lion’s head.

“Not that we’re aware of,” Coran says, his voice wavering across the comms. “But we’re on the very edge of the Burtak’s territory, and should have plenty of warning if a Galra fleet approaches.”

“Unless they decide to wormhole,” Hunk grumbles.

No one has anything to say to that.

Keith double-checks Black’s scanners, confirming the planet has clean air before he goes back to gather Shiro. Krolia raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment, hovering close as Keith tucks an arm beneath Shiro’s knees and lifts him up, keeping his hand steady against his spine. Shiro’s eyelids crease but remain closed, his neck rolling bonelessly against Keith’s shoulder as he steps down into the dust.

“Cute,” Hunk says when he sees them, sweat flying out around his head as he yanks his helmet off. It takes Keith a moment to realize he’s being teased, that Hunk’s trying to lighten the mood, but the only response he can think to offer is the truth.

“I didn’t want to leave him,” he says.

Hunk shrugs. “Fair.”

Pidge is already speaking to one of the rebels, a humanoid alien with pale green skin and two sets of huge, black eyes. Keith doesn’t recognize them but the others clearly do, Allura going so far as to step forward and reach out, letting the alien clasp her hands in a greeting.

“What equipment do you have?” Pidge asks.

“Pidge,” Hunk calls over. “What’s up?”

Pidge tips up her head, her eyes dull and weary behind the gleam of her glasses. “We need to run a diagnosis on what’s left of Shiro’s arm.”

Keith frowns, clutching Shiro tight against his chest. “Why? He’s our Shiro, now. We know that.”

“Doesn’t mean the prosthesis won’t have lingering effects. Plus, you know, it kind of changed? Expanded up the rest of his arm? Should probably look into that.”

“Do we have to do it now?” Lance asks, scrubbing a hand down over his face. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m about ready to pass out.”

Hunk emphasizes Lance’s point with loud, jaw-cracking yawn, setting everyone else off one-by-one. Forming Voltron has grown easier, over time, but the process still requires energy from each of them and can be exhausting even when they don’t have to rush into battle. Keith is fairly certain Lance and Pidge both fell asleep at some point over the past few hours, and doesn’t miss the careful way Allura's moving about, swaying on her feet and keeping Coran close at her side. After guiding Voltron through the void and using her own body to transfer Shiro’s soul, Keith has no idea how she’s even still functioning.

“I think we all could use some rest,” Allura admits. “How long would it take, to study Shiro’s arm?”

“Depends on what they have for me to use,” Pidge says.

“There are tools we can offer,” the alien says, their eyes blinking rapidly, all out of sync. “But they are divided across out vessels and will take time to assemble.”

“Oh c’mon Pidge.” Hunk nudges her shoulder. “Shiro’s good. Let’s just do it tomorrow.”

“But―” Pidge’s teeth scrape over her bottom lip, the corners of her eyes pinching with distress. Her hair is starting to frizz a little from the heat, going fuzzy around her face. “Is that really… safe?”

It’s the kind of question that would have frustrated Keith once, would have made him clench his jaw and hunch his shoulders, snap back defensively on Shiro’s behalf. But Pidge looks up at him, seeming small and uncertain in a way she so rarely ever does, and Keith reminds himself that she doesn’t like what she’s saying, either. It just wouldn’t be in Pidge’s nature, to ignore something because it bothered her.

“I’m staying with him tonight,” Keith says. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

Coran clears his throat. “You need sleep as well, Keith. Perhaps we should consider taking shifts with Shiro?”

Keith shakes his head. The weight of carrying Shiro in his arms is starting to make his back hurt, but the ground is hard and rocky beneath his feet and he doesn’t want to set him down. “No.”

The alien leads them into one of the larger rebel ships, directing everyone below deck and down the long, narrow hallway that makes up the sleeping quarters. There’s only a handful of empty rooms and Hunk and Lance break off towards one together without complaint, joined a moment later by Pidge when Hunk pokes his head out the door and tells her there’s an extra cot. The space Keith is given is clearly being used for storage, lined almost wall to wall with bins and containers, old clunky equipment and damaged space suits. There’s a bed, though, and blankets, a small adjoining bathroom with a working tap.

Krolia leaves him with a touch on the cheek, her hand moving from one side of Keith’s face to the other, trailing whisper-soft across his scar. She tells him she’ll be in the room across the hall with Wolf if he needs them.

Keith places Shiro down carefully onto the mattress, straightening out his legs and making sure his arm is lying comfortably at his side. Almost immediately Shiro rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow and pulling up his knees, fingers twitching like they’re reaching for something before falling lax. Keith snorts, slumping onto a squat stack of crates that have been left in a pile next to the bed, letting his shoulders fall and spine bend, dropping his elbows down onto his thighs. He watches Shiro through the messy fringe of his hair, soothed by the slow, steady rhythm of his chest as it rises and falls, the movement of his tongue sweeping over his dry, parted lips.

“Hey Shiro,” Keith says. “We made it.”

He should feel happy right now, should feel relieved or grateful or proud. He has Shiro with him, alive and resting. He has his mother and his dog, his friends just a few doors away. They’re all okay. They made it.

Instead, Keith feels like he’s been caught and pinned down, like the space around him is both suffocatingly small and overwhelmingly large, like he could dig his fingers into scalp and scream just as easily as he could laugh. There’s a gnawing sensation growing inside of him, a festering wound that never healed right to begin with and has now been torn wide open and exposed. Keith doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to stop the blood flow after letting it pour out of him for so long.

He can’t remember where he is when he wakes up.

Keith jerks, feet slamming against the floor like he's trying to keep himself from falling, hands smacking at something hard and rough, hitting his index finger wrong and sending a zig-zagging jolt up through his wrist. His back and neck ache terribly from sleeping upright and he looks around, frantic, trying to justify why his mother would let the fire go out, why she isn’t there lying beside him. There’s no reason for her leave, not in the middle of the night (she said she wouldn’t― she promised―)

“Keith?”

It takes a moment for Keith’s eyes to adjust to the dark. When they do he sees Shiro, sitting up in bed with his eyebrows knitted together, the corners of his mouth turned down. The rope of panic strung tight around Keith’s chest begins to ease, giving way to a rich, blossoming fondness --Shiro always frowns more when he was concerned than he does when he's angry.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. He’s turned himself around on the mattress so the wall’s at his back, doing the work of holding him up. “You all right?”

Keith scrubs hard at his eyes. His head hurts, feels swollen and bruised like an overripe melon, ready to burst. He doesn’t know how to answer Shiro’s question.

“How long have you been up?” Keith asks.

Shiro tilts his head, no doubt pondering over Keith’s evasion, but willing to let the matter slide for now. “Not sure. Few minutes?”

The edge of Shiro’s mouth twitches, rising into a weak, sheepish little smile, so faint Kieth almost can’t see it in the dark. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh.” Keith doesn’t move.

“I don’t think I can walk there on my own.”

“Do you want me to carry you?”

Shiro blinks a few times, looking doubtful.

“How do you think you got here?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I want to try and stand,” Shiro says. He holds out his arm, palm turned down and fingers splayed. “Help me?”

They move together through the room, Shiro leaning hard against Keith’s side, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to make his legs cooperate. He keeps his chin down, eyes narrowed as he watches the slow pace of his bare feet shuffle across the floor.

Keith deposits Shiro at the sink, making sure his hand is on the ledge and that his legs are strong enough to hold him without help, hovering awkwardly until Shiro snorts and tells him he’s fine. Keith waits outside the door, rolling his head back and forth as he tries to work out the kink in his neck, taking a moment to peel off chest plate and gauntlets. He moves on auto-pilot, bleary-eyed and slow, dropping each item to his feet before nudging them aside with his foot. The ship’s pump kicks on, followed a moment later by the sound of running water. Keith steps forward, expecting Shiro to call for him, and frowns when the request for help doesn’t come.

“Shiro?” He calls. No answer. “Shiro, you okay?”

Seconds pass. A sound rises up from beyond the door, choking and raw. Keith smashes his hand against the activation pad on the wall, gripping the edge of the door and practically tearing it open when the device beeps and stalls.

Shiro’s standing back at the sink, fingers clenched around the edge of the bowl, his arm locked at the elbow and shaking. He’s breathing hard again, shoulders rising and falling with each gasp. Keith darts forward and barely manages to catch Shiro in time when he doubles over, jackknifing like he’s taken a blow to the stomach, retching violently.

Keith holds Shiro up around the waist as he vomits into the sink, chest pressed flush against his back, jaw digging into the thick muscle of his shoulder. Shiro spits out almost nothing but stomach acid but still coughs and dry heaves for a long time, moisture clinging to his lashes and trickling down his cheeks when his eyes flick up. Keith watches as he meets his own gaze through the mirror, eyes dark and wide and confused.

“It’s okay,” Keith says in a rush, understanding shattering through him like a bolt of lightning. “Shiro, listen to me―”

Shiro’s abdomen clenches beneath the press of Keith’s hands. There’s sweat beading along his brow, sliding down his jaw and the bridge of his nose, dripping off the point of his chin.

“No,” Shiro says. “This isn’t― I’m not―”

“You’re back,” Keith tells him. “You’re here, Shiro. You’re with us. That’s all that matters.”

Shiro makes a terrible sound, like a moan or a sob, shaking his head.

He’s trembling when Keith lowers him to the ground, teeth chattering together, his cheeks flushed and warm. He clenches his hand into a fist, squeezing until his knuckles turn white, and stares at it with a strange, detached fascination, like he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.

Keith tears through the cabinets, throwing the doors back against the wall with a crack. He finds a warped, plastic cup and fills it with water from the tap, holding it out as he crouches down in front of Shiro.

“Here,” he says.

Shiro shakes his head, doesn't even try to take it from him. He lets Keith tip the water into his mouth, swirling it around before spitting it back into the container. Keith stands up to rise it out, repeating the process twice more before Shiro brushes him off, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thunk.

Keith replaces the glass with a damp cloth, folding it in half and swiping it gently across Shiro’s face, pressing it carefully his eyes and mouth, down over the length of his throat.

“I remember our fight,” Shiro tells him.

Slowly, Keith pulls back. He says, “No. Not ours.”

Shiro shrugs, both shoulders lifting lazily around his chin. “I remember, though.”

A hundred different questions hover on the tip of Keith’s tongue, each one cramming into another: what else does Shiro remember? Is he angry? Horrified? Does he regret what they did for him?

“I want to ask if you’re okay,” Keith says, because it’s true, because it’s the only thing he can bring himself to voice. “But I know that would be stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Shiro says. “But don’t ask it now.”

“I won’t. Do you want to go back to bed?”

“Are you going offer to carry me again?”

“It’d be faster,” Keith points out.

“God.” Shiro rubs the back of his hand over his brow. He shakes his head and looks up, his smile soft and open and so, so kind. “I missed you, you know.”

And for a moment Keith feels like he’s back in the desert, too hot with the sun stinging at his eyes. He wants to take the sentiment and fold it close to his chest before giving it right back (I missed you, too) but he can’t, this time. He found Shiro months ago, saved him and stood beside him, trusted him with every molecule of who he was until― until he― 

“I should have known it wasn’t you,” Keith says, a realization as much as it is a confession.

Shiro’s smile fades. “Keith.”

“I should have known.” The words crack in Keith’s throat, tearing through him with a force he isn’t expecting and has no hope in bracing against. The backs of his hands and arms prickle, hot and itchy, and Keith wants to scratch at them, to dig his nails in and scrape until he’s bleeding.

Shiro shake his head and reaches out, fingers skimming over Keith’s shoulder, but Keith doesn’t think he can withstand the easy weight of Shiro’s affection and flinches, shoving himself back and away before Shiro can get a proper hold. The room seems to tilt around him, walls closing in as he struggles to catch his breath.

“You were gone,” he says.

“Yes.” Shiro pushes off the wall, fighting to make his legs work, to get his knees up and under him. He overbalances, struggling with just one arm. “Keith―”

“I looked for you.”

“I know. I know you did.”

Keith’s eyes burn. He sucks in a shallow gulp of air, lungs tight, mortified when it slips straight through him and escapes as a sob.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. He knows he’s being terrible, that he’s falling apart years too late for it to matter, but the fracture’s been struck and now everything is rushing forth all at once.

Shiro grits his teeth, fingers clawing at the floor as he drags himself closer, hooking his arm around Keith’s shoulders and palming the back of his neck.

Keith shatters.

He collapses into Shiro, keening, face pressed into the comforting alcove of his throat. His cheeks are hot and wet, and shame burns through Keith like a wildfire even as Shiro hushes him, telling him it’s okay. Another weeping cry breaks free, twisting into a wretched moan against the backs of Keith's teeth when he tries to swallow it down.

“You died,” Keith croaks. He could have just as easily said, you left.

“I’m here,” Shiro tells him, like a vow.

Keith twists his fingers into the back of Shiro’s shirt, shoving it upwards and pushing his hands underneath, palming the spider-web outline of an old scar, the shape of his spine. He needs to be closer, needs to be able to feel Shiro right now.

“I love you,” Keith says, each word tearing through him like the edge of a jagged blade. “I love you, I love you-”

Shiro pushes his hand into Keith’s hair, angling his face upwards. Their brows knock together, Shiro’s lips skimming over the bridge of Keith’s nose. A kiss, maybe.

Keith bows his chin, heartbeat wailing in his chest and pounding in his ears. It wasn’t, he tells himself. It wasn’t, it couldn’t have been, it would destroy him right now if―

“I love you,” Shiro says in that horrible way of his―like it’s simple, like it’s nothing, like it’s not enough to shred Keith into a thousand tattered pieces.

But Shiro keeps his arm wrapped around him, keeps his cheek pressed against Keith’s hair and his breathing steady. Keith closes his eyes, shuddering, and trusts that Shiro will be enough to stop him from flying apart.

They go back to bed.

Keith carries Shiro like he said he would, stepping carefully across the cluttered floor with his weight shifted towards his toes, his eyes still swollen and aching. Shiro rolls onto his side the moment he hits the mattress, scooting back to make room, and Keith climbs in next to him without having to be asked, tucking himself against the shape of Shiro’s body like he belongs there.

Shiro shifts, his knees knocking against Keith’s. He looks tired again, blinking at Keith slowly, lashes fluttering like the pale wings of a bird.

“You don’t have to stay,” Shiro says. “But I― I want you to.”

He pauses, as if unsure, before admitting: "I always want you to."

Laughter bubbles up in Keith’s chest, sick and terrible, bitter in a way he doesn’t want it to be but can’t deny. Since when has he been the one to leave?

Keith pushes it down, stamps it out, crushes it with everything that he has. There’s no room for something like that between them.

“I’ll stay,” Keith tells him. He lifts his hand, drawing his thumb along the soft curve of Shiro’s cheek, mimicking a scar he doesn’t have before tracing the cruel mark carved over the bridge of his nose. He wonders if it would be more sincere to promise to wait instead, but as Shiro closes his eyes, tilting his face towards the warm touch of Keith’s fingers, Keith decides the two things aren’t very different at all.