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They are given a day to rest. The Paladins and their companions are escorted to a special wing of the barracks where they are given rooms and uniforms to change into. The familiar linoleum floors and fluorescent lights are jarring to Shiro, after so long in dark violet halls and sleek blue and white metal. He pauses outside his new room, Iverson beside him, and the man seems to know why he’s hesitating. Iverson jerks his head, leading him to the faculty barracks.
Shiro’s room hasn’t changed, which is honestly surprising. He’s been thought dead for what has to have been at least four Earth years. A pang, a thought of someone refusing to let them remove his things, flashes through his mind and he has to stop himself from breaking down. Iverson lingers in the doorway while Shiro heads directly to the bedside table.
Tucked in the drawer next to a small photo album and the standard issue bible, the little black box is still there. The velvet is a little grimy with dust, but the silver band inside is just as beautiful as the day he bought it. Snapping the box closed, Shiro shoves it deep into the pocket of his jacket and takes another cursory glance around the room. He’s been so long without personal items by now that nothing seems worth his attention anymore.
There’s only one thing he really wants right now, anyway.
Iverson, as he has been, is several steps ahead of Shiro as they make their way to the memorial. The room echoes with their steps and Shiro has never been more grateful for silence. His fingertips find the plaque he had dreaded seeing, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to tears. He knows they’re pointless, they can’t be seen or heard by the person who matters. He still apologizes; he never did get the chance to.
His calloused fingers follow the indent of the letters and stars, eyes firm on the small photo beside them. It’s grainy, but he could still point out every wrinkle, every spot, every strand of hair. The indentations at his temples where his glasses sat. The dimple on his left side that only appeared when he smiled. The point between his eyebrows that was already creased at such a young age, all from worrying over Shiro. Shiro, who was so stupid and didn’t even think twice, about his decision or how he treated the man he loved.
The one he loved enough to purchase a simple silver band for.
-
He’s fairly certain he’s on auto-pilot for eighty percent of the battle with Sendak, a hollow rage in his chest at the creature who mocked and destroyed him, destroyed the one thing Shiro had ever wanted. No blow he throws is with hesitation, every clench of his jaw something to ground him. It still isn’t enough and when he hits the earth again, a cloud of dust erupting around him and his limbs immobile, he wonders if Sendak was right all along. He is nothing but a broken soldier, not even worthy of love. He’s slightly shocked at how unsurprised he is.
Keith saves him. Keith will save him however many times as it takes and Shiro has never been prouder. Never has he regretted taking that chance on Keith. They had joked at one point that they should adopt him; it’s a bit late, considering how much the boy has grown, and has found his family, but Shiro can still entertain the idea with fantasies of what it would have been like. Coming home at the end of the day, loosening his tie and being greeted by a kiss from his lover, a much-shorter and younger Keith rounding a corner and barreling into his knees for a hug, asking him how his day went and if he can help with his English homework (Keith has always been a numbers kid, words aren’t his forte).
Keith helps him into Hunk’s arms and he is broken from his daydream, oh how real it felt, and is dragged to the Atlas. There’s no pause, no momentary sigh, before they are thrust into battle again. Shiro can’t even allow himself to lie down.
The ship transforms.
It changes and Shiro feels everything and nothing all at once and he’s a Paladin again and his heart clenches in his chest. He can’t see it, but he can feel the wonder emanating from Voltron and though his ship is too slow, too weak to fight back anymore, he feels the battle finally end and everything comes flowing back.
Then it’s over.
-
Behind the podium, Shiro speaks to the world.
It’s an extreme burden. His heart is in pain, lying on the hospital beds of his comrades, lingering in front of an engraved plaque in a memorial. It feels like the end of a story but something itches behind his rib cage and he can’t help the feeling that something isn’t right, there’s something that isn’t over yet.
There is an entire city worth of humans and aliens stretched in front of him but he can’t help the way his gaze searches among them, searching for something he’s not entirely sure of, really. The velvet box is a heavy weight in his uniform pocket. He hasn’t let it out of his sight since he collected it from his old room. It feels like it’s pulsing and Shiro tries hard, so hard, not to go down the road his mind is twisting towards; Iverson himself had told him what had happened.
Steadying his voice, he forces himself to take his focus off the crowd, searching for a face he knows he will no longer see, and finishes his address. The weight is lifted from his shoulders as he and everyone affiliated with the Garrison salute.
Then, it’s truly over.
-
It’s several weeks later that it happens.
The Garrison has been replenishing itself, established itself as an epicenter of regrowth. The surrounding cities are being rebuilt, species from all over the universe taking root on the Paladins’ home planet, markets and trade recovering the destruction brought upon Earth by the Galra. Refugees from all over have been coming in droves. Captives from the Galra bases have been released, processed for injury and provided the means to return home, if so desired.
It isn’t truly official yet, but Iverson lets slip to him and the Paladins that Shiro is being promoted to Admiral. It takes him aback, but the enthusiastic hug that Hunk and Pidge envelop him in brings a smile to his face. Keith nudges him in the side, and it takes only a moment for him to bring Keith into his arms as well. Lance hesitates on the sidelines, but Shiro reaches over himself to wrap his flesh arm around the boy’s shoulders and pull him in close.
They’re allowing Shiro to catch up with Iverson regarding the change when Veronica enters the room, not quite breathless but visibly rushed.
“Captain, we need you outside.”
Shiro’s brow raises automatically; Veronica has been going out on as many refugee collection missions as she can, her face a rare sight within the boundaries of the Garrison. Her most recent patrol must have just gotten back. She shares a soft look with Lance at his side before glancing back at him, tension clenched in her jaw. If he stares hard enough, he can see where her hand is shaking slightly at her side. Shiro pats Lance on the shoulder as he passes him, following Veronica into the hall and towards the front doors.
There is always commotion in the courtyard when Veronica returns, medics rushing from the building to help anyone in need and supplies being distributed before refugees are led inside to be processed; they’ve gotten the hang of it in recent weeks, being able to access records for anyone who is seeking a way home or searching for lost family. Veronica likes being part of this, she’s said, since she herself was led home by others.
She leads him past the registration checkpoint, where a small queue is still gathered, and into the medical tent behind it. It’s almost empty, a long line of cots on either side only occupied by a handful of people, but his gaze is drawn to the two men occupying the area by the last cot at the back of the tent; the one standing is a Garrison officer, and the one sitting is unmistakable. A scarred burn runs the length of his right cheek and down his neck, his glasses are cracked and his hair is a bit longer than in the photo that Shiro has committed to memory, but he looks just the same as the day they parted ways. The point between his brows is creased with worry.
Shiro’s heart feels like it’s stopped, a second later blood rushing through his ears as he fights back sobs.
“Adam.”
The standing officer looks up when Shiro stops walking halfway, popping into a salute for him and Veronica. The woman steps aside. Adam turns.
Shiro can’t move. He’s surprised he’s breathing, honestly, but Adam is stumbling up from the cot and running towards him. His wide eyes haven’t strayed from Shiro’s. Shiro finally gets his brain to tell his muscles to move and he’s within reach in a second. They don’t crash into each other, but Adam’s arms are around his neck, his nose in the space beneath Shiro’s jaw, fingers clenching and digging into his shoulders and pulling wrinkles into his jacket. Shiro wishes his arms could wrap around Adam’s waist a hundred more times.
He can’t stand anymore so he falls to his knees, bringing Adam, Adam, down with him, burying his entire face into Adam’s shoulder.
“Takashi-“
It’s choked, wet and unbelieving and so so beautiful.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing Shiro can manage. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No, please,” He knows Adam is crying, can feel the damp on his skin, “Don’t say that. Oh my God. I love you. I love you so much.”
Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, hyper aware of every feeling, every sound, every smell that surrounds him right now. A million questions fill his brain at once. He should be asking important ones. There’s going to be a lot. What he says instead is,
“Please don’t let go.”