Chapter Text
He decides to name the pup Kosmo, with a K.
It isn’t Keith’s first time training a service dog, but something about Kosmo is different from the start. Even as an ungainly puppy, still all fluff and oversized paws, there’s a cleverness about him. Kosmo likes to sit back and observe, intensely watchful of everything Keith does. Some innate understanding resides just behind those keen, amber-gold eyes, along with a spark of curiosity that gets the puppy stuck in the oddest places.
For Keith, the connection is instant. Inarguable. Intense.
But Kosmo isn’t his puppy to keep, and never was.
For the first few weeks, Keith focuses on the absolute basics. He wraps Kosmo up in a small service vest and harness to get him used to the feel of wearing it. On their long walks through the country that surrounds the farmhouse, he teaches the pup to sit, to stay, to heel— and Kosmo knows just what to do each time, as if he’s heard all of this before. Even when it comes to socializing with other dogs and puppies, Kosmo tends to sit apart, a thoughtful little furrow in his brow as he watches them tumble and chase.
Once Kosmo is leash-trained and ready for a bigger adventure, Keith starts making weekend trips into the city to familiarize him with the bustle of dense crowds, packed subway rides, blaring car horns, and the temptation of food stalls. And while the experience is always a bit much for Keith— he’s always preferred nature’s solitude to skyscrapers and an unending stream of human interaction— Kosmo takes it well in stride.
He acclimates well to every new situation or command Keith throws his way, really. It barely feels like training at all.
And little by little, like a trimmed path slowly overtaken by wildflowers and the lush creep of the woodlands, Keith’s resolve to remain professionally unattached to the dog crumbles.
Keith has never met a dog he didn’t like, but Kosmo is… special. There’s a loyal streak in him that suits Keith’s just right, and a meshing of personalities that makes their bond effortless. His calm, quiet empathy and understanding lend themselves perfectly to service work. And if he didn’t think Lance would dangle it over his head until the end of time, Keith would even say there are times it seems as though Kosmo can read his mind, jumping to obey commands before he even signals them.
It isn’t long before Keith starts incorporating PTSD-related alerts into their training, teaching Kosmo how to respond to tremors and anxious gestures and all the typical signs of nightmares. He’s a quick study, like always, and Keith has no doubt that Kosmo will work wonders for whoever is lucky enough to get paired with him.
One brisk, autumn morning, Keith wakes to the cold, wet snuffle of Kosmo’s nose against his ear. When he doesn’t rouse fast enough, the six month-old puppy starts licking along the side of his neck, impatient to start the day. With a groan, Keith sits up and then shuffles downstairs to start a pot of coffee brewing, Kosmo trotting happily at his heels.
His kitchen is sparse. Too big for one person, probably, like the rest of the house. Keith measures out Kosmo’s breakfast while the coffee brews, making sure the puppy is sitting patiently before he gives the go-ahead to eat. And while Kosmo gobbles down his food, Keith sips coffee from the only mug he owns and refreshes his emails, leaning shirtless and half-asleep against the kitchen counter.
The site of Allura’s name in his inbox wakes him up, though.
It’s news he should’ve expected, after six months of training. News that shouldn’t leave him disappointed, given how many times he’s done this before.
Allura’s finished sifting through all of the applications to Legendary Defenders— the charitable service dog organization that Allura and her father founded— and she’s made matches for all the promising dogs who’ve made it this far in their training. Including Kosmo, who is assigned to someone named...
Takashi Shirogane.
Keith stares at the phone number and email address listed at the bottom of Allura’s message, a thin furrow running between his brows. With a drawn sigh, he emails the guy to set up a video chat. After all, the sooner he can start tailoring Kosmo’s training to Mr. Shirogane’s needs, the better for the both of them.
They set a time for later in the evening, and the impending reality of meeting Kosmo’s eventual owner sits in the back of Keith’s mind all day. He finds himself wondering what Takashi Shirogane will be like, whether he’ll be good for Kosmo, and how he’ll manage when the day comes to entrust Kosmo to someone else.
As the hour draws near, Keith fiddles with his laptop while Kosmo sits dutifully beside him. The video is stilted at first, laggy as it finally connects. The fault is likely on Keith’s end, given his remote farmhouse’s less-than-stellar internet service provider options.
The picture eventually solidifies and sharpens into something cohesive, and Keith can feel the shift in his own expression, amazement drawing his brows up and opening his eyes wide.
Takashi Shirogane is… good. Good-looking. Very.
“Uh, Mr. Shirogane?” Keith asks, willing himself not to get lost in the full fringe of the man’s lashes, the strong cut of his jaw, and the perfect facial symmetry that’s only broken by a slightly uneven scar that bridges his nose.
“That’s me,” he says, and even those two words are charming. “But you can call me Shiro.”
“O-Okay. Cool. This is Kosmo, with a K.” There’s a long beat of silence before Keith realizes he’s supposed to introduce himself, too. “Oh, and I’m Keith.”
“Kosmo with a K and Keith with a K.” Shiro’s smile is heart-stopping but his soft little laugh is even better; beside Keith, Kosmo starts wagging his tail. “Did you pick his name?”
“Yeah, that was me,” Keith admits, turning his head in the hopes of hiding the faint blush he feels creeping up his nape and across his cheekbones. “Can’t really change it at this point…”
“I wouldn’t want you to. I think it’s cute. Kosmo. Like the cosmos? Or like Seinfeld?” he asks, a smile half hidden behind his fingers as he rests his chin on the heel of his palm.
“Little bit of both,” Keith admits, sliding a hand down his face.
It’s not the conversation he’d expected to have, but it’s good. The knot in his stomach unravels as easily as a spool of silk and as they get down to business, Keith is reassured. Relaxed, even, aside from the way his stomach flips whenever he stares too long into Shiro’s— Brown? Grey? It’s hard to tell over the video chat— eyes.
“So, we train the dogs to alert at signs of anxiety or oncoming panic attacks— hand-wringing, leg-jiggling, hunched posture. But I can also teach Kosmo to respond to any unique signals you have, so he’s better equipped to help you right out of the gate. Specific sounds or movements, anything like that.”
“Oh. Well, I usually… sometimes I hold my head like this, I guess,” Shiro says, his cheeks a touch red as he demonstrates. “And I tend to clench my hands pretty tight when I’m— when I feel like I’m losing it in public. And I have a lot of nightmares,” he adds, gaze darting away from the laptop camera. A sleek prosthetic hand rises into the frame as he rubs the back of his neck, self-conscious.
“That’s something we hear a lot, so Kosmo and I have been practicing a lot already. He’ll be able to wake you up as soon as he sees any sign of distress,” Keith says, stroking along the dog’s plush fur.
Shiro groans softly, relieved at the thought, and tilts his head to one side. “Looking forward to that. They, uh, get pretty rough if they go on too long.”
Keith’s fingers thread deeper into Kosmo’s undercoat, conviction filling him with renewed purpose and drive. He wants to help Shiro, wants to offer him relief, wants to give him the best possible ally he can in Kosmo.
With a yawn, Shiro mutters that he ought to get to bed. “It was great talking to you, Keith. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that I got picked for the program— and even more now that I’ve met Kosmo. When I looked into getting a service dog before, it… never quite panned out. You know, with the cost and everything. Now, I’m— this feels right. Kosmo. You. I’m… excited. And rambling, apparently. Sorry.”
“You’re fine, Shiro. And I know what you mean,” Keith says, glancing down at the pup beside him. Even if he could keep Kosmo for himself, he can’t stomach the thought now of denying Shiro the partner he needs. “I think you and Kosmo will be perfect for each other.”
“I sure hope so,” Shiro says, his smile faint and sleepy. “Goodnight, Kosmo. Night, Keith. We’ll do this again soon, right?” he asks as he leans back in his chair and stretches his arms up over his head, revealing a broad chest and shoulders for days.
“Y-yeah,” Keith manages to reply. “Allura likes us to do monthly check-ins, at least. So… if you have any questions, just let me know. Or if you ever just want to see Kosmo again,” he laughs, ruffling the dog’s ears as Kosmo sits up and yawns wide. “Anyway, night, Shiro. Have a good sleep.”
They wave goodbye at each other and then the connection goes dark. When Keith turns his head to Kosmo, the wagging dog licks him squarely in the face.
“Yeah. I like him, too.”
It’s less than two weeks before Shiro shyly asks if they can set up another video chat, or even just a call. And after that, their little catch-up sessions turn weekly— or sometimes even more often than that, and Keith finds he doesn’t mind it at all.
Conversation comes easy with Shiro. Naturally. Enjoyably. For Keith— long accustomed to avoiding human interaction and keeping four-legged company instead— it’s surprisingly rewarding. Their chats always start with Kosmo’s training progress, but by the end they might be discussing star showers, their preferred style of mac and cheese, or their favorite childhood cartoons. And though he’s never been one for frequent texting, Keith finds himself sending Shiro daily videos from their walks and photos of Kosmo being especially cute.
He likes when Shiro responds with rows of heart emoji and pics of his own, showing off the dog bed and toys he’s already set up in his apartment. He likes the little glimpses into Shiro’s home life and schedule. Likes how effortlessly friendly every message from Shiro is. Likes when Shiro starts lying in bed for some of their video chats, back cushioned against a mountain of decorative pillows. He likes just about everything to do with Shiro, actually, and it’s only when his mom gently teases him about the man over dinner one evening that Keith realizes how much of his life has become centered on Kosmo and his future owner.
Curled atop his plaid bedspread later that night, hands buried in Kosmo’s fur, Keith preemptively mourns the inevitable day he’ll lose both of them.
The next eight months pass in a blink, a blur, a sudden realization of how little time is left on their current arrangement. Kosmo finishes growing into his gangly limbs and giant paws; he fills out with lean muscle and dark, plush fur, as handsome as he is large. And he is a big boy— bigger than they usually use for service animals. Shiro doesn’t seem to mind that his dog will nearly come up to his hip, at least. His apartment is roomy enough, he says, and there’s a large park nearby to help Kosmo stretch his long legs.
And as the first day of team-training looms on the horizon, there are still threads of wistful sadness that Keith can’t quite shake. But he’s excited, honestly, for Kosmo and Shiro both. He’s glad for them. Really.
After nearly a year of viewing Shiro through his laptop screen— late nights and early mornings, smiling even when he looks worn and sleepless— he’ll finally meet the man in the flesh. And above all else, Keith is eager for Shiro to get the help he’s waited for so patiently, so hopefully, through restless nights and crippling panic attacks. Kosmo is going to change Shiro’s life, and that alone makes everything worthwhile.
Two weeks of in-person training lie ahead. Kosmo will need to adapt to a new owner and put everything he’s learned to use; Shiro will have to solidify a bond with Kosmo and learn the ins and outs of handling a service dog. And for the duration of this crucial transition, they’ll all be staying at Legendary Defenders’ headquarters upstate.
It’s the most nervous Keith has ever been about meeting a service dog-in-training’s match. He stows his things in the guest room where he’ll be sleeping and then heads to one of the facility’s private training rooms, still feeling like an emotional powderkeg.
Kosmo responds to Keith’s own symptoms of anxiety— two fingertips rubbing together, his foot tapping rapidly as he waits in their assigned room— and does exactly as he’s been taught, pawing at Keith and nosing at his hand until he can no longer be ignored.
“Good boy,” Keith whispers as he kneels down and pets Kosmo, fondly ruffling his coat. He won’t be able to do this kind of thing with him for much longer. “You’re gonna be a good boy for Shiro too, aren’t you?”
“Of course he is,” a voice from the door says. “He was trained by the best.”
In person, Shiro is even more than Keith dreamed of. No video or picture ever fully captured just how tall he is, or how touchable his hair looks, or the way the air briefly leaves the room when he smiles.
Shiro crosses the room in three swift strides, a prosthetic hand already extended to help Keith up.
And Keith’s not an idiot. He takes hold of Shiro like a lifeline, letting his hand be swallowed up in the restrained strength of Shiro’s grip, and gladly lets the man haul him to his feet. It’s as effortlessly physical as the handshake that follows, and the light little touch against his elbow to steady him where he stands.
And this close, it’s all Keith can do not to stare, drinking in all the other details that didn’t quite convey through the screen. Shiro eyes, for one— a warm, deep grey that reminds Keith of silver-lined clouds. And those lashes, which look even longer in person. And the sheer spread of his hands, the pair of them probably enough to encircle Keith’s waist. On, and an absolutely unreal shoulder-to-waist ratio.
Shiro’s smile is brighter than Sirius, and Keith can’t help but grin back. All his time, all his efforts, all his early mornings and long days have been for this— for Shiro and his welfare. For his happiness.
“It’s an honor to work with you,” Shiro says as he bends to greet Kosmo, delighted when the dog offers up his paw to shake.
“Knew you’d like that,” Keith mumbles, smiling to himself as Shiro scritches the dog behind his ears.
After handing him a bag of dog treats, Keith takes a deliberate step backward and gives Shiro time to start bonding with Kosmo, one-on-one. It’s the first step of letting go, and detaching himself from the dog he’s loved for over a year now is a bittersweet necessity. A service dog’s priority always has to be their owner— and there’s no real room for Keith in this equation, going forward.
It’s heartwarming to watch the two of them gallop across the room together, though. Shiro is fast and loose with the treats, quickly winning the dog’s approval. He’s springy and athletic too, nearly able to keep up with Kosmo’s blistering dashes and hairpin turns. In the end, the both of them worn-out and panting hard, they flop down onto the floor. Kosmo drapes himself over Shiro’s middle, elbowing him in the side, and happily snaps up treats that Shiro tosses into the air.
And Keith watches it all from a measured distance, arms tightly crossed. His confidence waxes with the passing minutes, relieved that Shiro and Kosmo have taken to each other so quickly. He’ll have to stop by Allura’s office later and give her the credit she’s due— they’re a perfect match.
Keith spends the rest of the day teaching Shiro the basics of handling Kosmo, especially in public. It’s important to lay a sturdy basework for the next thirteen days, in which they’ll work on strengthening Shiro and Kosmo’s bond and refining the dog’s alerts by practicing them on Shiro himself.
It’s the first time Keith’s ever wished that the team-training lasted longer. Forever, maybe.
“He can stay in your room tonight, if you’d like,” Keith suggests when it comes time to end the day’s training and go their separate ways. “It’d help to get him comfortable with you.”
“Yeah? I’d like that. What about you, buddy?” Shiro asks, scritching Kosmo’s chin until his amber eyes slip shut and his tongue lolls out.
Keith laughs, idly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’d say that’s a resounding yes.”
Shiro is quiet for a moment, humming as he smoothes down Kosmo’s fur and clips his leash back on. “You know, I don’t really know anyone else up here. Would you want to get a bite to eat and hang out for a while? All three of us?”
The question startles Keith into an airless silence. In every prior team-training session, this is when he would’ve stalked off alone, gotten a cheap meal from the gas station around the corner, and spent the evening sketching while Netflix drones in the background. “I— yeah. Absolutely. That sounds great.”
They settle on pizza, since the nearby shop delivers, and compromise with a pie that’s half pineapple-bacon for Keith and half mushroom-olive for Shiro. With their dinner and drinks in hand, they file into Shiro’s room— and for the first time, Keith realizes that the guest accommodations at the training facility aren’t exactly roomy.
Not that it’s cramped, either. The space just wasn’t made for two semi-strangers to maintain a proper bubble of distance, is all, and Keith isn’t nearly as bothered by that fact as he’d usually be.
With Shiro’s duffel sitting in the lone chair by the desk, Keith instead gingerly perches on the very edge of the bed. It’s a double, just like the one in Keith’s room, although it looks like Shiro brought his own pillow.
Kosmo sits patiently beside the bed, looking back and forth between both humans to see if he’ll be invited up. As soon as Shiro gives the go-ahead, all ninety pounds of Kosmo flies into the air and onto the mattress; the oversized dog immediately shoulders between them, laying down right in the middle of the bed.
“Wow. He knew just where he wanted to go,” Shiro laughs, settling down on Kosmo’s other side. It’s a tight fit with all three of them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not for seating reasons, anyway.
And perhaps discomfort isn’t the right name to put to it at all. It’s more nerves than anything else, Keith figures, though the recognition does nothing to slow the sweat creeping across his palms and along his collar. He doesn’t have the natural charm that Shiro does, nor a winsome smile to draw in friends and strangers alike. His interpersonal skills are lacking, as dozens of childhood report cards can attest. There is a reason he works from home, lives on a plot of land two miles from his nearest neighbor, and spends his free time training dogs.
And until Shiro, Keith’s never wanted much else.
Shiro angles his laptop so they can both see the screen and then pops the cardboard pizza box open, offering it up to Keith. On the laptop, Shiro’s Netflix displays a few of his recently watched shows— baking competitions and mecha anime and a few documentaries about the universe.
“So… pineapple, huh?” Shiro playfully asks, his nose wrinkling.
“Yup. Always.” Keith grabs the first slice, long, gooey strings of cheese stretching between it and the rest of the pie. “But I’m not too picky about toppings. Any stray pineapple on your side?” he asks, not wanting to put Shiro out.
“One or two, but that’s no big deal,” Shiro answers as he picks off the offending pineapple chunks and sets them on Keith’s side of the box. “More for you, I guess?” he says, grinning.
“Waste not, want not,” Keith shrugs as he piles the pineapple onto the slice in his hand.
Shiro’s still laughing as he leans forward and starts skimming through programs, finally settling on a documentary about Earth at night. It’s beautiful to watch, and any other night, Keith would probably be engrossed by the close-up shots of wild animals under star-speckled skies. Now, though…
It’s safe to say he’s distracted. Shiro is reclined just an arm’s length away, separated from Keith by just one large, drowsing dog. Keith can hear the deep, measured movement of his breaths. He can smell Shiro’s fruity shampoo on the nearby pillow. When Shiro speaks, his voice is so low and near that little shivers course down Keith’s spine. Once, their knuckles even brush together as they both reach for another slice of pizza in the deepening dark of the guest room.
It’s nearly ten p.m. when they decide to take Kosmo out for one last bedtime bathroom break, shivering slightly in the nighttime breeze. Keith stops at the door to his assigned room on the way back in, shyly waving goodnight to Shiro and Kosmo before he turns in.
And it’s strange, sleeping without his favorite pup next to him for the first time in over a year. Lacking. Lonely. Kosmo is just on the other side of the far wall, curled up beside Shiro in the next room over, but it already feels like a yawning divide.
And soon, that distance will span miles and miles and miles…
But each day spent working with Shiro and Kosmo is fulfilling in the deepest sense, as more than a year of effort all comes together right before Keith’s eyes. Even flickering feelings of imminent loss can’t diminish how satisfying it is to see Kosmo and Shiro excelling together, supporting each other, thriving as they both ought to.
They pass the evenings watching movies together on Shiro’s laptop, Kosmo nestled in between them on the narrow bed. Like their video chats, it quickly turns into a comfortable routine: talking about the day’s training over shared takeout; relaxing to some brainless reality show or a special on dogs; yawning and giggling their way through meandering, late-night conversations, until midnight draws near and Keith finally musters the will to drag himself back to his own room.
“Kosmo interrupted his first real nightmare last night,” Shiro proudly tells him on the morning of the last day, a hand ruffling at fuzzy ears. Still half-bent to pet the dog, he looks up to Keith. “And I have you to thank for that, Keith. This is— I’m just— I had a lot of hopes pinned on this. On Kosmo. And you more than delivered.”
“I aim to please,” Keith says, smiling small behind his paper cup of coffee. “And you deserve it, Shiro. There’s no one I’d rather see Kosmo go home with than you.”
But it’ll hurt, watching them leave. Shiro lives nearly three hours away from Keith’s wood-hewn farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and unless he has a question about Kosmo’s training or needs pointers on his care…
Well. It’s a goodbye with some weight behind it.
Keith drops down to his knees, his fingers buried in the dense fur on either side of Kosmo’s neck. The dog lets out a soft, reedy whine and noses against his cheek, trying to comfort.
“You be good for Shiro,” Keith whispers, his throat choking tight around the words. His eyes sting at the corners as tears well along his waterline; he blinks them back, as he’s done many times before. “Look after him. Mind your manners in public. And don’t go leaving your toys all strewn around his apartment.”
“I’m sure Kosmo would love it if you came to visit sometime,” Shiro suggests, his voice gentle. He extends a hand, ready to steady Keith as he rises back to his feet. And tucked between two metal fingers is a folded slip of paper, offered up with a tentative smile and a soft blush. As Keith gingerly plucks one corner and unfolds it, he adds, “I know I would.”
There’s Shiro’s name, along with an address. Underneath is a neat scrawl of I owe you dinner— a nice one.
Keith smoothes his thumb across the dried ink and smiles, gaze lifting from the hand-written note to Shiro. Suddenly, this goodbye doesn’t feel like much of a goodbye at all.
“It’s a date.”