Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The open market glowed with the morning sun. Bright tents drew the eye, luring in potential customers like bees to flowers. People bussed around, some in a hurry and others languidly browsing, as breezes softened vendors’ calls. It was tranquil, uneventful, a usual morning.

One young man dawned in black skillfully patrolled, slinking through customers with an open smile that was requited with the aid of his soft face and boyish looks. Fresh into solo training, Shiro stood proud without a supervising officer, keeping an eye out for trouble in his assigned district, one he knew well. He would claim himself lucky, but Iverson, one of his superiors, had a soft spot for him.

These solo patrols marked the next step of becoming a Watcher: a protector over the witches, familiars, and other magickals in the Witch Pocket. In less than a year, he would be sworn in under three silver stars to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Though his superiors had requested that he’d be trained for the investigative division, he strove to become a mainstream Seeker. Many believed him to be wasting his potential, but he wanted to interact with the people, form relationships, maybe save a lost soul or two.

To make a meaningful impact, he couldn’t hide away. Using his chosen magickal practice brought him a sense of belonging, but performing his dreamwalking on suspects or felons with an investigative team felt like a subverted way to wring information out of them. Dreamwalking held a highly personal effect for those aided by it, but if not handled with care, people could be emotionally and mentally damaged and Shiro would never participate in a harmful extraction.

In a decade or two, after fulfilling his duties as a Seeker, he would request to be promoted to an Overseer so that he would have enough authority to rewrite the regulations concerning mental infiltrations. Then he would be comfortable accomplishing intelligence missions.

But until then, an aspiring Seeker would have to do: patrolling districts, monitoring crime, opening and closing cases. Being there for the people. Like he was doing now… almost.

Currently, he was a trainee. There were limitations, such as his inability to make arrests and his lack of dangerous Watcher tools to name a couple. But at least he didn’t have to trot behind an officer anymore. During patrols, he was free to conduct his business in any way he deemed and if he happened to grab an early lunch at the market, then there was no harm in that.

Shiro’s focus turned toward his rumbling stomach, aching for the smells of the market. That was until he heard a sharp scream and a stream of deep shouting cutting through the morning dew. The crowd parted for him as he rushed by in his midnight black uniform. In only a few moments, he arrived at the scene beneath a bright purple tent.

A bulking vendor held a thin child by his forearm, tugging the struggling boy as he scolded him. The child’s face contorted at the painful grip and tried clawing at the hand wrapped tightly around him, fingertips sparking, which only enraged the vendor further, earning the boy a slap, light for a man but striking for a child. Shiro’s heart lurched.

“Shata!” he yelled, running up to them.

“Shiro? My boy, come help me with this rat ,” Shata sneered, glaring at the young child. “He took my fruits without payment and I intend to receive something in exchange for them.”

The boy ducked his head down and continued his struggling, trying to free himself from the hand that easily encapsulated his forearm. Around him laid scattered fruit, a few trampled from the pair’s arguing, staining the boy’s bare feet red and blue.

Shiro released a breath at the sight.

“I’m only on a trainee patrol. I can’t make any arrest on my own, besides he’s a kid,” he reasoned, but Shata wasn’t deterred.

“Then contact an official Watcher. This boy owes me for the wasted fruit,” he stated, tugging on the boy and jolting him for emphasis. The hulking man could easily dislocate his arm without a thought and it scared Shiro to see how reckless he was being with a child.

He needed to safely retrieve the boy, not punish him for attempting to snatch a snack. But he knew Shata. The man would crush lencincy if he could, a creature of fair exchange, not favors. His eyes flickered over the fallen fruit again before reaching into the satchel tied to his hip without another thought.

“How much for the damaged fruit? I’ll pay for them as well as two bowls of your best berries,” he said, fishing out a pouch of coins. The boy froze, his fingers digging into Shata’s hand.

Shata hesitated before shaking his head thoughtfully.

“Ever the noble one, Shiro. Ever the noble,” he mumbled, accepting the money and throwing the boy to Shiro. He placed a light hand on his shoulder before he could bolt, but the boy didn’t move. Slowly Shiro knelt in front of him while Shata cleaned his stand and prepared their order.

The boy’s skin held a layer of dust, disguising a pale complexion but not hiding the thinness of his arms and the sharp cut of his collar bones, which were framed by dark split ends traveling from his greasy raven locks. His knotted hair hid his face from view, making it impossible for Shiro to catch his eyes, especially with his head hanging over his stained, bare feet.

“Hey,” Shiro softly greeted, hand still resting on his shoulder. “My name’s Shiro and I’m a Watcher trainee.” He tilted his chin toward the fruit stand. “Shata is a friend of mine and he’s going to make us a couple of bowls, then we can talk for a bit before going to find your parents, okay?”

He made no indication that he understood; no twitch, no nod, no verbal affirmation. Either the boy couldn’t understand or was uncooperative; Shiro prayed it was the former. Having an uncooperative child on his hands meant that he might have to contact his supervising Seer, which could get the boy in more trouble than he already was.

As he was about to address the boy again, Shata stepped forward with two berry bowls in his hands. Shiro kindly thanked him, accepting one and gifting the other to the boy before ushering him away from the crowds with a constant hand on his shoulder. He steered them out of the open market, toward quiet, secluded steps that were hidden between two pillars.

The boy sat with no complaints, but continued to be unresponsive. Shiro internally sighed before sitting a step below the boy and popping a berry into his mouth. The boy’s dirtied hands gripped his wooden bowl tightly, not uttering a word.

Shiro didn’t mind the silence between them. The constant hum of the market filled the void. However, what he did mind was the lack of ferocity that the boy exhibited with his struggle with Shata. After attempting to steal a few handfuls of fruit, he expected him to devour the bowl, but he simply sat there, gripping it tightly to his stomach defensively as if someone would take it from him, yet not eating a single berry in the minutes they sat together.

Without Shata’s wandering eyes, he could look at the boy properly and his appearance worried him as much as, if not more than, his behavior. Without shoes, his feet were stained dark with dirt and berry juice, his hands much the same. His long hair tangled and cascaded passed his shoulders; its oily strands obscuring his face and bleeding into his clothing. Patches of discoloration patterned the fabric with decorations of random tears and stains, one a particular shade of brown that had Shiro’s full stomach roiling at its implications.

Shiro felt sick. With a strained voice, he said, “Aren’t you hungry?”

The boy jolted, bringing his knobby elbows in closer to hide the bowl on his lap protectively. His emaciated frame shook with the force in which he held it. He bit his lip, worried it a bit before nodding his head, never once looking directly at Shiro.

“I bought the bowl for you, it’s yours.” The boy’s hands slightly relaxed around the wood, but only enough for the color to return to his knuckles. His shoulders still hunched over the berries. Shiro’s eyes flickered over him. “I won’t take it from you,” he assured softly, leaning away to emphasize his sincerity.

Hesitantly, the boy reached for a berry, grasping it between his fingers before bringing it up to his lips, pausing before popping it into his mouth and quickly eating it. From then, the berries disappeared within minutes. Shiro couldn’t stop the small chuckle that escaped his lips when the boy tried to swipe up the berry juice from the bottom of the bowl with his fingers. His head tilted up and Shiro abruptly stopped at the dull purple eyes glaring at him between midnight black strands.

The boy couldn’t be more than ten years old.

“Sorry,” he said, quickly sobering. “You just really liked berries I suppose.”

Those eyes narrowed at him before returning to the bowl, where his stained fingers scooped up the remaining juice. Though his ravenous appetite amused Shiro, he couldn’t help how his own food dropped to the bottom of his stomach, a dead weight pulling down thoughts from his mind.

Looking to the sky, Shiro could clearly tell it wasn’t noon, late morning at the latest. The ferality as he ate couldn’t have been attributed to skipping breakfast; it was more akin to skipping multiple meals. Something wasn’t right.

“Do your parents not feed you?” Shiro asked, feigning amusement but his tone terribly falling flat. The boy tensed and Shiro did as well, regretting his words as soon as they left his mouth. He slowly held up his hands in a calming gesture and gently he said, “If something is wrong, if you need help, you can tell me. I can help you.”

The boy didn’t move, only glanced across Shiro before meeting his eyes. They seemed helpless, lost. Scared.

“I’m a trainee. Not an officer. If you need something that you don’t want on the record, you can tell me. I swear I won’t report it if it’ll get you in trouble at home--Wait!”

The boy had bolted, leaving a ringing bowl clanking on the steps. Shiro scrambled after him. Being a trainee, meant he had no wand or hex bags, so no safe, powerful magick at hand. He could use a spell, but with his thoughts focused on the boy, his mind simply couldn’t produce what he asked of it, years of memorization dashed to the floor.

The boy dodged pedestrians, dove into alleyways, and scaled walls in an attempt to lose his pursuer. Shiro knew this area well, but the boy seemed to move with the changing scenery as if part of its walls and buildings. His feet carried him through hidden pathways and over nearly invisible footfalls that had Shiro stumbling.

He was quick, but Shiro had endurance. The thin boy tired rapidly, expelling all his energy in a fast-paced escape. Soon Shiro ran only a couple of arm’s lengths away and with a quick turn, he had his hand grasped tight around the boy’s shoulder. His small body flung back with the force of it, but the boy planted a foot and pushed, accelerating himself toward Shiro purposefully.

Surprised, Shiro loosened his grip, which the boy used to his advantage, spinning around with flaming hands that singed Shiro’s leather gloves. His eyes went wide at the sight and he immediately released him, backing away from the flames. They stood a few yards apart, both of them panting from the run while fire continued to dance around the boy’s hands.

Shiro’s eyes connected with the boy’s for a moment. He took a careful step forward, but at the first sign of movement, the flames engulfed the boy’s arms, embracing them. They flickered dangerously. Shiro understood the warning. He held both palms open.

“Look, I’m sorry if I spooked you. I’m just concerned and I’m in a position to help you,” he said. Slowly he knelt level eye with the boy, relaxing his body to appear unthreatening; though his boyish looks clashed with the hard black of his uniform, creating an ambiguous facade. He offered a soft smile, knowing that it wasn’t enough to appease the skittish boy, but perhaps open a line of communication. “What can I do to get you to trust me?”

The boy’s thick brows furrowed at the question, clearly not expecting a bargain. He licked his lips anxiously and opened them in an attempt to speak multiple times but words never followed their motions. Shiro waited on edge for the boy’s first words to him, desperately listening to the wind in the hopes of catching the soft sound of a bell.

His timbre was drastically different.

“Why? Why did you help me?”

Raspy for a young boy. Worn or unused. It grated against his throat and cut through the air instead of riding along its waves. The demanding tone overshadowed the image of the helpless boy Shiro had gathered, replaced by a fighter who knew when to pick his battles, who realized that cooperating with him would earn him his freedom from Shata and a free lunch.

Shiro blinked a few times before responding, “I know the vendor, so I thought--”

“No! Why me? ” he questioned, gripping his chest tightly with a flaming hand.

Desperation lightly coated his words. A search for something unexplainable, of a reason behind baffling actions. Every bone in Shiro’s body yearned to cradle the boy to his chest tenderly with an embrace he doesn’t believe he receives often. He didn’t dare imagine the circumstances that lead to him becoming so untrusting; he worried about his home life, his parents.

“Why not turn me in? Why buy the fruit I destroyed and then pay for more? You must want something from me.”

Shiro shook his head. Every shake of his exhausted body, every quiver to his words tugged on his urged to care for the boy, to tuck him away from harm and to right his backwards thoughts of give and takes.

“But I don’t need anything from you,” he said. “I don’t know you. You were just in a bad situation and if I was in your shoes, I would’ve wanted someone to help. Anyone who had an ounce of sympathy.”

The boy shook his head, scoffing. “Let me guess, and you’re that person?”

“If you’d let me.” Shiro tapped the silver stars insignia woven into his uniform. “I decided to become a Watcher so that I could help people in need, so that I could protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

The flames sputtered, growing larger as the boy’s scowl deepened. “I don’t need your protection,” he raged. “I can handle myself.”

“Then what about my advice instead?” The boy may not accept any more help, but if words can offer assistance, he’d be more than willing to give. “If something is happening at home, you need to tell someone, doesn’t have to be me, but someone who will help you.”

“Home?” he huffed, under his breath. Shiro frowned at his tone, like home was a wistful idea. “Like you said, you don’t know me. Thanks for the food, but just go,” he said, turning around to walk away. By himself.

“I can’t just leave you by yourself. What about your parents? Where are they?” Shiro asked, hoping to draw the boy into the conversation once again. If they could find his parents, perhaps he could talk to them and determine if the household needed financial assistance. Based on the boy’s appearance and ravenous appetite, they may not be fit to care for a child by themselves. He would need to report them, despite the sickening guilt for doing so, or else his superiors would accuse him of putting his emotions before the law once again.

The boy whipped around, fire raging up his arms and shoulders, pure unadulterated anger lighting up his violet irises. The flames began to singe his clothing, his emotions leaking into his magickal control. “I don’t have them, okay? I don’t have anyone!” he screamed, fire rolling and licking at the floor.

Shiro’s jaw dropped. He didn’t… He never even considered if the boy even had parents. He should have realized the situation.

It was a devastating mistake.

“I-I’m sorry--”

“No! Don’t! I don’t need your pity. I need you to leave me the hell alone,” he gritted out. The young boy crossed his flaming arms over his chest, then turned his back on Shiro, who was utterly speechless. He shook off the flames before sprinting down the alleyway, never looking back.

Shiro couldn’t help but feel he failed.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since he’s seen the boy. Two weeks of searching the marketplace, the town square, the entire town even. Two weeks leading up to a couple of days filled with pleading with his superiors to allow him to continue patrolling the same district, despite his rotation schedule. Iverson had been buying him time, but in the next day or so he had to be moved to a new district.

But he couldn’t without finding the boy again. He has been berating himself every night as he lies awake in bed over how he let him go. He let an orphan go off by himself without knowing if he had any other family members looking after him - and he prayed to Hypnos every night that he’d find him, but the district was too big and if he truly didn’t live with anyone, he could be in another district, hades, another pocket!

Shiro wiped his hands exasperatedly. Two weeks… and no progress.

Until he heard a scuffle. Flesh on flesh and threats with curses mixed in.

He quickly rounded a corner, a binding hex on the tip of his tongue, but froze at the sight before him.

The boy. It was the boy with three teens surrounding him as he hunched over on the muddy cobblestone. He had his arms clenched around his middle and he choked on air as the others laughed. Water dripped from his shivering form.

“Maybe you’ll think about who you steal from next, you sewer rat!” the girl spat in his face before another pushed him over with her boot into a puddle of muddle. He sprawled out and if it weren’t for his audible breathing, Shiro would’ve thought--well, it didn’t matter because he wasn’t.

Behind their backs, he walked up to the teens with a perfect hex aimed only for them. They didn’t notice until to late.

“What the-?!” one screamed, before the intensity of the hex hit them, sending all three to the ground around the boy, dirtying their clothes and shaming their pride.

“Who the hell are you!?” the ringleader spat.

“Evyl, shut the fuck up! He’s a Watcher!”

“No, he’s not! He’s a damn trainee,” Evyl growled as she stood, brushing the mud off her flowing skirts before extracting the water from her clothing with a graceful flick of her wrist and promptly streaming it back to the floor.

“This trainee just hexed all of you. Only removable by a Watcher. Good luck explaining why I had to do so to your parents and to the Watchers you’ll be reporting yourselves to,” he sneered, not afraid speak out against these bullies.

Evyl sneered, about to retort, but one of her accomplices grabbed her forearm with a plea to leave. Evyl shot a glare over her shoulder before leaving with her still soaking wet friends.

With the girls out of sight, Shiro let himself relax slightly before turning to the boy who remained laying on the floor, unmoving. He ran over, skidding as he knelt next to him. Carefully, he turned him over and placed his head on his lap, minding the probable bruising over his abdomen.

Mud caked over his cheek and hair from the fall as did a majority of his body, but the rest laid soaked in water that reeked of sewage. He had the same clothes on from their last encounter, only they looked worse for wear with a few more tears and stains decorating the thin fabric.

He couldn’t simply leave him here in the alley, but bringing an unconscious stranger into his house would worry his parents, not to mention the boy once he woke, Shiro knew he’d explode into a fiery rage. He needed a neutral place that had a bath, medical supplies, maybe even clean clothes. Some place that wouldn’t cause the boy to freak out and that would have the means to let Shiro take care of him.

Shiro perked up.

And he had just the place.

“Thank you for the help, Miss Balmera.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Shiro,” the older woman waved off. “Anything for you. Especially if it means helping that poor boy. Oh, I wish you’d tell me how he’s gotten into this mess.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not my place to talk about him.” Shiro glanced at the doorway where they had left the boy with Shay to help clean him up and check the vitals she could while he laid unconscious. “Honestly, even if I could, there isn’t much that I know. I found him during a solo training patrol and I don’t even know his name. Just that I think he’s alone…” he solemnly said.

Miss Balmera put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You did the right thing bringing him here. We’ll do our best to make him comfortable,” she assured.

“That’s the thing. You are very kind taking in all those that you can, but I don’t know if he’ll want to stay. I think he misinterpreted my kindness and was very adamant about getting away from me the first time. I hope that he realizes he can trust us, you especially,” he emphasized. “If he truly has no one, then I’d like for him to-”

A scream sharply cut him off. Shiro bolted for the doorway while the coven advisor followed behind.

“Get away from me!” the voice yelled.

The boy had backed himself into a corner, fire completely engulfing him, as Shay stood shocked with wide eyes by the bed, looking completely out of her element. He crouched down in a defensive position, looking like a spooked animal with both eyes on Shay. Shiro quickly placed himself between the two, drawing the boy’s attention from her, but the sight of the trainee ignited a new fire.

“ You! Where am I? Where did you take me?” he demanded, lips snarling. His face was no longer stained with mud, but his expression twisted in disgust nonetheless.  “I told you to leave me alone!”

“I couldn’t leave you in the alleyway unconscious after what those girls did,” Shiro calmly explained, ushering Shay behind him and toward the doorway.

“That wasn’t your problem! Why don’t you just go f-”

“Hey, boy!” All eyes turned toward Miss Balmera, inching her way further into the room.

“Miss Balmera-” Shiro tried to interject, but she simply shushed him and continued forward.

“Now, I don’t know you, but you will respect this young man in this household,” she scolded before taking a deep breath, softening her voice. “He brought you here worried to death without even knowing your name. He’s respected your privacy and wouldn’t tell me anything about yourself, and believe me I’m a noisy old woman,” she chuckled. “And he even discussed with me offering you a home here on your behalf. So put your fire away and give him a chance to explain himself,” she softly ended.

The boy licked his lips, glancing between the three others in the room. He glanced down with furrowed eyebrows before shaking his flames from himself, nodding over to Shiro but nervously looking at Shay and Miss Balmera from under his greasy hair. Shiro caught the movement, slowly turning to the two and asking them quietly to give them some privacy. They quickly exited the room, pulling the curtain over the doorway on their way out.

Shiro took a seat at the end of the medical bed, staring at the counter and shelves filled with tinctures, potions, and bandages but never letting the boy leave his periphery. He could see him awkwardly fidget in the corner, obviously uncomfortable being alone with Shiro. He internally sighed at the lack of trust, but realized that he hasn’t done much to prove his worth.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked. His question seemed to jolt the boy out of his nervous daze. He stepped closer, but never made a move to sit on the bed. “I suppose you’re wondering about this place?”

“How did you find me?” he questioned instead.

“I wasn’t intentional,” he hastily replied, frightened he’d scare the boy. It was one thing to happen upon him and another entirely to have been trailing him. Shiro took a breath. He needed to be the steady one in this conversation. The poor boy woke in an unfamiliar place, frightened and untrusting of everyone. They weren’t acquainted - far from it. But Shiro could only hope the bit of kindness he showed the boy will convince him to at least take a chance on him.

“I saw those girls attack you,” he continued. “Well, I saw the end of it when they accused you and knocked you out. I should’ve intervened sooner,” he apologetically said. He expected the boy to agree with him, to accuse him of allowing him to get hurt in a twisted plot to get him here, but his response surprised him.

“I’m not...I’m not a rat,” he mumbled under his breath, barely audible. Shiro hesitated, unsure of the thoughts running through the boy’s mind, and staying silent for a moment to gather an honest answer. He self-consciously licked his lips, though with his eyes covered by his raven hair, the boy didn’t notice.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Shiro softly replied, but the boy simply shook his head with a tight grimace.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” he bit out.

“Then help me understand or at least allow me to  help you.” He scanned over the boy’s scrawny frame and tight ashen skin. With the dirt washed away, its dull color accentuated the variously progressed bruises and violently red scabs, some of which screamed of untreated infections. His knobby knees clunked together with his constant fidgeting and his sharp elbows cut through the air as he exasperatedly ran his fingers through his flat hair.

Shiro’s heart strings pulled.

This boy needed help.

“Please, I don’t have the physical means to support you, but this place,” he gestured around, “is a coven for the lost. Those traveling or searching. For those in need of a family.” He faced the boy. “You don’t need to explain your situation and no one will ask questions. You’ll be well cared for,” he pleaded, but the boy shook his head.

“In exchange for what?” he softly asked. “I don’t… I don’t have anything.”                                 

“You won’t owe the coven anything,” Shiro said. The boy gritted his teeth.

“Lies!” he snarled, finally meeting Shiro’s eyes. The dull purple seemed to swirl in a frenzy of rage, igniting. “ Nothing is free.” He took a step forward. “There’s always a price,” he emphasized with a pointed finger at Shiro. The young man held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

“Not here,” he slowly said, never taking his steel eyes off the boy’s. His face twisted in a grimace stuck between a snarl and a rueful smile.

“I’ve been lied to before.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Shiro reassured.

“They all say that,” he dismissed. The utter act of his flippant hand in response to Shiro’s genuine words left daggers in his gut. “Why would you be any different?”

Who had treated this kid so badly that he couldn’t put his trust in someone that had his best interest at heart? Even after the fruit vendor debacle, the medical treatment, and the offer of a home , the boy refused to believe any of it was done out of goodness of his heart. He had this twisted delusion that everyone had an ulterior motive behind their words and actions.

“You’re right. You’re right, okay. You have no reason to trust any of the words coming from my mouth… But what other option do you have?” Shiro reasoned. “Food, a bed, a home. Or what?”

“My life. If you’re lying, my life could… It’s not the best, but I’d be here. Instead of--well, you don’t care.” He clams up, crossing his arms and curling into himself. He looks lost shifting his feet in the corner. “...You don’t care.”

“But I do,” he said softly. “I took care of the stolen fruits, got you a bowl--Hades, I chased after you just because I thought you got separated from your… from your parents.” He sat more on edge, eyeing the boy carefully. “Obviously I was wrong and I’m sorry for upsetting you, I didn’t meant to. I spent two weeks hoping that I’d see you again to apologize and offer you a home. A home here.”

The boy shook his head, though with a little less fervor.

“I don’t have a home,” he mumbled.

“But you could have one,” Shiro whispered. “You just have to let yourself have it.”

The boy glanced up and Shiro saw so much unrestrained hope peaking through those raven locks that his chest seized gazing into those wide purple eyes. But still the boy shifted, taking a step back.

“I don’t… I don’t know, I don’t deserve it,” he strained.

And that hurt Shiro beyond reason. He was at a lost for words.

“I’ll just… leave. I’ll be okay,” said the boy.

Shiro wanted to scream, wanted to snatch the boy in his arms and whisper reassurances quietly into his ear until he believed he was deserving of a place to call his home. Everyone deserves a home to grow, especially those who need a second chance.

Especially the boy with the raven hair.

But he had to handle this carefully.

“I won’t stop you from leaving,” he said. “But this coven is meant for you. You can start over with people who will care for you. And if you want, I can be here as often as I can. Please, can you at least give this place a chance? A week? A few days? Even just a night and you’ll see their generosity. You won’t regret it.”

The boy fidgeted nervously, not answering but thinking everything over. Shiro counted the lack of an immediate rejection a win, albeit a small one. His words had reached him, perhaps convinced him.

“Maybe. I… yes, I mean--I’ll try.” But then his voice hardened. “But if anything happens, I’m gone and this time you won’t find me.”

Shiro swallowed nervously, nodding his head with a brilliant smile plastered to his face. He held out his hand.

“I’m Shiro.”

The boy took a careful step forward before grasping his hand lightly. But then a determined look crossed his face and his grip tightened.

“Keith. My name’s Keith.”

Chapter Text

It has been a few weeks since Shiro felt the sweet relief of reaching an agreement with Keith. After the first night, the boy had remained at the Leo Coven--a good sign to Shiro, one that had him frequently visiting to check up on Keith.

The beginning of their relationship was rocky to say the least. Keith refused to acknowledge Shiro’s presence the first week, often hiding in corners of the room, escaping through the confusing maze of hallways, or simply not climbing down from his hammock bed in his shared room when Shiro arrived. It was frustrating, but Shiro put his feelings aside, especially when recognizing that Keith truly didn’t know how to interact with him. If the kid had been on the street for a while, he would have learned to avoid Watchers, not strike up friendly conversations with them, so it was naturally for him to be unsure as how to approach Shiro.

With a touch of patience, eventually the avoidance and hiding gave way to small glances and shy waves, which developed into small talk, but the turning point in their relationship came when Keith refused to show his face, hiding it beneath his raven locks and reverting back to his previous behavior of avoidance. It worried Shiro immensely.

They had made progress, slow progress, but a forming acknowledgement nonetheless. The lack of acknowledgement spurred Shiro into being the most demanding he’s been with the kid, causing an ugly squirmish, one he wished he could regret but as soon as Keith whipped his face fully up and open, Shiro’s breath caught in his throat.

Keith’s eye was swollen shut and purple.

“Oh, Keith…”

He had immediately bolted, dodging and weaving through the numerous people who lived in the Leo Coven, making it difficult for Shiro to follow but thankfully it wasn’t impossible. Though he lagged behind, Shiro kept his pace and tracked Keith through the winding hallways and large corridors, up a couple flights of stairs, and to a closet door that had been slammed shut only moments beforehand.

Shiro paused a moment, catching his breath, not realizing with his determination to talk to Keith how winded he had become. He knocked and received no answer, yet with his worry for the boy decided to enter the closet.

It was empty. Though, he swore Keith ran into this exact closet. The rooms on this floor in this wing were used for storage purposes, hence why mountains of sheets and blankets crowded the small space.

Shiro shook his head after stepping in. Keith must be in the next closet. Either that or he ran further down the hallway.

Shiro turned to leave, but froze when a gleam caught his eye.

In the corner of the room, slightly hidden by sheets, a hinge was visible. Looking beyond the stack of white, Shiro saw a small door, reaching his mid-thigh in height that was colored the same as the wall.

Slowly Shiro shut the door to the closet and summoned a dull light in the palm of his hand. Carefully, he knelt in front of the small door without a sound, listening.

A small sniffle. A wet gulp.

Keith was hidden behind the door. Keith was crying behind that door.

Shiro knew logically that he should give Keith his space. This was obviously a place that he’s carved out for himself to get away from the bustle of one of the most crowded covens. He had been alone weeks prior to living here and that required an adjustment period that Keith dealt with by isolating himself when needed be.

And Shiro knew that.

But his heart urged him to reach out to the boy, to comfort him as tears blurred his vision and breaths caught in his throat. No one should wallow in their sadness if they have a friend--were they even that?--to comfort them through hardships.

In the past few weeks of knowing Keith, Shiro had unfortunately learned very little about the kid--not that he was complaining! But Keith wasn’t one to share willingly. It concerned Shiro and he couldn’t lie about how he wished Keith would see him as trustworthy enough to share a piece of himself with, but he realized that living on the streets, especially at such a vulnerable age, that trust was dangerous to give someone. The small details of Keith that he had learned--his favorite color being red, his love of strawberries, his interest in the stars--were blessings! And should be treated as such.

But as Shiro listened to Keith sniffle only on the opposite side of a wooden door, he found himself questioning if attempting to comfort him would be worth the possible setback in their tentative relationship? Would opening that door damn all the shy waves and quiet conversations that have developed over the past few weeks?

This was Keith’s space. But Shiro opened the door anyway.

Candles flickered within the room, illuminating Keith, who sat in the corner with his knees drawn to his chest and his head buried in his thin arms. He has slightly filled out since joining the coven, his paper skin no longer ashy and his bones covered by another layer of thin muscle. His raven hair has been trimmed, haphazardly if Shiro were to guess, though it remained long reaching his shoulders and covering his face in somewhat of a concerning manner. The coven bought him new clothes, most of them dull, neutral colors, but the one he wore now, Shiro learned, was his favorite: a plain red tunic with a simple belt, dark pants, and new boots that he refused to remove, keeping them close as if someone would steal them… and maybe at one point of his life, someone would have.

The Keith that Shiro saw before him was drastically different from the boy he convinced to stay all those weeks ago. And not because of the lack of dirt staining his skin or the clean clothes that graced his body, but because he was shaking, trembling, with tears escaping and running over his cheeks, staining his face and the ground below him.

All with the absence of a flame.

Keith still hasn’t noticed him, even as he shuffled forward on his knees, avoiding some books and trinkets strewn about the small room, hunching over as he approached the boy.

Softly, he cleared his throat, a booming sound in the small space.

Keith jolted, his hands tightening around his crossed arms as his head whipped toward Shiro who even startled at being transfixed by his violet eyes. So unique, so scared. Something Shiro was unprepared for. He expected anger, a little spark filled with threats, but not this new timid version of this boy.

Keith shifted further from him, keeping him directly in front so his back wasn’t bare to him, and ducked his head down.

“Are you…” He swallows heavily. “Do I have to leave now?”

Shiro’s brows furrowed in immediate confusion as the words escape Keith’s mouth, shaky but firm in a demanding tone.

“Leave? Why would you need to leave?”

Keith tightened his arms around himself, scowling. “You know why.”

Shiro took a moment. He sat more comfortably on the wooden floor, placing his hands upon his knees and relaxing his shoulders, rolling them back before settling. Before Keith had begun talking to him, he had been tense in apprehension and anticipation, his body on edge around the boy. He had soon realized that Keith responded best to the little cues, the way one’s body spoke before lips had moved. Keith took stock in how someone presented themselves. Once Shiro had finally reigned himself in, began relaxing with a book while Keith remained silent or drifted in and out while exercising his lucid dreaming, only then when his defenses were lowered, did Keith finally begin to seek him out.

Shiro let out a quiet breath.

“Keith, I don’t understand what you mean. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after seeing your… your eye. Are you okay?” Keith bit his lip. “Keith, please let me help?”

“You can’t help!” he bursted, shaking. “If--If they decide to kick me out, you can’t help. You’re just a stranger who decided I’d be your charity case--you don’t know me! You aren’t even part of his coven and have no say in what they do to me. All you want to do is help me and take care of me, but your not my pop! ”

He slammed his palms over his mouth as Shiro’s eyes widened. A flood of tears drowned Keith’s eyes, pronouncing the enticing violent. It was beautiful. It made Shiro sick.

Shiro moved when Keith’s shoulders began to shake in earnest, unthinkingly wrapping his arm around the boy and holding him close, not even considering how he could be rejected or burned but simply wanting to comfort him. Keith tensed beneath him, but it quickly passed with a new influx of tears. Soon he was clinging to Shiro’s midnight black uniform, pulling on the tough fabric and making Shiro wish he had changed into civilian clothes before visiting. His trembling fingers scraped against it and his tears stained it darker than Shiro knew was possible.

The image of the strong boy he had created for Keith crumbled, as Shiro began to whisper reassurances in an attempt to calm him so that he could figure out who put this fear into this amazing kid and turn their dreams into plaguing nightmares. But the burning anger simmering in Shiro’s chest dulled in the wake of Keith’s sobs.

Eventually, the tears dried and the sniffles stopped. Keith’s pale skin had become blotchy from the crying and even burned red where his face scraped against the stiff uniform fabric. The trembling hadn’t ceased, but Shiro simply held him tighter. Carefully, Shiro wiped the wetness from Keith’s face, smoothing his thumb over his skin, gently stroking under his bruised eye. The boy didn’t move, not even a flinch. His eyes drooped in exhaustion and though Shiro wished he could let him sleep, he had to understand why Keith thought he was being kicked out of the coven.

“Keith?” he whispered. “Why do you have a black eye?”

The room remained silent. Shiro thought he wouldn’t receive an answer until Keith despondently said, “A fight.”

Shiro grimaced at his tone, so weak, so uncaring.

“Why were you in a fight?”

Keith hesitated. “Some kids were talking about my parents. About me. It wasn’t…” Shiro felt him inhale sharply. He squeezed slightly tighter as if he could stop a new onslaught of tears. “It isn’t true what they said. It’s not--” He broke off into a hiccup, swallowing his cries.

“Shhh, hey, you’re okay. They aren’t here right now, it’s just you and me, okay? They can’t hurt you,” Shiro whispered into his hair. Keith jerkily nodded.

“S-sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. You’re so brave. So brave. You stood up for yourself and for your parents and they would’ve been so proud of you for fighting, okay? You’ve astounded me from the moment I met you. That fierceness inside yourself, never let it extinguish, because it’s something that only a few people have and it gives you the courage to fight for yourself.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No, Keith, I’m not mad. Concerned about what the other kids look like,” he said jokingly, “but not mad. I could never be mad at you.”

“...I didn’t burn them,” Keith mumbled. Shiro looked down at him.

“I didn’t mean--”

“I don’t want to burn people,” he stated with conviction. “I only… Only if I have to.”

“And that’s okay. You almost burned me the first time we met, remember? But I was a stranger chasing after you and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did. Your fire is a gift. A beautifully dangerous one. If you need to protect yourself, use it.”

Keith shook his head and Shiro couldn’t discern if it was dismissive or negating. He only hoped that his point had gotten through. A cornered Keith was a wildly dangerous boy at first glance, but to use his fire to intentionally hurt someone instead of threatening a nasty burn were completely different uses of his abilities.

After a moment had passed, Keith asked, “So I can stay?”

“Do you want to stay?”

Keith nodded fiercely. “I… I have a bed. And food whenever I like. Miss Balmera checks on me sometimes and she says that new classes are starting soon… I’ve never had a class to go to before. There’s bullies, but I’ve dealt with worse. I like it here. I want to stay here.”

“Then you can stay,” Shiro said with a sad smile, filing everything Keith had said to the back of his mind for later. “No one is going to make you leave. And if they try, I’ll be here for you.”

“You will?” he asked uncertainly, though hope tinged his words.

“For anything,” Shiro assured before reaching into his pouch tied to his hip and retrieving a navy and black stone infused with white splotches that fits in the palm of a hand. “This is a sodalite crystal. They are enchanted so that Watchers can use it to communicate with one another. You just close your fingers over it and…” Magick was pulled from Shiro, powering the crystal as it shone blue through his fingers, lighting their faces softly. “You let the stone know who you want to speak with and it’ll connect you through a matching stone.” He glanced at Keith before placing it in his palm. “And now this one is yours.”

Keith shook his head. “But--”

“It’s yours , Keith. I can just tell my superior that I… misplaced mine. I’ll get issued a new one and then whenever you need me, doesn’t matter when, you can let me know and I’ll be here. I won’t leave you.”

Keith cradled the stone against his chest, as if it would break with any harsh touch. He didn’t thank Shiro, but he didn’t want him to. This wasn’t an act that needed that reciprocation because it wasn’t out of charity that Shiro cared for this boy. It was something deeper that he couldn’t name, a force compelling him of his own will to protect him and keep him safe.

They sat there as time rolled by, as Keith’s heart calmed, as wax dripped from the candles. They sat until the coven silenced and its members retired for bed. They sat there until Keith nodded off and Shiro blew out the candles, until Shiro repositioned them so that Keith could be comfortable. They stayed as Shiro fell asleep and spun soft dreams for the boy who rested on his chest. For the boy who deserved the world.

Chapter Text

It had been a year. A year since Shiro bought the homeless boy a bowl of berries. Months and cycles of conversations and laughter, of learning each other’s mannerisms and expressions, of growing together though as separate people. It had been the slow process of gaining a little brother Shiro never knew he needed. A blossoming relationship that lead to introducing Keith to his parents, to having them open their arms for the boy who deserved all the love present in their household and more. A year of noogies from Shiro, of revenge pranks from Keith, of simply laughing for the sake of laughter itself.

But most importantly, it had been a year of promises; ones full of hope that sung of an undying bond forming between the two, no matter how strained it had been in the beginning.

Keith still hadn’t revealed all the details of his past. Shiro hadn’t proded.

When Shiro had found him, Keith had been living in the back alleys and odd spots around the Witch Pocket, surviving through thievery and occasionally the kindness of a stranger, but before that, he had a home in the Demon Pocket, a little shack in the desert that overlooked valleys and mountains of sand and stone. Keith had gotten a gleam in his eye talking about the desert animals soaking on the heated rocks and the sunrises he’d see when he gazed at the stars for too long in the night. His enthusiasm only waned when he began to talk about his pop. Shiro could see Keith physically deflate, but the love in his voice never wavered.

He didn’t talk much of his parents. Shiro knew of the small moments: the stories his pop spun with his fire, the vague feelings he attributed to his ma, the kisses that graced his forehead. Keith mentioned that his pop worked in the forges and that he always came home covered in soot, pretending he was an ash demon summoned to steal Keith’s fire.

The memory caused a somber laugh from the boy.

He never talked about his death.

Shiro never asked.

Keith’s ma, Shiro assumed, had never been in the picture. From Keith’s snippets of his life, he only ever talked of his pop and when on occasion he’d mention his ma, the perspective seemed to be from him instead of Keith. Chances were Keith didn’t even remember her. Shiro couldn’t discern if having no recollection at all is better than having a memory of someone no longer with you. He supposed it depended on the person remembering.

It seemed to bother Keith. Shiro could tell that something weighed on him, something heavy enough to dull the fire within him, but Shiro could be patient.

Whenever the memories or lack of them became too much for the boy, Shiro would notice how his hands would worry themselves, pressing into scar tissue and thumbing at its edges. The scars bothered Shiro. Pyro witches had the uncanny ability to resist burning, a skill that no doubt saved many, especially as children with unrefined magick. Keith’s hands shouldn’t be able to be burned by his own fire, at least unless he wanted them to be, but Shiro couldn’t imagine the boy would ever do such a thing. His self-preservation skills simply wouldn’t allow him to hurt himself and Keith was smart enough not to place a wound on such an obvious stretch of pale skin, so that wasn’t an option. It was an accident or perhaps he received them in a fight.

Whatever the case, they obviously bothered Keith. A month ago, Shiro had been promoted to an official Watcher, still a rookie but now a rookie with a better pay that could afford a nice gift. Today after work, he had gone by a shop to pick up an order of leather gloves that he inquired about a week prior. They were perfect, smooth to the touch and malleable,  fingerless and breathable, and black to match Keith’s hair and to not clash with his favorite color. Shiro simply couldn’t wait to see Keith’s face when he opened the box.

Shiro arrived late to the Leo Coven. He greeted familiar faces as he swept through the halls towards their usual meetup spot, a quiet living room in the corner of the building that most don’t bother visiting when the grander living space could be better occupied, but when he arrived, the room was empty. The excitement that carried Shiro on his toes dissipated.

He’s been late before and Keith always waits for him.

Shiro turned on his heels and tried Keith’s shared bedroom, but his roommates only shook their heads when he asked where he was. Dejected, he began wandering the coven, asking about Keith’s whereabouts. Every inquiry led him nowhere. He had searched all of Keith’s hiding spots, cleared the training room, and even knocked on Miss Balmera’s door to see if she had stolen him again, but no luck.

There was only one last place he hadn’t checked.

Shiro marched on toward the east wing, to the level filled with closeted supplies, to where the hidden door sat in the corner. He hadn’t visited Keith’s isolated hideaway since he had gotten into his first fight of many at the coven. At the time he had been hesitant about entering it and even now the same feeling climbed up this spine, vertebra by vertebra.

This was a sacred space for Keith, a place no one else would ever find him. After their moment together, he had carried in old books and knick knacks from the streets. Shiro never saw them again and he assumed Keith had placed them here with the other belongings he remembered vaguely being surrounded by as he held the sobbing boy. The objects were from Keith’s previous life. After one of the last relocations of his books, Keith had offered a morsel of information about himself. His belongings had been considered treasures when he lived on the streets. Books were a currency filled to the brim with spells and information that could be bartered individually or as a whole between the homeless. But he never sold them. Instead he had hoarded them separately in different parts of the district so that even if someone had found a stash, his fortune would remain. However, the value of the books weighed more than their price on the streets. They were his parents’ books.

Not only would Shiro be entering Keith’s space, but a place dedicated to his parents.

Again Shiro had a choice: to enter or to wait.

Though Shiro prides himself on his patience, the vibrations of excitement shook his bones yet again at the prospect of seeing Keith light up at his gift. He should wait, he knows he should wait. But he can’t help himself as he reaches for the knob.

It was Keith’s birthday after all. He should open his present.

Shiro forgot to knock.

Keith knelt before a book, surrounded by incense that clogged Shiro’s lungs and blurred his vision. With a few blinks, his eyes cleared. He saw a shocked Keith against the wall, staring at Shiro apprehensively, the book forgotten on the floor and hand clenched around a dagger, glowing softly. Shiro leaned in further with a cheery smile, not sensing the tension rolling off Keith in the wake of his own giddiness, until he saw the symbols drawn on the floor. His stomach plummeted and the small box cradled in his hands fell with a deafening thud.

Shiro shook his head, peering once more at the chalked symbols that curved along the wood. For all the trouble he had in recognizing runes, these were unmistakable.

“Shiro?”

He jolted back, flinching away from Keith who’s free hand hovered above the floor, reaching out, while his own hovered over his hex bags at his belt. Keith’s wide eyes tracked his movement.

“Shiro, please,” he pleaded. He inched forward, dagger cradled delicately to his chest.

“Stop!” Shiro yelled, gripping onto a bag, ready to release it. Keith froze in shock, his face twisted up into an indescribable grimace. “Drop the knife.”

“It’s me,” he wetly said, nose running red and eyes becoming glassy. “I’m still Keith.”

“You’re a necromancer ,” Shiro gasped. “Oh gods, oh gods . Just put the knife down.” He was kneeling inside a necromancer’s den, one which he’d been in before, the knowledge rushing through his bones. Cautiously Keith placed the knife on the floor, a distance away from himself. He held his palms up, scars streaking them like art.

“Please, Takashi.”

“No, you don’t get to call me that. You can’t… not after this. ” Before he could see Keith flinch, Shiro removed his eyes from the boy, glancing once more at the runes, then at the stacks of books: Afterlife Spells, A Necromancer’s Guide To the Spirits, Religion And Its Role With the Departed.  Shiro’s head spun as he read through the titles. Most of them were necromantic in nature. Simply one of these would be enough to damn Keith, but the sheer amount called for something infernal. It made Shiro’s stomach turn as acid swirled in his gut, threatening to ruin the books itself.

“The Purge should’ve burned these books. Where did you get them?” Keith’s violet eyes flickered to him between his bangs before dropping to the floor, focusing on the white powdered chalk. “ Keith, where did you get them?” Shiro demanded. His shoulders tensed to his ears, clearly uncomfortable, perhaps scared, but Shiro didn’t back down. “This isn’t--you shouldn’t be dealing with this Keith. It’s dangerous! Now tell me where you got them."

“My home,” Keith mumbled. “I think they were my ma’s, but… but I’m not sure.”

And of course, he couldn’t be certain. But the answer didn’t settle Shiro’s nerves. The Purge began around when Keith was born, maybe a year after, and his ma must had fled or been killed, likely the latter. The thought caused relief to flow through Shiro, which was immediately followed by guilt as he looked upon Keith slightly trembling where he sat. She had left her books and Keith had found them and began practicing. It was something the Purge should’ve stopped.

But now the task fell to Shiro.

“You have to stop,” he said. “You can’t be practicing this. ”

“Shiro, I… I can’t,” Keith strained, curling into himself a little further.

“This isn’t up for discussion! Necromancy might not be illegal, but it’s wrong and unnatural. Keith, you can’t do this to yourself. This practice will twist you into someone unrecognizable and you’re young enough to stop this now. Please, don’t do this to yourself for the sake of being closer to someone who wasn’t even in your life!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Shiro knew it was a disgustingly wrong thing to say. Keith’s tears finally flowed freely as his breath caught in his throat, choking him until he gasped, grimacing and stretching his lips into a scowl.

“ Get out! ” he screamed. “Get out! Get out!”

“Keith--”

“No!” Shiro flinched back from him, fear gathering in his chest; he shouldn’t have angered a necromancer. The candles in the room grew with Keith’s anger, flickering in the shadows. “You don’t understand! No one will ever understand. You--You promised! But you’re just going to turn your back on me like everyone else.”

“I’m not turning my back on you,” Shiro protested. “I’m trying to help you. You’re so much better than this.”

“No, I’m not! I’ve spent years trying to accept myself. Don’t assume to know what I’m going through. I hate it but this is the only thing I have that could make things right. And you were--you helped.” He shook his head. “But not anymore. Just leave me alone! I should never have trusted you.”

“You’re being unreasonable and I’m telling you now, if you don’t burn these books by the end of the day and swear to me that you’ll never practice necromancy again, I’ll have to report you,” he said with conviction. To face the boy and to be so stern with his words tore at his chest, but his intentions were to keep Keith safe, even if it meant telling higher authorities about his practices.

“You wouldn’t,” gasped Keith. “You can’t! Everyone would know. The entire coven would know. They’ll cast me out--Shiro, you can’t!”

“I won’t have to if you promise to stop.”

Keith hesitated. Shiro thought that maybe he was finally understanding the implications of his actions, but then words rolled out of his mouth, “I can’t promise that. I wish I could stop, but I can’t.”

Shiro shook his head in frustration. He always admired Keith’s ferocity, his ability to stand up for himself despite the odds against him, but not now. In this situation it physically hurt Shiro to see him deny the second chance he had received for a seriously dangerous practice that would isolate himself from everyone.

“But you can and you will,” he said with conviction. “Think of everything you’ll have to give up.”

“I don’t have anything left! I thought that you’d understand. I was… I was going to tell you,” Keith strained. “I thought…”

Shiro resisted the urge to throw himself at the boy, to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. But nothing about this situation was right. As a Watcher, it’s Shiro’s duty to report all necromantic activity, but if Keith agreed to stop, he wouldn’t have to and everything can go back to how it was. He wasn’t as bloodthirsty as those who experienced the full effect of necromancers during the Purge. He believed in second chances, in third chances, and however many it took to get it right and that included coming back from this and healing Keith from this addiction, even if it meant some hard love.

“I don’t want to do this,” Shiro begged. “Don’t make me do this.”

“I can’t stop it,” cried Keith. “I’ve tried and it won’t go away.”

“Then let me help you.”

“You can’t help! I’ve told you that before! You can’t save me,” he screamed, the violet glow from the knife pulsing ominously. Shiro stared at it with fearfully wide eyes. He believed that Keith would never hurt him, but that conviction wavered as the boy’s tears pooled under him and his breathes heaved in anger.

“Then you leave me no choice,” Shiro softly said before turning to leave.

“Shiro, Shiro, please!” Keith reached for him, but he jolted back, hex bag unclipped and ready to be thrown. The boy froze, betrayal evident on his face before it crumbled, ugly sobs ripping through his chest, tearing at his throat viciously. “If you really cared, then you wouldn’t do this,” he whispered.

“But I do care. And this has to be done before you destroy yourself.”

“You already have.”

The words struck Shiro. He quickly backed away before fleeing the closet, leaving the boy crying alone, the first time he’d done so. His gut twisted as a variety of emotions knotted his insides, ranging from guilt and regret to determination and righteousness, as he sped down the corridors and out of the building, into the open air of a darkened, cloudy day.

He wanted to break down. He needed to curl up and scream until his voice ran hoarse and his lungs collapsed, until his tears ran dry and stained his reddened cheeks. His legs shook as they carried him passed the trains, knowing that once he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to get back up. People parted for him, mistaking his gait for a determined man’s walk instead of a hurried man’s on the verge of collapsing. With every step a parcel of their fight filtered through his mind, piercing him with their ferociousness, urging him to his destination faster.

His arrival home greeted him with silence, a thankful blessing as he raced to his room and crumbled under the weight of Keith’s violet eyes, which had been drowned in tears and sorrow so great that they imprinted themselves into Shiro’s memory never to be forgotten.

He felt regret. He could’ve handled the situation better; he knew he could’ve, but the fear for the magickal practice and for Keith’s future overshadowed his rationality, causing him to make mistakes that obviously hurt Keith. He failed him. And he wasn’t sure how he could ever forgive himself, but more importantly ask Keith for forgiveness.

Chapter Text

Necromancy was a damned magickal practice.

At least, that’s what the majority of witch society believed.

For centuries, it had been revered by those who saw its benefits and feared by those who cowered in its power. The balance between the two was bound to eventually tip.

Shiro had been too young to remember the details, but the screams that sounded through the city and the fire that stemmed from every street corner ingrained themselves in his nightmares for months. The stories, once whispered between neighbors, had become the only talk anyone conversed about: necromantic witches summoning the dead, the strange noises screaming through the night, the disease that spread as quick as rotting flesh.

That week of citizens murdering necromancers and burning all remnants of their practices became known as the Purge. The Watchers who disagreed with the murders didn’t number enough to stop the rampage of enraged witches. Many suffered: neighbors, friends, families died, either because of their practice or because of their own bloodlust.

Shiro’s parents refused to participate, even after the threats from their neighbors. They barricaded themselves in their home, his mother reinforcing protection spells and using alchemic magick to strengthen their walls and his father creating sleeping draughts and weaving his family happier dreams. They spoke of witches falling into the wrong path, of helping them heal instead of damning them to Hades. Shiro listened intently, rather than focusing on the screams outside.

After the Purge, the High Covens and the Council had done nothing to amend for the deaths and destruction except for issuing a statement of apology and creating a public list of the last living necromancers in order to monitor their whereabouts to ease their citizens’ minds.

More necromancers died after the list was released.

Shiro hadn’t reported Keith. It has been days of monotonous meetings, patrolling, and paperwork, obviously packed to avoid fulfilling his threat and completing a form in the next office over. But he could, so easily, even with the busy schedule he had created for himself.

He’d grown up with the stories, lived through the Purge. He should’ve ran to HQ instead of to his house that afternoon, but his parents’ beliefs were ingrained in him. His family believed in redemption and placing Keith on that list would doom his future more so than it already was with the practice. He knew the consequences of having your name on that list. He shouldn’t have threatened Keith with it. But he was so damn scared for him. He had thought that making an extreme threat would make him see sense, but he should’ve known that the boy would’ve buckled down in his beliefs instead of being scared… though he had been scared.

Shiro saw the fear in those violet eyes, yet he refused to release himself from necromancy. He didn’t understand it. He knew he was missing something, but it’s too late to take back what he said, despite the ache in his chest.

He thought about returning to the Leo Coven, but he doesn’t have the courage to face Keith yet. Instead he buried himself in his work with the exception of mandatory breaks demanded by Matthew Holt.

He loved Matt, he really did, but every time his familiar mentioned Keith, Shiro would involuntarily flinch and brushed off his obviously growing curiosity. It was unlike Shiro to go an entire day without a comment about the kid, let alone five.

“Sooo,” the familiar drawled. “How’s Keith doing? Gotten into any more fights? You know I love a play by play.”

Shiro shook his head with a quiet, “No,” attached, not even glancing from his desk.

“Aw, c’mon, you haven’t mentioned the kid in days, Shiro! And this half-familiar is craving a story about a certain spitfire.” His witch remained uncharacteristically quiet. Matt’s face dropped. “Shiro.” He paused, hesitant. “You’re my best friend. I know something happened between you and Keith.”

“Matt…” Shiro sighed.

“No. You’ve been acting different for days and it’s not just you avoiding anything about him. You’re burying yourself in work, not eating enough, and obviously not sleeping well if the bags under your eyes are enough proof. You’re a dreamwalker . Something is seriously wrong if you can’t figure out how to sleep at night.”

“Just don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine! What happened between you two? You were inseparable last week and now you can’t even say his name.”

“Matt, I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell me?” he gasped incredulously. “You tell me everything!”

“Well, not this. Please, stop pushing,” he quietly begged, glancing at his coworkers who could obviously hear Matt’s ramblings despite their courtesy to act oblivious. “The breaks and the pastries you bring are great, but I have work to focus and you aren’t helping.”

Matt scoffed. “You cared about that kid. You would’ve dashed your entire life away for him. What was so bad that you abandoned him? That boy finally had someone--”

“Matt.”

“--that swore would  never leave him, that would always be there--”

“Matt.”

“--for him and you just blew that away? After throwing your heart and soul into forming a relationship with the kid. I can’t believe you, Shirogane. For running away when it finally got too much for--”

“Matt!” he roared. His fellow Watchers finally turned their eyes to look at the pair. “Outside, now.” He grabbed his familiar by the elbow and led him from his desk, through the halls, and out into the morning light. His grip finally released with Matt’s protests.

“Damn, manhandling?”

“Shut up, Matt. I can’t deal with you right now. Just go home. I’m sure your father needs help with integrating witch and fae magicks before his quarterly presentation in a couple weeks.”

“Pidge has that handled. I’m here for you and I’m not leaving until I get a straight answer.”

Shiro groaned, fuming. “I already told you I can’t talk about it.”

“Well, then you better be ready to pull some hypotheticals and as well as that stick out of your ass. Like I said, I’m not leaving until you give me something. You’ve been off this entire week and yesterday Pidge couldn’t find Keith at his coven. So did he run away again after a fight? Did you guys--”

“Wait. She couldn’t find him?” Shiro interrupted. Keith always appeared for her.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Have you not been visiting him either? I can’t believe you left the kid high and dry. No wonder he isn’t there.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, exasperated.

“He only stayed at that coven because of you!”

Shiro scoffed, unbelievingly. “He stayed for what it provided: a bed, food, classes. All without a cost due to his circumstances.”

“How can you weave dreams through that thick skull of yours? Shiro, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he begged grabbing Shiro by the shoulders. “Keith didn’t stay for the amenities. Of course, they were an upgrade from the alley he probably spent his nights in, but they weren’t for free. He gave up his freedom. He limited his choices. You said he was the richest of the poor with the amount of spells he had on him. He hated the survival, but loved the fights.”

“Matthew Holt, he’s eleven,” he pushed Matt off of him. It’s absolutely ridiculous that he believes that Keith would rather be on the streets than somewhere that could provide meals and a roof over his head. “He shouldn’t have to be worrying about surviving.”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make! He was still struggling to survive in the coven, but with you, he was living instead. You made staying there bearable, maybe even enjoyable.”

Shiro shook his head, guilt eating at his gut.

“How many times did he run? C’mon, Shiro, too many to count. But he always came back when you called. Every time without fail.”

“Matt…” he wetly said, rubbing at his eyes. What Matt was implying couldn’t be true. Their relationship was fairly new; there’s no way Keith had become that attached so quickly, especially with how prickly he had been when he had first moved into the Leo Coven at Shiro’s insistence. He knew he was attached to the boy, but it seemed implausible that their roles could be reversed. But Matt brought up convincing points.

Keith had continued to wander the pocket on his own whim, a free spirit exploring their makeshift world. The coven provided him with a homebase as well as a prison with rules and regulations. He hadn’t had an actual room in years, but he’s never had to share something with roommates. His hideaways around the districts allowed him to travel without worry because he always had supplies on hand, no matter how meager they maybe. On the streets, he had to survive by stealing food and avoiding gangs, but in the coven, he had to deal with bullies, though he took great pride in winning the fight.

Though both options had pros and cons, perhaps Shiro really did tie him down to a more sedentary lifestyle. He wasn’t sure if he were to be proud or not, but the possibility that Keith stayed for him, broke the dam within him.  

“Shiro, please, talk to me. What happened?”

“I… I messed up. I messed up so badly and--and now he’s gone and he won’t ever trust me again. Not after… Not after-- gods , I reacted terribly,” he cried. Matt slowly pulled him into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s taller frame. He smoothed his hands down his back, coaxing the words out of his lips. “It took so long to just get him to talk to me and I just threw it all away in the worst way possible. I threatened him. I threatened a kid. If I wasn’t damned to Tarturus before, I certainly am now and I’d welcome Thanatos with open arms if this guilt would just disappear. How do I make it go away, Matt? I-I…”

“Hey, you can fix this,” he reassured.

“I don’t think we can come back from this.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You didn’t see him. He cried. Gods, he was crying and it was all my fault and I just left him there, alone. I promised…” He shook his head, wiping his tears along Matt’s shoulder, but the younger didn’t seem to mind, simply tightening his hold on his witch. He thought for a moment.

“If you want to hear it, yes, it sounds like you did mess up. But that spitfire isn’t anything but loyal to you. He’s… Keith. That’s just a part of him.” Matt pulled away, placing his hands on Shiro’s shoulders and gazing into his gunpowder eyes, glinting wet. “So here’s what you’re going to do, you’re going to go back to the Leo Coven, find Keith, and apologize for whatever stupid shit you said to him.”

“I don’t know if that’ll work,” he mumbled, but Matt continued as if not hearing his negativity.

“You’ll find a way to make it right again. Then you’ll immediately come over and recount every detail of your touching makeup so that the Holt household can finally get some peace. Because between both mine and my sister’s worrying, I’m surprised our parents haven’t kicked us out yet. And they probably would have, if they weren’t worried for the both of you as well.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Shiro.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

“No, you won’t try. You’ll make this right.”

---

Matt had ushered Shiro from HQ with promises to explain to his superior officer his absence--his extra hours he picked up this week would amend for his early leave. Shiro, of course, had protested, but hastily gave in after a reminder of how many days he had left Keith alone.

Though Pidge had searched the Leo Coven the day before, Shiro decided to have his own look around, knowing that though her and Keith had been getting along well, they weren’t close enough yet for her to know all of his best hiding spots. He searched the obvious ones first, giving himself time to prepare to face the closet, and also asked around for Keith. Concerningly the entire coven didn’t notice his absence, even his roommates, who’s eyes went wide in realization. Only Miss Balmera expressed her worry, asking Shiro about Keith as soon as he walked through her door; it only cemented his guilt.

Finally, he stood in front of the small door hidden behind the linens. It would be the third time he’s entered and he suspected the last. He knocked before pushing the door open and froze. Everything was gone: the books, the tokens, the candles--everything, but a thin black box with a dented corner. A note rested on top with imperfect handwriting:

Sorry. ~K

Shiro gently held the box, opening it to see untouched leather gloves. They were a present declined. He wasn’t there to see him open it, assuming he had even done so. He pulled his fingers through his hair, frustrated at himself and his stupidity. He tucked the box into the pouch at his hip and left the empty room.

Even after joining the coven, Keith remained a wandering soul, often escaping to the surrounding town, sometimes even returning to the district he called his home before Shiro found him. Unfortunately, Shiro never accompanied him on his adventures, meaning he didn’t know any of Keith’s frequented spots outside the coven walls.

He spent all of the afternoon searching both districts, asking people if they had seen a boy with long black hair and violet eyes, perhaps carrying books or wearing red. All their negative replies weighed on Shiro. He’d run out of ideas. He had wanted to approach Keith in person, but at this point, he hopelessly wished the boy would answer his call.

He fished the sodalite crystal from his pouch, smoothing his thumb over the sphere, before closing his fingers around it. Its soft blue glow contrasted the pulsing of his heart; he hasn’t heard Keith’s voice in days.

“Keith,” he began, leaning against an alley wall. “I want to apologize. What I did… I don’t know if you could forgive me, but I’d like the chance to make it right. Please, I just want to see you--”

The glow vanished.

Keith ignored his call. He’s never done that before.

In despair, Shiro slid down the wall, hanging his head over his knees. He messed up. Keith was alone again after finally getting a taste of a home after years of being on his own. Maybe Matt was wrong. Maybe Keith wasn’t as connected to him as he believed.

He played with the navy stone in his hand, contemplating whether shattering it against a wall would release some of his frustration, but he paused, staring at the crystal. An idea sparked.

Quickly, he returned to HQ, praying to whatever gods that Adam hadn’t gone home yet. He busted through the tall wooden doors only to trample right into the person he had been hoping to catch. They tumbled to the floor in a heap, blushes painting both their faces red.

“A-adam! I’m so sorry!” Shiro profusely apologized.

“It’s fine,” he laughed. “I needed something exciting to happen to me today.”

“Well, then I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, helping Adam up from the floor with their hands lingering for a second too long.

“Don’t tell me it’s another dragon gone missing,” he smirked. “I’m an aspiring Overseer, not a trainee on lost pet duty.”

“I’m sorry! I know, of course, I know,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that, but I do need a tracking spell. You’re the best seer I know and I could really use your help.”

Adam jokingly thought for a moment, humming to himself, before saying, “Flattery sure does get your foot in the door and I suppose I have nothing else going on anyway. Sure, I’ll bite. C’mon.”

He led them back into the building, taking the front steps down to the lobby and walking passed offices until they arrived at a large room used by many seers for tracking and informational purposes. Scrying bowls, stacks of candles, bells, and the like lined the shelves and filled the drawers. A wooden table took up the most space in the room, as of now empty, but during the busier hours of the day was occupied by seers and their tools.

Adam grabbed a scroll off its rack and unrolled it onto the table, revealing a map of the Witch Pocket. “I’m assuming, whatever you’re looking for is within the pocket?”

“Gods, I hope so,” Shiro answered.

“We can start with this and work our way to the others if not then,” he replied. “What are you looking for anyway.”

“Oh, sorry, I guess I never mentioned. I’m looking for Keith. He ran away,” he somberly said.

Adam paused. “Doesn’t he always come back?”

“Yeah, he does,” he mumbled. “But I’m not so sure this time. I don’t want to get into the details. I just… I reacted really badly to something and I want to apologize before it’s too late.”

Adam simply nodded before continuing to collect materials. Once he settled, he looked at Shiro and asked if he had anything that would connect him with Keith. He drew out the sodalite crystal, explaining that Keith had one and that they would use them frequently to know when and where to meet up. Adam nodded hopefully, noting that the direct connection between the two objects would work perfectly for a certain spell.

Adam ground a few ingredients in a mortar then coated a pendulum with the mixture. He tangled the chain around his fingers, allowing the sharpened crystal to hang over the map laid out. He placed the sodalite in the palm of his hand, then mumbled a few words under his breath and closed his eyes. The pendulum began to gyrate, passing over names of towns and districts as Adam moved his hand across the map, but never wavering in its path. After a few minutes, his eyes fluttered open.

“He’s not in the Witch Pocket.” Shiro released a frustrated sigh, rubbing his face, refusing to cry. Adam swiftly stood up, grasping his hands, lowering them gently. He moved his fingers over his shaky hands. “Hey, we’ll find him. We just have to think. He’s not in the Witch Pocket, so that leaves seven others. He must be in one of them.”

“Unless he’s in the human world.”

“He’d have to get approval from a High Coven Leader to do that,” assured Adam.

“Heh, you don’t know Keith like I do. He’d find a way.”

He hummed before saying, “Let’s just focus on our world, okay?” Shiro nodded in agreement. “Is there any other pocket he’d be drawn to? We could go through them all, but if this is urgent, it’s better if we try with our best guesses first.”

“I don’t know. Keith is closed off. He barely talks about his past, only fleeting mentions of it like--like his father working at the forge…” he tapered off. “At the forge. The Demon Pocket!” Shiro dropped Adam’s hands and raced to the racks of maps, pulling the Demon Pocket map. “He’s somewhere there. His family lived in a shack on the upper level of the pocket in the dunes.”

After laying out the map, Shiro looked back at Adam with hopeful wide eyes. The man had been openly staring with a soft smile on his face.

“Okay then,” Adam said, sitting once more, “let’s find your kid.”

Chapter Text

Shiro immediately left the Witch Pocket as soon as Adam had located the shack. He had jumped on the other man with a hug much tighter than he anticipated before running off to find Keith.

It hadn’t taken long to travel by ley lines; luckily there was no traffic waiting to be checked with the Guardians and he had no possessions with him that were illegal in the Demon Pocket. He had received a verbal reminder that, though he may wear his uniform, he had no authority as a Watcher in another pocket and they sent him on his way through the lines.

From then, he quickly located the area the shack stood. Most of the pocket’s inhabitants lived under the sand and stones, entire cities carved from the red rocks. They were magnificent structures that Shiro could’ve spent hours simply gazing at, but his objective laid above the hidden caves. He headed upwards, to the dunes that stretched across the pocket.

Shiro saw the shack on the horizon, barely visible under the new moon, which he desperately hoped foretold a closer relationship with Keith, instead of one dashed to the floor. As he trudged through the dunes, sand burrowed itself into his boots and the chill of the desert invaded his uniform. It was uncomfortable, but bearable--anything to see Keith.

As he came upon the house, he froze, gaping. Half of it wasn’t there. Or at least, half of it had burned down, leaving smoldered wood and discolored sand, a shadow of what used to be. An eerie wind swept by, rattling the boards and Shiro’s nerves. His last clue to Keith’s whereabouts lay in a shack that’s on the verge of collapsing. He took a breath.

Carefully, he walked up the steps to the porch, eyeing the old floorboards, before knocking gently, cringing at the loudness in the silence of the desert night.

For several minutes he waited without an answer. Last time he didn’t knock, things didn’t go well, so he stood there, knocked a couple more times, and scratched the back of his neck out of nervousness. Adam’s spell definitely identified this shack as holding the sodalite crystal. Keith had to be here or at least was here at one point. Shiro glanced at the stars through the broken roof above him. Maybe he was asleep.

Shiro centered himself, taking a deep breath before expanding his magick, searching, searching, searching, until… there. A dream, the only dream in this desert, right in front of him, right in this shack. Though peering closer, it was agitated and violent and definitely not a dream.

He turned the knob unthinkingly, distinctly recognizing the emotions behind the nightmare.

“Keith?”

The inside of the shack was dark and as cold as the desert chill, though that came as no surprise. The half of the building that burned never was repaired, so as Shiro walked through the door, the view of the desert was never lost, only a head turn away. He paid it no mind, because the structural integrity of the shack wasn’t his priority, but the boy huddled on the worn couch twitching in his sleep was.

Hurriedly Shiro knelt on the dusty carpet, worried eyes scanning the chilled boy cowering under a measly blanket. His breaths were erratic as his chest jerkily rose and fell beneath his arms, the nightmare coating his mind as well as his body.

Though while awake Shiro could not see his nightmare, he could still weave a nicer dream in its place, transitioning it seamlessly with his best efforts. He dug into himself, summoning his magick, though as an extension of his mind, creating a dreamscape based off his emotions and drawing from his memories of the boy in front of him. Quickly Keith’s breaths evened and his twitches ceased, but his furrowed brows didn’t smooth out; they burrowed deeper into his skin.

The boy sucked in a breath before gasping, “Shiro!”

Suddenly a knife gleamed, pulled from under a pillow and now separating him from Keith, who crouched in the corner of the couch with the blanket pooled around his feet. The candles around the room lit quickly, illuminating the two and causing both to cringe, before they died to dull flames only fueled by wax.

“Wha..?” Keith gasped, voice rasped with disuse. He blinked with sleep coated eyes. “Shiro?”

“Keith, I… I, uh,” Shiro stumbled, not knowing how to articulate his words. He’s unsure of how to navigate their broken relationship. For all the confidence Matt seemed to have in him, he had little in himself. He leaned in closer to the boy.

“P-Please,” Keith whispered with a tremble coating his voice. Immediately Shiro froze too afraid to move. He glanced down guiltily instead, unable to meet his eyes.

“Keith, I am so sorry,” he softly said, his heart pouring into the words like he’d never get a second chance to. “I am so, so sorry. Please, forgive me.”

The knife trembled.

“Don’t kill me. Please, Shiro,” he whimpered, “I can’t let you… You just can’t kill me.”

Tears welled in Shiro’s eyes. The fear rolling off Keith solidified in the cold air and pierced his heart until it crumbled and burned into regret that coursed through his veins. He gasped as it froze his lungs.

This was his fault.

“No, I-I would never. That’s not why I’m here. Keith, please-- ”

“Don’t lie to me,” Keith strained desperately.

“Keith, I would never lie to you.”

“You… You reported me,” he accused. His eyes narrowed, thick brows hanging over them. “You already killed me by putting me on that list.”

“No, Keith, that’s not true,” Shiro said, holding out his hands, reaching toward him. “I didn’t--”

“You swore you would,” he interrupted, jerking away. His knife flashed dangerously. “I can’t go anywhere . Every witch knows and everyone will want to kill me like the others. And n-now you’re here in uniform, tracking me like I’m a--like I’m an animal .”

“But you’re not--”

“I said don’t lie! Feral, wildchild, orphan . I’ve been called worse. You… you looked at me like I was worse,” he somberly said.

“Keith--”

“Stop saying my name!” he screamed.

He lunged at Shiro, arms alight with fire, burning through his favorite shirt with his lack of concentration. Shiro dodged, tumbling to the ground. As Keith sailed passed him, the knife nicked his arm, tearing at the outer layer of his uniform. He scrambled up, wand summoned from his leather gauntlet, but Keith was on his bare feet running toward the open end of the house, escaping with nothing but his clothing on his back. If he disappeared, Shiro knew he wouldn’t be able to find him again.

He couldn’t lose him.

In a split second decision, he aimed his wand. Keith’s flames extinguished as he fell forward, the air pulled from his lungs rendering him immobile and gasping on the wooden floor. Shiro pulled his eyes from the sight, guilt bubbling in his gut: he had never used his magick against him before and he knew he would never be able to erase the sight of Keith choking on his own breath, knife too close to his throat as he clawed at his neck desperately.

Shiro bolted to the boy whose wide eyes screamed of terror. He captured him in his arms, unable to restrain him with magick-suppressing cuffs with the lack of time, holding him against his chest as he writhed, unintentionally dropping the knife. Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks.
As Keith caught his breath, his flames returned, blazing underneath Shiro’s hardy uniform, which was fire resistant, but not completely fireproof. Immediately, he broke into a sweat as the flames engulfed them.

“Keith, please, just listen to me!”

The boy continued to grunt and kick against Shiro, ignoring his pleas as he attempted to escape Shiro’s tight hold around his torso. Soon, the heat became almost unbearable and the air too stifling to breath. As he was about to release Keith, the flames extinguished suddenly. The boy choked on air and limply dropped his head to his steaming chest. Scared, Shiro placed him on the floor, prepared to check his vitals, but he quickly rolled away, grabbing the prone knife and holding his arm out to separate them yet again.

Keith grasped his chest as it heaved, coughs shaking his crumbled form. Shiro started forward, but the knife was thrust up again, though now glowing like it had in the closet, an obvious warning. He wanted to help, but he couldn’t blame Keith for pushing him away, even as he trembles from the coughs raking his body. He did that to him.

“Stop. Shiro, please. Just go away,” Keith begged, his wild eyes flickering from one candle to the next, their flames leaning toward Shiro ominously. His coughs doubled down. “Please, leave.”

“I’m not leaving until we talk about this,” he desperately stated. He ran his hands down his face in frustration, regret, and any emotion boiling within him, urging him to scream until they were all finally released. But he’s here for Keith, not for his own catharsis. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m sorry for casting that spell, but I can’t--”

“You don’t understand!” he screamed hoarse. “Leave!”

“No, not until you let me explain,” Shiro pleaded. If only Keith would give him the chance to say his part, to ask for forgiveness. Then they could both leave together. Go back to the coven together. Their relationship might have shifted, but Shiro knew with time, it would recover and grow stronger. Keith only needed to provide him with a chance.

“If you don’t leave, I won’t be the one dying tonight,” Keith gasped, clutching his chest.

“Please, don’t do that. Not when I’m trying to make this right.”

“Shiro. I’m not threatening you. I’m warning you!” he strained. Another bought of coughs interrupted him. He clutched his throat, gagging. “I can’t--I can’t control it.”

“That’s why you shouldn’t have messed with those necromantic books in the first place. It’s not a stable practice. But I can help you,” he assured. They both needed a second chance to save each other from this fall out, but they couldn’t do it apart. Once Shiro could convince Keith that he could overcome this addiction, everything would be fine.

Keith bit his lip, stifling a sob. “That’s what you don’t understand. It’s not the books. It’s me.”

“No, it’s not you,” Shiro corrected.

“You’re wrong,” Keith cried, hair characteristically falling into his face as he shook his head. “You’re so wrong. You need to leave. Now.”

“Not unless you come with me. Back to the Leo Coven, so we can talk this out.”

“No, Shiro! Leave!” he screamed. The candle flames soared towards the ceilings, catching on the dry wood. Rapidly the shack overflowed with ash and smoke, exacerbating Keith’s coughs. Pyro witches may be fireproof, but smoke can fill their lungs and drown them in ash as any other creature. Shiro watched as Keith laid prone, trembling as the roof caved in around them, losing sight of the boy buried beneath the rubble.

“Keith!” he screamed, lunging for the flames. He coughed as he heaved the wood away, clearing a path for himself, then dropped to his knees to avoid the smoke and crawled toward Keith, his raven hair peeking out from under the burning roof. The flames spread quickly, the already weak foundations of the house groaning and cracking as it burned.

Shiro summoned a different wand and with a few flicks of his wrist, the heaviest wood around Keith began floating toward the opened roof. Carefully, he pulled his body from the ash and smoldering wood, brushing away the flames from his clothing. Without a second thought, he scooped him in his arms and ran out of the shack, then collapsed in the cool sand.

Terrified and unconcerned for the flames at his back, Shiro grasped Keith’s face between his hands, smoothing back his ash coated hair, tenderly pressing against a shallow cut that trickled blood down his temple and wiping the dirtied tear stains from his cheeks. He ripped off a glove and placed his bare hand under Keith’s nose. He remained breathing.

Wanting to vomit from the ash on his tongue and the fear in his bones, Shiro buried his face in Keith’s chest. This was wrong . This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

He composed himself for Keith’s sake before checking over the rest of the boy.

Shiro sobbed when he saw that Keith continued to clutch the knife in his hand. He pried his fingers from its hilt, the glow lost to the flames. The embodiment of everything that splintered their relationship rested in his hand, the necromantic rune etched into its hilt. He wanted to throw it into the dunes, to bury it in the sand. Instead he shoved it in his pouch, cringing.

Keith groaned with the movement, whimpering in pain. Shiro searched his mind, but it wasn’t a nightmare, his unconscious mind strangely silent. He scanned his body and jolted at his leg, which was twisted unnaturally with a bone piercing his skin, blood staining the sand below it.

“ Nonono, ” Shiro mumbled. He brought Keith to his chest, cradling him as he stood and tried not to jostle him. The boy gasped in his arms, eyes flickering briefly.

“Sh’ro...” he slurred. Half-conscious, he pushed weak limbs against Shiro’s chest in an attempt to get away. “Nooo… can’t. Pops... Pops...”

“I’m sorry, Keith. Please, I’m so sorry,” Shiro cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, dropping onto the raven hair below him. He tightened his hold, drawing a groan out of the boy who finally went limp. Though it made carrying him easier, the image of a dying Keith wouldn’t escape his mind. He felt as if he held a dead body.

Shiro unwillingly looked away from Keith, toward the waning dunes, where the sand met the stone roof of the city below. He began to trek toward the city, intent on finding a healer.

It would be okay. They would be okay.

Chapter Text

All night Shiro stayed up. 

The healer had tended Keith, not nearly as effectively as a witch would have, but demons have their own ways of mending broken flesh. Keith had not stirred as Shiro had entered the medical room, shouting for a healer; as he’d placed the boy onto the clean bed, staining the sheets red; as he’d held his head in his hands, crying until a healer asked for the room. Only the creaking of bones, the resettlement of them, warranted a reaction from the boy: small whines and whimpers, eyes flickering beneath closed lids, but no screaming nor sparks of flame broke the diligence of the healer. 

When Shiro had re-entered the room, the navy sheets had been replaced; Keith’s leg propped up beneath a pillow and chair pulled up to the bed. The healer had pressed a comforting hand on Shiro’s shoulder as she left him without any questions. 

Though grateful for the chair, Shiro hadn’t used it.

Instead he had paced the entirety of the small room, warring with himself: needing Keith to wake up, wanting him to stay asleep. There was too much to say, yet little he knew he could do to erase the betrayal and fear present in those violet eyes from his memories and even fewer options to prevent them from overflowing with tears again. 

He didn’t know how to fix this. 

Keith clearly didn’t trust him anymore. 

For hours, Shiro had contemplated the necromancer complication--no, the sparking incident, the downfall, the fallout. He would begin with a conversation starter, an apology, a plan to address this complex situation, only to raise his bloodshot eyes to Keith. Unwillingly his mind would draw a blank, his plans erased. He would start over.

Eventually the sun had risen; the stone city, once alight with bonfires, flamed with reds and oranges of the morning sky, rays peeking through the holed roof of the cavern. Dazedly Shiro stared at the sight, wishing he could enjoy it. His mind drifted.

“Why aren’t I dead?” 

Shiro whipped away from the window. 

Keith’s half-lidded eyes bore into him, their intensity lacking in his hazy awakening. His skin pallored against the dark sheets engulfing him, ash and dust still evident despite the healer’s careful washing; Shiro choked on how similar he looked to the kid he helped that fateful morning in the market. So much had gone wrong since. 

“Keith?” he breathed, stumbling over to his bedside. He sat in the chair. Keith hadn’t moved, didn’t even flinch. The reaction, instead of instilling hope, further drowned Shiro in helplessness.

“Why aren’t I dead?” he rasped, air scraping through his throat. He shifted slightly, attempting to sit up, only to hiss and stare at his bandaged leg. He glanced away, frowning. “Did you… did you want me awake when…?”

“No, gods! Keith, no,” Shiro abhorrently denied. The implications of his question grabbed at his heart, his throat tightening painfully. He refused to acknowledge Keith’s new view of him because if he did, he would not make it through this conversation without breaking. “Please, let me explain,” Shiro pleaded. “That’s all I want. To explain my actions and to somehow… I don’t know, reach an understanding. Is that okay?”

Keith eyed him, clearly confused by this line of conversation. He nodded slowly, but wariness continued to cloud him despite his lax posture. Whatever came of this talk would end in acceptance from Keith, whether it be Shiro lying about his intentions or a mutual agreement of their reborn relationship. There was pressure surrounding Shiro to make this right. He took a breath, running a hand through his dark hair.

“I don’t want to kill you. I have never wanted to kill you,” he stated, pouring infinite amounts of conviction into his words. They had no visible effect on Keith, the stubborn boy not cracking under Shiro’s tone. Instead his frown deepened, etching harsh lines between his brows.

“You reported me. You tracked me to my home. You hurt me,” Keith stated, listing off offenses, rather monotonously. Shiro grimaced.

“I didn’t mean for any of those to come off as threatening,” he said, wincing at his own words, knowing yet again that he had spoken before he thought, too caught up in his emotions. Though his steadfast tone conveyed veracity, the recent history between the two of them would prove otherwise. 

“You’re lying,” Keith blankly said. 

“The reporting,” he admitted, frantically nodding. “I’ll admit to that. I used that as a way to get you to stop, but what I’ve been trying to tell you is that I never actually went through with it,” he explained. “I couldn’t. I knew it was wrong. Matt watched me for days agonizing over it, over you. And I couldn’t do it.”

Keith eyes downturned; a nibble on his bottom lip, perhaps a minute quiver. The first emotion gracing his features that didn’t present aloofness: sorrow. 

“Matt knows?” he questioned softly, as if for only his ears. 

“No, he doesn’t,” Shiro assured. He resisted the urge to touch the boy, to comfort him, but he knew that their relationship was too broken for that contact. It’d be an overstep. He shook his head. “And no one else knows. You can come back to the coven and everything can go back to how it was.”

“It will never be how it was.”

“But we can try,” Shiro desperately pleaded. 

“What do you want from me?” Keith asked, exasperated. “I can’t pretend that everything is okay. You… You hate me.”

“No. I could never, Keith,” he softly said, his heart shattering. Hearing those words almost broke him, an insistent prickling beginning behind his eyes. But he had to stay strong. 

Keith shook his head and Shiro wasn’t sure if the boy’s beliefs or the denial of his own rebuttal hurt him more. 

“But you hate necromancy and that’s the same thing,” Keith said, crossing his arms, putting a barrier between them. 

“That practice is not the person,” Shiro stated. A mantra. “My parents taught me that necromancy is like any other addiction, a curable disease that we can work on together. There might be some trial and error, but we can push past it.” Just like they could fix their relationship. 

“There’s where you don’t understand. Your beliefs are wrong.” Shiro pulled back slightly at the bitterness in Keith’s voice, sitting up a little straighter. Keith breathed deeply, calming himself. “Necromancy is a magickal practice that’s just as natural as dreamwalking. It’s an affinity that you have or you don’t. It’s something I was born with.”

Shiro closed his eyes for a fleeting moment. With the dark red coating his vision, he could pretend the morning sun had risen, waking him from his dreams, insisting that he should ignore Keith’s words. That they were nothing more than his mind self-sabotaging him in his sleep, pulling him from his beliefs and drowning him in guilt. It’s not possible; Keith’s statements weren’t possible. 

“No, but that would mean…” 

Shiro couldn’t verbalize his thoughts. If he did, they’d be too real. Keith had implied that witches couldn’t be saved from necromancy, because the practice called to them, like any other magickal path would. Shiro’s head spun as he thought about how he had jumped from one dream to the next without any control as a child; how he had known that he was a dreamwalker just like his father because of it; how scared he had been knowing that he could hurt someone if he didn’t practice enough. 

He thought of Keith experiencing a similar situation. Alone. Without his mother. 

Corpses. Magots. Spirits. What was his early childhood like? How terrified had he been?

No. Shiro shook his head. It wasn’t true. He refused to believe him. 

“Shiro,” Keith softly said, catching his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. “I started exhibiting instinctual necromancy as a kid. I didn’t know then, but I understand now that it was necromancy.”

“That’s not true. That can’t be true,” Shiro denied. He couldn’t think further than Keith. If he could stop this insanity with the boy, then he wouldn’t have to address the Purge and how many lives were lost simply because of an uncontrollable predisposition. “No, it must have been something else.”

“I’m proof. It was me,” he said, looking to the side. Avoidance, Shiro recognized. 

“And I’m telling you that you have to be wrong,” he desperately refuted, tipping his chin up challengingly. It always got a rise out of Keith and it didn’t disappoint; in fact, perhaps it was too effective this time around. The boy turned toward him, hopelessness coating his eyes, casting a sheen over their violet color. 

“I’m the one practicing necromancy. I’m the one with this magickal ability. You cannot tell me that I’m wrong after all that I have done,” Keith pleaded, voice upturned and wavering. His resolve beginning to crumble. The boy looked defeated: shoulders hunched, head bent, exhaustion pulling at his eyes. His raven hair speckled with ash settled messily over his new shirt and fanned over the pillows, blending with the rich navy. His small hands twitched ever so slightly over his arms; without sparks. They had been absent since last night, along with his inner flame, the one that Shiro admired so dearly. 

He’d given up. He looked ready to die. 

Shiro could deny Keith’s statements all he wanted, but with every negating rebuttal, the fight drained from the boy. He was killing Keith. The boy had believed that all his time he had wanted him dead and Shiro had desperately attempted to convince him otherwise; physically he hadn’t meant to cause harm, but he hadn’t considered the mental and emotional factors grating on Keith. Shiro had searched for him with the mindset of making things right, but how could he accomplish that if he didn’t give the boy a chance to say his piece? 

“Then explain it to me.”

“I…” Keith released a breath, hesitating. His dulled eyes roved over Shiro, searching for a trick, an explanation. 

“Keith, please. I want to make this right,” he sincerely said, “but I need to understand first.”

The boy huffed, burrowing himself further into his crossed arms while shifting slightly away from Shiro. 

“You’re not gonna like it,” he mumbled. 

“Let me decide that. I want to learn,” he emphasized, hoping the more power he put into the statement, the more he’d believe it himself. “About you, about this. But you have to teach me.”

Keith opened his mouth, floundering for a moment, unsure of how to start. Shiro berated himself: the boy hadn’t even considered Shiro wanting an explanation of his powers. He finally settled, saying, “I didn’t choose necromancy. If I could, I would stop, but… what you don’t understand is that I don’t control it. I have no one. Not one person that can show me how to be a necromancer. I’ve been relying on books, but it’s not enough.”

Shiro’s brows furrowed in confusion. Keith’s eleven. His instinctual magick phase should had ended. By now, his magick should be tamed, not uncontrollable. 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow.”

“I can’t use it right--I mean sometimes in a spell with intent and tools, I can get something right. But if I get too scared or too angry, my magick protects me. It’s--It’s instinctual. But in the worst ways,” he laments, eyes becoming glassy. “It’s a curse that I can’t break. And I… I didn’t mean to…” He sniffled, nose and cheeks becoming pink.

Shiro leaned forward in the chair, hands on the sheets, gripping them instead of holding Keith. His foot tapped on the floor with anxiousness, with curiosity, with helplessness. 

“What didn’t you mean to do, Keith?”

“My pops,” he hiccuped. His hands rubbed at his eyes, coming away shiny and wet. He curled up further. “He… He came home angry and I was already scared about being left alone at night. He just… He didn’t do anything but slam the door too hard! And my magick just… It just--”

Shiro couldn’t take it. He vaulted from his seat, landing next to Keith on the small bed and throwing his arms around the boy. “Shhh, hey, it’s okay,” he whispered into his hair, stroking his hand down his back, over his arms, anywhere that could bring him some sense of comfort, of grounding. He pressed the small body to his side, holding him like he had that first time in the closet. 

“But it’s not!” Keith screamed, voice cracking. He pressed his face into Shiro’s chest, but his arms remained cross around his torso, protective despite vulnerably sobbing. “He’s gone and it’s my fault! He burnt away because of me. He’s not supposed to burn.”

Shiro felt tears being pulled from his eyes at the utter anguish emitting from Keith. The boy choked on his sobs, ugly things catching in his throat. 

“I can’t stop it,” he gasped. “And then you at home… I’m sorry, so sorry. I was just so scared and angry at you and then I felt the ash in my mouth and it was choking me before I could stop my magick and I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” he sobbed. His scarred hands pried from his arms to cover his eyes, to hold in the cries escaping his lips. 

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Shiro assured. He felt Keith tense under his arms, his muscles coiling dangerously tight. 

“You already have,” the boy venomously spit. He wrenched himself from Shiro’s arms, elbowing him, squirming, despite the pain it must be causing his leg. Shiro immediately released him, moving to stand from the bed, yet thinking better of it: he didn’t want to loom over Keith. He resettled in the chair. “You didn’t want to listen to me. You--I was going to tell you about my magick, I thought you would understand, but then you walked in on me practicing and you… and you started yelling and making threats. You almost hexed me,” he cried, grabbing at his wild hair. Sparks finally popped around his knuckles. 

“I know, I know,” Shiro said, moving his hands in a placating gesture. His apologetic tone lathered his words. “I realize what I did was wrong. But I understand now. Everything about this is messed up. We can make it right again.”

“You’re just saying that!” Keith accused. “You’re trying to get me to trust you again. I gave it to you when I started living at the coven and you threw it away.”

“Please, Keith,” he begged. “We can come back from this.”

Keith ran his hands down his face, eyes darting before closing, squeezing out his remaining tears. Shiro saw the boy forcibly relax. His shoulders slumped awkwardly and his labored breaths unnaturally evened. His hands shook despite his faux lax posture. His form looked uncomfortable and Shiro wondered if his necromantic magick had been trying to push through during his break down. He had said anger and fear triggered it. He wondered how hard Keith had to fight his emotions to keep it in check.

“I need time,” Keith pushed out, voice thick and arms once again wrapping around his chest. “I don’t trust you anymore.” Shiro’s chest splintered with the statement, but he quickly shook it off, presenting a resigned look. 

“That’s okay. I don’t expect you to.” And he didn’t truly. He knew that his actions had resulted in a regression to their relationship. But it still hurt to accept. “Maybe one day. I’ll prove to you that I’m worthy of your trust and forgiveness.”

Keith gathered himself further, taking a moment to think, the thoughts running through his mind stilling him. “I can’t forgive you yet. It’s too much. I want to…” He hesitated. “I want to live at home for a bit. Here in the Demon Pocket.” 

Somewhere that wouldn’t have direct access to the public list of necromancers. Somewhere devoid of people that could hurt him. Or that he could possibly hurt. 

“Keith…” Shiro ominously began, his name riding on his breath. “The shack burned down. The fire got out of control. I don’t know if there’s anything left.”

Shiro saw Keith’s eyes break before he ducked his head down, shaking it in denial. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No, please , no. My home…” He gasped, heading snapping up. “My books! I moved them all home! I need my books. I--I can’t control it without them. I can’t find him. Shiro, please.”

The fresh tears on his face, the crumpled clothing, the desperation swirling in his eyes.

Shiro earnestly wanted to deny what he had seen last night. But the shack burned in an instant, the flames igniting and dying before he had even reached the city boundaries with Keith cradled in his arms.  The ashes had swept away with the desert wind. 

“I wish I could tell you otherwise,” Shiro said apologetically. “We can go back, but your house was kindling. We barely made it out. But I have…” He reached into his pouch, drawing out the knife he’d pried from Keith’s unmoving fingers. The imagery made his stomach turn. 

He carefully handed it to Keith, whose eyes widened at the sight. His scarred hands deftly turned it, flicking it once before holding it to his chest, over his heart, as if it were a stuffed animal. The necromantic rune remained dulled on its hilt.

“Thanks,” Keith mumbled, grateful but perhaps apprehensive as well. “It was… well, I think it was my ma’s.”

“I wish I could do more,” Shiro said, rubbing his hands together. A pause followed before he mentioned, “You said ‘find him.’ Who are you trying to find?”

Keith’s fingers tightened over the knife, hesitating. 

“My pops. I needed to stay alive so that I could find him. And say I’m sorry,” he morosely mumbled, eyes not meeting Shiro’s. 

“He must know that it was an accident.”

“But I need to make sure that he knows,” he urged. “The afterlife is… complicated. Too many places for souls or spirits or whatever to go. I don’t know if I’ll find him if I die, but I at least have a better chance when I’m living. My books… Without any other necromancers, those books were my only chance at finding him, at controlling this. And they’re gone. I don’t want to die, but now it might be the only way to find him.”

Shiro’s eyes widened, black brows rising in shock. 

He couldn’t possibly mean… Keith couldn’t be implying… 

“Don’t say that,” he demanded. 

“What would you rather me say? That I’m unnatural and wrong, ” Keith sneered, throwing Shiro’s words back at him, the man flinching at the reminder. “That being a necromancer makes me a monster. Because it does and that’s something I’ve had to live with. But now there’s no point without my books. Dying would be better. It’s not… I don’t want to, but if I can see my pops...”

“You can’t just give up.” Keith turned away, ignoring Shiro’s pleas. “Come back to the coven,” Shiro begged, hands carefully grabbing at Keith’s knee. “We can figure something out. Maybe the Watchers have confiscated necromantic books somewhere, or maybe there’s more necromancers in other pockets that we can find; I don’t know, but we can figure it out.”

Keith raised his head, eyes shining through his dark bangs. “You’d steal necromantic books from work?” he softly asked, disbelief lacing his words. Shiro squeezed his knee. 

“ Anything to prevent you from losing your life over guilt,” he candidly said. “You are… I care about you so damn much. I wish you could see how my actions are tearing me up inside, how desperately I just want you to come home. I know--I know that your pops meant the world to you and I would do anything to let you see him again, but you can’t leave the family you have here.”

Keith sniffled. “But I don’t have any family left.”

“You have me,” Shiro hesitantly declared. “If you’ll accept me that is. As your brother.”

“Brother?” he repeated, hope tinging his voice. His posture opened slightly, allowing the words to wash over him. It was beautiful, Shiro thought. The way he unravelled. 

“Yeah,” he breathily said, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Keith you’re my little brother. And I can’t lose you.”

Keith jerkily nodded, lip wobbling despite its upturned corners. 

“Okay,” he whispered. “I won’t… I’ll try okay. Without my books. I’ll try to control it. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Shiro assured. “This is all my fault. I just need us to be okay.”

“We’ll be okay,” Keith said, nodding. “But you still hurt me. I need space.”

“Yeah, of course. But please at least stay in the Witch Pocket? The Leo Coven? Somewhere close, so I can check up.”

“I’ll go back to the Leo Coven,” Keith agreed with a tired face. Shiro smiled.  

“Perfect. Just until I get my own place, maybe with an extra bedroom for a little brother of mine,” he teased.

Gingerly Keith placed his hand over Shiro’s, holding his knife close to his chest with the other, and snuggled into the sheets. 

“I’d like that.” A soft smile breaking across his weary face. Slowly Shiro ran his fingers through Keith’s raven hair, wiping away the ash and untangling his locks. Keith’s eyes drooped.

“I’m not going to pretend that I fully understand what you’re going through. I haven’t been taught the truth about necromancy and I’ll make mistakes again. But I’ll be here. I’ll support you. As many times as it takes.”

Keith hummed in response, drawing a chuckle from Shiro.

“Rest now. You’ve had a stressful week.”

The boy immediately succumbed to sleep. Shiro watched him with bloodshot eyes, desperately wanting to drift himself, but waiting for Keith’s dreams, spinning them into something cheerful. Keith didn’t awake, didn’t bolt; he relaxed into Shiro’s magick. The dreamwalker smiled, succumbing to the darkness that bore him light, slumping over the bed next to the small boy--next to his brother.  

As many times as it takes. 

They’d be okay.

Chapter Text

A hint of distrust had followed Keith and Shiro’s relationship.

After their rest in the demon healer’s quarters, Keith had refused any help from Shiro, determined to walk back to the Leo Coven despite the obvious pain radiating from his leg with every step. It had added time to their journey, but Shiro hadn’t wanted to push.

Keith had reverted to the independent spitfire he had found on the streets--not that the boy had ever lost that title, but the wildness masqueraded at the coven had torn through the facade of a quiet, lonely boy. He had openly scowled at anyone who looked at him a moment too long, startling children and adults alike with his ferocity. His limp had appeared nonexistent with an excess effort, one that had put unnecessary pressure on his bad leg and had Shiro worrying. Walking with a raised chin and furrowed brows, crowds had parted for Keith, his aura carving a path through the Demon Pocket and continuing to the Leo Coven in the Witch Pocket. 

To anyone who hadn’t known Keith, he had appeared strong, unbreakable, a wild thing ready to pounce, but Shiro had seen the quiver of his bottom lip and the tremble of his taut shoulders. Throughout the entire walk, Keith hadn’t complained and Shiro had known better than to offer assistance: the boy could have further distanced himself from Shiro if the offer had been taken as an offense. It simply hadn’t been a risk Shiro had wanted to gamble with. 

They had walked silently, Keith refusing to put down his defenses even in Shiro’s shadow. 

Once at the coven, Keith had reclaimed his hammock in his shared room, promptly dismissing Shiro with a turned back. 

The action had stung. They hadn’t talked since their conversation in the healer’s quarters. Questions had occupied Shiro’s mind, desperately waiting to be released, but Keith’s needs came first. Shiro had let him be, instead approaching Miss Balmera briefly, then returning home, where he had been rudely woken up by his familiar and his sister the next morning. 

Over breakfast, the Holt siblings had demanded the entirety of his and Keith’s makeup story. Shiro had wearily given them enough information to sate their curiosity, omitting anything related to necromancy despite the intricate role it had played. The lack of specific details had left Pidge with a gleam in her eyes, recognizing a puzzle. In that moment, Shiro had prayed her curiosity wouldn’t doom her to a similar fate he had found himself in, yet he hadn’t warned her to backoff;  He couldn’t admit he had withheld information or both siblings would be on the hunt for answers. Luckily the Holts hadn’t pushed, clearly recognizing the dark circles under his eyes and his hunched shoulders as what they were: outward appearances of the inner turmoil that had continued to swirl within him. The battle to gain Keith’s trust hadn’t ended; it had just begun and what a battle it had been. 

It had taken a couple of weeks of Shiro and Keith toeing around each other before a routine had been established. Though wary, Keith had fallen into it, even quicker than when he had first arrived at the coven. He had readily received Shiro after work, albeit awkwardly, maybe even warringly so. Shiro had seen how the boy would forget himself, forget what Shiro had done, and lean in to the dreamwalker before abruptly stopping, snapping his walls up as the betrayal crossed his face, though it had been directed at himself for allowing a lapse in judgement. 

Honestly it had hurt more than Shiro would care to admit; not Keith shutting him out, but how the boy would blame himself for opening up. 

All guilt and self-loathing should had been Shiro’s weight to carry. Keith had done nothing wrong and trusting Shiro hadn’t been a fault, but a rational choice that had taken time and consideration. The allowance of trust in an authority figure that had rescued him, supported him, and befriended him over a year had been justified. Shiro couldn’t have fathomed how twisted Keith’s rational had been to lay all blame on himself.

But he had seen and still saw traces of it.

That day in the closet, Shiro hadn’t meant any of those derogatory words. In the moment, he had directed them towards necromancers in general, which by default included Keith, but after contemplating his reactions throughout the rest of that week, he hadn’t truly believed any of them could apply to the boy. If he had, he would’ve reported Keith immediately, not even allowing him a chance to stop the practice. 

Unnatural. Wrong. Unrecognizable.

Keith was none of those things.

But Shiro had seen the emotions swirling in those expressive violet eyes. 

The boy believed them. Every fiber of his being believed them.

The tight frowns, vacant gazes, limp fists. Shiro had practically seen the boy’s melancholic thoughts floating around his head. An off-handed phrase, a whispered joke, or even a blatant stab at necromancers triggered minute reactions from Keith that only Shiro would witness: the most worrisome one had been his spark dying within him. 

Keith was a fighter, a survivor, but not when it came to his emotional self. 

The boy blamed himself for trusting in Shiro and hated himself for being a necromancer. Neither of which could have been helped.

As the weeks progressed from Keith’s return to the coven, Shiro had been keen on keeping a closer eye on the boy and resolved to stealthily contradict his thoughts. He had praised Keith for his effort in his studies, accompanied him on more excursions outside the coven--sometimes district--and steered him away from those witches that spat derogatory remarks concerning necromancy. Shiro had never directly addressed the issue that he knew plagued the boy. Their relationship had been rebuilding itself through small actions and to throw Keith a major conversation about his self-deprecating thoughts would stall any progress they had made.

Shiro had remained silent in the first few months, biding his time. 

Their short sentences had slowly morphed into conversations that gave way to teasing and bickering. Topics had been avoided and often their fun would be cut off with a vulnerable glance or a hard turn of a head, but over the months, even those had receded, being replaced by laughter.

Eventually, Shiro had asked Keith to live with him.

The boy had bolted. And Shiro hadn’t given chase. 

He had begrudgingly been forcing himself to allow Keith to run. Giving him space and allowing him the ability to get away had motivated him to stay rooted to the spot as those raven locks disappeared from view. It had been a new aspect to their relationship: Shiro not running after the boy. He hadn’t wanted to push Keith into anything he wasn’t ready to discuss. It had included his past, his necromantic magick, and then living with him.

Keith had given Shiro an answer a week later.

The two had learned to share a home over the past four months; an obvious learning curve, but one Shiro took in stride, as did Keith. The boy hadn’t had his own room since his pops, a fact that had him tearing up when he stepped into the plain space the first day he moved in. At that point, Shiro hadn’t immediately approached him about it, waiting until later in the evening after dinner for Keith to come to him. The boy hadn’t cried, but the thickness in his voice betrayed his emotions. And then he had hugged Shiro.

Keith had never initiated a hug.

The thin arms wrapping around his neck had Shiro burying his face into the scrawny shoulder, wetting the fabric with his ill-concealed tears. Shiro had always been the one to break that barrier, to finally cross that line of physical touch, often holding himself back until he knew Keith needed something to ground him. But now Keith had sought out a hug. And not just from anyone, but from him , the man that had betrayed his trust, something that he had only given to select people. He hadn’t deserved it. 

His eyes had clenched shut as Keith began stroking his back, comforting him, which had been wrong. Shiro had tried to pull away, but the boy had clung to him. It had been in that moment that Shiro had finally realized that Keith wanted to trust him again, that his occasional lapse in his interactions with Shiro hadn’t been a shadow of their previous relationship, but a movement toward this new one, only inhibited by their memories of that dreadful week. This had marked a significant turning point for them.

Shiro had begun to approach Keith instead of waiting for the opposite, giving the boy that extra push, seeing how putting in some effort had further stripped down his walls. Keith had confided in him, saying how that he had needed Shiro to give him space in the beginning, but when he stopped trying to prod, he had felt as though Shiro had been doing everything out of a sense of duty to the old Keith as he had known him before finding out about his damned practice. 

That had opened a road to the subject: necromancy.

Shiro hadn’t released the dam of questions flooding his mind about the practice since they had begun to trickle in after the revelation. He knew that Keith continued his necromancy with the single book Shiro had been able to procure--steal, as Keith would call it-- while hidden away in his room, away from Shiro, away from anything living. The boy had avoided him during certain times of the month and the occasional week as he dug himself in guilt and self-loathing. He had thought that Keith hadn’t wanted to address his practice, but as the conversation that night had progressed, Shiro had seen how the boy had hesitantly wanted to open up about it. 

Keith had talked about his childhood. His lips had curled up when he recalled his first memory of necromancy: resurrecting a baby lizard. At the time, he hadn’t recognized the feeling of choking on ash, simply chalking it up to instinctual pyro-magick taking wheel until he had gathered enough control to taper it down. He had gone off on a slight tangent about the lizard, describing the home he had built for it and how he had followed Keith’s fire as if to catch the small flame moving around his room. But then the light in Keith’s purple eyes had dimmed, recalling the night that the lizard had fled had been the night his pops had died. 

The conversation had ended. 

Through that month, Shiro had been bold enough to ask Keith questions about necromancy, not too many at once, but enough to slowly drain them from his mind. 

Shiro had learned that Keith had never dealt with maggots or corpses and would prefer never to interact with them. His childhood hadn’t been filled with death and destruction, mostly reanimation of life, which he admitted might have involved a body or two, but only of desert animals, he had assured. When he had first began presenting his abilities, Keith hadn’t known what his inclination was called until his pops had seen him crying over a dead amphisbaena, a small lizard creature with two heads on opposite sides of its body. His pops had witnessed the nearby shrubbery wilt and dry as the reptilian body had moved with renewed breath, both engulfed in flames as his son trembled on his knees, coughs raking through his body. He had held Keith until the poisonous creature had scurried away and the plants had shriveled.  

Later, Keith had the talk. His pops had explained what his additional power was: necromancy, a rare affinity. He had explained the dangers of it, but also the benefits, smiling as he had named a few. Keith had told Shiro that he remembered feeling proud, especially as his pops had excitedly gushed over his combined magick, how his pyro-manipulation seamlessly merged with his necromancy. That had been the day his pops had given him the knife, the one that glowed when he used his necromantic magick. His pops had been near tears as he had wrapped Keith’s smooth fingers over its hilt. It hadn’t been until later that Keith had realized that it was probably his ma’s. 

Keith had been excited about his abilities, at the time proud of being able to call himself a pyro-necromancer. 

He hadn’t known necromancy was hated until after his pops’ death, something he never shared the details about, barely touching upon it except for the few words he had relinquished in the demon healer’s room. 

Keith had skimmed through the incident, instead focusing on telling Shiro the effects of it. Keith had remained in the Demon Pocket, in that shack until hunger won over and he ventured into the nearby city, a place devoid of easy pickings and generous people. He had followed a group of older homeless girls to the Witch Pocket, where the large markets and larger crowds became a hunting ground for quick hands and silver tongues. He had remained with the girls, learning how to steal, how to disappear, how to avoid those more dangerous street thugs. They had taught him how their homeless community bartered with spells and other goods. It had lead to him retrieving one of his parents’ books; a mistake that cost him a growing family and a necromantic teacher bound with ink and paper.

Keith had realized then that witches like him weren’t welcome with the others. He had asked questions, got curious, and learned about the Purge and the public list of dwindling necromancers. He had known his magick was dangerous--his pops was proof of that--but the utter hatred that had sliced through people’s words about the practice had him cowering away from anyone who attempted to get close. He already had doubts about whether he should interact with any living person; the venomous words of others had confirmed that he had to isolate himself.

Keith had traveled between the two pockets, avoiding those who got too close and searching for a way to contact his pops. He had too many questions about his magick, about his ma, about himself… more importantly about the forgiveness that he desperately needed. Since his pops’ death, the boy had spiraled.

Keith had briefly told Shiro about bad decisions he had made, focusing on how he had trusted the wrong witches. He had been young--still was young--and naive and needed someone to cling to desperately. It had gone wrong. He had almost died.

In that moment, he had realized that if he didn’t help himself, no one would, and he would never be able to apologize to his pops. 

He had become a survivor. A boy whose sole purpose had been to live until the next fight, until the next spell, until he found his pops. But Shiro had found him first.

And now they sat at their small table in the common room, a year after Shiro discovering Keith was a necromancer, eating dinner while laughing at something so insignificant it only doubled their laughter. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Shiro laughed out, wiping his teary eyes. “So then what happened?”

“I--damn, this is embarrassing, but all the tents went down,” Keith giggled, covering his eyes with both his scarred hands, dragging them down his face. 

“ No, ” Shiro gasped. He slammed his hands incredulously on the table.

“Yes!” the boy admitted. “Like dominos! The entire market collapsed all because a hellhound pup thought I was a chew toy.”

“How could it think that?” 

“Right?”

“You’re far too skinny to be a chew toy.” Shiro smirked at Keith’s outraged shriek. His hands sparked before the boy vaulted from his seat, across the table, but Shiro had been quick and was already standing, expecting the attack. Keith crashed into an empty chair. “You really need to be less predictable. That’s the third time you’ve done that this week!”

“Is not!” 

“Should I recall when you did the same exact thing when I compared your hair to a harpy’s nest?” he teased. Keith scrambled up, but Shiro quickly moved, placing their small couch between them. 

“It’s not a nest!”

“Or maybe when I threatened to carry a spray bottle around with me so I could put out your sparks?” Shiro made a gun motion, pointing it at an enraged Keith. The boy launched himself over the couch, a new move that had Shiro’s eyes widening in shock as the small body struck him in the chest. They both went down, Shiro’s back landing hard on the carpet. 

“You make me sound like a domesticated cactus cat!” Keith protested while trying to pin Shiro down. He sat on his chest while struggling to catch his wrists, his small fingers scrambling over flesh and leaving light lines with his bitten nails. Shiro chuckled at him before rolling over and settling his weight over the boy, who had been pinned beneath him.

“Mmmm… not a cat, but a wild, desert boy, definitely.”

“Hey! No fair! You weigh like ten tons,” Keith complained. He kicked out and wiggled, but Shiro wouldn’t move. Instead he fully collapsed on the boy. Keith gasped as his chest stuttered on a breath, his lungs unable to expand with the crushing weight on his ribs. He hit Shiro’s shoulders, pushing at him to get off, but the man only smirked and settled in as if to nap on him. Keith’s nostrils flared.

Then a rough touch wetted Shiro’s cheek.

“Gross! Keith! No licking,” Shiro complained, quickly sitting up to rub the saliva away. With part of his weight off Keith, the boy was able to pull a leg free before slamming it into Shiro’s exposed chest. The man jolted away with a pained noise, rolling to the side, which allowed Keith to squirm up and around to his back, jumping on it as he victoriously laughed. With the added pounds, Shiro fell, though not before shifting his weight and landing on Keith, his back crushing him to the floor. He had him pinned again with Keith’s legs secured between his armpits and Keith’s wrists held by his hands at his chest. 

Shiro then relaxed, allowing all his upper body weight to melt into Keith. The boy began squirming again, clenching his fist and kicking his legs, but it was getting harder to breath under Shiro with each passing second. 

With a red face, Keith strained, “Okay, I give up! I give up!”

Shiro easily rolled off of him, stretching out his back as the boy coughed limp on the ground. He sat crisscrossed on their dull carpet, watching as Keith settled. 

“4-0 for the week,” Shiro said, happy to rub his victory into Keith’s face. He carded his hands through his black hair, smoothing down the front, as he smirked. 

“We need new rules. You can’t win every time by sitting on me,” Keith scolded from the floor. His messy bangs flared over his forehead and his cheeks were tinged pink, either from the wrestling, the lack of air, or both. Shiro chuckled, deep and rolling, at the sight. Keith threw his arms over his eyes in the face of defeat and perhaps embarrassment as well. 

“You’ll start winning as soon as you put on more muscle,” Shiro assured.

Though Keith’s face remained round with remnants of baby fat and his large eyes could rival the size of an infant cyclops’, he had grown in the two years Shiro had known him, his height sprouting a few inches and his lanky limbs rippling with taut muscles that would grow to be lean and explosive. The boy had years to go (he hadn’t even hit puberty yet-- gods , that’ll be a conversation), but Shiro could admit that the light feeling bubbling within him when he took stock of how different Keith appeared from the scraggly boy was nothing less than pure joy at the progress he had made. The feeling even ascended further when he thought about how far their relationship had come. 

The boy huffed. “Like that’ll ever happen.”

“Hey, you’ll get there. You’re only twelve.” 

Keith’s brows twitched down. “Shiro, I’m eleven.”

“Keith…” Shiro slowly said. His heart had dropped, leaving a vast, sinking feeling; the type he associated with waking after a nightmare before the panic sets in and the tears fill his eyes. That horrible drop, the automatic switch that drains everything, leaving a hollow body. 

Did Keith really…? No, did Shiro not say anything? Through the entire day, did he not say a word about it to Keith?

“Stop looking at me like that,” Keith said, avoiding his eyes. Shiro had been staring longer than he realized. The boy now sat across from him, head ducked and knees pulled to his chest. His fingers twitched and tangled. He looked vulnerable, not necessarily hurt but simply melancholic. 

“Sorry, just… did you forget your birthday?” Shiro softly asked. He leaned forward, watching as Keith’s fingers stilled and his lungs stuttered on a breath. 

“No.”

Keith had always been a terrible liar. 

“Why did you think I took off from work today? Or brought you fresh strawberries? We bought a cake,” Shiro said. Confusion and guilt ate at his words, the last of them whispered in a strained tone. He ran a hand over his face in frustration, not at Keith but at himself. 

“I-I don’t know,” Keith stammered, his voice hardening. Shiro could visible see him building up his walls, could sense the sparks about to pop against his knuckles. He knew his motions were strained and that Keith could see the outline of his tense shoulders through his shirt; it was setting him on edge. Shiro took a breath, bringing his hands to gently rest on his knees. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not mad,” he assured. “I’m frustrated at myself for not saying something sooner.” He had been emphasizing verbal communication and expressing feelings with words, something Keith struggled with. Even with the light reassurance, the boy’s defenses abated, not completely, but enough that his next words weren’t barbed.

“Saying what?”

“Happy birthday,” Shiro sincerely said. Cautiously he pulled Keith into hug, allowing enough time for him to reject it, but instead he melted into it, grasping at Shiro’s back. He angled his face into Shiro’s neck as the man rested his cheek on his head. Shiro ran his hand through Keith’s hair before pulling away, prying the boy’s hands from him. He winced at Keith’s confused expression before saying, “I have something for you,” with a light smile. 

“Shiro, you didn’t need to--”

“No, but I wanted to.” He quickly stood, urging Keith to the couch as he scurried into his bedroom and reappeared moments later with a small black box. Settling down on a cushion, he took a shaky breath before handing the box to Keith, who traced his scarred fingers over the dent in the corner. 

He swallowed.

Carefully, Keith opened the slim black box, mouth falling open at the sight of the black fingerless leather gloves placed on refined cloth. He bit his lip, shaking his head.

“Shiro, I can’t…” His voice cracked. He tried handing the box back but Shiro held both palms open. “It’s too much. You’ve already given me so much, I can’t take these.”

Slowly, Shiro placed his hands over Keith’s on the box before pushing it toward the boy.

“Do you remember them?” he questioned. Keith jerkily nodded, hair falling from behind his ears. It cascaded past his cheeks and covered his eyes, hiding their violet hue from Shiro. The man pleaded, “Then please accept them. I need you to accept them.” 

Keith bit his lip, hesitating on that precipice. 

“Okay,” he thickly said. The corner of his lips quirked up. “Okay, I accept.”

The tension bled from Shiro’s shoulders, causing them to curl downwards on an audible exhale. His eyes gleamed as he urged Keith to try them on. 

“They’re a little big,” Shiro said, slightly apologetic. “But when I got them, I figured that it was better if they were so you can grow into them.”

The black leather hung off Keith’s hands, not tight enough to grip his textured skin. The tips of his fingers barely showed through the ends of the gloves and his wrists moved with ease within the leather. Hopefully in a few years, Keith’s strong hands would fill them. 

“My scars…” 

Keith gazed upon his hands with wide eyes, brows high on his forehead and mouth slightly agape.

“Oh, yeah… I know that they bother you sometimes, so I figured gloves would help you work through whatever happened. They should cover most of them.”

Keith nodded, turning his hands over and staring at the gloves, marvelling at how they hid the raised streaks over their backs and across his palms. Hesitantly Shiro reached for a hand, which Keith gave willingly. He loosened the strap and slid the black leather off. Keith tensed but didn’t tell him to stop as he traced over the raised edges with the tips of his fingers. 

“I know you don’t like them, but they are a part of you,” Shiro began. “They tell a story. A beautifully tragic one, but yours, nonetheless. You can choose to hide them. But please know that I will never judge you for who you are. The scars that decorate you paint a picture of your past that you had the courage to share with me, an act that I will forever cherish. You’re my brother, no matter what you have done.”

“I… I want to tell you,” Keith whispered. Shiro almost choked on his own breath in his hast to correct himself, to assure Keith that the gloves weren’t a bribe to convince him to talk. 

“Please, that’s not what I meant--”

“I know,” he said, an edge to his voice. Shiro cut himself off immediately. It was tinged with anger, yes; but also fear. A quiver to that last syllable gave him away. Keith removed his hand from Shiro’s, cradling both against his chest. “I want to tell you anyway.” 

He took a steadying breath. 

“I got my scars the day my pops died. He… He had been taking longer shifts at the forge. I don’t know why,” he breathed, his eyes appearing vacant, far away. It’s that look Shiro dreaded.  “He just seemed stressed the past month and he had been out of the house longer. I didn’t understand then and I still don’t. But I always got scared at night. I could hear the chupacabras and cactus cats outside. One night he was gone for hours and I was… I was under my bed, holding my knife, thinking that he left or that a desert creature got him. I heard the door slam open and I-I thought that one got in--that I was going to die. I started crying.” 

Shiro briefly closed his eyes, imagining a Keith years younger than the one before him, thinking that his father had left him after neglecting him for a month and that a creature was moments away from tearing him apart, only his surely juvenile control over his fire and a simple knife to defend himself. He wished he hadn’t taken the time to picture a tear stained face under a sandy bed. 

“The knife started glowing,” Keith continued, “when I tasted ash. I just wanted whatever was in my home to go away. And he… he started screaming. It-It was so loud! And I knew it was pops. I tried to stop it.” He stared into his palms, clenching and unclenching his fingers absently as if not seeing them, but something else beyond them. A tear dripped on his palm. “But my… my hands burned when I touched it--my fire. It hurt! It wasn’t supposed to… It can’t. I can’t control it. The other fire. I watched as my pops died because of me. Because I was scared.”

“No, Keith,” Shiro said, moving closer to the crying boy. He could see the fire within Keith dimming, how the guilt ate at him because of his magick’s decision to protect him. He sat on the couch trembling because of it, bringing a strong kid to the end of his rope. A twelve year old. This had to stop. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I told you not to lie to me,” Keith growled, clenching his eyes shut. 

“I’m not.” Keith glanced at Shiro, startled at the conviction in his voice. Those watery eyes followed his lips as he said, “I will never lie to you. Keith, that wasn’t your fault. You were young, you were scared. You barely knew what necromancy was at that point. Your primary magickal practice was pyro-manipulation, so your necromantic magick acted on instinct, on a need to protect you.”

Keith sniffled. ‘That doesn’t mean what I did wasn’t wrong.”

“But you didn’t do it. Your magick did.”

“Same thing.”

“No it’s not,” Shiro said. “I grew up believing that necromancy was a practice that was separate from the user, which is why it could be stopped. Obviously that isn’t true, but I still believe that your magickal inclination doesn’t control who you are. I’ve been meaning to address this, but those things that I said about necromancers in the closet are the furthest thing from what you are.” Shiro swallowed, placing a hand over Keith’s knee, squeezing it gently and pouring every ounce of sincerity into his words. “I’m sorry for ever saying them to you because you don’t deserve all the hate you receive for simply being you. Yes, you’re a necromancer. Yes, your magick has done regrettable things. But you are also a caring hothead that would rather drown yourself in guilt then address the fact that none of what your magick did was your fault. I know that you are good because you feel an unnecessary remorse for what happened with your pops. It wasn’t your fault. ”

“No, it’s my fault. I’ve accepted that my magick isn’t want my pops thought it was.” Keith shook his head, brushing off Shiro’s comforting hand. He reluctantly settled it in his lap despite the overwhelming urge to place it on Keith’s back, to draw him into a crushing hug that would somehow expel all the negativity surrounding him. “You don’t need to try to change my mind.”

“You can’t keep living with this guilt.”

“It’s the only thing keeping me living!”

Shiro froze. 

“Keith…”

He couldn’t mean that. His brother didn’t mean that. 

“Maggot-eaters belong with the dead, right?” Keith darkly chuckled. Shiro grimaced at the phrase, something that they had overheard the other day while walking through a town square. “I… I don’t want to die,” he said thickly, voice cracking on the last word. “But why fight what everyone else wants? Since I left my home, it’s been constant. Living corpses. Necrophiliacs. Grave dwellers. Unnatural ,” he spat. His face twisted, cutting deep lines by his lips. “And I hear them and I know that none of what they are saying is true but there’s that voice that says, ‘maybe they are right.’ I’ve killed. Doesn’t that make me everything that they say I am?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Shiro pleaded. This was everything that he feared that had been festering in Keith’s mind. He wanted Keith to open up, been encouraging it, but the sheer amount of self-hatred rolling off Keith could have killed an auroric psychic in moments and Shiro didn’t know what to do. “You may have… killed. But your regret proves that you’re not heartless like they believe. You’re special, Keith. Not because of your magick, but because of your will.”

“My will to live revolves around someone I murdered.” Keith paused. His quick words settled harshly on his shoulders, forcing them down, as if he hadn’t even considered them before they left his lips. Shiro gazed at the broken boy beside him, trembling in his believed truths. “I only fight to apologize and I’ll continue to fight until I do.”

“But you need to learn to fight for yourself, not for some goal that you’ve set,” Shiro argued. “You’re a strong kid that’s been through stuff that most people will never experience in a lifetime. Don’t fall into everyone’s expectations of you.” He gently placed his hands on Keith’s shoulders. A heavy, comforting weight. When he didn’t look up, Shiro slid his fingers through his hair, cupping the back of his head, and leaned down until his eyes flickered up, connecting with his. Pain and misery swam within them. They darkened their hue, hiding the rare flecks of gold that occasionally peppered them. 

“I love you,” Shiro choked. “Necromantic magick and all. But I don’t want you to live for my sake or your pops’ sake. You need to learn to live for yourself. You have that spark inside you Keith, but the longer you hold onto the past, the more it dwindles. I can’t sit and watch you wither away.”

Keith grasped his wrists, holding them for a moment before pulling them away. 

“You won’t.”

He settled their hands between them.

“But I don’t want you to live for someone else either.”

Shiro closed his fingers over Keith’s, skimming them over his scars and black leather. He didn’t understand how Keith could live his life with his mentality. Did he not realize how his words sounded? How concerned they made Shiro? He finally has his brother back and he can’t lose him again.

“Keith, you are loved. Matt loves you, Katie loves you, my parent’s love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.” He sniffled, tears blurring his vision. “You’re my wild, kid brother. I don’t want to lose you over the guilt that resides within you. Please, we can work past this together, but I need you to promise me that you’ll try to let go. I’m not saying to stop trying to find a way to contact your father, but don’t let it be your driving force into each year of your life. You’re twelve! Take a break, go play in the fountains, eat as many sweets as you can, listen to stories. Please, be a kid.”

“But… But what if I don’t deserve that?” he meekly asked, hands tightening over Shiro’s.

“Keith,” Shiro addressed, words hardening as a slip of authority filled them. The boy looked up, a quiver to his lips. Shiro’s spirit had been broken multiple times over this past year: the arguments, the yelling, the vulnerability. They knocked him down a well of despair that took days, weeks, months to recover from. But it would all be worth it, if only he could convince Keith that his self-worth didn’t hinge on his past actions. “You deserve to be who you are. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to be a kid. And no one can tell you otherwise.”

Keith shakily nodded, a watery smile hesitantly gracing his face. Suddenly he surged forward, wrapping his thin arms around Shiro, pulling him into himself. Shiro grasped onto him. His shirt stained as tears overflowed from Keith.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, for opening up. I know it takes a lot and I’m so proud of you,” he whispered into Keith’s raven hair. “It’ll take time, but that guilt you feel will go away. It doesn’t control you. We’ll find your father. You’ll apologize, he’ll scold you for all the guilt you bottled up, and you’ll move on and discover that this world is one worth living in.”

“I’ll try,” Keith trembled. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking for.” 

After a few more minutes simply holding each other on the couch, Shiro gave one last squeeze. He leaned back and brushed the bangs from Keith’s splotchy face. 

“Why don’t we cut into that cake now?” he teased. Keith nodded after a moment, his swollen eyes taking their time to focus. 

As Shiro made to get up, Keith tugged on his arm, saying, “Wait.”

Slowly the man sat back down as Keith fidgeted. 

“Um, thank you… Takashi,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for Shiro to hear. 

His given name washed over him. It had been a year since its use and to hear it again in such a soft tone from someone he loved had his chest melting into a gooey mess. His skin warmed and a soft smile broke his face. Without words to contain his raw feelings, he ruffled the boy’s hair, earning a light swat. 

“C’mon, can’t celebrate without a little sugar.”

Keith rose from the couch, giving Shiro a small half-hug as he walked by and into the small kitchen where the frosted cake sat. Shiro chuckled as the boy swiped a frosted strawberry from the cake.

He lightly sighed. The past two years had changed his life. 

Shiro looked forward to a lifetime of love from the boy who deserved the world.