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After the war is won, Shiro has trouble sleeping. Sometimes there are nightmares but most of the time it’s more like he can’t...shut down, for lack of better phrasing. It feels like there’s some silent alarm that’s been tripped in the far corners of his head. It brings all the existential dread but none of the blind terror. It won’t let him rest, lest he be caught unawares and unprepared for whatever is coming.
Though admittedly nothing ever does, which makes it all the more frustrating.
On nights like this, he finds himself shucking off his blankets and walking with whispered steps back into the common area of the suite he shares with Keith. Sometimes he works. Sometimes he bundles himself in blankets on the couch, waiting for the fatigue to eventually take him by force.
Tonight he brews tea. He cuts the heat under the kettle before the whistle sounds but his attempts to muffle his late-night wonderings are for naught: Keith is already awake and has wandered into the kitchen after him.
“You okay?” Keith asks, stifling a yawn with his hands and sweeping his dark bangs from his eyes.
“Can’t sleep,” Shiro answers. As if this isn’t obvious. As if his restlessness isn’t a regular occurrence.
Keith hums and steps forward, closing the distance between them.
He plucks the steaming mug from Shiro’s hands and sets it safely aside before wrapping his arms around Shiro’s waist. He then presses his forehead to Shiro’s and guides them as they start to sway. A gentle rocking, side to side.
It’s soothing...reminiscent of a ship at sea. Too often Shiro feels adrift, fighting some unseen tide.
But perhaps tonight - safe in Keith’s arms as he hums some wordless tune - he can allow the waves to crash over him and take him below into a dark, dreamless sleep.