Archive of Our Own ^beta

Keith’s in the garage working on his bike when Krolia pops her head in. The bike’s a pet project; an old Honda Red Dragon that belonged to his dad, something Keith just kinda took up after his dad’s death. It’s in good enough condition to ride, but there’s always something that needs a little upkeep. That’s why Keith likes it. If he’s bored, needs to think, needs something to do with his hands, the Dragon’s always there.

He doesn’t look up until Krolia waves the phone at him and says, “we have someone out on the north highway who slipped off the road, and now his car won’t start.” She tugs on the phone again, lips pursing when it apparently won’t extend any further. Going by Keith’s intimate knowledge of their shop-slash-home, he’s surprised the coiled cord reaches even this far. “Can you take the tow truck out there and bring him in?”

Keith takes one last look at his bike. Then he cleans off his tools and places them carefully back on the tray, wiping the grease off his hands with a rag. “Sure,” he says, stretching the stiffness out of his legs when he stands. “You coming?”

“I’m busy,” Krolia says, and something indiscernible flashes in her eyes. “Christmas baking.”

Keith raises a brow. “You’re baking.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Right.” Shaking his head, Keith crosses the wide garage to the pickup parked at the far end. “Don’t burn the house down.”

“Be safe out there,” Krolia calls, a smile softening her severe features before she disappears back into the house. Keith waves goodbye, climbs into the truck and tugs on his driving gloves so he doesn’t get grease all over the steering wheel.

A whirling snowstorm greets Keith the second the garage door creaks open. Local radio’s been talking about it for days, warning everyone to get their winter tires installed—great business for Marmora Machines—and to stock up in case of snow-ins. Keith feels for whatever poor bastard decided driving into town today was a good idea. But at least the trusty truck, older than Keith itself and built up into a monster over years of repairs and modifications, shouldn’t have any trouble.

He grips the wheel tight, turns the wipers up all the way as sticky snow immediately blankets the windshield. Krolia didn’t give specifics of how far this guy is, but if he’s close enough to be getting cell signal and to know to call Marmora Machines, then it can’t be too far of a drive.

That’s too bad. Keith likes the quiet of long, lonely drives. He doesn’t get nearly enough of them in winter, when it’s too dangerous to take his bike out and spend the entire night on the highway.

Nobody else is out on the roads. Makes sense, since the snowstorm seems to be the worst today. Even the sturdy truck is being buffeted by winds, and Keith can’t see much more than a few metres ahead of him even with the piercing light of his headlights. He can’t even see the mountains in the distance. The sky’s just a blanket of grey and white. He keeps it slow and steady, driving north through the centre of town.

Twenty minutes later he’s finally on the highway. Another ten, and Keith finally spots another vehicle. An silver sports car, the kind Keith’d never be able to afford but has always wanted to drive. Pretty, but terrible for winter driving.

Just like Krolia said, it’s halfway off the road, nose-end into the ditch. Keith does a careful three-point-turn until he’s got the truck positioned just in front of the car. Then, rubbing his hands together so they’ll hopefully warm up under his thin leather gloves, he hops out of the truck and starts heading around to finally meet the person involved.

Apparently the other guy’s got the same idea. He’s getting out too, and for a second all Keith can see is a tall figure, broad shoulders, all wrapped up in a black woolen coat.

Then he notices the shock of white hair, and his heart stutters. Keith almost trips over his boots.

They get closer, and he gets his confirmation. That’s absolutely, without a doubt, Takashi Shirogane.

Shiro looks…good. As good as he always has. Better, even, since it’s been ten years since Keith last saw him—since anyone in their sleepy little town last saw him—and time has clearly been good to him. Shiro was always tall, always broad, but he’s filled out in ways that make Keith’s stomach flutter with nervous butterflies. He’s got the same strong jaw, the same patch of white hair hanging over his brow, and Keith can still see the scar across the bridge of his nose from that accident in the garage. And his eyes are the same. Dark and glinting like chips of silver mica.

“Thank you so much,” Shiro’s saying, and his voice is the same. Smoother, deeper, but infused with the same warmth that Keith feels down to his toes. “Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking, but—” His jaw snaps shut, eyes going wide. Keith stares helplessly back, cold-flush rising on his pale cheeks. “Woah. Is that…Keith?”

Keith swallows. “Yeah. Good to see you again, Shiro.”

Blinking, Shiro’s eyes do a quick sweep up and down Keith’s body. Keith’s suddenly conscious of things he’s never cared about. Like his too-messy braid, or his ragged old coat.

“You too,” Shiro says after a moment. “You look, uh. It’s good to see you too.” Then he smiles, big and bright, and Keith feels like the little kid with a crush he was ten years ago. Blood rises in his cheeks.

“You can wait in the truck while I attach the hook,” Keith says. He’s mumbling.

But Shiro doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t want to leave you out here in the cold alone.” His lips quirk into another smile.

So Keith carefully attaches the hook, painfully aware of Shiro’s eyes on him the entire time. He’s all warm and jittery, full of nervous energy. Usually Keith’d try and do something with his hands to get rid of this. Instead, he gestures for Shiro to join him in the truck, and they climb in together, forcing the doors closed and blocking out the frigid wind and ever-whirling snowflakes.

“It’s nasty out there, huh,” Shiro says, as Keith puts the truck in gear and starts driving. “I should’ve waited in Portland and picked another day to drive in.”

“What brings you back?”

Shiro grimaces. “Adam’s wedding.”

Oh. Right. Even just the mention of the name sets fire to blistering-hot jealousy that Keith hasn’t touched in years. Adam, Shiro’s boyfriend-turned-fiance after high school. Rumoured as the reason Shiro left town in the first place.

Keith’s heard about Adam’s wedding. News travels fast in a small town. But he never really paid attention to it. He and Adam were never close, and he barely knows the guy Adam’s getting married to.

“You’re going to that?”

“He invited me,” Shiro says. He sounds like he’s talking to himself more than Keith. “And when I left…I left things in a pretty bad state. I think it’s only right that I go and support him. Making amends, so to speak.”

The air between them feels awkward. Keith stares out the front window, focuses on the chaotic whirlwind of snow and clenches his frigid fingers tight around the steering wheel.

“It’s been a long time,” he says eventually. He’s still not looking at Shiro. “It’s good to have you back.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Shiro smile. Soft and subtle, but enough to make Keith’s stomach flip and the back of his neck go hot. “It’s good to be back.”

They pull up to Marmora Machines about thirty minutes later, after a drive filled mostly with small talk and silence. Keith’s learned that Shiro finished his degree and got a Masters in astrophysics, and that he’s doing research at MIT, and that he has a little black cat named Spooky. Keith’s small talk isn’t nearly as impressive. He tells Shiro he’s considering doing mechanical engineering at a trade school but that he’s not sure he wants to leave town, and he tells Shiro about finding Kosmo on the side of the highway as a puppy. 

Shiro’s apparently heard about Keith’s dad. He tells him he’s sorry and they leave it at that.

When they finally make it back the sky’s gone dark, and through the thick snowfall Keith can see the golden glow of lights on inside the house. He pulls into the garage, stops the truck and then climbs out, Shiro following right behind.

Shiro whistles. “Is that your dad’s bike?”

Keith rounds the truck to see Shiro staring at the Dragon. “Yeah. I’ve been taking care of her.”

“She looks good,” Shiro says, smiling boyishly. Keith’s heart flip-flops in his chest. “I don’t want to impose, but could I grab a glass of water?”

“Help yourself,” Keith says, gesturing at the door connecting the garage to the house. “You know where everything is.”

“Thanks, Keith.”

They enter the house together—Shiro first, Keith close behind—and the first thing Keith notices is the smell of burnt sugar. He wrinkles his nose, brings up a hand to wave through the thin layer of smoke clouding up their cramped entranceway. Krolia must’ve disabled the fire alarm.

Kosmo doesn’t come running. He’s probably in the backyard, playing in the snow. Keith’s watched him chase snowflakes for hours before.

“Mom?” Keith’s call echoes through the house. “We’re back. Shiro’s just grabbing some water.”

“Your mom’s home?”

“Yeah. She’s baking.”

Shiro’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Keith huffs a laugh. “I know.” It feels like when they were younger, when Shiro was the teenager working in the garage and Keith would come out and watch him work, and Shiro would tease him whenever he made faces at Krolia and Tex being too affectionate. It feels easy. “I didn’t believe it either.”

“I heard that.” Krolia emerges from the kitchen, hands on her hips, face twisted into a mock scowl. “If you’re going to be shitty, you don’t get any cookies.”

“Are they even edible?”

“Watch it.”

Shiro laughs. Rich, warm, making Keith’s knees feel weak. “I’d love a cookie, Mrs. Kogane,” he says cheerfully, and anybody who didn’t know Shiro would think he’s being entirely sincere. Krolia just narrows her eyes.

Then, all at once, her expression changes. Suddenly she’s smiling, too wide and unnatural. “Shiro! It’s so good to see you again!” She waves him into the kitchen. For lack of other options, Keith follows. He winces at the sight of charred lumps of…something…sitting on a pan on the stove. “What brings you into town?”

“Adam’s getting married,” Shiro says. He’s already reaching for a glass, filling it up with water from the tap. Some part of Keith goes warm at that. How effortlessly comfortable he seems. “I got an invitation, so I figured this was a good reason to come back and see everyone again.”

Krolia’s smile sharpens. “Do you have anywhere to stay yet?”

“Not yet. I was planning on finding a motel when I got here, but that got kind of sidetracked by the snowstorm.” Shiro frowns into his glass of water. “Hopefully they’re not all snowed in.”

“Don’t worry about a motel. You can stay with us.”

Keith looks at his mom, sharply. She’s not looking back.

“The spare room is still made up for guests,” Krolia says evenly. Keith knows her too well to be fooled. There’s something wicked in the slant of her smile. “You’ve used it before.” Her gaze flicks to Keith. “And I’m sure Keith wouldn’t mind having you around.”

Keith glares at her. Feels his face flush red.

“He used to have the biggest crush—”

“Mom.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro interrupts, holding up his hands placatingly. He’s laughing, eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll agree to stay, on one condition.” He catches Keith’s gaze, offering a softer smile that makes Keith’s heartbeat stutter in his chest. “Stop trying to embarrass your poor son.”

“You have a deal,” Krolia says. The sharp edge of her grin softens. “Now bring it in, Shirogane.”

Shiro laughs good-naturedly, leaning in for an easy hug, patting Krolia twice on the back with his prosthetic hand before pulling back. “It’s good to see you, Krolia.” His smile falls, sincerity flooding the gunmetal grey of his eyes. “I was so sorry to hear about Tex. If there’s anything I can do to pay my respects, or if you ever need anything—”

Krolia shakes him off. “Don’t worry about me, Shiro.” She turns away, plants her hands on her hips as she surveys the mess covering every inch of the kitchen. Keith winces in sympathy. He’s not sure whether it’s for the mess she’s gotta clean up or the obvious awkwardness in her stance at the mention of Tex. If there’s one thing him and his mom have in common—and they have a lot in common—it’s their emotional vulnerability. Or lack thereof.

“C’mon,” Keith says, to break the silence. “Let’s get your stuff in the guest room.”

They grab Shiro’s suitcase from the trunk of his rental car and his duffel bag from the backseat. Shiro knows where the guest bedroom is but Keith leads him there anyway, swings the door open and gestures Shiro inside, briefly shows him the closet space and points out the nearest bathroom. “Mom renovated it a couple years ago,” he says offhandedly, “so the tap doesn’t leak anymore.” Then he gives Shiro some time to get settled, vaguely offering the promise of a movie if Shiro’s interested.

Keith ends up in the living room, shaking hands curled around a cold beer dripping condensation. His heart’s racing. He turned on the TV ten minutes ago and hasn’t absorbed anything.

It’s just. All these years, and Keith’s still a kid with a crush.

A few minutes later Shiro appears from the hallway. He’s changed out of his winter coat, wearing nothing but dark-wash jeans and a tight-fitting black longsleeve. Keith’s eyes get caught—on the stretch of fabric across his muscled chest, on the shift of muscle in his shoulders as he collapses on the couch with a sigh. His head tips back, eyes drifting shut. Keith’s hands twitch around the neck of his beer.

“It’s been a long day,” Shiro says after a second. His voice is soft. Keith feels it on his skin like fingertips. “Thanks again, Keith. You’re a lifesaver.”

Keith swallows. “No problem. Happy to help.”

They sit together in silence. Shiro doesn’t seem to find it awkward, but Keith feels like he’s about to crumble apart. Every nerve seems tuned to Shiro’s presence. Even when he turns back to the TV, flipping through channels until he lands on some action movie he’s never heard of, the hairs on his arms and legs prickle whenever Shiro shifts his weight.

Keith picks at the label on his beer, stares unseeing at the TV screen as something explodes. Snow whirls just outside the window, blanketing the world in white.

Another unrealistic explosion illuminates the dark living room. It’s a pretty terrible movie.

This doesn’t need to be weird. Shiro doesn’t think it’s weird. Or if he does, he’s not showing it. So Keith takes a deep breath, holds it just behind his ribs before slowly exhaling. “Want a drink?” he asks, eyes flicking in Shiro’s direction.

Shiro grins, easy and lazy. Warmth climbs the back of Keith’s neck. “Depends.” Shiro’s eyes flick down to the beer cradled in Keith’s lap. “Do you have the same terrible taste in beer as your dad?”

A little bit of the tension in Keith’s shoulders eases. “We don’t do craft beer here. That’s a city thing.”

Shiro’s eyes widen. His mechanical hand presses dramatically to his chest. “Keith, are you calling me a city boy? Have I really fallen that far?” He shakes his head, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “I really have been gone too long.”

Mouth twitching, Keith shrugs. He takes a swig of his own beer.

“As long as you never call me a city slicker. I don’t think I could ever recover from that.”

Keith shrugs again. “As long as you still know how to change a tire.”

A grin spreads across Shiro’s face. “Well, then I haven’t disappointed you yet. I actually have a bike back home that I’ve been working on. Not as nice as yours, but I’m pretty proud of her.”

They talk over the movie—about Shiro’s bike, about the terrible beer after Shiro levers himself off the couch to get one from the downstairs fridge—and Keith gets progressively more buzzed. Until it’s a pleasant warmth, a slight haziness to his sharpest edges. He laughs at Shiro’s terrible jokes, complains about the incomprehensible plot of the movie they’re watching, teases Shiro for deciding to drive in during a snowstorm. 

It’s easy. It’s familiar. It’s a reminder of all those butterflies he had when he was a kid. Except now it’s a lot worse, because Shiro’s older and put-together and successful—and Keith’s not a little kid anymore. He’s an adult. Shiro’s not talking to him like the son of his employer.

And the more they drink, the later it gets, the more the movie goes on…the closer they get on the couch. Until Keith’s leaning against the warmth of Shiro’s side, a blanket wrapped around them both, popcorn settled in Shiro’s lap. Goosebumps cover Keith’s whole body, his face flushed and his heartbeat going wild—but he still doesn’t pull away. It’s too easy to just snuggle further into Shiro’s warmth.

Conversation eventually rolls around to the whole reason Shiro’s even in town. Adam’s wedding.

“When is it?” Keith asks, halfway through slowly nursing his third beer. They’ve put on a different movie, a complicated thriller that Keith’s barely paying attention to. “I know it’s soon, but…”

“One week,” Shiro says. There’s a finality to his voice. He’s staring resolutely at the TV screen. “Next Saturday.”

“Why’d you come in so early?”

A sigh slips through Shiro’s teeth. “Adam asked me to. I think he wants us to get together beforehand, y’know, so we can all be okay with things. Better to get that over with before the wedding.” He laughs humourlessly. “Or maybe he just wants to rub it in my face that he’s getting married and I haven’t had a serious relationship since college. I couldn’t blame him, really. Not after how I left things.”

Curiosity burns in Keith’s throat. “What happened?” he asks, before he can bite back the words.

Shiro huffs out a sigh, runs a hand back through his hair. “Long story short, I wanted to leave town, and Adam didn’t. That last fight just got…pretty nasty.” He winces. “I may have told him he was never going to amount to anything.”

Oh. “That’s rough.”

“You could say that, yeah.” Another humourless laugh, Shiro shaking his head as his mouth twitches into a smirk. “But he showed me, I guess. I mean, he’s the one getting married.” His shoulders slump. “To my other ex, no less.”

“Shit, really?”

“Really.”

Keith stares into the narrow opening of his beer, taps his fingers anxiously against the neck. It makes enough sense. In a small town like this, there’s only so many available gay guys. It stands to reason that two of the guys Shiro dated would end up dating each other.

“That sucks,” Keith says eventually. It feels kinda meaningless, but it’s all he can think to say.

Luckily, Shiro just laughs. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

They sit in silence for a long few seconds. Keith takes another swig of his beer, barely tasting the bitterness on his tongue as he stares awkwardly at the snow swirling outside the window. His head’s going in all different directions. He’s thinking about Shiro, and thinking about his old jealous instincts, and thinking about the fact that Shiro will be staying here for at least a week. Some vindictive, petty, childish part of him is relishing in the fact that since Adam is getting married, it means he’s no longer competition.

It’s stupid. Shiro lives in Boston. There’s bound to be other competition.

“It’d be so much less awkward if I had someone to bring,” Shiro says suddenly. Keith glances over to see him frowning at the popcorn bowl. “If I had a date, then I wouldn’t have to worry about any of that, you know? We could just be amicable exes who’ve both moved on.” His laughter’s a little more self-deprecating, and Keith’s chest twinges just a little bit. Shiro’s still staring at his own hands. “I guess I’m just—I’m too busy to date, you know? Which is such a pathetic excuse, but it’s true.”

“Why not bring a date anyway?”

“I think I’d need to be dating someone for that to work, Keith.”

Keith shrugs. “Not if you pretend. Just find someone and say you’re dating.” He’s pretty sure that’s the plotline to at least a dozen of those awful romcoms his mom pretends not to love. The exact same ones Keith pretends not to watch whenever he walks through the living room and they’re playing. “Maybe you could invite someone in from Boston. One of your friends.”

When Keith glances back at Shiro, Shiro’s staring at him. His eyes are wide, his face set in some indecipherable expression. It makes Keith nervous just looking at him. Makes his face feel warm.

“Most of my friends are either in relationships, busy over the Christmas break, or both,” Shiro says. He sounds thoughtful, almost like he’s leading into something. His mouth quirks in a smile. “But you’re right here…”

Keith’s heart stutters.

“What?”

“It was your idea,” Shiro points out. His knee bumps against Keith’s. His metal finger taps gently against his beer, a soft clink clink clink that’s almost exactly in time with Keith’s rabbit-fast heartbeat. “And we know each other pretty well. I think it could work.” There’s laughter in his voice.

“Sure,” Keith blurts out.

Keith’s an idiot.

Now it’s Shiro’s turn to look surprised. “Huh?”

Well, he’s in too deep now. And Keith’s a lot of things, but he’s not a coward. He’s not gonna back down. “I’ll do it,” he says, biting the side of his tongue. There’s a mess of fluttering, nervous, terrified feelings in his chest. “It can’t be that hard.”

“Keith, I…” Shiro blinks at him, mouth half-open in a shocked ‘o’. “I wasn’t serious. You don’t have to.”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

Shiro peers at him. Really looks at him, cutting into him with dark, silvery eyes, brow furrowed and mouth pressed into a line. The angles of his face are thrown into sharp relief by the harsh lights from the TV screen, and Keith’s suddenly desperately glad that the darkness conceals his blush. His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks, his voice gentle, placating. Giving Keith the out. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, or do anything you don’t want to do, or…” His lips purse. “Seriously, Keith, thank you, but you don’t have to.”

“I said I didn’t mind,” Keith says, maybe a bit too harshly. He swallows the frustrated noise threatening to climb his throat. “It’s only a week.”

“Right,” Shiro says uncertainly. He stares at Keith a second longer. Then his face breaks into a relieved smile, and his hand closes around Keith’s knee, the metal cooled by his beer and slightly damp from condensation, soaking through Keith’s pants. Keith relishes the contact anyway. “If you’re serious, Keith, thank you. I’d really appreciate it. It’ll be so much less awkward with you—with a date.”

Keith nods, feeling a little numb. His entire world’s narrowed to the feeling of Shiro’s hand curled around his knee, his thumb massaging tiny circles just above Keith’s kneecap.

He’s going to regret this.

The next morning over breakfast—eggs and bacon made by Shiro, payment for letting him stay in their home that he offers with a dimpled grin and a flourish of a spatula—Keith and Shiro talk business. First they outline their backstory, how exactly they got together. Their story is pretty simple; after Keith’s dad’s death two years ago, Shiro reached out to offer condolences. That turned into catching up, which turned into talking regularly, which turned into long-distance dating. They’ve been official for almost a year now, and this is only the second time they’ve met up in person. 

The first was that one trip to the Grand Canyon Keith and his mom took six months ago. Keith’s private enough that it makes sense he wouldn’t tell anyone he was actually meeting up with his boyfriend.

It does make Keith wonder why Shiro never did reach out after his dad died. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to hear just how much Shiro forgot about his small-town roots.

After that, Shiro asks what Keith’s comfortable with. “We don’t have to kiss, or anything,” Shiro says, almost rushed, and Keith’s cheeks go warm as he wonders whether Shiro can tell he’s never actually been in a relationship before. “But I’m a pretty tactile person. Adam and Curtis will probably both be suspicious if there isn’t a little bit of casual PDA.” He raises his hands warily. “But only as much as you’re comfortable with. We can just do handholding, or I can be a little more touchy if you’re okay with that.”

Keith shrugs. “I’m okay with that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Shiro. It’s fine.”

More than fine. But Shiro doesn’t need to hear that.

They do decide on one rule: no kissing. Shiro’s the one who puts that in place. Keith doesn’t think too hard about why, ignoring the bitter taste of rejection in the back of his throat. It’s a good reminder: none of this is real.

When Krolia comes in from working on Shiro’s rental car, they tell her about the plan. They’ll need her cooperation to make this believable, after all. Can’t have anyone asking her for gossip and her not knowing what’s going on. Krolia glances between them for a second, eyes narrowed, before she finally agrees. Then she pulls Keith into the garage without another word.

“Mom, what—”

She stops when the door’s closed, hand falling away from its grip around Keith’s arm. “Are you comfortable with this?” she asks. Her eyes are sharp, her jaw set. Feels like her gaze is pulling out all his secrets.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “It was my idea.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mom, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Suddenly her sharp, serious expression unfurls into something terrifying. Her mouth curves into a grin, tongue poking against the backs of her teeth. Keith’s stomach swoops up into his throat. “Okay,” she says, her voice dripping with false innocence. “If you’re sure.” Suddenly her hands land on his shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him back towards the door. “Get back in there, tiger.”

Keith bites down on his groan. Great.

At least she’s on board. Which means they’re as ready as they can be.

That’s what leads them to where they are now: Keith pulling his truck into the parking lot of the best diner in town, snow dusting their hair and shoulders as they bundle themselves through the door, gloved hands intertwined. “We should practice,” Shiro’d said, after they’d laid out their history and come up with a gameplan for the wedding, and for any potential pre-wedding events. “So we can get comfortable with the idea. And if we decide we’re not comfortable, then we can call it off early.”

So, that’s what this is. A lunch date. Fake lunch date, Keith reminds himself.

The diner is mostly empty. Probably because, despite the snowstorm blowing over last night and leaving clear skies behind, the streets are still covered in thick snow. It’s empty enough that Keith barely feels that sticky, self-conscious feeling in his chest as he and Shiro head to a booth in the corner, plucking a couple of laminated menus from the metal rack at the front door.

“Let me get your coat,” Shiro says in a low voice.

Keith’s cheeks, already flushed with cold, go bright red. He huffs a laugh. “Are you trying to be a gentleman?” He lets Shiro help him out of his wool coat—the nicest one he owns, with blocks of dark grey and red plaid fabric—and then they tumble themselves onto one bench, thighs pressed together and Shiro’s muscled shoulder bumping against Keith’s own. 

Keith’s hands are shaking when he opens the menu. He ignores it. Just like he’s ignoring the warmth of Shiro at his side, the electricity racing through his nerves with every touch.

“I’ve missed this place,” Shiro says, eyes scanning the menu. “I still haven’t found anywhere with better baked mac and cheese.”

“Because it’s the best.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Keith shrugs, biting his lip on a grin. “You can’t beat homemade.”

“Good point.”

Keith rakes his eyes over the menu, not reading any of it. His head’s too focused on Shiro. At least he knows everything on the menu by heart.

A waiter approaches their table a few seconds later, while Keith’s still staring at the menu. “Hi, welcome to the Garrett Family Diner! I’m Lance, I’ll be your—holy shit, is that Shiro?”

Keith whips his head up so fast it almost gives him whiplash. Sure enough, there’s Lance, standing at their table with a pen and notepad, staring at them in open-mouthed shock. They’re not rivals/frenemies/whatever like they were in high school—they’re something almost like friends, now—but Keith immediately wants to wring Lance’s neck a little bit. Especially since he still hasn’t stopped staring.

Of course it’d be his luck that Lance is working right now.

“Hey, Lance,” Shiro says genially. Keith doesn’t bother wondering how Shiro remembers him. Everyone knows everyone, in their town, and Lance’s greatest talent is making himself loud enough that most people can’t forget him no matter how hard they try. “Nice seeing you again.” 

Shiro’s arm suddenly wraps loosely around Keith’s shoulders. Lance’s eyes almost pop out of his head.

“Wait, are you two a thing?”

Keith groans. “Scream a little louder, Lance, I don’t think the entire town heard you.”

“Since when was this a thing?” Lance points his pen at Keith accusingly, brows furrowing furiously. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Shiro were a thing? That’s the sort of thing friends tell each other!”

“I wanted to keep it private.”

“Screw private!” 

“It’s not like it’s any of your business—”

“Uh, yeah it is!” Lance waves his hands around. “We’re friends! Friends tell each other when they’re dating the guy who was everyone’s childhood crush! It’s written into the bro code!”

Keith scowls, tenses his thighs under the table like he’s preparing to launch out of his seat. “There’s no such thing as the bro code—”

“Ahem.” Shiro conspicuously clears his throat. He’s hiding a smile behind his fist, and Keith’s face goes red with embarrassment. At least Lance isn’t faring any better. “I think we’re ready to order?” He glances sidelong at Keith. “Right, baby?” The butterflies in Keith’s stomach go a little crazy.

Lance’s eyebrows shoot up. Baby, he mouths at Keith.

Keith gives him the finger.

They place their orders. Keith glares at Lance until he disappears, tossing the promise of interrogating Keith about this later over his shoulder as he heads towards the kitchen. Keith doesn’t stop glaring. “The whole town’s gonna know by the end of today,” he says without tearing his eyes away, knuckles taut and white as he clenches his fists on his thighs. “No backing out now.”

Now that Lance knows, soon everyone will know. A thrill runs up Keith’s spine.

Not real , he reminds himself.

He’s suddenly distracted from the whirlwind of annoyance and excitement in his stomach when Shiro leans in, mouth brushing against Keith’s hair. “Did you want to back out? I hope that wasn’t too much, just now.”

Keith’s heart skips. “What?”

“You know.” Shiro runs his knuckles down Keith’s arm. Back up, then down again. Soothing. “This. And me calling you baby. I know we didn’t discuss pet names, but it’s what I called—”

“It’s fine,” Keith blurts breathlessly. He swallows. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Shiro hasn’t stopped stroking his arm. “Good. That’s good.”

They’re silent. Keith’s tongue’s caught in his throat. His body is desperate to lean into Shiro’s solid warmth, to soak up the feeling and nestle his head in the crook of Shiro’s shoulder. Sitting here like this feels easy, feels real. Too real. But Keith can’t force himself to pull away, can’t make himself hold strong against the urge to just…pretend, for a second. It’d go against character, anyway. They’re supposed to be dating.

So he nuzzles into Shiro’s side, lets out a long, slow breath as tension eases from his shoulders. Shiro’s arm wraps tighter around him.

It’s not real.

Their first fake date is pretty successful. They have a delicious lunch, Keith sees Lance obnoxiously texting someone behind the counter and not-so-inconspicuously taking candid pictures of them, and afterwards they head back to Keith and his mom’s place to play video games. On Monday they go on another fake date—dinner and a movie, and Shiro insists on paying, on pulling Keith’s seat out, on keeping an arm around him in the theatre. Keith feels like he’s tipping over the edge of a cliff for the entirety of that date.

Tuesday starts with Shiro getting a text from Adam inviting him to lunch. “He says he wants to smooth things over,” Shiro says, brow furrowed as he stares down at his phone. “Him and Curtis both want to make sure there won’t be any, uh…discomfort, at the wedding.” His metal hand taps an agitated rhythm against the plastic tabletop.

Keith swallows a mouthful of bitter coffee. “Want me to come?”

The tension in Shiro’s broad shoulders melts away, his eyes flicking up to Keith’s as gratitude paints his face. “Would you? I know it’ll be awkward, but it’d be so much worse with just me, Adam and Curtis.”

“Sure,” Keith says. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for.”

Shiro laughs. His feet nudge Keith’s under the kitchen table.

A few hours later, they pull into the parking lot of a nearby restaurant in the trusty pickup. Shiro doesn’t reach for the door even after Keith’s put the truck in park and pulled his keys out of the ignition. His hand is tapping on his knee, brow furrowed as he stares out the frosty windshield. Keith doesn’t say anything, just watches and waits as Shiro bites the inside of his cheek and seems to be having a full argument with himself inside his head.

Eventually, Shiro grabs the door handle. He rolls his shoulders, lets loose a sigh. Keith waits for him to get out before he follows.

“You ready?” Keith asks, meeting Shiro around the front of the truck.

Shiro huffs a short, mirthless laugh. “Definitely not.” His gaze slides from the restaurant’s windows to Keith. A smile plays across the nervous twist of his lips, and his hand finds Keith’s, fingers twining together. “Thanks for coming, Keith.”

Keith nods, offering a short smile of his own. “I’ve got your back, Shiro.”

Shiro squeezes his hand.

They walk into the restaurant together. A blast of hot air sweeps Keith’s messy bangs out of his face, plastering him to the melting snow covering the rest of his hair. Scowling, Keith shakes a hand through his hair until it falls over his brow again. Shiro laughs, loud and unbidden, and suddenly his arm wraps around Keith’s shoulders and tugs him into his side. Keith tries not to notice how perfectly he fits into Shiro’s hold. He leads them through the restaurant, brings them to a table in the back corner that’s already got two men sitting pressed together on one side of the table.

Lingering, bitter jealousy floods Keith’s mouth when they get close enough for Adam to look up. He burrows closer against Shiro’s side, wraps his arm around Shiro’s waist. It’s instinct.

It’s hard to tell behind the glasses, but Keith’s pretty sure he sees Adam’s eyes narrow.

They come to a stop right next to the table. Curtis and Adam both have glasses of water, but they haven’t ordered anything. Keith glances between them—at Curtis, smiling genially, and Adam, face stern and unreadable—and feels Shiro’s arm tighten around his shoulders, holding him impossibly closer. The silence feels like a fog between them, thick enough Keith can taste it.

“Shiro,” Curtis says, finally breaking the silence. He stands, offering his hand to Shiro. “It’s so good to see you again.”

Shiro takes his hand. “You too, Curtis. It’s been a while.”

Curtis laughs. “A pretty long while, Shirogane.”

Adam doesn’t stand, and he doesn’t offer a hand. Keith just barely stops himself from glaring at Adam the way he used to when he was a kid and Adam would come by the shop to visit Shiro, and instead just quietly thanks Shiro when he helps him out of his coat. They sit down together, and Shiro’s arm immediately stretches across the back of Keith’s seat. His knuckles run up and down Keith’s arm.

Silence settles over the table. Keith bites the side of his tongue.

“So, Shiro,” Curtis starts, glancing wide-eyed between Shiro and Adam, “I didn’t know you and Keith were together.” His grin’s just a little too wide, his dark eyes just slightly tinged with panic. Apparently he can feel the awkward, belligerent atmosphere just as much as Keith can. “Congratulations to you both! How did that happens? I didn’t think you’d come back to visit since you left.”

Shiro breathes out a sigh. Keith feels an ease of tension in his body. “I didn’t. Keith and I reconnected a couple years ago, we kept talking, and, well, one thing led to another.” He smiles at Keith. It feels so real, so sincere, that Keith’s breath catches in his throat. “We started dating about eleven months ago.”

Curtis nods thoughtfully. “Will he be coming to the wedding? You’re completely welcome, Keith; the more the merrier!”

“Yeah, I’ll be coming.” Keith’s gaze slides to Adam. Adam’s staring at him. “Congrats on the engagement.”

Adam says nothing.

Curtis clears his throat. “Thanks, Keith. We’ll be happy to have you both.”

More silence. Keith’s hands twitch in his lap.

“Shiro.” Adam’s tone is clipped. Shiro’s arm tightens around Keith’s shoulders. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

Shiro glances down at Keith. There’s a question in his eyes, so Keith nods, reaches up to give Shiro’s hand a quick squeeze where it’s curled gently around his bicep. “Sure,” Shiro says after a second. “We’ll be right back, baby.” He pats Keith’s arm, slightly settling the nervous skitter of Keith’s heartbeat, then stands up and grabs his coat. He follows Adam when he heads for the restaurant’s front door and disappears outside beyond the view of the windows.

“Ah. That was…awkward.” 

Keith turns back around to see Curtis smiling sheepishly at him. “Yeah,” Keith says. He rolls his shoulders.

“Well, I don’t think we’ve ever spoken for longer than five minutes before.” Curtis reaches across the table, offering a hand. Keith takes it. The handshake’s firm, Curtis’ hands much softer than Keith’s calloused, crooked fingers. “It’s nice to meet you properly, Keith.” His mouth spreads into a smile. “I really am happy for you and Shiro.”

“Thanks,” Keith says. “Congrats on your wedding. Must be exciting.”

Curtis laughs. “You have no idea.”

They make idle conversation for maybe five minutes. Mostly Curtis, with Keith speaking when spoken to and forcing himself to engage. Small talk just gives him hives. But Curtis is nice, cheerful in that relaxed, quiet way that Keith’s always liked in others.

Eventually Shiro and Adam come storming back into the restaurant. Shiro’s expression is thunderous—mouth set in a scowl, eyes dark and furious—and Keith’s up out of his chair before Shiro’s reached their table. “Shiro? What’s wrong—?”

“We’re leaving,” Shiro snaps. He boxes Keith against his side with an arm around his shoulder, grabs Keith’s coat with his free hand. Keith’s stomach swoops up into his throat as Shiro drags him towards the door, almost stumbling over his feet when Shiro abruptly stops and mechanically jerks him back into his coat. It’s all happening so fast that his head’s kind of spinning. Then Shiro’s arm is around Keith again, they’re stepping into the swirling snow, and Keith hears the sound of two male voices arguing before it’s swallowed up by the wind outside.

Shiro doesn’t stop moving until they’re back in the truck. That’s when he finally slows down.

“Shiro?”

Shiro’s hands curl into trembling fists on his thighs. He stares out the front window of the truck, jaw twitching. There’s fury and frustration written all over him; in the set of his shoulders, the sharpness of his eyes.

“What happened back there?” Keith reaches out before he realizes what he’s doing. His hand curls around Shiro’s bicep. 

All at once, Shiro slumps. He collapses back in the seat, tips his head back, lets his eyes fall shut. A groan spills into the silence of the truck. Keith watches him, trying not to stare at the angle of his jaw or the slope of his nose. “We got into a fight,” Shiro says after a second, exhaustion seeping from his voice. “Just like we always do.” He shakes his head. “Apparently he’s not happy that I’m dating someone from back home. I mean, just because I didn’t want to do the long distance thing when I was younger doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it now.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“It’s just—it’s so like him.” Shiro’s eyes flash open. The gunmetal grey pins Keith in place. “Did you know he used to be jealous of you?”

“He…what?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that pathetic?” Shaking his head, Shiro reaches up, runs a hand through the messy fringe of white falling over his brow. The anger’s gone from his voice. Now he just seems tired, and Keith squeezes his arm comfortingly without really meaning to. “When we were dating, he thought I spent too much time with you. Even though, y’know, spending time with you was just part of my job.” Shiro frowns. “But that was it. He didn’t like me spending time with anyone but him. So when I told him I was skipping town, and he could either come with me or I’d be leaving him behind…that didn’t go over well.”

Keith…doesn’t really know what to say. So he doesn’t say anything. Just trails his hand up to Shiro’s shoulder, digs his fingertips into the muscle of Shiro’s back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

Shiro sighs. He drags a hand down his face. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. This is what always happens—it’s always one of us, starting these stupid fights. Next time it’ll probably be my fault.”

“Are you still gonna go to the wedding?”

Are we still pretending to date?

That’s the question Keith cares about. Because it’s only been three days, but he’s addicted to Shiro’s casual touches, the dimples of his smile, the way his low, magnetic voice curls around Keith’s name. He’s not ready to let it go yet. He hasn’t figured out the words he’d use if Shiro decided to leave town tonight and go back to his life, a life where Keith doesn’t have a place.

Relief bursts in his chest when Shiro shakes his head and says, “yeah, I’m still going. I’m going to see this through, no matter how much it sucks.” His mouth quirks into a grin. “And at least I’ll have you.”

“You’ve got me,” Keith echoes. He hopes Shiro can’t hear just how true that is.

They spend the rest of the week together. Shiro takes Keith out on a couple more fake dates—skating at the ice rink in the town centre, where they check each other against the boards and giggle while moms with their kids give them dirty looks for roughhousing, and sharing hot cocoa at the local coffee shop—but most of their time’s spent at Keith and Krolia’s place. They go through a few movies together, or play games on Keith’s beat up old consoles, tucked under the same blanket on the couch with Kosmo laying at their feet. 

Sometimes Krolia walks by, smiles softly in a way that makes Keith’s cheeks flush. Sometimes she loudly announces she’ll be gone for a couple hours, and that they have the entire house to themselves.

Friday night, they go to the park. “I need to go for a walk,” Shiro’d said, staring at his garment bag where it was hanging next to Keith’s hastily-rented suit. “Clear my head. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

It’s a clear night. Stars scatter the sky like tiny glittering diamonds, winking out behind the gnarled branches of bare trees as Keith and Shiro walk down the half-cleared path. A bracing chill keeps Keith’s nose tucked into his scarf, keeps him pressed up against the warmth of Shiro’s side with a strong, solid arm around his shoulders. It’s late enough that Keith can’t see anyone else out with them. It feels like they’re alone in the world, walking through a peaceful solitude of frost-dusted trees and glittering snow under their feet, the wide expanse of the sky opening around them.

“Beautiful night,” Keith comments, breaking the calm silence. 

Shiro breathes out, slow and steady. “Gorgeous,” he says quietly. 

A second later, Shiro slips on a patch of ice.

He goes tumbling backwards, arms flailing desperately for something to latch onto, eyes wide with alarm. “Shit—” Keith grabs for him, tries to stabilize him, but Shiro’s arm slips through his grasping, clumsy hands and he lands on his ass. Soft, powdery snow sprays up around him as he topples over backwards. Then he’s just laying there on his back, long legs sprawled out, complete bewilderment on his face as he stares up at the sky.

Keith bursts out laughing.

He bends over, curls his arms around his stomach and laughs until he can’t breathe. His lungs ache from the cold air, tears frosting on his lashes. 

Something solid suddenly hits Keith’s shoulder. Cold snow sprays across his jaw.

He glances up, still hiccuping around his laughter, to see Shiro sitting up. There’s a second snowball carefully enclosed in his gloved fingers. Shiro grins at him, breathtaking and wicked.

Keith’s eyes narrow. “You sure you want to start this?”

Shiro’s grin curls into a slow, lazy smirk. “I already have.”

He throws the snowball. Keith dives out of the way, lands on his knees in the snow just off the path. Cold soaks through his jeans but he’s already balling his hands around a lump of snow, shaping it into the perfect ball before turning at the waist and hurling it in Shiro’s direction. It hits him square in the chest, knocks an oof out of him, and a grin blooms on Keith’s face as adrenaline lights up his body. His hands are already forming another snowball.

“Oh, it is on,” Shiro shouts, laughter in his voice. He scrambles to his feet.

Keith blocks the next snowball with a raised arm, eyes squeezed shut against the spray of snow. He’s on his feet a second later, sprinting away from Shiro, ducking behind a tree as another snowball sails past his shoulder. Laughter bubbles up in his throat, desperate and giddy and a little hysteric as he ducks around the tree and throws another snowball that narrowly misses Shiro’s head.

They play like children, laughing and running and hiding behind trees. Despite the cold snow Keith’s whole body feels warmed by laughter, his fingertips tingling, his heart pounding in his chest. Something inside him knocks loose, fills him with energy. 

Shiro gives as good as he gets. Eventually they’re both panting, both covered in snow—dusting their coats, melting in their hair—and they pause with the pathway between them. Keith’s chest heaves with every breath, his face flushed from cold and from the metallic intensity in Shiro’s narrowed eyes. A thrill runs up his spine, buzzing across his skin, trembling in his tensed muscles. Part of him wants to tackle Shiro into the snow. Part of him wants to run until his legs give out.

“Truce?” Shiro asks, breath clouding around his mouth. 

Keith grins. “If you want to stop me, you’ll have to catch me.”

Shiro’s grin turns predatory. Keith breaks into a sprint, laughter aching in his lungs. His feet stumble in the powdery snow. His heart’s racing, his blood singing. 

It doesn’t take too long for Shiro to catch him, with those long legs. Strong arms wrap around Keith’s middle, knocking the air from his lungs as they both go tumbling to the ground. A bark of laughter punches out of his chest as they crash into the snow. Shiro’s weight holds him down, presses him into the cold snow, and all Keith can do is gasp in the air that was knocked out of him, laughing breathlessly, cold hands trapped against Shiro’s chest. He feels lightheaded.

After a second, Shiro pushes up. His mouth crooks into a grin, eyes glinting. “Looks like I caught you,” he purrs.

Keith realizes a second too late how close they are. How Shiro’s face is flushed with cold, his high cheekbones almost glowing red. How long Shiro’s lashes are, framing the liquid silver of his eyes, the very tips white with frost. How warm Shiro’s body is against his own, pressing against his chest. Snow soaks into the back of Keith’s coat. He barely feels it, heart fluttering as he stares at the slow softening of Shiro’s mouth.

“You caught me,” Keith repeats. His voice is low. Almost ragged, almost breathless.

Shiro hasn’t looked away. His gaze flickers everywhere; up to Keith’s hair, down the slope of his jaw, settling somewhere below his eyes. “I did.”

Nervousness flutters to life in Keith’s belly. “You said that already.”

A laugh puffs into the space between them. Keith feels it against his mouth, almost tastes it on his tongue. “Oh,” Shiro says. Their bodies are frozen in place. Legs tangled together, chests brushing with every breath. “I guess I did.” 

It’d be easy. It’d be so easy, to haul Shiro down into a kiss. To rear up and nip at his lower lip, to draw out a laugh, to tempt him into a proper kiss. Or maybe Shiro could bend down, press his mouth to Keith’s, kiss him until even his frostbitten fingers are buzzing with a pleasant, dizzying warmth. Keith wants it, so desperately there’s an ache beating against his ribcage.

Shiro blinks. 

He pushes off Keith too suddenly, leaves Keith gasping at the loss. Shiro gets to his feet before Keith’s even up on his elbows. He offers Keith a hand, and when Keith takes it, pulls him to his feet with barely a grunt of effort.

“We should head back home,” Shiro says. “Big day tomorrow.”

Keith nods. “Yeah.”

Disappointment sits like a heavy stone in his gut. He doesn’t let himself think about it.

But he can’t stop thinking about what it’d be like if Shiro kissed him.

It’s a beautiful wedding. The decor is gorgeous, all tasteful pale golds and deep burgundy and blues so dark they’re almost black. Keith and Shiro are sitting somewhere near the back, but they’re near enough that Keith can see both Adam and Curtis start to cry when they say their vows.

From the corner of his eye, Keith sees Shiro’s tiny smile, sees the tears shining unshed in his eyes. He puts a hand on Shiro’s knee, raises his brows in a questioning look—but Shiro just smiles at him. He stands up and claps when everyone else does, when Adam and Curtis finally tie the knot and kiss, and Keith follows him up and joins in until his hands feel numb. There’s a buzz of emotions in his chest, zipping around too fast for Keith to make sense of any of it.

The reception is just as beautiful. Curtis and Adam’s first dance is slow and emotional, and Keith presses himself into the arm Shiro has around his shoulders and tries not to think too hard about the fact that the wedding’s coming to an end soon. There are speeches, and toasts, and then everyone settles in to eat.

It’s not until later, after the dance floor’s opened up and people are getting drunk and having fun, that it starts to hit.

After today, it’s over.

Keith’s fingers tighten around the stem of his empty wine glass, sliding it in slow circles on the tablecloth. He stares out at the dance floor, watches as a couple old classmates of his dance drunkenly to some bubbly pop song.

Shiro collapses into the seat next to him. “Man, catching up is exhausting,” he huffs, head tipping back, shoulders slumping as he sinks low.

He’s been making the rounds all evening. Dragged into the rounds, really. That’s the thing about two of your exes getting married, Keith guesses; most of their friends and family were once yours, too.

Keith shrugs. “That’s what happens when you don’t come back for ten years.”

Shiro huffs a laugh. “Yeah, good point.”

Another pop song comes on, something a little sweeter, a little slower. Keith can’t stop staring at Shiro; his suit jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the muscles and tendons of his left forearm and the engineering masterpiece of his right. His hair’s a little messy, there’s a slight flush on his cheeks from alcohol and being tugged around all night. Keith’s pretty sure he’s never been so beautiful.

“Why didn’t you?” The words are out before he can stop them.

Shiro lifts his head, opens his eyes and meets Keith’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

Well, he’s already in it now. “Why didn’t you ever come back?”

“Oh.” Shiro sighs. “I think a lot of it is tied up in Adam. I burned that bridge so thoroughly that coming back…felt like I was coming crawling back to him. As stupid as that sounds.” His laughter is low, self-deprecating. “Aside from that…I don’t really know. I didn’t have any more family here, and I guess I just…consumed myself with work. Maybe that was easier?” Another laugh, this one a little looser. “That’s pretty heavy talk for a wedding, though. I think we’re supposed to be having fun.”

Keith nudges his toe against Shiro’s ankle. “Are you having fun?”

“I think I am, honestly. It’s been good seeing everyone again. And it was good, seeing Adam and Curtis together.” His face softens, a smile playing around his eyes. “They seem really happy together. I’m glad.”

The song changes again. To something slow, melodic. Everyone on the dance floor starts pairing off.

“Hey.” Keith glances back to see Shiro on his feet, one hand extending towards Keith. There’s a grin on his face, dimpling his cheeks and making Keith’s heart flutter in his chest. “Dance with me?”

Warmth floods Keith’s body, from his stuttering heart to his tingling fingertips, washing his face in a pink flush. “Okay,” he says, slipping his hand into Shiro’s, soaking in the warmth as Shiro’s big hand closes around his own. They walk to the dance floor hand in hand, slipping in between the other couples, until Shiro finally pulls them to a stop. He shifts his grip on Keith’s hand, spreads the other hand across the small of Keith’s back. Then they start swaying together, circling slowly, and Keith leans his head into the crook of Shiro’s neck and tries to focus on anything but the butterflies in his stomach.

They dance together through that song and another. At some point Keith wraps both arms around Shiro’s broad shoulders, suppresses a shiver when both of Shiro’s hands splay across his back and tug him even closer. They’re so close that it feels like their edges are melting together. Like they couldn’t step away, even if they wanted to.

Keith doesn’t want to. Fuck, he doesn’t want to.

Eventually, the music’s tempo picks back up again. Keith reluctantly pulls out of Shiro’s arms, hands almost curling in the collar of Shiro’s shirt. His eyes meet Shiro’s.

Shiro’s expression is unreadable. Something in it makes Keith go soft, makes his knees tremble and his heart skip in his chest. The air between them is warm and quiet, the din of the wedding drowned out by his blood rushing in his ears and the way Shiro hasn’t stopped looking at him.

“I need some air,” Keith mumbles.

He doesn’t wait for Shiro’s response. He just turns, heading towards one of the doors leading out of the reception room. The hallway beyond is quiet, mostly empty, but Keith keeps moving. He’s halfway through an open archway when Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“Keith, wait—”

Shiro cuts himself off. Confused, Keith turns around. “Shiro?”

A shy, sheepish smile flickers to life on Shiro’s face. He glances up between them. “Well, look at that,” he says, almost fumbling over the words. “Mistletoe.”

Breath catching in his throat, Keith follows his gaze. Sure enough. Hanging above them, almost directly between them, is a sprig of mistletoe. Slender green leaves, little white berries, practically taunting Keith with just how perfect and charming it is. He glares up at it, face going blood-hot and bright red even as his body trembles with anticipation.

“Well,” Shiro murmurs. His voice has dropped low, soft as velvet. His gaze pins Keith in place.Slowly, almost delicately, he brings a hand up to Keith’s face, cups his jaw and sweeps his thumb across Keith’s cheekbone.

Keith stares up at him.

“Well,” Shiro says again. He crowds a little closer, leans down, liquid silver eyes locked on Keith’s—

“Hey, Shiro?” Adam’s voice calls from down the hall.

The moment cracks. Shatters. Keith stumbles back a step, and Shiro half-turns, and suddenly Keith’s skin feels cold and clammy and buzzing with uncomfortable excitement. He watches—glares—as Adam approaches. 

He’s loosened up a bit since the wedding; his suit jacket’s off, his tie loosened, the collar of his shirt rumpled. There’s a stain on his pressed white shirt from when Curtis shoved cake in his face, and there’s something a little more languid about the way he’s holding himself. Not quite drunk, but not quite sober. A half-smile breaks out on his face as he gets closer. “Sorry for interrupting,” he says. “Just wanted to say something to you.”

Shiro’s quiet for a second. “It’s fine,” he says eventually. “What is it?”

Adam stops. He tucks his hands in his pockets, breathing out a slow sigh. Keith watches him. Wary, upset, frustrated—grateful, in a way. “Look, I just…” Adam sighs again, reaches up to run a hand through his messy hair. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry for what I said. Earlier this week. That wasn’t right.”

Keith’s hands tighten into fists. He wills his racing heart to calm down.

Shiro seems stuck on his words. “Adam…” 

“You two are good together,” Adam says, lifting his chin, decisiveness in his voice like it’s some inarguable truth. Keith’s chest goes tight. “And I’m glad you’ve found someone, Shiro. I really am.” His gaze slides to Keith. Some instinctive part of Keith bristles. “You deserve someone who would follow you anywhere.”

Keith flushes.

“I…Adam, thank you.” Shiro reaches out a hand, Adam takes it. “You and Curtis—I really am happy for you. You two seem really good for each other.”

“Yeah, well.” Adam chuckles, glancing off to the side. “He makes me a better person, as sappy as that is.”

Shiro laughs. “No, no, I…I think I get it.”

It’s not real , Keith reminds himself, digging his short fingernails into the skin of his palms until it hurts. It’s not real, he repeats in his head, dragging down breaths that feel thicker than blood. None of this is real.

The rest of the wedding is uneventful. Shiro and Keith make it home just after midnight. Usually they’d curl up with a movie, maybe play a game—but tonight, all Keith can think of is climbing into bed and trying to forget how desperately he wanted Shiro to kiss him. So he tells Shiro he’s tired, that he’s going to turn in early.

“Yeah, of course,” Shiro says. “But seriously—thank you, Keith. That would have been way more awkward without you.” His smile almost seems tentative, too soft for Keith to look at.

Keith smiles back. It feels forced. “Of course,” he says, his voice maybe a little gruffer than intended. “What are fake boyfriends for?”

Shiro pauses, then nods. “Right.”

“Right,” Keith echoes.

“Well, if I don’t see you tomorrow…” Shiro shakes his head. The atmosphere’s palpably awkward, thick with tension that won’t seem to break. Keith wonders if Shiro’s finally caught on, to just how desperate and pathetic his childhood crush turned adult infatuation really is. Embarrassment burns in the pit of his stomach. Of course, Shiro’d be too nice to say anything about it directly. Which means they’re just stuck here. “Thank you so much. For everything. It was—it means a lot.”

“It was nothing.”

A few minutes later, Keith tumbles into bed. A few hours after that, he finally falls asleep.

Shiro’s already gone when he wakes up the next morning.

Keith doesn’t mope about it. It’s an old crush, it’s romantic interest—it’s not love lost. He’s not that melodramatic. 

December turns to January. January rolls over into February. Keith keeps working at the garage, halfheartedly looks into applying for trade schools. He doesn’t think about Boston at all, or applying to MIT. Boston’s across the country from Oregon. That would just—that’d be pathetic. Keith’s not gonna let himself be that pathetic.

It’s bad enough that his mom was so fragile with him, in weeks after Shiro left. It’s bad enough that the number Shiro gave him, the contact info Keith put in his phone, never lights up with a call or a text. It’s bad enough that even a month and a half after the wedding, Keith’s still having dreams about holding Shiro’s hand, cuddling against him as they watched movies, staring up at him with a sprig of mistletoe hanging innocuously between them.

But at least he always has his bike.

There’s grease on his cold fingers, smeared on his ratty work jeans. Keith’s kneeling on the concrete floor of the garage, methodically working on the bike, brain nothing but a buzz of abstract thought as his hands work. It gives him something to do.

“Keith?” Krolia’s head pokes out through the door. “You busy?”

Keith glances at his mom. Glances back at the bike. “Not really.”

“Good.” She steps out fully, leaning up against the doorframe. “We’ve got a tow job. Someone decided that driving out to the beach was a good idea, and now their car won’t start.” She rolls her eyes.

“Who the hell is going to the beach in the middle of February?” Sure, the weather’s gotten warmer, and the worst of the snow has melted, but the water would still be way too cold for a swim. “It’s below freezing.”

Krolia shrugs. 

Well, whatever. Not Keith’s job to question the stupid decisions people make. His job is to make the drive out to the beach and help out the idiot who decided going to the beach in below-30 weather was a good idea. So he stands up, wipes his greasy hands off on a rag and grabs the truck keys off the hook by the door. Krolia heads back inside with a call of, “drive safe!” over her shoulder, and then Keith’s alone again. He climbs into the truck, opens the garage door, and drives out into the night without a second thought.

It’s a quiet night, at least. No wind, no snow, just a clear black sky. Keith turns on the truck’s choppy old radio to a rock station and starts driving the familiar route out of town.

The ocean is about a half hour away, forty-five minutes when the roads are dusted with snow. Keith doesn’t mind the drive. It’s quiet, the darkness only broken by occasional streetlights, the mountainous terrain in the distance an abstract dark shape against the starry black sky. Keith taps his fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of his music, pointedly failing at not thinking about Shiro.

Stars make him think of Shiro. Always have.

When Keith pulls up to the gravel parking lot, there’s one other car. A nondescript black sports car. Keith hops out of the truck, heads towards the car—then stops.

There’s nobody inside. 

He turns, glancing around the rest of the tiny parking lot, but there’s nobody around. A nervous shiver of caution climbs Keith’s spine. Cold air chills the tip of his nose. Another slow turn reveals no other bodies in any direction. Keith approaches the car warily, eyes narrowing when he spots a slip of paper tucked into the windshield wipers. He gets just close enough to read the words, come down to the beach, typed up in a simple font. 

Keith’s heart thumps in his chest. He’s not sure if it’s fear or anticipation. He’s not really sure what any of this is.

He plucks the paper from the windshield, tucks it into the pocket of his coat. Then he heads towards the winding wooden staircase set into the sloping cliffs that lead down to the beach. Most of the beach is obscured behind the trees that line the shore, a mixed forest of green pines and leafless hardwoods. The walk down is quiet, almost unearthly still. The only sound Keith hears is the gentle crash of ocean waves against the shore.

When he finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, when the full beach comes into view—Keith stops.

Most of the beach is clear of snow; it’s only clinging to the edges of the cliffs lining the shore, the rest of it open sand. The water’s dark and still, the gently cresting waves illuminated only by moonlight. An endless expanse of glittering stars fills the velvety black sky, bright and blinding against the darkness of the water.

And on the beach, surrounded by tiny tea candles arranged in a heart on the sand, stands Shiro.

Candlelight illuminates the angles of his face, illuminates his beautiful smile and the hair hanging over his brow. A bouquet of flowers sits cradled in his arms. “Hey, Keith,” he says, his voice soft and rich like chocolate.

Keith’s breath hitches. “Shiro…?”

Shiro’s broad shoulders shake with a tiny laugh. He rubs the back of his neck, his smile turning sheepish, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”

Keith’s feet carry him forward. He feels lightheaded. His legs are trembling, his hands curled into shaking fists in the pocket of his coat. He stops just outside the heart-shaped array of candles, unable to tear his eyes away from Shiro’s. In the soft orange candlelight, Shiro’s silvery eyes glint with molten gold, warming every inch of Keith’s skin.

“I know, it’s sappy,” Shiro says, gesturing down at his feet, at the ocean lazily swaying behind him. “I can’t really believe it myself. But it was the first thing I thought of, and I just couldn’t think of doing anything else—I’d probably have psyched myself out too much to go through with it.”

Keith swallows. “Go…go through with what?”

The nervous energy around Shiro softens and settles. He smiles at Keith, gentle and warm. “Telling you how I feel, Keith.”

Heart pounding, breath shaking, Keith takes a careful step forward. He crosses the line of candles. Something in his chest goes tight. It’s like stepping across a threshold, running face first into something terrifying—and Keith can’t imagine doing anything else. “Tell me,” he mumbles, close enough to Shiro that he could reach out and touch him. “Please.”

Shiro’s mouth quirks into a smile. “I think you’re incredible, Keith. You make me smile, you make me laugh, you get me. Nobody has ever understood me the way you do.” He holds out the bouquet. Keith takes it, his hands numb against the paper. “I never should have left the way I did. I should have told you how much I wanted to kiss you, how many times I almost went for it before I chickened out.” He ducks his head. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I drove out of town. So now I’m here, just…trying to show you exactly how you make me feel.”

Keith takes a slow, deep breath in. Lets it out. “Me too,” he says, and he lets that linger between them, because he doesn’t know how else to say it. How to express the feelings swelling up in his chest, so full his heart’s about to burst.

Tension eases out of Shiro’s shoulders with his sigh. “We’re a couple of idiots, huh?”

Keith barks out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“But I’m here now,” Shiro says. There’s new determination in his voice, in the line of his jaw, and Keith’s stomach flips. “I’m here now, and if you want the same thing, I’m never going to let you go again.”

Something in Keith’s chest cracks open. His face breaks into a smile, so wide his cheeks hurt. His throat feels thick when he says, “I don’t want you to.”

Shiro surges forward. His big hands cup Keith’s cheeks, warm against the chill of Keith’s skin. Then he leans down and kisses him.

The flowers crush between them, paper crinkling against their chests. Keith doesn’t care. All he cares about is the taste of Shiro’s lips against his, the warmth buzzing through his veins like molten gold as Shiro’s hand threads into his braid and stays there. Keith sighs into the kiss, presses even closer, winds one arm around Shiro’s shoulders and just hangs on. 

Keith’s not sure who pulls away first. Just that Shiro rests his forehead against Keith’s, both their eyes closed, sharing the same warm breaths as they stand in silence.

There are three words trapped behind his teeth. He doesn’t feel bad about swallowing them down, letting the silence settle into a calm quiet as Shiro’s fingers massage the base of his skull. He’ll have a chance to say them later. He’s sure of that, more sure than he’s been of anything in his life.

“I can’t believe how sappy that was,” Shiro says a moment later, startling a quiet laugh out of Keith’s chest. “I promise, I’m not usually that corny. You just…inspire that in me.”

Keith never thought he’d like corny. He’s always hated it in movies.

But being here, standing on a beautiful, snow-dusted beach, under a sky filled with sparkling stars, Shiro holding him like something precious and neither of them caring about the flowers crushed between their chests, Keith doesn’t care. His heart feels like it’s singing, his veins filled with gold. The feeling fluttering in his chest is breathtaking, terrifying in the best kind of way.

“It’s okay,” Keith says. He presses a kiss to the corner of Shiro’s mouth. “I kinda like it.”

“Good,” Shiro says. “Because I kinda like you.”

Keith can’t keep from smiling. He leans forward, burrows his face into Shiro’s shoulder as Shiro’s arms wrap around him and hold him close. Warmth floods him inside and out, buzzing all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

Yeah. He’ll tell Shiro those three words later.

For now, all he needs is this.