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Doctor says the incisions will only heal
if I hold warm saltwater in my mouth.
So there is a wound inside me and
I am bathing it in oceans of sorrow
in order to move forward
— unknown, WISDOM TEETH
— K —
It’s different, after the war.
There was never going to be a way back from all of it, in hindsight. No way to quell the simmering anger, the constant hypervigilance, the waking up in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and terrified and trying to claw out of the clutches of a distorted memory.
It’s awful.
The hospital bed is a coffin, the attachments at his wrist chaining him to it. Keith lurches, like a sailor lost to a sea-storm, only to have a large hand pressing into his chest. Panic surges like the tide and Keith gasps in a lungful of air before losing it all to the next wave.
“Hey, hey, hold up,” and it’s Shiro, with his silver hair, silver scar, silver hand, Shiro with his gentle eyes and soothing voice. “Keith, hey, easy, easy.”
Keith’s heart rabbit-thumps in the back of his throat, loud enough that Shiro must be able to hear it through the ragged breaths Keith drags in. “I… I don’t…”
“Bad dream,” Shiro nods, unsticking his hand from Keith’s heaving chest to curl around his neck instead.
Keith wonders if Shiro knows how much of a claim it is, if he understands how the Galra perceive such a gesture. It was always strange to him, how much Keith felt so right with Shiro’s fingers pressed to his spine like so, until the Blades enlightened him.
“Bad dream,” he says, shaky and wet. Already the memory has faded, leaving Keith in its wake, dazed and disoriented. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Shiro says easily, like spreading golden butter over bread. His black uniform is wrinkled in spots, and there’s a crease on his cheek from where he must have been resting it on the bed.
It doesn’t feel okay.
“What are you still doing here?” Keith whispers, because he should have gone back to his quarters, hell—the nurses should have sent him by now. Visiting hours were over when the sun set, and from the looks of it out the window, dawn is on its way.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Shiro tells him, impossibly and unfairly handsome in the soft glow from the wall panelling.
“Shiro…” Keith says, instead of you have to, you’re Captain of the Atlas now, they need you, because every other sentence turns into, stay, stay longer, please, it’s selfish and horrible but I need you more.
And maybe it’s the quiet intimacy that the early morning provides, the unspoken sanctuary of the time of day, because Shiro shushes him, lets go of his neck to trail his finger down to the open collar of Keith’s hospital shirt. The path he traces is blazing hot, like the line of fire that heralds the sunrise before it peeks over the mountains, and Keith’s breath catches in his throat.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Shiro repeats, more firmly, like his confidence found its feet amongst Keith’s silence. “Not unless you want me to.”
Keith swallows, mouth dry, fingers clenching in the mess of bedsheets around him as if to search for something to anchor on. And, quieter, he confesses: “I don’t want you to.”
So Shiro stays. He stays for as long as he can, video calling into meetings, relying heavily on phone calls and emails, and then, when it’s impossible for him not to be physically present, he leaves to haul Atlas into the sky for the first time since the Lions fell from it.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he says meaningfully, folding down to hug Keith, and Keith isn’t sure if he imagines the press of Shiro’s mouth to his hair.
It’s a fleeting thing, barely-felt before Shiro is squeezing his neck again and disappearing out the door.
Keith doesn’t want to hope, doesn’t want to relive old hurts where Shiro promised him that he’d return and he didn’t. But Shiro comes back to him that evening, glowing with Atlas’ energy, hair tousled, uniform ruffled.
“Miss me?” he jokes as he slides into the chair next to Keith, fingers finding Keith’s and curling around them.
More than anything, Keith wants to say. He settles for squeezing back instead.
— K —
As Earth patches itself back together again, so too does the rest of the universe. The Galra Empire’s reach was vast and heavy-handed and so recovery is slow, like water at the end of a dying stream. Keith has never been one for patience, but all things take time, and Shiro will arch a brow at him as if to remind him of the motto that’s embedded itself in Keith’s skin since Shiro first spoke it.
Patience yields focus.
When the dust settles and the moon is highest, Krolia takes Keith outside. Shiro joins, because Keith wants Shiro wherever he can have him, and they sit with dirt cupped in their hands as Krolia sings to the sky, praying for healing. An old ritual, she explains after, one they used to perform every phoeb for the warriors.
Then she kisses Keith’s forehead and cheeks and leaves him with Shiro.
“Thank you for staying,” Keith breathes.
Shiro grasps Keith’s neck, touches his face. “Thank you,” he says just as softly, like shifting sand.
Patience yields focus.
New Daibazaal is in need of a leader, so it’s less of a surprise and more of an expected occasion when Kolivan and Keith’s mother approach him, asking if he’ll take up the mantle of responsibility. Leading the Blades requires a two-pronged approach, with one branch for hunting down forgotten pockets of Blades, and the other leading the restoration of the planet.
Kolivan and Krolia have already spear-headed the recovery side of things. Keith is the next highest in rank.
Besides, they reason, when Keith has yet to confirm his acceptance, his mixed heritage is an added bonus.
Something in the sentence rankles Keith, makes him want to curl away.
“Let me think about it,” he tells them.
It shouldn’t still bug him like this, the reminder of his half-breed status, but it lingers like fog around his head for the rest of the day. Keith wades through it as best he can, focus torn between training the new Blades recruits and the burning in his chest.
Later, after getting slammed into the mats by Acxa and trying in vain to encourage some relaxation into his muscles with a too-hot shower, Keith stares at his reflection. He’s too pale, too pink, too human. He bleeds red, his ears are round, his nails are smooth and short. Frowning, Keith pulls at his bottom lip to expose his teeth.
Krolia had mentioned them, in one of their earlier conversations on the space whale, by saying, “Your teeth haven’t come through.”
It was a flippant comment, something Keith was quickly getting used to among the rest of the clipped sentences he had been sharing with Krolia.
The ensuing silence told Keith that Krolia fully expected him to know what she was talking about. He used to have the same frustrations with the Blades; they’d handball a topic of conversation to him and he’d have no idea what to do with it and inevitably drop it.
But it was just another thing to add to the ever-growing pile that had built itself inside of Keith from the moment Kolivan told him he had Galra blood.
Looking at them now, Keith wonders if he’ll ever grow fangs like his mother or Acxa. His own are blunt when he pokes at them.
Galra half-bloods are so varied, there’s no telling what might happen.
There’s so much Keith missed out on, so much catch up he’s had to do, like the sun chasing a shadow. He still can’t manage to pronounce the hacking sound in the back of his throat for some of the words, and the Galra have so many traditions and rituals in each of their subsets, Keith can barely keep up with his own bloodline’s.
Patience yields fucking focus.
— K —
Except the unmoored feeling doesn’t shift over the next morning or afternoon, and Keith has begrudgingly accepted that this too will follow him into the night when Shiro finds him, a lighthouse among the raging storm.
“Hey, you,” he says, slinging an arm around Keith’s shoulders, heavy and so very welcome. “Come riding with me?”
Shiro’s smile is the best thing.
It’s a winner’s smile, the kind that opens even the most stubborn of doors. It’s perfect for his poster boy image, perfect for the Captain he’s become, a thing that never fails to melt Keith around the edges.
And right now, it’s all his.
“Keith,” he prompts, eyes bright, and Keith’s heart seizes by looking at him, reminded of how young Shiro is, of how it’s been so long since he’s ever seen Shiro this carefree. “Come on, sunshine, don’t leave me hanging.”
Keith is seriously on edge, because he’s snatching the goggles from Shiro’s outstretched hand, smarting from the implication that he ever would.
“Never,” he says with probably more emotion than he means to, but whatever. He’s never been good at painting his words in pretty colors or following the supposed rules of polite conversation. He’s merely sea glass among the waves, tossing about and landing wherever the current leads him.
Shiro’s gaze lingers on him for a touch too long, before his hand clasps Keith’s shoulder and squeezes. “Lead the way, buddy.”
They ride until Keith’s cheeks and sides ache from laughing at Shiro’s antics, coming to a stop on the edge of a cliff that they’ve probably dive-bombed off more than once. It’s hard to recognise after the invasion. And looking at Shiro, Keith realises that in this moment, they are both thieves, stealing back the time and years of joy that were stolen from them.
Shiro ambles over to him once parked, shoulders knocking easily into Keith. “Think I won that last one, don’t you?”
“Dreams are free, Shiro.”
Shiro laughs then, which makes Keith laugh, and for a moment everything is airy and light, like floating on the crystal bright surface beneath a hazy summer sun. Until it all comes crashing down around Keith when he remembers yesterday.
“They asked me to lead the Blades on New Daibazaal,” Keith says into the apricot sky.
“Okay,” Shiro says readily, like they’re discussing the shape of the candy cotton clouds above their heads. “Just tell me when we go.”
Something heavy and messy unfolds in Keith at the words. He turns to stare at Shiro. “Seriously?” Because Shiro can’t be, this isn’t having neighbouring quarters at the Garrison, New Daibazaal is an entirely different planet.
“Yeah,” Shiro says, voice still light, without the burdens stacking upon Keith’s already tired shoulders. “I said I wasn’t going anywhere, didn’t I?”
Keith is both warmed and devastated by the reminder. “I haven’t even said yes yet.”
“As if you’d say no,” Shiro snorts, and damn him for always knowing Keith so well. “Come on, what’s stopping you from leading them?”
Keith almost doesn’t say it, fearing as though by doing so it will shed light on some unwanted corner of himself. But it’s Shiro. Just Shiro. Shiro with his boyish grin, his dust-streaked face, his lovely eyes.
“I don’t look anything like them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m…” Keith trails off, feeling small. “I just don’t look like them, you know? I’m short, and I don’t have purple skin… my hair’s black, I don’t have claws. I just look human. I don’t know how I’m supposed to lead an entire contingent of Galra looking like… like this.”
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Keith nearly chokes. "Can't you imagine? Them expecting someone like Kolivan and then I show up? Talk about a let down."
"Don't say that."
"It's true!" Keith sputters. "All the Galra leaders I know are strong and tall and purple, I mean, Jesus, look at Acxa. She's a halfie like me and still looks badass. I just look like. This."
Soft and fragile and entirely too human and vulnerable.
He doesn’t voice it, but maybe the thoughts show in his body language, or maybe Shiro picked up the gift of mind-reading during his extended stay in the astral plane, because Shiro’s face—it crumbles like a house of cards.
And then his expression hardens, and he crowds Keith against the hoverbike and says roughly, “I think you’re beautiful.”
Keith doesn't know what to say to that. Stuck between the warmth of Shiro’s body and the cold metal of his bike, it’s difficult to look at anything else. “I’m still different.”
“You’re still you,” Shiro corrects, and his thumb sweeps over the scar on Keith’s cheek, the one he put there, the one Keith would gladly accept over and over if it means he can keep this right here: Shiro, pressing into him, healthy flesh and bone with eyes only for him.
Besides, Keith kinda looks like his mom with it.
“Keith,” Shiro says, gently, like waves pushing up against a shoreline.
Keith can barely look at him, meet his gaze, but it’s what Shiro deserves, always.
“Keith,” he says again, and this time, the drag of his knuckles over Keith’s scar has Keith’s eyes stinging.
“What?” Keith grinds out. The sunset is fading into a deep orange, like a portal to Hell exists behind the darkening mountain line. Keith keeps his gaze on it so he can blame it for the way his eyes are beginning to water.
“Whether or not you look like a stereotypical Galra has nothing to do with how fit you are to lead them,” Shiro says firmly.
But Keith can still feel the way the title of half-breed sits on his skin, the way he’ll never fit in properly on Earth, but will also never be Galra enough for New Daibazaal. He still feels incredibly human, small and squishy and breakable.
“Yeah,” he says, because it’s always easier to hide behind layers of denial.
And Shiro says, “Look at me,” because it’s always easier for him to hook his claws into Keith’s denial and drag it up to the light.
A rebuke forms on Keith’s tongue, ready to be launched at his best friend. It never makes it.
Instead Shiro’s palms are warm and huge upon his cheeks, tipping his face up until all he sees is Shiro, lined in gold. “When are you going to wake up,” he says gently, like the leaves of a willow carefully dipping into the lake of Keith’s emotions, “and see yourself as the rest of us do?” And then, with feeling, “As I do?”
Keith’s ears are ringing.
“What?”
Shiro’s fingers dig into the space behind Keith’s ears, smooth down his neck. The thumb of his prosthetic touches the corner of Keith’s mouth, and Keith’s heart hammers in his chest.
“You are strong,” Shiro whispers. “So strong, and smart, and brave, and beautiful.” When Keith tries to shake his head, Shiro’s grip tightens. “That’s four things I just listed off the top of my head, I didn’t even have to think about them.”
“You are biased,” Keith says through his teeth as tears drip down his face.
“I am,” Shiro grins, brow furrowing handsomely as he continues to stroke across Keith’s skin like he can keep Keith from falling apart just like that. “But my point stands. Don’t make yourself smaller than you are. You’re more capable than you know. And Kolivan—your mother —wouldn’t have asked you if they didn’t think you could do it.”
“Shiro—”
“They want you, Keith. Just you. You and your unapologetic opinions and stubbornness and stupid reckless bravery that made you fly straight towards a planet because you wanted to save us, even though you were breaking my heart—”
Keith can’t listen to the rest of it, has to shove his hand over Shiro’s mouth. “Stop,” he pleads weakly, “That’s enough.”
Shiro’s mouth moves under his fingers, and then Keith’s breath catches in his fucking throat when Shiro kisses his palm. He drops his hand from Shiro’s face like it’s a burn, and for a terrible awful moment, they stare at each other.
“Sorry,” Shiro offers, still with his hands on Keith’s face, still close enough for Keith to feel each gust of his breath on his lips.
“S’okay,” Keith says, even though it isn’t anything close to being okay. “S’alright.”
And he wants to say something like do it again or kiss me or what did you mean by that, except they get stuck on the way up.
Instead, Shiro shifts his hands down and leans close until his cheek is pressed to Keith’s, voice rumbling as he says, “Do you know your eyes change color?”
It’s not the direction Keith thought the conversation would go and he sways a little, caught in the change in tide. “Really?”
“Uh huh,” Shiro says, and he’s so warm and comforting, Keith wants to bury his face in Shiro’s neck and never leave. “You know our fight?” Keith squirms, and Shiro palms over his shoulder, presses in at his waist. “I know, I know you don’t like to talk about it. Neither do I, to be honest.”
He doesn’t pull back to look at Keith, which is both a blessing and a curse, turning to nuzzle Keith’s cheek, like this is something they do all the time instead of a new way to hug that sets Keith’s pulse racing.
“But there were a few moments, where your eyes turned yellow. And you had fangs.” Shiro does pull away now, and his smile makes Keith’s heart shatter in his chest. “And I know this probably doesn’t help. Or maybe it does. I don’t know.”
Keith can barely look at him.
“I’m just saying. Those traits you think you’re missing? They’re there, somewhere.” He taps two knuckles into Keith’s sternum, rapping against the bone like it’s a door that will open up. “Even if I still think you’ll be an amazing Galra leader, whatever you look like.”
Keith cries then, properly, not the quiet, silent kind he did earlier while Shiro stroked his cheeks and called him beautiful, but the gross, wet type that throbs in your chest and throat and comes out in big gasping gulps of air.
“You’re enough,” Shiro murmurs, and whatever apology he told Keith earlier has been tossed to the sea now, because he kisses Keith’s hair over and over, thumbs wiping at Keith’s messy face. Keith fists his hands behind Shiro’s broad back and greedily inhales the smell of him, the dust on his neck, the sweat on his skin, the calming motions of his hands over Keith’s body.
And then as suddenly as it took him, the gale of crying ends, leaving Keith feeling fragile like foam upon the shore.
“Ugh,” he moans, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, eyeing the wetness on Shiro’s neck and jacket shoulder and deciding not to apologise for it. They’ve done enough of that. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“Because someone needs to tell you how good you are,” Shiro says, as if he isn’t the biggest hypocrite and requires Keith’s endless support as well. “And because I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”
Keith stares at him. “Will you really come to New Daibazaal with me?”
Shiro makes a face. “I said I’m not going anywhere. Jesus, I’ve left you enough times already.” He knocks their temples together. “We’ll get through this together, okay? Patience—”
“Yields focus. I know.”
Shiro beams at him, blinding him, making Keith’s nose and eyes run again. And then Shiro leans in and touches his nose to Keith's, and Keith's heart stutters to a stop in his windpipe.
“You’ve got this,” Shiro says, eyes closing. “And I’ve got you.”
You don’t have to, Keith almost says, but the excuses die on his tongue. The war is over now. They’re leaders of their own divisions. They’ve broken down and apologised to one another until their voices grew hoarse. Shiro is the one who brought them out here, not Keith. Shiro’s the one who started all of this.
And Keith wants him, has wanted Shiro since forever, however he can have him; if this is what Shiro wants, then there’s no way Keith will ever say no.
So he stays, lets his mouth go slack when Shiro thumbs it again, and then kisses it. He’s warm and careful against Keith, hands burning his face. It’s soft and it’s softer, Shiro’s mouth opening to him, coaxing Keith’s to follow, a balm amongst the desert sounds and encroaching night’s chill. Keith shivers, nestles in as close as possible to Shiro, drinks in the longing from Shiro’s mouth, like he can find the golden threads to pull him back together in the curve of Shiro’s smile.
“I love you,” Shiro tells him, as the night closes in around them, “More than anything.”
— K —
And it’s not perfect, like those endings in TV shows where the couple walks hand-in-hand into the sunset to run a farm of goats together. But it’s the start of something, raw and hopeful like a wound finally beginning to close over, and months later on New Daibazaal, when Keith’s mouth begins to ache something fierce, and he’s devouring gallons of ice cream that Shiro fetches him as his jaw makes way to a new set of fangs, Keith’s fingers skirt carefully around the edges of them in wonderment.
Yeah, it’s different after the war, because there’s no way back from that.
But there’s going forward, instead.
And that’s okay.