Archive of Our Own

Keith’s home.

Or, at least, he’s somewhere that used to be home.

After he’d been booted from the Garrison, the cabin had become less of a comforting refuge and more like a desolate prison – the brief happiness of his childhood swallowed up by the loneliness of that year in the desert, spent feverishly alone with nothing but the company of his own grief and half-mad conspiracy theories.

Keith’s pack thumps to the ground dully. There’s not much in here he wants to keep; the cabin is a holdover of a time gone past and Keith’s always travelled light. But with a Blades mission leaving Earth in a week with no promise of returning any time soon, he owes himself this much – just to make sure there’s nothing he misses, no regret left behind.

At the very least he’ll gather some old photo albums for Krolia. They’re crammed in a hard-to-get-to cupboard somewhere, but Keith knows how to get to them.

Everything in the house is covered in a fine sheen of dust. Keith has to throw his weight into the rusted handle to force the window open. When he opens the bedroom door staleness hits his lungs. The single mattress on the solid wood frame looks the same as he left it – he never made his bed before they left for the Blue Lion, Keith recalls.

The pillow on the bed is crinkled, askew as if someone had had to leave it in a hurry. Keith reaches out to right it…

*

“Hey, check this out!”

Startled out of his textbook, Keith looks up, but Matt isn’t looking at him – his face is hidden behind a boxy little contraption, pointed directly at Shiro next to him.

Flash!

“Hey!” Shiro blinks owlishly, peering up at Matt. His long legs, perched very academically on the table next to Keith, slip off the edge as he rocks himself upright in his chair.

Matt barks out a laugh. “Sorry, still figuring out how to turn off the flash on this thing,” he says, but the remnant of laughter in his voice gives away his insincerity. Keith narrows his eyes.

The machine in Matt’s hands whirs and something starts to emerge out of the top. It’s a camera, Keith realises, but far larger and older than the sleek tablets used around the Garrison or anywhere in the last century. Keith’s never seen one in person.

“There was a military auction over the weekend and Dad picked it up,” Matt says, sliding into the chair opposite Shiro. “Can you believe the condition it’s in? It wasn’t working but I figured out the issue with the motor and replaced it – and voila!”

A square, fully emerged now, teeters on the top edge of the camera –Matt plucks it off and slaps it onto the table in front of Shiro and Keith.

There’s a fully developed photo in that white frame – smallish and tinted, not crystal clear like a modern picture – and it’s washed out. It’s hardly flattering, too, Keith suspiciously squinting up while drowning in a stack of books, Shiro with his legs propped up, cool as a cucumber…except for the frozen surprise immortalised in his face.

“Cool,” Keith says politely, and turns back to his paper.

It’s not exactly that he’s good friends with Matt – the older boy has a sense of humour and an intellect that Keith doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to – but Matt’s Shiro’s friend, and that means Keith will try his best to get along.

It’s a rare free day for Shiro, a privilege that’s become scarcer and scarcer in the lead up to the Kerberos launch, and so Keith’s determined to stick around even if it means dragging his physics homework around with him.

Watching Shiro take the camera from Matt to examine it with interest, though, Keith can’t help the twinge of guilt in him.

“I can’t believe you agreed to come to the library on your day off,” he’d said to Shiro, the sorry on his lips giving way to exasperation. His voice was all wrong, tone accusing rather than filled with the gratitude it should have been.

“You lost your off-base privileges for a week for talking back to Hedrick,” Shiro had reminded him kindly. “I know you’d rather be out in the desert racing hoverbikes, but we’ve got to work with what we have.” He’d reached out to nudge Keith gently. “And there’s no place I’d rather be.”

And that’s Shiro, Keith thinks grumpily to himself. He’s so goddamn nice that Keith feels like he’s getting away with murder, taking advantage of all that goodwill. His fingers creak around his pen. He wishes he was done with the paper already.

Matt’s voice is still filling the air, amiable chatter while Keith glowers down at his work.

Fingers knock against the back of his hand where he’s clenching his fist tight. “Hey, lighten up,” Shiro teases. “The photo wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Keith’s scowl melts away. “It’s fine,” he mumbles. Even after sacrificing his time for Keith, Shiro’s still trying to make him feel better. He hardly deserves it. He doesn’t know why Shiro still says yes to every selfish thing he asks. But it feels nice, even if every time feels like Keith’s testing the limits of his generosity.

Maybe that’s why he keeps trying, like scratching at a scab. He’s picking at it until it draws blood. He can’t help himself.

“Did you want me to take one for you two?” Keith volunteers quietly. At least he can try to be good company, right?

Shiro’s eyebrows rise. Matt brightens.

“Oh, Katie’ll get a kick out of this!” he says, thrusting the camera towards Keith. “Get over here, Shiro.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro laughs, inching around the table to join Matt.

Keith fiddles with the camera as they both look expectantly at him. It’s lighter than he expected, despite its bulk – not like the glass-backed tablet he uses for homework. He presses his face into the cool plastic and peers through the fogged viewfinder.

Flash! The camera begins its familiar whir.

“You’re supposed to warn us,” Matt grumbles as Shiro snorts.

“Like you did?” he says. He reaches for the camera in Keith’s outstretched hands. “Thanks, Keith.”

Still mumbling under his breath, Matt swipes it away before Shiro can grab it. “Alright smartypants, I’ll show you how it’s done,” he gripes, and raises the camera.

“What?” Keith stiffens. “I don’t want – ”

He’d been surprised the first time – now, Keith’s well aware of the camera pointed at his face. He feels exposed. Where should he look? Where does he put his hands? He casts around for help.

“Hey, he said he’s not ready,” Shiro interjects. He circles back around to Keith’s side, blocking Matt’s show by dropping down into his chair. He flashes a smile at Keith, the sympathetic one that Keith knows means that Shiro’s feeling sorry for him.

Keith’s gaze skitters away in embarrassment.

Matt huffs as Shiro makes a show of stretching, fussing about in his seat. He dramatically telegraphs, then throws an arm around Keith’s shoulders. Keith leans in.

“How about now?” Shiro whispers to him, his mouth right next to Keith’s ear.

“Okay, fine,” Keith says, accompanied by a frighteningly aggressive eye-roll to distract himself from Shiro’s proximity to him.

“Okay!” Matt demands. “Three, two…”

Keith sneaks a glance up at Shiro who’s focusing on the camera. His arm’s a solid weight around him, his face open and smiling. How does he do it? Keith wonders. It’s like he can read Keith like an open book. He does it so casually. The one person who doesn’t see his anger for antagonism – like he sees something worth protecting instead.

The shutter goes off early. Keith’s eyes snap to the camera too late, flash dazzling his eyes.

“Hey!” he snaps. “What the hell!”

Matt cackles, not even putting up a fight as Keith breaks away from Shiro, lunging forward to snatch the camera away. The film buzzes out of the top and Keith rips it out. It’s just a faint outline, colours and lines still developing. He shoves it into his pocket.

Then he stills, fuming and aware of the intensity of his outburst. There’s an awkward pause of silence.

“Wow, are you photo-shy or something?” Matt comments.  

“I’m not,” Keith bites out.

“Keith,” Shiro says.

“What?”

“Would you take another one with me? I’d like one to keep,” Shiro continues patiently, as if Keith hadn’t spoken. “It’s only fair I get one too, right?”

Keith deflates.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t miss the look Shiro levels at Matt. “One more,” he says. “Properly.”

Matt gives them the thumbs up, and Keith settles back next to Shiro. He keeps his eyes glued to the camera this time. He doesn’t so much as move when Shiro’s arm settles around him. If a picture is what Shiro wants, he’ll get it. He smiles, tentatively. Shiro’s arm tightens briefly in a reassuring squeeze.

“Three, two, one – ”

Flash!

When the square pops out of the machine, Matt frowns down at it. “Oh, it’s blurry,” he says. “Maybe the film’s degraded?”

He peers through the glass again and clicks the shutter – the camera whines and buzzes but nothing else happens.

“Damn, it’s out,” Matt says. “I don’t know where to get more of these, I’ll have to hunt around.”

Keith glances up at Shiro. He looks disappointed, but shrugs his shoulders.

“Next time,” Shiro mouths at him. His arm slides off Keith’s shoulder only for his hand to come up, ruffling through Keith’s hair.

Keith ducks, rolling his eyes, smoothing back his hair once Shiro’s done. His hands go into his pockets with forced casualness.

“Lucky you,” Shiro says wistfully.

The stiff square paper bites into his palm in his pocket.  

“Lucky me,” Keith echoes.

His hand closes around the photo.

*

Keith stretches his hand under the pillow, fingers tracing the sheets beneath it. A fine cloud of dust materialises at the movement, even with the care he takes. The dust hazes in the low light of the room, lit by its single, spluttering orange lamp. Keith’s surprised it still works – that this little piece of land stayed untouched by the invasion.

It’s the first time since their return that he’s properly had the time to go through all his old things. Everyone’s been stretched thin with Earth’s recovery efforts; it’s been hard to find the time for himself. Even this, now, is just temporary – a brief respite before he takes off alongside the Blades, his first mission since the war ended to assist with relief for the rest of the galaxy.

He hasn’t seen the rest of the paladins in days. They, too, are also taking advantage of the lull in activity to reunite with their families. Keith doesn’t begrudge them for it. He’s been alone for longer in his life than he’s had a family to come home to, and he’ll have time with Krolia anyway once he meets up with the rest of the Blades.

His searching hand finally finds what it’s looking for. When he draws out from under the pillow, it’s to a scrap of paper, a little faded and worn around the edges from contact. But the photo itself is intact. With a faint smile, he picks it up.

*

It’s a day and half full of classes later when Keith remembers the crinkled-up square of film in his pocket. It’s right before laundry time and he’s in his last clean pair of regulation pants, and it’s only when he’s turning out his pockets that he finds it.

Shirt untucked, belt undone and his boots kicked haphazardly across the room, Keith sinks into his overly soft single mattress, smoothing out the photo in his hand.

Developed fully now, Keith can see the photo in excruciating detail. There’s Shiro smiling at the camera, looking perfectly put together in his officer’s uniform. There’s a dash of rebellion though, his top button undone and jacket flapping open in a way that Keith approves of greatly.

Then his gaze settles over himself. Tucked underneath Shiro’s huge arm, he’s like an ugly little duckling standing in Shiro’s shadow.

But worst of all is the unguarded expression on his face, the picture frozen in the moment just before he’d composed himself. Keith’s heart thumps uncomfortably as he takes it in, the wistfulness and naked affection as he gazes up at Shiro.

He’s never been good at lying. Never been good at concealing his emotions. Probably because they run too close to the surface. Because he feels so much, sometimes too much.

God it’s a lot. It’s embarrassing, how easy his expression in the photo is to read. He’d been right to snatch that photo away. He’s looking at Shiro like – like –

“Keith?”

Three sharp raps on his door, and then to Keith’s horror, it begins to slide open. “You left your ID card in the library – ”

“Fuck, Shiro!” Keith yelps, shoving the photo under his pillowcase and jumping to his feet.

Shiro’s eyes flicker to the pillow as he steps into the room, but to Keith’s relief he doesn’t mention it, merely setting down the piece of plastic on the corner of his study desk.

“You know, that vocabulary is part of what keeps getting you into trouble,” he says mildly. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Keith flushes as he becomes aware of the chaotic state of his room, random clothes strewn about in his hurry to make up a load for the laundry room. He looks down at his own rumpled tee and pants. His pockets are hanging out. He stuffs them back in to cover while he does up his fly.

“You didn’t,” Keith says when he’s gathered himself, heart still beating fast in his chest. Shiro hums, but doesn’t sound like he’s judging – he’s always good at letting things slide when it comes to Keith.

Leaning against the side of the wall, Shiro crosses his arms.

“I was going to ask if you were busy,” he says, his tone even, but something sparkles in his eye – a glint of playfulness that makes Keith blow a breath out, cracking a smile despite himself.

“I’m not,” he tells Shiro, and the glint becomes a full-blown answering grin as he jerks his thumb behind his shoulder.

“Sparring?” Shiro asks.

Keith can only say yes.

*

Sparring is a holdover from the Garrison’s military roots, training that every prospective pilot goes through as part of their enrolment at the Garrison. It’s also one of the few subjects Keith actually enjoys applying himself to – even more when Shiro’s there with him.

They’re in the main gym area now. There are a few others on the mats but they hardly spare Keith and Shiro a glance as they come in. Shiro takes off his jacket to reveal a snug tank top while Keith rolls onto the mats and starts stretching.

Keith’s never been bad at fighting – he’s speedy and his reaction time and instincts are good. It’s what makes him stand out in flying, too – a drive to succeed borne from a lifetime of having to punch above his own weight.

When he’d first cockily invited Shiro to spar with him, he’d been flattened into the mat within an instant.

“Oh sorry,” Shiro had said smugly, “I thought you said you were good at this?”

Turns out there’s more to fighting than following his instincts – Shiro had guided him through form and technique, patiently agreeable to being Keith’s crash dummy to let him practice tackling him into the ground, again and again.

And since then, Keith’s honed his instincts into actual form, and now instead of fuming about having to make up for his shortcomings with determination, he spends his time trying to figure out just how he can finally topple Shiro into the ground.

Which he still hasn’t managed. Shiro’s an immoveable statue, and even though he’s gone from affable instructor to a demon with a shit-eating grin every time he pins Keith down, Keith suspects he’s still holding back.

Normally, that would be fine with Keith, even if it stings – all that extra size is an advantage – except today Keith’s doing even worse than usual, not even able to earn the genuine compliment he gets every time he manages to land a hit on Shiro.

He ducks under a lazy right hook and tries to dislodge Shiro’s balance with a shoulder charge – Shiro grunts but instead wraps his hands around Keith’s middle, spinning and abruptly letting go.

Keith staggers with the momentum and then loses balance, falling on his ass.   

“You okay?” Shiro calls out. Keith can hear the smug smile in his voice.

“Shut up,” he groans, getting up. It’s not the first time he’s been laid flat today and he’s starting to get frustrated. It doesn’t help that his brain fuzzes over every time he glances at Shiro – which is a lot. Because he has to keep an eye on Shiro while they’re sparring?

But outside of sparring too. Like a fucking magnet – oh.  

There’s an irresistible pull to Shiro. Keith doesn’t know if he admires him or if he’s jealous. Either way, his friendship is like…falling into orbit. Following the sun. Like a plane angling higher and higher – Keith’s been riding, no, hanging onto it with disbelief this entire time, waiting for the engine to stall out.

But Shiro keeps reaching out to him, and Keith keeps accepting.

“Seriously, Keith. You want to call it?” Shiro says, from a great distance. “You seem kinda out of it.”

Keith feels sort of like a big bruise with how much time he’s spent on the ground, but he doesn’t want to tell Shiro that.

“Don’t hold back on me,” he says sharply, and rushes forward.

Surprised, Shiro’s barely able to deflect Keith’s fist. It drives into his upper arm as he turns protectively. His expression flickers with the contact – and then he’s moving, grabbing Keith’s wrist to drag him forward. A leg kicks out and sweeps through. Keith yells out and then he’s falling.

Shiro’s arm snakes across his neck and a knee presses into his back. Keith kicks out determinedly but Shiro just pins him further.

“I think that’s enough,” Shiro says.

“I don’t,” Keith says stubbornly, muffled. The mat smells like stale sweat.  

“Keith,” Shiro sighs.

The unspoken reprimand twists inside Keith like no other officer’s barked orders does. He hates it, hates feeling beholden to it.

Shiro eases up just enough for Keith to roll over. He looks up straight up at the ceiling. It’s dark grey and has strips of light built into the panels, cold and bright.

“Let’s go,” Shiro says. Keith has to strain his neck to keep looking up at the lights, he can’t look at him.

Shiro shakes his shoulder. Keith closes his eyes.

“Okay,” he says.

*

Shiro walks Keith back to his room, his gym bag in one hand and towelling at his hair with the other.  Keith can still feel the warmth from his shower radiating out as Shiro walks beside him.

Shiro doesn’t say much but that’s the perfect amount for Keith. He’s not much up for being chatty and he wonders if perhaps Shiro knows that? The silence is comforting but it all too quickly comes to an end as they reach the cadet wing and come to a stop before his door.

The inevitability of Shiro going hits him, suddenly. How many more times is he going to have this before Shiro’s truly gone, jetting off to the stars? He’s promised himself not to be so pathetically miserable about it but –

“Do you want to come in?” Keith asks stupidly, immediately regretting his words.

He doesn’t know why he says it, except he does. It’s Shiro, he doesn’t want Shiro to leave, and it’s utterly transparent and he feels foolish.

“Of course,” Shiro says. The door slides open and he makes an exaggerated gesture, ushering Keith in.

Mouth a little dry, Keith flicks the lights on. The room is just as dishevelled as he left it, which reminds him he still needs to do his laundry and he doesn’t have a clean uniform for tomorrow. He drops his bag by the door. He’ll sort out the laundry situation later.

Shiro isn’t fussed by the mess, even though Keith knows he keeps his own room impossibly neat – and he looks around with interest.

“Sorry about everything,” Keith mumbles, waving his hand around the room. He means everything, though.

After his brief visual inspection (not that there’s much to see in Keith’s box of a room), Shiro nudges off his sneakers and crosses the floor in two strides. With a flourish, he turns around and plops down onto Keith’s bed.

“Huh,” Shiro says, grinning. “This makes me remember why I don’t miss cadet quarters.”

Keith pulls a face. Officers get better lodgings, more room, and even private toilets.

“I’m glad your majesty is impressed,” he says haughtily, rolling his eyes.

Shiro laughs and then stretches, pulling his legs up sideways and – and then he’s horizontal, tucking his hands behind his head, knees up so his feet don’t poke out the edge of the bed.     

Keith freezes mid-derisive eye-roll.

Shiro’s lying in his bed.

The photo is still jammed somewhere under the pillow. Keith’s eyes dart there first. But Shiro doesn’t pay him any attention, wiggling restlessly on top of the covers.

“God these mattresses are so soft,” he complains. “I don’t know how I did it. Why do they do that?”

Keith laughs breathlessly. “Maybe you didn’t notice it back then in your young age,” he manages.

Shiro turns his head sideways to look at Keith, his body pausing for a moment in its quest to get comfortable.

“Oh, it smells like you,” he says.

Keith flushes red.

What’s that supposed to mean?!

Shiro’s brow crinkles as he takes in Keith’s face. He goes a bit red too.

“I mean,” he starts. Then he shakes his head, pushing off so he’s upright once more. Keith can’t see what sort of expression he’s making but he feels like he’s on fire. What does he smell like?

“I mean when you first came to the Garrison it was a struggle to even get you to stop living out of your bag,” Shiro says. The embarrassment recedes slightly, like a splash of cold water on the bonfire. Enough for Keith to focus.

Shiro gestures around the room. At the books scattered across Keith’s study, clothes on the floor. A sock hanging out of the sock drawer. It looks like a teenager’s room. It looks lived in.

“I’m glad you decided to stay after all,” Shiro says gently. “I’m glad this is your home, too.”

Keith scoffs shakily. Now he’s embarrassed anew but for a different reason.

“You’re the one who threatened me into sticking around,” he deflects.

“You’re making the choice to stay every day,” Shiro counters, beaming. Cheeks pink, Keith looks away. “I reckon my best decision was getting you into that flight simulator. I know you’ve been poking around for extra hours on that thing. It’s got you hooked.”

Yeah, something has him hooked, Keith thinks.

“If you can get me those hours I’ll make it worth your while,” is he says instead.

Shiro quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh, is that a promise?” he asks.

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Keith promises. They’re moving to more even ground. He chances a sly smirk for impact.

Shiro narrows his eyes. “No more foul language?” he queries. “No more talking back to senior officers?”

“Damn right.”

Shiro lets out a laugh, climbing to his feet. He pads over to Keith and a warm, heavy palm settles on his shoulder.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, cadet.”

*

The photo is jarring in how innocent they look.

A younger Shiro. A younger Keith, adoration painfully evident in his features. Keith’s eyes flick over himself dismissively and settle over Shiro again. He’s young, even if he’d seemed so put together, so knowledgeable. It almost hurts to see a Shiro untouched by war, by scars both physical and those that reach into the shadows of his eyes. It’s a stark reminder of how much Shiro’s changed, how much he’s gone through.

Keith feels a stab of guilt. Here he is, hiding away in his cabin, ostensibly to give the paladins space to interact with their families. But he’s hiding nonetheless.

And Shiro.

Back at the Garrison, Keith had been too single-minded, flattered and starved enough to soak up all the friendship Shiro had been all too willing to offer him. But Shiro hasn’t had anyone – not since Adam, no one to share his burdens with.

He’d been too young then, but even after – even as paladins, Shiro had kept his struggles to himself. And the same as a captain, with Atlas.

Everything’s changed but some things haven’t, Keith thinks, gaze dropping back to the Shiro in the photograph. His eyes slide back to his younger self. Yeah, some things haven’t.

A light flares, filtering sharply through the threadbare curtains drawn over the single window to the shack.

Keith frowns. Stepping forward, he sets the photo down onto the lumpy arm of his couch and then hurries to the window. The curtains scrape open with the friction of iron rings on a rusted rail – and then Keith has to squint, rapidly blinking away the headlights blasting square into the room. The thrum of a motor coughs to a stop and silence descends back into the area.

Keith’s fingers steal to the small of his back, touching the hilt of his knife. He flicks the curtains shut again but his ears pick up booted feet steadily picking through dirt-packed ground. He cocks his head. The gait is familiar – the footsteps sound –

Keith stumbles to the door and wrenches it wide open.

Shiro stands stooped in the doorway, his hand raised to knock, orange light flickering across his surprised face.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes.

“Not too late for a social call?” Shiro asks ruefully.

Keith backs away from the doorway hastily, letting him in. “Never for you,” he says.

Inside cover, Shiro takes his time unzipping his jacket and shaking it out. He’s wearing a plain shirt underneath, out of the uniform. It’s tight around his chest – casually revealing in a way Keith hasn’t seen in what feels like years.

That’s how long they’ve been fighting a war, he thinks. That’s how long it’s been since Shiro’s been able to have casual. Light scars run down the length of his arm, escaping from underneath the short sleeve of his shirt; the prosthetic hums on his other side.

“You should, uh, sit down,” Keith says, dragging his eyes away from Shiro. He busies himself with the cupboards in the kitchen, fumbling through them. “I can see if I’ve got coffee – or something – ”

Instead of sitting, Shiro joins him, picking up the ratty looking kettle and taking it to the sink. “I’m okay with anything, Keith,” he says.

Keith shoots him an annoyed look. It’s not fair that Shiro’s caught him unprepared. The thought of having nothing for Shiro feels intrinsically wrong and he refocuses his efforts rummaging through the shelves.

He’s rewarded when he manages to dig out a dusty metal tin, bright colouring long since faded away. Keith wedges open the lid which comes off with a puff of dust, and then sniffs the contents cautiously.

“Is that my loose leaf tea?” Shiro asks from behind him, sounding strange.

Keith spins around. The tone of his voice, without being accusatory, somehow still makes him feel a little guilty.

“I might have stolen it from your room after I got kicked out of the Garrison,” he admits.

Shiro stares. Keith grips the box defensively.

“It’s better than the store bought tea bags, alright?” he argues. It’s a terrible lie – Shiro knows Keith can devour practically anything without complaint. Taking the tin had been more for familiarity than taste.

The kettle whistles from where Shiro had placed it on the stove.

They sit together on the couch. The only cups in the house are two stained mugs – one has a crack on the lip on one side – and Shiro dutifully pours into each.

“Cheers,” he says when he’s done, clinking his mug lightly against Keith’s. “Careful, it’s hot.”

The tea goes down his stomach warm.

After swallowing, Keith’s fingers play around the rim of his mug.

“I didn’t mean to leave you alone at the Garrison,” he blurts. “I should’ve – I don’t know why I didn’t ask you to come.”

Shiro’s prosthetic knocks into his bicep gently.

“It’s okay, Keith,” he says. “I bet you’ve had plenty on your mind.”

It’s not really that, though. It’s true – he’s got to work through the cabin, clean it up and find everything he wants to take with him off-world. But there’s also Shiro, free and safe for the first time in a long, long time. And Keith wants to fit so badly into Shiro’s life again but so much time has passed and – he doesn’t know what Shiro wants.

He’s taken Shiro’s leadership away from him, taken his arm. It’s enough to see Shiro regain himself, to see him healthy and safe.

“What are you doing here?” he croaks out.

“The Garrison gave me some time off for myself,” Shiro tells him. His knee knocks against Keith’s as he reaches forward to set his mug down. “They gave me a dozen boxes with all my old things. Everything was just dumped in one place, like they’d just ripped my old apartment up after I left.”

The one he’d shared with Adam.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says automatically.

Shiro shakes his head. “I figured I had better things to do than dig around for dead memories,” he says. “We should be celebrating you. Off on your first humanitarian mission with the Blades. Or is it personitarian?” He laughs at his own joke.

Keith shrugs. His leg leans against Shiro’s. Privately, he thinks there’s nothing worth celebrating – he’s happy enough just here, just now, sitting quietly in the low light with his best friend.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks quietly.

Shiro stills.

“Keith,” he says. A complicated expression passes over his face. “That’s – not what I meant.”

Keith looks away. “If you asked me to, I’d stay,” he says, looking down into his mug. Maybe that’s the difference between them, he thinks. Shiro’s always had ambitions in the stars. Keith’s drawn only to the one.

Shiro must know that by now. Maybe that’s why they’ve been dancing around the topic, why there’s been a sort-of distance ever since he came back – he’s seen what Keith’s capable of, knows just how little he wouldn’t do for him.   

Shiro shifts. Out of the corner of his eye, there’s a minute movement – a faded slip of paper that peeks out between the arm rest and cushioned seat.

“What’s – ?” Shiro plucks it out, but Keith already knows what it is.

His first instinct is to reach out, snatch it before Shiro can turn it around. But there’s no point, is there? He’s past embarrassment, and his feelings have become blatant enough over time that there’s hardly any question that needs to be answered.

Shiro turns the photograph over and is silent.

“I didn’t know you kept this,” he murmurs. The edges of the paper are worn with how many times Keith’s thumb has rubbed across the material.

“I was gonna give it to you after you came back from Kerberos,” Keith mumbles. “You never got one to keep for yourself.”

He can see Shiro peering down into the photo, his eyes roaming across their younger selves, taking in every detail. It’s so disarming – he grips onto his mug like an anchor.

“Keith,” Shiro says. “You look…”

“Like I’m in love,” Keith says helplessly. “Shiro, I’ve loved you since I was a cadet.”

The words are filled with sureness. Like there was ever any doubt in his heart. He’s only affirming what they both know.

Shiro grasps his wrist, prosthetic fingers curling easily around him. “Then why are you sabotaging yourself?” he says urgently. “You can have whatever you want to have.”

Keith licks his lips. That’s the thing, isn’t it? There’s nothing he doesn’t want from Shiro. But he protects that boundary so he can stay in Shiro’s life. He’s always been on a knife’s edge, on the cusp of pushing too far. Here’s the limit, for their friendship.

“Let me show you something,” Shiro says.

He reaches into his pocket, drawing out another, familiar looking square of faded white.

“I found this in my box of things,” he continues. “I thought maybe you’d like to see it, too.”

Keith takes the photo from Shiro shakily, thumb smoothing over the picture. It’s almost a mirror of his – but the image is blurred in parts, a smattering of distorted colours surrounding the frame.

But he can see the subject of the photo clearly enough – his younger self in his cadet’s uniform, an intense stare right into the lens of the camera. He looks focused. Angry.

His eyes pass over his younger self.

Then his breath catches when he sees Shiro.

He’s smiling down at Keith, mouth curved softly, eyes that he can’t think to describe as anything other than fond. He’s looking at Keith in the photo. Like that. Like the boy in the photo is someone cherished.

Like he’s looking at Keith now. Eyes gentle, he’s holding Keith’s photo in one hand. It’s the same expression he’s seen a million times but Keith’s never seen it directed at him from the perspective of someone else. It looks like –

 – like his expression in his own photo.

Keith breathes in shakily.

“I don’t want you to leave yet,” Shiro whispers. “But I always knew you were going to be great.”

“Shiro,” Keith utters. He’s seventeen again and at the end of his luck with Shiro – and Shiro just gives him more.

“I left you to go off on a mission once,” Shiro continues. “I don’t want this time to be without a resolution.”

Shiro’s hand pulses around his wrist. The smooth metal feels warm on his skin. “I don’t want to leave you alone again,” Shiro says.

“You’re not,” Keith says. He feels like he can’t get enough air in his lungs. “I know you’ll still be here. I know you care for me.”

“I want you to know how much,” Shiro says fiercely. “Can I – ?”

Keith nods numbly. He doesn’t even know what Shiro’s going to do – he’s just swept along.

Shiro lets go of his wrist, but then a moment later, both arms are encircling him, tilting his body forward into Shiro’s chest. Keith goes with a gasp, too surprised to protest. And then, even the logical part of him melts away as he’s held by Shiro.

He’s never felt anything this all-encompassing before. Far from a fleeting touch, even an encouraging hug – this feels like the weight of promise, being held so carefully with a touch so gentle that Keith aches. If it’d been enough to simply sit by Shiro before it’s not enough now that he knows what this is like, because this is everything, so much that Keith wants to drown in the sensation of –  

Of being loved.

He shivers in Shiro’s embrace. He’s like putty in his arms.

“Wow,” Shiro whispers, tightening his arms. “If I’d known you’d be like this then maybe I should have said it earlier to keep you from getting in trouble.”

“Said what?” Keith mumbles into Shiro’s chest.

“Said I love you,” Shiro breathes.

Keith’s heart stutters. He’d made his peace with the depth of his own want so long ago that to hear it from Shiro is an overload, overwhelming.

“Oh,” he says very quietly.

For so long Keith’s been chasing the trails left by Shiro flying high in the sky, chasing after an impossible ideal. But maybe all this time Shiro’s just been waiting for Keith to catch up, and somewhere along the way Keith had gotten caught up in the fumes and missed the signal.

Shiro draws back enough so that Keith can see his face again. It’s still so gentle – Keith doesn’t know how he missed this before.

Shiro’s hand slowly reaches up; a thumb touches his cheek delicately, brushing across his scar so lightly it sends a frisson down Keith’s spine.

“Do you want – ?”

“Yes,” Keith says, pressing his cheek into Shiro’s hand. “Yes, Shiro, please.”

Shiro’s lips touch his, warm and soft and dry. There’s no explosion of sensation with the contact – just another touch to add to the sheer closeness of Shiro with him. His nose slides against Shiro’s skin; his face is heated, and Keith’s aware of every point of contact with Shiro’s body.

It’s not like he hasn’t imagined this before, fancifully, at different points of his life, each one a different vision. But even in those fanciful daydreams it doesn’t capture how safe he feels, how each kiss laid devotionally to his mouth somehow reaches deeply into all the unloved, untouched corners of his soul. Keith hasn’t felt such prolonged contact in so long it almost burns – but he doesn’t fear this fire. It’s Shiro, after all, he’s always been good.

Keith kisses back, his clumsy mouth seeking out instinctively the warmth of Shiro. He lands on the corner of his lips – he feels it upturned – he smooths his mouth across Shiro’s cheek, as close as he can be.

“Keith,” Shiro sighs. Even his name sounds good in Shiro’s voice, it’s almost embarrassing how enamoured he is.

It’s always been so easy to love Shiro, Keith thinks. How could the cards have fallen any other way?

He thinks of the pack he’s gathered, all the knickknacks from the cabin and the supplies he’s got in a single duffel bag in the middle of the living room.

Keith lays his hand on Shiro’s chest. It’s warm through the fabric. He thinks of Shiro’s face, gazing down at him, and his vision blurs, overfull with feeling.

He’s had him for so long and he’s never realised it. He’s never realised he was allowed. Never considered. Someone as unlovable as him –

He was loved.

“I think I’ve found a place to settle down,” Keith says. “Like you said, I’m making a choice.”

Shiro’s eyes close, his throat pressed against the shell of Keith’s ear. It pulses strongly.

“Where will you go?” he whispers.

“Is it okay if it’s a person and not a place?” Keith whispers back.

Shiro looks up.

Keith smiles at him through blurred eyes.

“If you’ll have me?”