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Thirty kilometers from Kerberos’ dimpled surface the landing module’s revolutions become uncontrollable, and although Shiro fights to regain balance it remains stubbornly unresponsive and continues its careening descent.

Shiro grips the hand controller more fiercely, acutely aware of Matt and Samuel’s gazes heavy on his back, of the trickle of perspiration running down the side of his face and soaking into his collar.

The bullet-shaped module has a merciless landing. It ricochets off the rim of a crater and splits open, a confetti of fragile metal innards littering the dusty ground in its wake. Shiro forces himself to watch it bounce.

“Confirmed, comms with the landing module is lost,” comes Samuel’s voice from behind him.

Once, twice—

A firm hand grasps his shoulder, Matt’s voice a warm comfort in the cold landscape of Kerberos, “Shiro, it’s just a simulation.”

Palming the mic of his headset he barely manages to hold back a sarcastic bite of a reply. These are the people who want the mission to succeed as much as I do, he reminds himself and harshly corralls his frustration. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

Like a cheap, plastic plaything the module’s lightweight shell has all but shattered. The entirety of its contents, organic or otherwise, would have been obliterated by the ruthless anti-pressures of deep space. He stares at the pixels on the LCD screen, refusing to let himself dismantle his humanity and reassemble it amongst the meaningless forms on Pluto’s moon. That scenario will never be a reality that needs to be envisioned.

“It’s been a long day,” he gives a tired little smile at Matt, who looks equally worn and overwhelmed.

Regardless, Matt manages a typical lopsided smirk and a dramatic, “Aliens wait for no man.” that almost manages to soothe Shiro’s bristling.

“Good work today, Kerberos crew.” The voice of mission control IC Iverson crackles in their headpieces, and Shiro notes that it is slanted with uncharacteristic disappointment, “This concludes our last simulation for the night.”

“And debrief?” Shiro tugs off his headset. His fingers are snared by tangles in his fringe and he claws at the disobedient locks.

Samuel and Matt share a glance, and Shiro carefully does not react. They’ve been training hard all day, yes, but by the time tomorrow comes they’ll have forgotten half of the launch events. Always finish today what has been started today. That’s what schedules are for. That’s what discipline is for.

His tired, overstretched mind still wanders unbidden to the stack of reports on his desk, recounts of the events pallid and lifeless, devoid of human touch and a chance to really learn from the masters.

“Shirogane? Hear me out, would you?”

Samuel comes over, armed with a look that has Matt subtly fidgeting. Shiro has learned to read this as one of Sam’s Doting Father moments and steels himself as best as he can. (After all he’s helpless under the wing of a father as sure, as careful as Samuel Holt; he has and probably will always be at the mercy of the Holt family name.)

“You’ve been working yourself down to the bone. I hear many stories of your caffeine exploits—” Sam chuckles as Shiro’s eyes flick over to Matt, who is carefully studying a bolt fastened in the metal simulator. “—No, it’s nothing bad, I assure you. I just want you to know that your health is more important than a simulation. You need the break, Shiro. You deserve it.”

“No dying before the age of twenty-nine and a half,” Matt reminds him, the time frame more lax since they’re planning a long haul interstellar trip to the edge of the universe. Shiro still thinks six months’ grace is kind of stretching it, but Matt strikes a hard bargain.

“I’m not dying,” Shiro gasps, exasperated. Matt lids his eyes in a classic Sure, Shiro, whatever you say .

Sam gives Shiro a fond clap on the shoulder and bustles him out. “One last debrief then, since you insist. Come on, Matt.”

Matt adjusts his glasses. “If you collapse we’ll get Iverson to read your eulogy.”

“Guys,” Shiro groans, inwardly happy to be manhandled over to the exit, “Iverson’s not going to read anyone’s eulogy, least of all mine. And don’t insult mission control.”

“Thanks, pilot,” the flat reply is from Iverson, who has been casually listening in. A final krr-tz of static marks his disengagement from the secure channel.

Now it is safe for Shiro to give the two Holts a meaningful look. “Besides, he’ll put all the guests to sleep.”

The debrief is quick, to the point, blunt and would be insulting to any other pilot. “I dread to see how you’ll micromanage your kid,” Iverson had muttered dryly, but he’s the kind of man who, despite barbed words and near-absence of praises, never hides the truth. Stifled by KPIs, hierarchy and rank, it’s difficult to get a straight word of advice from anyone. And those who do Shiro has since learned to keep close, valuable companions who would smack his head out of the clouds if need be.

Finally satisfied, they stand and thank Iverson for his hard work. The Holts retire to their quarters and after sending them off (Matt somehow summons a burst of energy to declare “I swear to god Shiro, four REM cycles or else”), Shiro heads to the recruit lounge eager for his daily quota of quiet warmth. Without knowing, his footsteps quicken.

No matter how late his meetings end, or how early the next day will start tomorrow, he always has this one thing to come back to. From this angle all he can see is the back of the plush couch and that mop of raven hair, shifting slightly as Keith stirs at the sound of Shiro padding over.

“Finally.” Keith lets out a small, soft hum. Shiro rests his weight on the backrest of the couch and Keith tilts his head, looking up at him from under dark lashes. His gaze is hazy with sleep, one Keith’s soft expressions nobody else will ever be privy to. This sight, the sight of Keith unravelling for him a little more with every passing day, always makes Shiro’s heart skip a beat.  

“I keep telling you not to wait up for me. You should be resting.”

Keith, the ungrateful, disrespectful, cheeky little spitfire that he is, actually smirks. “I’m not the one with a bounty on my head.”

“I’ll have you know I still have a couple years’ worth of buffer time.” Shiro huffs.

Keith wrestles a smile, then peels himself from the couch with a groan. Lithe and languid, more comfortable in his orange uniform than any other recruit Shiro has seen, Keith stretches with a half-yawn. Something pops. Keith must’ve waited here a long while, Shiro thinks, and if he wasn’t focusing on biting back a laugh he would’ve actually felt guilty.

“Stiff joints? You’re getting old,” he observes, then leaps back a half-step to avoid Keith’s swipe at his waist.

But Keith is always learning, still lightning quick and razor sharp, and is actually ready for Shiro’s maneuver. Moving faster than Shiro can keep track Keith whips his other arm out to land a successful jab at Shiro’s unprotected waist, pulling a yelp of indignation from him.

Keith glows, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes though his mouth is still set in a heavy scowl.

Not willing to experience another bout of ticklish jabs Shiro glares warily. “I’ll have you grounded, cadet. Behave,” Shiro says, one hand clutching at his side and the other held out towards Keith, as though he’s a prowling animal.

Keith glances down at Shiro’s outstretched hand and smoothly draws himself into a flawless salute, wrist locked tight, elbow cocked at the perfect angle.

“Yes sir.”

Shiro’s face twists with exasperation. Taking that as his cue, Keith stalks past radiating a cattish smugness Shiro isn't expecting. Keith pauses in the doorway with his gaze lidded, all but reeling Shiro in. Willingly, Shiro responds with a playful laugh of his own.

Keith leads the way back to their room, constantly a step ahead. A few locks of Keith’s dark hair sticks out at awkward angles and Shiro itches to pat them down. How he yearns to card his fingers in Keith’s hair, run a thumb across that porcelain cheek, hold Keith close and whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

But Kerberos waits, a jealous lover at the far edge of the universe, and with her, there is no room for Keith — Keith belongs here, on earth, where he can roam anywhere he wishes under a glittering curtain of stairs, bound only by rules he doesn’t fear breaking. He doesn't belong in the snare of bonds spanning half the galaxy.

How wretched. Everything is right here. Every gilded future he can only dream of getting, in every possible parallel universe, is compressed in this room he’s proud to call home. Yet he’s further away from home than he’ll ever be. With the Kerberos launch proposed, and mid-planning, training shifting into full gear, Shiro feels like he’s already lost. It's difficult finding his way through shapeless numbers, twisting flight paths, a zero-gravity world that lacks the warmth he’s found himself loving.

Despite himself Shiro still can’t help that stupid little smile he gives when he takes in the room — their room. It’s too tantalizing an idea to give up. Without the threat of thieving bunkmates, Keith’s collection of model ships has grown to include a black and crimson Energy Liger, stockily built and sporting two heavy blasters. “This guy sells them for cheap,” was all Keith had to say about where they were all coming from. That garrison pay has to go somewhere after all. But more than that, it's a subtle declaration of the safety that Keith has found in him, and Shiro's proud to be a part of that.

Having moved past the need for words Keith only needs to wave his hand to call dibs on the shower. Shiro watches him hang his lucky red jacket on the bed frame before trudging past Keith's desk. On its surface, Keith’s pens, their covers gnawed, are scattered across a copy of the Kerberos mission brief, the official garrison-issued statement and their mission objectives. From the washroom, the shower starts. Shiro wanders over to the desk to for a closer look: though it's only briefly annotated in Keith's slanted handwriting, the report is fraying at the staple from regular perusal.

Shiro can’t help a pang of wonder. How'd it be like, piloting the Kerberos landing modules with Keith’s flawless judgement guiding his hand?

The sound of running water stops abruptly, only for Keith to call out, “If you touch my Zoids, put them back later.”

Straightening the report, Shiro smiles.

“I’m not.”

A satisfied silence. Shiro flops over on his own bed, letting his mind drift, tracing the history of this room, how empty it’d been when Keith had first moved in. Back then every sign of Keith’s existence had been crammed in a drawer out of Shiro’s sight. Yet now Keith always spends an extra meal credit every Wednesday to grab him an extra box of mac’n’cheese for supper, slides Shiro his coffee when Matt isn’t looking. He thinks about how whenever Shiro looks at Keith, the boy’s guarded expression falls away like shadows disappearing in the light. And how these thoughts always makes Shiro feel full, and warm, and content, like nothing else ever can.

“Your turn.”

Cold water drips on his face. Shiro peels his eyes open blearily and scrubs at the wet spot with a hand. He must’ve fallen asleep. The exhaustion has seeped out from where it’d been lurking in his bones and now it feels like he’s back in the gravity training chamber fighting forces of two G’s, three G’s. No, a million G’s and then some.

He just wants to close his eyes again, and be done with the night so tomorrow can begin, but he knows better. With a grunt he pushes himself up. He needs to end the day properly.

Above him Keith finally pulls away, his concern evident but silent, pearls of water clinging to the tips of his hair.

“Don’t tie your hair up while it’s wet,” Shiro says, as he always does, while he’s slouching over to the washroom with a stifled yawn.

Don’t tie your hair up while it’s wet, Shiro says, as if he hates Keith’s messy hair. Keith has seen him staring, never able to pull his eyes away when Keith’s working on a ponytail. Shiro walks to the washroom, joints stiffened by an interrupted nap. As always he carries himself proudly, head up, chest out. After all Shiro will be a soldier through and through, until the end of his strength.

Still, Keith doesn’t miss the slight drag of Shiro’s feet, or the sound of Shiro fumbling with the bottles in the shower.

He glances at the papers on his desk. Shiro has touched it, he knows because Shiro leaves things parallel, stacked, orderly, rather than strewn about in the mindless chaos Keith defaults to. Feeling childish and bratty but not ashamed enough to stop himself, he shoves the papers against the wall. The jolt knocks over his stationery holder.

There’s something simmering inside him: slow but ever-present. When it appeared — reappeared, he’d recognised it instantly. It’s something he’s since thought abandoned back in the recruits’ simulator, something foul and shameful that Shiro would frown at and say Patience yields focus to.

It hadn't always been like this, but the rose tinted days before Kerberos have come and gone. Keith hadn't even fully known how they look and feel like. Now there’s only stress, muted words and veiled glances in place of the shared warmth that used to give Keith hints of butterflies in his stomach.

Keith clambers to his bunk and draws his knees to his chest, carefully feeling his heat seeping into the bedsheets, the cold concrete wall against his back. In the little space between his legs and chest he imagines something feebly fluttering.

It isn’t fair. Everything Shiro touches falls into place. Even with the undeniable pull from Kerberos, Shiro’s steadfast presence still is the counterbalance to Keith’s ruleless bouts of anger and frustration. Shiro still is the rock rising out from the desert sand, oblivious to the raging winds and gritty sandstorms.

And despite that Keith’s palm burns with the lack of contact and he's forced to dig his fingers into the sheets to stifle the feeling of losing something he's never owned. 

What are we now? Keith wants to ask, wanting to hear an answer and yet terrified to hear it, because in a warped way it’s much easier turning away from something unknown than to face its true identity head-on.

The water slows to a drip, and shortly after that Shiro emerges rubbing his face in his towel.

Shiro’s gaze travels to Keith’s newly messed desk, and then up at Keith himself. Carefully Keith remains silent, unmoving. A tiny part of him hopes that perceptive and all-observant Shiro will have the words to give to Keith so Keith can understand — can help Shiro understand — what he’s feeling.

Shiro’s gaze lingers, then flicks away, and Keith fights down the urge to lash out with all the words he cannot say. Instead he watches mutely as Shiro rubs the tiredness from his eyes and sets up his study music for the night. These are all signs of a long haul and Keith doesn’t reject the sting of jealousy when it bites.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” he asks when the silence begins to strangle. His voice is too neutral even to his own ears, heavy with fake concern. It makes him sound like a robot and just another soulless voices in the simulators and every counsellor he’s had and hated.

Shiro pulls out his logbook. “I need to review today’s debriefs and prepare for the simulations tomorrow. We’re already behind schedule, and I’ll need to polish up my landing sequences if we're going to keep the planning on task.” Keith notes the extra tabs the journal has gained, and tries not to loathe it and all its contents.

“Then I’m staying up too,” Keith says stubbornly, as if his decision will have any bearing on Shiro’s actions at all.

Shiro looks up at him, his gaze misted over by tiredness, unfocused from so many hours staring at endless arrays of LCD screens and harshly glowing dashboards, weakened by the stress and expectations Shiro has chained himself to and won’t let go.

A month ago this little trick might've worked, but now Keith might as well be commanding desert winds to stop blowing. The call of Kerberos is getting harder and harder to ignore, and Shiro’s duty has always, always been to the people he flies with.

“No,” Shiro’s voice is rough with command. Keith doesn’t know if he flinches, but Shiro’s voice mellows out immediately after, “You should sleep. Please go to sleep.”

Keith lowers his eyes. There is no battle to be fought.

He crawls under the sheets without saying another word and Shiro helps by turning off the lights to Keith's half of the room.

“Goodnight, Keith.”

Keith hates the relief in Shiro’s voice, hates being reduced to nothing but a cadet, a teamless soldier, a blade with no wielder, a toy used to pass the time.

“Goodnight,” he says, not trusting himself with Shiro’s delicate name in this reckless, destructive state.

It’s the little things, Keith knows, the little things that end up breaking you. The tiniest little things that are too insignificant to be said, but cut you up a bit at a time, until you forget how it feels like to be whole, until you forget how your reflection should look like. Until you forget how anything is supposed to look like. But by this time it is too late, and no matter what you do what should be and could be will slip from your grasp, leaving nothing but an oily feeling that can never go away.

Shiro steps out of the shower. After accidentally upending the conditioner on his hands they feel funny, caked with residual soap, and he wipes them on his towel viciously so he doesn’t slather his pens in it too.

Keith’s bundled himself into a compact ball on his bed, giving him one of his piercing stares that screams how he wants — no, needs something.

Shiro knows. This is, and has been, an old contention. Shiro feels all their past fights suddenly resurface, the unhealed wounds, the sharp words — but this is Keith, who relies on silence more than sound, and it is his wordless bouts of anger that hurt the most.

On Keith’s desk, the stationary holder is on its side, with the report creased beneath it. The Kerberos mission statement. The physical embodiment of everything Shiro’s fighting for. The one thing Keith can take his anger out on and not feel guilty about hurting.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” The inflection in Keith's voice is subtle, but for someone as blunt and careless as Keith the question is carefully  and deliberately crafted. It gives Shiro a low, dull pang to feel as much as hear Keith pining from behind the walls he’s pulled back up around himself.

“I just need to review today’s debriefs and prepare for the simulations tomorrow. We’re already behind schedule, and I’ll need to polish up my landing sequences if we're going to keep the planning on task.”

“Then I’m staying awake too,” Keith retorts, his words edged, biting, mulish. And Shiro knows he means well but all Shiro wants is for Keith to continue life as usual, to be strong and unshakable like he must certainly have been before Shiro inserted himself into his life and ruined him for the better.

Shiro still regrets stepping in so soon, too soon.

“No,” he says, half chiding himself for that unforgivable mistake, but in the tension and stress the word comes out so strong that Keith actually winces. “You should sleep. Please go to sleep.”

His throat tightens when Keith dips his head in resigned acquiescence, without the snark or the sarcastic Yes sir that tells of Keith’s strength. There's nothing else to do but reach over to turn the light off.

“Go to bed soon. Even the best gladiators need their downtime,” Keith's words are sweetly padded with almost uncharacteristic concern. 

Shiro pauses, but Keith’s gaze turns worried, and whatever that transient flicker is, it is gone.

“Alright, I will,” he murmurs, carefully keeping hold of himself so the oddly shaped pieces of his slight, out of place confusion don’t scatter around his feet. “Thanks for the concern. I really, really do appreciate it.”

“I know.” Just before Keith pulls the sheets over his head, his lips twitch in the faintest hints of a smile, and just like that Shiro feels the tension bleed away, evaporate.

“Rest well, buddy,” his voice is all but a slur, he’s so disproportionately relieved that things haven’t taken a more sour turn.

“Goodnight, Shiro.”

From the bundle comes a soft hum, and Shiro is thankful he doesn’t need to bite back his smile. After all there’s nobody else to see him reduced to a stupid, brainless mess over Keith Kogane.

Shiro’s alarm wails.

Keith sits up in bed, a grouchy scowl weighing on him. He knows this rhythm by now. Shiro needs to be in the mess hall by 0630, fed and watered so he’s awake awake and not stumbling around rubbing toothpaste into his hair and scrubbing Keith's face soap into his mouth. 

He carefully lowers himself out of the bunk bed. Thankfully, Shiro is not seated at his desk, and instead is cocooned in a nest of sheets pressed against the far wall. Keith fumbles to turn off the alarm, and reaches over to pat at the exposed tuft of Shiro’s fringe.

“It’s 0530. Wake up. Shiro.”

Shiro makes a small, grumpy sound. Keith pats harder, and when that yields no result, grips Shiro's arm and gives a little shake.

“Shiro.”

With colossal effort, Shiro oozes upright and stares at the half-dark room with a look that screams murder. Keith has never struggled with the lack of sleep; It’s only through Shiro that he’s learned to recognise the look of someone who hasn’t even managed a proper REM cycle’s rest.

Today’s going to be a rough day for the both of them. Keith knows, because now Shiro's slowly tilting his head down at the pillow.

“No,” says Keith firmly, tugging on Shiro’s shirt. He feels like he’s talking to a small child. “Stand.”

Shiro rebuts eloquently with a string of incoherent syllables.

“Come on, Shiro. It's 0530. We gotta go."

Finally, Shiro lets Keith pull him out of bed. With a firm hand on Shiro’s arm, Keith guides him over to the washroom and closes the door. Shiro doesn’t lock it. Water starts to run.

Keith sighs and settles at Shiro’s desk. He reaches for Shiro’s logbook, but changes his mind at the last moment. Half of the stuff in there's probably unintelligible to Keith. And his list of 'things he doesn't understand about Shiro' is already long enough.

Shiro’s schedule is pinned neatly on the noticeboard amidst sketches and to-scale diagrams of the Kerberos shuttle, the command panel, all meticulously annotated with Shiro’s blocky handwriting. All in a day’s work, for a Kerberos Mission pilot — the day starts even before the freshmen fall in for morning drills, and ends long after lights out. Even before the Kerberos Mission crew has departed, the distant moon is already testing the limits of human will and strength.

Then, Keith notices two of Shiro’s pens, one black and one blue, with their caps swapped. It’s a mistake anyone could’ve made in the tiredness of 3am, after a hard day’s work and lack of rest.

Keith would be fine if it had been anyone else’s mistake but Shiro’s. But it is Shiro’s mistake.

His throat tightens, and he refuses to let himself grit his jaws in what feels like helplessness.

He knows that of all people, Shiro is the least invulnerable of them all. He knows how under that stern demeanour, Shiro has still managed to retain the same childlike innocence that drove him to join the garrison in the first place. He knows, he remembers, how can he forget that Shiro loves an indulgent takeout as much as any other deprived recruit, how Shiro chases grand dreams but enjoys simple pleasures like rain pattering on the windows as he reads about stars he might never see —

How Shiro is strong, brave, impeccable, not only for the people who look up to him, but also for himself. And this because Shiro wants to be that awe-inspiring fragment of human spirit the world needs. Because he wants to prove that even in a realm as inhospitable as space, humanity too can thrive.

Here on earth, even in the privacy of their room, misplaced pen covers are one of the tiny signs that Shiro is slipping.

Keith quickly replaces the pen covers. Nobody else needs to see this part of Shiro — All in a day’s work, for someone supporting a prodigy destined for Kerberos.

When Shiro finally emerges his fringe is the correct volume again, there’s a spark in his eyes and some proper steel in his posture. Keith sees through his pleasant smile easily, but chooses to say nothing about what lies beyond it.

After he takes his turn washing up and changing they make their way to the mess hall in companionable silence. At 0607 they settle at the end of one of the long mess hall tables with their oily sunny side ups and cheap toast and still cold on the inside hot dogs. Keith puts it all away without complaint.

Over the table, he can feel Shiro’s gaze settle on him as he eats. It shouldn’t be anything new by now. Shiro has never been discreet about staring, especially not when he looks with such an intense eagerness to understand.

“Keith?”

There it is. Keith feels his entire body stiffen against his will. His fork slows.

“We need to talk.”

We, Shiro says, as if the fault is Keith’s too.

Keith focuses on keeping his voice neutral, but not clueless. “About what?”

About what? What a pointless question. There are so many things to talk about. They can talk about last night. About last week, when Shiro was caught up in some last minute rocket modifications and didn’t return to his room at all. About Shiro slowly, imperceptibly drawing away as the months creep past. About how their palms had touched in that one night of broken dreams and never connected again.

We can talk about us.

Keith stares intensely at his empty plate, clutching his fork so tight that Shiro notices and frowns.

God, please Shiro, can we talk about us.

“The Kerberos Mission launches at the end of the month —” Keith closes his eyes as if rebuked. Shiro presses on, “— and… and look, Keith, it’s becoming so hectic that I can barely stay on top of everything. I’m really, really sorry I haven’t been spending more time with—”

“That’s not the point,” snaps Keith, so harshly that his voice echoes in the empty mess hall. Followed by crushing silence. One of the janitors glances their way, and then pretends not to look.

Shiro, taken aback, works something back down his throat and waits.

Keith struggles to look at his anger head on. It’s hot and formless and it makes Keith’s gut twist in guilt and there’s just no way he can begin to fit his rage into the correct keyhole. He’s reverting back to his old habits, reacting with short-circuit frustration and snap-trap fury and he hates it. He hates that he might hurt Shiro without knowing.

All he wants is for Shiro to understand. He thinks about the first time Shiro has ever overslept, the first time Shiro misplaced an important mission brief, the first time Shiro went without food for almost 48 hours.

Keith drops his fork, not caring that it sends scraps of eggs and sausage flying across the table.

“Kerberos is destroying you,” he growls, the protest sounding stupid and feeling even more meaningless, and once he hears them he knows they’ve come out wrong. Shiro’s eyes widen and Keith begins to regret but it's too late, the words are coming faster now, rougher now, “You always say there’s no time. There’s no time. There will never be enough time, Shiro!”

Shiro’s expression hardens. “What is this about, Keith.”

Keith feels like he’s just been punched in the gut. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Then again nothing ever goes like it should, not with Shiro.

“It’s about — No! I’m tired of seeing you like this. I keep having to… to clean up after you. You should be taking care of yourself, not relying on me and Matt and Samuel to do it!”

The storm gathering behind Shiro’s clearwater gaze suddenly crystallizes. Shiro puts his own utensils down heavily on the table. “I didn’t think you felt that way about the Kerberos Mission. Or about me, for that matter,” He says coldly. “Am I just a bother to you?”

Keith grinds his jaws so hard his head pounds, hating the answer that surfaces yet refusing to let it escape him.

“Be honest with me, Keith. I want to hear it.”

Shiro has been on the edge of his patience for a while, now. Keith knows. He knows a million other excuses he can easily make to explain why things are so strained and warped between them, but they are all eclipsed in the shadow of his own burning ire.

The thought of you burdens me, he thinks, the thought more impression than words, Every night I think about you disappearing before you’re even gone and the thought eats me up inside.

He shoves his chair back as he stands roughly. You’re my greatest burden and biggest regret.

Shiro says immediately, “Keith Kogane, you are not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Forget I said anything.” Keith stalks past Shiro, his outrage pressing hard and relentlessly at the back of his eyes.

Shiro stands too, drawing himself to his full height. There’s a wound in Shiro’s expression and Keith's gaze is too heavy to lift to look at its shape properly. “You will stay, Cadet Kogane.”

The blatant resort to rank is a slap across the face.

“I already told you nothing’s wrong, Sergeant Shirogane,” Keith gnaws on the honorific and it comes out punctured and torn and hurt, even to himself, Keith doesn’t even recognise his own voice, he doesn’t even wait to see Shiro’s reaction.

“Cadet.”

“I’ll see you in the counsellor’s room if you need me, sir.”

“Keith? We need to talk.”

Keith seems to be expecting this ‘talk’, yet at the same time he reacts as if the talk comes out of the blue. Keith has regressed. That old, familiar, poisonous anger thrums shallowly under Keith’s surface, making itself known through every move Keith makes. It’s dangerous to engage Keith directly when he’s in such an unstable mood, and in ideal circumstances he’d let Keith work away the worst of his anger before trying to talk.

Still, he has to say something. Keith looks tortured just sitting there, as if he’s become that lonely, chastised cadet again, just waiting for discipline to be meted out. Is that what Shiro’s become? Something to be feared, to be studied warily from afar?

How the thought kills him inside.

“The Kerberos mission launches at the end of the month, and —” to Shiro’s horror, Keith’s eyes squeeze shut against a furious, inward battle. Shiro hurriedly changes tactics. “Look, Keith, it’s becoming so hectic that I can barely stay on top of everything. I’m really, really sorry I haven’t been spending more time with—”

“That’s not the point.”

Shiro feels the words die in his mouth.

Sometimes Keith is easy to understand. Sometimes, times like now, they’re face to face with no body language to rely on, no other distractions or metaphors to use, and all that’s left between them is the entirety of whatever’s been festering and since become infected.

That’s the word. Festering. Shiro doesn’t know how long it’s lasted, but he’s only become painfully aware of it in the past week or so. That’s what happens when Shiro understands someone so fully — their flaws become a logical part of them, another gear in an incomprehensible system that Shiro doesn’t find fault in, not until the changes add up and it’s a little too late.

The cracks, it seems, have gone a little too deep for Shiro to repair this time. Keith flings his fork down in a blatant loss of control.

“Kerberos is destroying you.”

For someone who’s bad at words, Keith really, really knows how to make them count.

Shiro’s composure frays a little more. He actually has to fight not to match Keith’s frustration with his own. The thoughts that plague him are ugly and no, he refuses to think that way about Keith.

“You always say there’s no time. There’s no time. There will never be enough time, Shiro!”

Time? What does Keith know about time? Shiro’s the one racing a ticking clock, fighting the falling seconds and the impending T-minuses and scraping together every last minute he has to spend it on Keith. All he wants is to make sure he is worthy of space — worthy of Kerberos — so he will make it back in a piece that can hold Keith close and safe.

“What is this about, Keith.”

Keith tugs at his hair, eyes darting from side to side as he crudely fits words to feelings.

“It’s about — No! I’m tired of seeing you like this. I keep having to… to clean up after you. You should be taking care of yourself, not relying on me and Matt and Samuel to do it!”

Shiro barely manages to get himself under control, lowers his utensils to the table carefully. His arms are hot, heavy, as though if he were to press down any harder the wooden table will splinter beneath him.

Memories of the past they’ve shared between them flashes past, split-second frames of Keith nudging him awake, Keith bringing him meals, Keith’s texts to check up on him, Keith waking him up, saying goodnight, every day, every night, without fail, —

The breath he lets out is a shuddering one.

Of all the people Shiro holds close, of those he can trust with his weakness and mistakes, it’s unfair how secure Keith is in his own imperfection. Of course Shiro would’ve been drawn to Keith’s easy confidence, Keith’s unbending will.

“I didn’t think you felt that way about the Kerberos Mission. Or about me, for that matter. Am I just a bother to you?”

Shiro’s aware of his reputation as the garrison’s poster boy, unbelievably perfect in almost every way. He never asked for this. All he’s been doing is what Keith’s been doing: keeping his head down, doing his best, and letting all the others say as they please. 

He doesn’t dare think for a moment about how ‘perfection’ and ‘imperfection’ are never meant to collide.

“Be honest with me, Keith. I want to hear it.”

With a screech, Keith’s chair topples on the ground. Keith slams his fists on the table, breathing roughly, loud, labored in the dead silence of 0619 hours.

The breath snared in Shiro’s throat is cold and burning all at the same time. He waits, expectantly, for Keith to move, to wring out his name and spit it on the ground in a profane swear as he walks by. He waits to be destroyed, not by Kerberos, but by Keith.

Yet, unpredictable as always, Keith seems to let something go and the tension melts away from his shaking frame.

Something’s wrong.

Shiro blinks as Keith looks up at him, hot tears in his eyes. Shiro takes a faltering step backwards, his anger obliterated in an instant, replaced by cold panic.

“Keith? Keith, I’m sorry, I… I didn’t…”

He rushes over to take Keith into his arms but hesitates at the very last moment. This kind of touch can only be done on Keith’s own terms; any more rushed and he will truly lose Keith forever.

“Shiro.” Keith folds himself gratefully into Shiro’s arms. Keith is trembling from the tension, from all the words he hasn’t said and more, and Shiro wishes that if he stares into Keith’s eyes long enough he’ll be able to see the depth of Keith’s wounds to fix them. “You do not understand. It is so… so hard, watching you struggle and fight.”

“It’s all I can do,” Shiro says, because that’s what Keith has taught him.

“No!” Keith growls without heat. His voice splits. “You continually throw yourself out into some battleground, insisting you can fight. Insisting you are alright. You keep killing one gladiator after another. But I am the only one who can see you bleeding, and I cannot do a thing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Keith. I’m no Champion.”

Keith gives a wet laugh into Shiro’s uniform. “And I am not a human called Keith Kogane.”

“Is this what this is about, Keith? I won’t let Kerberos destroy me.” Shiro runs fingers through Keith’s hair, coming to a stop at the back of his neck and tilting Keith’s face upwards. The moment they share is painfully intimate, and absentmindedly Shiro thinks about how it’s just too little too late.

All that’s left in Keith’s gaze is longing, a painful longing, one that he hasn’t seen in months.

“I should have been a pilot on that ship. I am sorry I did not make it.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Shiro says immediately, as he’s said a million times before. “We’re both great pilots in our own right.”

“Too great for the garrison,” Keith quips.

Despite himself, Shiro can’t help but laugh. “A little too great,” he concedes. “Still, Major Anderson needs you back at the recruit training wing. I need you back there, helping out with the other recruits.”

Keith sighs, a quiet, sullen sound, and Shiro can’t help lean down and nuzzle into Keith’s hair.

“The six months will be over before you know it,” he promises, dropping a chaste kiss on Keith’s forehead and hoping the janitors don’t have their phones out already.

“Regardless of what happens to you on Kerberos or whatever strange lifeforms you encounter, you must kiss me properly when you return,” Keith grumbles, leaning up to brush his lips against Shiro’s chin. When he pulls away Shiro’s skin still feels flushed, heated, warm.

“I will. I promise.”

Keith’s gaze shifts over Shiro’s shoulder. For a brief moment, Shiro’s heart drops. Is it another faculty member? Is it one of the Majors? Or worse—

“Oh… it is 0627.”

It’s worse. “Crap!” Shiro pulls away, panicking. “This is what you do to me, Keith Kogane! I hope you’re happy!”

Keith commandeers both trays so Shiro can bolt out of the mess hall. As he runs Keith’s laughter rings in his ears, the kind of laugh that makes it sound like Keith’s surprised by his reaction too. Shiro can’t help a helpless snort of laughter on the way out; he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve someone like Keith watching over him always.

The next few days waste away in a painful crawl of aching silence. Keith knows Shiro’s schedule too well for them to cross paths by accident. This is stupid and childish and… other synonyms like that and Keith knows, oh he knows. By the time Shiro knocks off Keith is already in bed, badly pretending to be asleep so Shiro knows he’s pretending. He doesn’t accompany Shiro down for meals any more. It hurts a small part of him, but it makes him feel better too, just the tiniest bit, when he sees Shiro’s as unsettled as he is.

The cold war ends one of the Fridays when Shiro’s alarm beeps incessantly for 7 entire minutes.

“Shiro,” he growls harshly. At his voice Shiro slinks to his feet as if chided. Soon after, Keith leaves Shiro in the showers and heads up onto the roof alone.

The next two hours pass this way, with Keith watching the land reabsorb color from the sunlight. Out here is where he can breathe. But his foot is sore. He’d aimed a kick at the study metal fence, just because he could, and because it felt right to push all his anger into that one fierce swipe of his leg. Of course the metal hadn’t yielded, and in response he’d actually punched the railing and split the skin of his knuckles over the rough metal.

He doesn’t even want to begin thinking about Shiro. He just lets the sunlight touch him shyly, feeling the harrowed background thrum of his anger fade just slightly in the all-seeing glare of the sun.

He’s tired, but he really doesn’t have the right to feel it.

By 0830 he’s located Major Anderson in the recruits’ training wing. Anderson doesn’t look too happy to see him, but it's mutual. Keith manages a passable salute and as the recruits fall in all strife between them is temporarily forgotten. They all have that lost-sheep expression on them, and the awe that radiates from them is only cheapened by the too-bright orange of their new, stiff uniforms. Keith’s own is more washed out, the faded colors subtly telling of his seniority.

Maybe it’s only fitting that faculty wear grey uniforms, Keith thinks bitterly, after these technicolor dreams are scrubbed out so hard that all the hues are drained away with the dirty bathwater.

Keith has never been good with kids, much less owl-eyed greenhorns, but he does as Anderson bids him because it’s what Shiro would’ve wanted. He lurks at the back of class all morning, letting his mind wander as Anderson explains the simulator in detail (“I can’t wait to pilot that thing,” someone says in a hushed whisper, and Keith pretends he never said anything of the sort too, when he was younger) and lets each recruit in so they can inspect the shiny new buttons.

When they next reconvene after lunch Keith is finally given his first task of the day. He’s going to fly for the recruits.

Keith, acutely aware of his promotion from black sheep to show dog, doesn’t actually mind too much. Flying is liberating. Flying is freeing.

And he’ll never forget: flying is focus, too.

He settles at the pilot’s seat, giving his usual fidget to let the ship get accustomed to him before gently grasping the yoke. Everything he does in here is projected onto the screen outside for Anderson to narrate and explain. Keith's pretty much been given free reign here, just to give a brief glimpse of the prowess that top garrison fliers can wield, to give the recruits something to work towards.

He’s flying with AI at the comms and engines, but it’s so easy to imagine Shiro and Matt there because they always fly perfectly anyway.

With a low, reverberating hum, the screens light up for him and his plane rises into the air. He’s doing a simple aeronautics display, demonstrating the functionality of the garrison blackbirds. Even despite the reddish iron-rich sand expanding outwards in all directions, Keith can’t help but go back to his favorite sim with Shiro and Matt, that simple but disastrous airlift in the fickle tundra, the seamless leadership and wholehearted support that he has yet to find again.

His craft gives him an envious rumble to regain his attention. All systems are green as they should be, and it’s as if Shiro and Matt are right there covering his back. He coaxes the craft into vertical lift, sand whirling around them, and then shoots upwards towards the clouds and stars.

Test Tango Seven Echo Eight Four, he mouths silently to himself, and pretends he doesn’t feel the sting of loss when the simulator makes only electronic sounds in reply, Ready for ignition.

The flight is uneventful, the blackbird mundanely obedient to his every command.

When he steps out of the simulator he’s expecting the recruits to be slack-jawed in amazement, but he isn’t expecting Anderson to be joined by another Lieutenant. Shiro and Matt have told him about Iverson, the one with a face turned pruny by years of stress and countless scowl lines. Of course, the Lieutenant's scowling now too. It only deepens when he sees Keith.

Anderson takes his turn entertaining the recruits, whom Keith ignores without trouble. Iverson beckons him over.

“Keith Kogane, yes?” Iverson gives him a curt nod in greeting. “Good. I’m here because of Shirogane Takashi.”

Keith blinks in surprise, forgetting to salute.

The lieutenant gives Keith a long-suffering look that Keith is only too familiar with. Instantly Keith takes a liking to him. “Shirogane’s flying is disastrous today. He can’t even get the damn ship off the ground, let alone to Kerberos.”

Unsure whether to be smug or anxious about this new information, Keith settles for a neutral “Oh.”

Iverson continues, his words devoid of any inflection whatsoever, “I want him in proper working condition again before tomorrow. Whatever you two scamps have been doing it needs to be undone. If you need a quiet room or lounge I’ll ensure it, and protection too.”

What? Keith feels his face heat at Iverson’s deadpan quip and he’s forced to take a faltering step backwards. “We’re not doing anything like that!”

“Oh.” Iverson actually manages to sound mildly interested, but his expression sincerely begs to differ. “Alright. Whatever. You’re lucky you’re almost as good a flier as Shirogane. Just make sure Shirogane’s working again.”

I’m not an engineer, Keith wants to say, but settles for a stammering, “What-how how did you get to that conclusion?”

“One of his teammates gave me a tip off.”

Damn it, Matt, thinks Keith with a frown of his own.

Iverson grunts, “Looks like you know who it is. Either way, I’ve forced Shirogane to take the rest of the day off. Sent him to his quarters. If it’s affecting you as badly as it’s affecting Shirogane then you’d best teach him a thing or two about how to compartmentalise. Capiche?”

How can he begin to tell Iverson that, between them both, Shiro’s the one beating himself up over his mistakes more severely? That between them Shiro’s the one who cares more about his team than Keith ever can? That Shiro’s more stable, more level-headed… less angry of them both?

Whatever’s happening in Shiro’s mind, it must be really bad.

He nods dumbly and gives a weak salute, watching Iverson stalk away grumbling all the while.

When Shiro awakes from a fitful, dreamless sleep, Keith is on a chair beside his bed and watching with a hawk-like gaze.

Outside, the baked afternoon is fading away to a twilight as deep as an old bruise.

The purple half-light catches half of Keith’s face and leaves the other half in shadow, a moon hiding secrets away from the sun. Shiro props himself up sluggishly, rubbing sleep from his eyes and patting down his fringe in a well-practiced motion.

Still Keith doesn’t say a word.

This is more acknowledgement than Keith has given him these few days, and suddenly Shiro feels like he’s hemmed into a corner, both by Keith’s slowly burning embers and by all the words that suddenly are far, far too inadequate for them. With a swell of guilt he realises this is how Keith feels on a daily basis. It’s a godforsaken struggle. Shiro wishes Keith will allow him the more merciful alternatives of brief touches, of bad jokes and quiet care that has more than done the job for them until now.

“You alright?” asks Keith. His voice is flat, betraying nothing, leaving Shiro no openings at all. Still, like the ruined idiot he is, Shiro's heart weakly stirs.

“Better.” Shiro replies honestly, because that’s what Keith responded to so beautifully when he first stepped into Keith’s life. “I needed the rest.”

Keith blinks slowly in lieu of a nod. “You look like shit. Wash. You’re eating dinner with me.”

Kerberos is destroying you. He still remembers Keith’s white-hot helplessness as he’d snarled it, and he’d thought it was just a spat of anger but as he looks at his own reflection in the mirror he almost can’t recognise himself. He bites back a wave of self-consciousness.

He steps out of the washroom trying not to radiate brittleness and Keith actually is pleasant when he says, “Drop your fucking facade already.”

“It’s not a facade.”

“And save your lying for the simulator.” Keith picks up a paper bag by the door and Shiro only now realises the room is soaked with the smell of grease and fast food. His stomach responds audibly.

Keith holds open the door, wearing with a look that asks, So, are you coming or not?

This is almost like forgiveness, Shiro realises. Alright, maybe not, but coming from Keith it’s pretty damn close.

Eagerly, he falls into step, simply thankful that Keith’s revolving around him again.

Out on the secluded and very out-of-bounds rooftop, one of their favorite haunts, they set out their dinner. The fries are soggy and the burgers squashed, but it doesn’t matter because it’s food that makes an effort to be something rather than pass off as containers for energy. Besides, fast food is Shiro’s guilty pleasure; it feels and tastes so much better when he can use his hands and dig in, even if it’s too dark to see half the food he’s putting into his mouth.

“Here. Food for a champion,” mutters Keith, picking up his own burger.

“Keith… Really, thank you,” Shiro says, touched and overwhelmed, “Thanks for the concern. I really, really do appreciate it.”

Keith rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his food. “I know,” he grumbles around it, sour but softer around the edges, now.

“No… I really appreciate it. I’m glad you’re… I’m glad we’re talking again. And I—”

Keith cuts him off with an oily finger, munching in concentration. Food first, talk later.

Shiro manages a weak, helpless chuckle and obliges. He’s so engrossed with this good food (Keith even bought some extra hash browns and a hot dog, could this dinner get any better?) that he doesn’t even notice Keith watching him pack it all away.

By the time Shiro polishes the final fry off, the last of twilight has disappeared and the stars are out. The satellites are indistinguishable amongst the sea of stars. Out there, his friends are revolving around the earth, suspended in zero G’s and having the time of their lives. He can’t help a fond smile.

Out there, almost eight billion kilometers away, his future waits.

An arm’s length away, his present sets down his cup of soda and belches.

Shiro makes an undignified spluttering sound that erupts into a full-blown laugh.

“Shut up,” Keith says coolly.

“Can’t.”

Keith gives him a knowing look. “You were thinking again.”

“I was. You have impeccable timing.” Shiro grabs what he hopes is a clean serviette and rubs his eyes with it. He hasn’t laughed like that in a long while.

“I’d try to burp again but I don’t want to throw up.” Keith looks strangely smug.

“No,” gasps Shiro, mildly horrified. “Please don’t do either.”

Keith snorts and Shiro starts tossing all the oily wrappers into the paper bag, twisting it so it doesn’t fall open. The silence is warm.

“So what were you thinking about?”

Shiro lowers himself onto the cool metal tiles, fixing his eyes on a random bright dot above him. Slowly it feels like the night sky is expanding, inching closer, wrapping around the edge of his vision, and he is suspended amongst nothing but drops of platinum glitter and ink.

“What else?” he says softly. “I was thinking about Avery, and Tong Jin. Hell, I’m even thinking about that big-mouthed Teza. They’re all out there amongst the stars. And I’m… not.”

He hears Keith shifting to lie beside him.

“I’m here making a fool of myself, worrying my team.” A sidelong glance at Keith, who’s staring wordlessly at the night sky. “Worrying you.”

Keith hums his agreement.

“I guess… I guess Kerberos really was destroying me. You were right.”

“No, Shiro, I…” Keith’s about to continue saying something else, but lets out a fierce sigh. “Wait. Let me think.”

Shiro can almost hear Keith’s mind working in the still night air. Opaque red clouds are gathering on the edge of his vision, a sign of impending rain.

Eventually, Keith murmurs, “You’ll make it to Kerberos. There’s nowhere else for you to go. Do you get it?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, even though Keith’s response really is as enigmatic as before.

“But you’re rushing it. You will never ‘have no time’. Up until the launch date, you have all the time in the world.” Keith takes a deep breath, mulling over his next few words before offering, in the gentlest voice Shiro has ever heard, “Patience yields focus.”

To hear his own words quoted back at him, Shiro almost laughs. He isn’t expecting that from Keith — it was just something he’d coined up on the spot, a way to put to words how he leads his life in private, and he didn’t think Keith would’ve been carrying it around like a mantra.

Well, if it wasn’t one before, it certainly is one now.

“You’re right,” Shiro smiles.

Above and all around them the stars continue to fragment the night, uncaring of the vast, lifeless distance between them and their audience.

“Hey,” Shiro says suddenly. “I’ve never told you where Pluto is, have I?”

“No,” replies Keith, surprised. “No, you… we’ve never had the time to spend looking at the sky.”

Oh.

Shiro forces out, “I’m going to show you now. First, we need to find Orion.” Shiro shuffles over until he’s pressing against Keith’s left. Every second as their eyes adjust to the darkness, more pinpricks appear, as though the stars are used to their presence enough to make themselves seen. He combs the night sky eagerly, looking for his favorite constellation.

“There.” He angles his arm so Keith can follow where he points. “See those three stars in a line? The three particularly bright ones.”

Keith’s silent for a while, then nods. “You mean the ones where, plus the stars lower down, they look like the capital letter T, right? Those?”

“Yeah.”

Shiro gestures, almost missing Keith pressing a little more against his shoulder.

“That’s what some call the belt of Orion the hunter. Surrounding that belt are four bright stars, almost a perfect rectangle—”

“Oh! Yeah, I see them.”

“Yeah? Those are Orion’s legs and shoulders. That’s the core of Orion. Almost every night, if the skies are clear, you’ll see them.”

“The sky’s too damn clear. Too many stars.” Keith squints. “I can’t make out Orion’s sword. I wanted to see Orion’s sword.”

“He’s actually holding a club.”

“Sword’s cooler.” Keith shrugs. “So where’s Pluto?”

“Well, you can’t see it. Not without a telescope.”

Keith lets out a groan, smacking his arm. “So now you tell me I need a telescope! I searched so hard for it! Because of you!”

“Ow,” Shiro protests though it doesn’t hurt. “Look, you needed to know where to look before you even find it!”

“So just tell me where the damn not-planet is already. I know you know where it is.”

Shiro grins and nudges Keith before whispering, “It’s moving through the heart of Orion right now.”

“Through the middle? It’s a big constellation. Middle where?” Keith’s confused response shatters everything Shiro’s trying to go for.

Sometimes he really, really hates to love Keith.

“Planets revolve around the sun too, but the stars are so far away that they hardly seem to shift even after hundreds of years. Orion is one such constellation. Pluto used to be in Taurus a few decades ago, but now it’s making its way across the galaxy, so…” Shiro swears he can feel his ears burn now that he’s forced to explain it. “So it’s… well, it’s literally… travelling through Orion’s heart.”

“Do you mean…” Keith’s gaze flicks down to Shiro’s chest.

“Yes.”

Keith sounds completely and utterly unimpressed. “That is literally the corniest thing you have ever said.”

Shiro flushes and he’s so glad it’s too dark for Keith to make out his expression. “Hey, you’re being unfair! I think it’s kind of—”

“Romantic?” Keith supplies, eyes twinkling. “No. That is not romantic. That is corny. And gross and disgusting.”

Enough of Pluto, and enough of Kerberos, Shiro thinks — veiled by nighttime satin and diamond sequins, Keith is easily the best thing to have graced this solar system, he is warm and magnetic. Looking at Keith, Shiro's already at the precipice of a black hole and powerless to resist.

He glances down at Keith’s hand between them, palm upturned towards space and all it has to offer.

Keith is watching him.

“Soon you’ll be telling me that all it takes to woo you is a really bad space pickup line,” says Keith.

“Didn’t need to tell you,” says Shiro, “Look, you just figured that out yourself.”

Shiro has chased Pluto for years. It reflects the Sun’s light and space distorts it, so sometimes it actually twinkles like one star amongst a million others. But unlike the stars, Pluto inches across the sky every day. And It’s only way to know if it’s Pluto for certain.

Though this distance is trivial in the grand blueprint of space, it’s all that sets Pluto apart. Soon this will be all Keith has to track where Shiro will be —

A fraction of change across infinity.

Keith turns a pensive gaze towards the heart of Orion, and Shiro knows beneath that indifference Keith’s thoughts have depths unfathomable to even him.

“Patience yields focus, right?” Keith asks softly, as though those crystalline words might shatter if he isn’t careful, “The trip's just six months. In seven months, you’ll be back—” with me , Shiro hears in Keith’s hesitant pause, “—and neither of us will have to focus any more.”

So whatever we are, it’ll have to wait, is the tired statement that underlies it all.

“Actually,” admits Shiro softly, “the Kerberos Mission taught me something else.”

Backlit by an ocean of stars, Keith is resplendent enough to rival Kerberos itself.

Shiro chooses his next words with utmost care. “We will always need to focus. Always. But the things we’ll need to focus on will never stay the same. That is a choice which remains up to us.”

Whatever we are, thinks Shiro, I will wait to see it through.

“Patience and focus are choices which nobody — nobody — can take away from us.”

Keith doesn’t curl up in his bed that night, and instead stares at Shiro until Shiro gets the hint. It’s but the work of a moment to shove the couch against Shiro’s bunk, and after Keith lays his sheets out they’ve effectively made a huge bed on the lower deck.

“No touching,” is the only condition Keith sets, and Shiro agrees though he wants to touch so badly, because that’s only going to make the six months so much worse. Not only for himself, but for Keith, too.

It’s barely 2200 but they’re already flopped beside each other, Keith fiddling with his phone while Shiro relaxes in a blank, mindless haze. Only now does he realise how much he’s needed a lull like this, just to ease the tension in his mind. Keith must’ve felt it too, or else why would Keith have kept badgering him to rest?

Shiro knows that human bodies are frail; even the best machines need cooldowns too. Particularly the volatile ones, like red hoverbikes or interstellar simulators. But it’s also easy to forget the limits of mortality when he’s bending the rules for Kerberos.

“Not sleeping yet?” Keith asks, slipping his phone under his pillow, along with the blade that never leaves his side.

“Body clock,” Shiro murmurs. “But I think I’ll fall asleep if I just lie here long enough.”

Keith lies flat on his back and does that strange little fidget like he’s in a nest, trying to carve out a space for himself. He does that all the time, in simulators, in beanbags, on any malleable surface. Shiro finds it ridiculously endearing.

“Well, good luck with that. I’m going to sleep.” Keith closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Shiro.”

His reply is automatic. “Rest well, buddy.”

It’s only now that Shiro realises how much he’s missed hearing that. Goodnight, Shiro, Keith says, as if he’s cradling the most precious thing in the world on his tongue. Keith means it, every time, without fail.

Outside, a cricket from somewhere chirps valiantly in the silence. A wind is gently shifting the desert sands. Keith’s breathing evens out, finding its place in the rhythm of the night. And the stars, in their uncountable millions and millions, keep shining on.

Shiro commits all of this to memory, making sure it’s seared so fiercely in his mind that he won’t miss out a single detail. It’s quiet and soft, perfect and… dreamlike, though Shiro knows this cannot possibly be a mirage or an illusion.

Dreams never are this right.

He turns onto his side, watching the steady rise and fall of Keith’s chest, for now content to be a satellite caught in the lure of gravity but not colliding for millions of years yet.

The last footpad of the Kerberos landing module settles firmly amidst the dust. Shiro can’t pull his eyes away as the module puts out anchors to grip the moon’s surface more firmly. The device whirrs to life, its intricate metal parts shifting one by one.

Shiro’s holding his breath, as though breathing will knock it over.

Samuel calls out, “Interval pings are go, signal five by five. Now we wait for a response ping.”

And shortly after, Matt joins in, “5.3 degrees off normal. Textbook. Footpads are responding smoothly.”

“Mission control do you read us?”

Static.

“Galaxy Garrison,” repeats Samuel, “do you read us.”

“K— Krr br—,” Iverson’s voice cuts in and out of the whirr before the syllables fall into place. “Kerberos crew, reading you loud and clear. This is ground control. You suckers made it.”

Matt punches a fist into the air with a whoop. Shiro turns to Samuel, seeing his own reckless grin reflected in the scientist’s face.

“Stats now, celebrate later. Talk to me, Kerberos.”

“Landing module is at point-five degrees,” Matt rambles, but the wild look hasn’t left his eyes. “Yes, uh, habitat stats. Oxygenator is go, humidifier is go, cabin pressure and temp all green, the moon rover’s still alive and damn I can’t wait to take that baby out and collect every single moon rock in sight—”

“Shirogane, ascent equipment. Fuel?”

“Roughly 23.5% remaining.”

“Holy shit, Shiro! That’s even less than what you used yesterday,” Matt’s eyes widen, and so does Shiro’s grin. “Ground control, I’ll reroute that fuel for re-ascent of the return leg.”

“Loud and clear, Matt. Shiro, propulsion.”

“Ion thrust vector control still at ninety percent. Roll, pitch, and yaw systems all green,” Shiro continues his report to Iverson, but palms the mic and murmurs to Matt, “Plus I didn’t blow up the internal decomposition chamber.”

Matt makes another flabbergasted noise and Shiro laughs.

“Roger that, Shiro. Comms, talk to me.”

Shiro tries to focus on Samuel’s report but it feels like his heart’s spinning, he's in zero G, he’s giddy and rushed and he just landed the Kerberos Descent Vehicle intact.

He’s not very sure what happens after, but soon the simulator doors open, warm light spills in, color refloods his vision.

It’s chaos out there.

Word must’ve gotten out because it’s a sea of undulating orange and silver packed shoulder to shoulder. Recruits, seniors, faculty members, alumni are all watching the team’s miraculous full-length manual simulation of the landing on Kerberos. And everyone’s cheering. Conquering the landing, the most difficult part of the entire trip, is particularly meaningful. It's the first step that will herald more to come. 

"You should say a few words,” Matt remarks to his father, “They are rabid.”

“The battle’s only half won,” protests Shiro, though it’s halfhearted because he knows the value of encouragement in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. He relents with a “Make sure you tell them that, Commander Holt.”

Samuel gives him a firm nod, then holds up his hand for silence.

“Thank you for your support,” he begins, with a quiver in his voice from the emotionality of it all, “But really, as Shirogane has reminded me, though we might have nailed the simulation, this is only one side of the coin. No matter what, I know my crew will break a leg to make sure the garrison gets to Kerberos.”

The commander turns to smile fondly at Matt and then Shiro. Matt snickers, and Shiro salutes with pride. “That is correct, sir.”

Samuel nods, then suddenly remarks at the crowd, “The leg remark’s only metaphorical, I should add. Think Lieutenant Ryu’s first aid course is difficult? Try all of that in zero G’s. You’d probably break something else while doing it.”

A faint ripple of laughter runs through the recruit medics in the crowd.

As Samuel continues talking, something catches Matt’s eye and the boy’s grin slants more. Shiro follows his gaze to the wide-eyed Katie Holt peeping down from the parapet at the second floor. He can’t help but swell with pride, for both Matt and his cheeky, strong-willed sister.

His eyes trawl the crowd, settling on a shock of inky black hair and a red jacket. Keith. He’s surrounded by recruits who’ve pressed up eagerly around him. They must be getting along well, even if Keith doesn’t think so. Somewhere deep inside that prickly demeanour is a fragile soul with dreams as big as his heart, and the thought fills Shiro with a gently pulsing warmth like the ebb of a vast ocean.

Looking down from the third floor, Keith tilts his head. His eyes are soft, framed by a satisfied smile, and when he sees Shiro looking he actually gives Shiro a brief thumbs up. The recruits squirm amongst themselves and mimic him, sticking out their own thumbs. Keith valiantly pretends not to notice or care, though Shiro can tell he’s grumpy at the turn of events.

Keith’s proud of me, too, thinks Shiro, unable to bite back a laugh.

Suddenly Kerberos doesn’t seem so far, after all.

The days pass in a blur. The Kerberos crew, which already has teamwork so good it makes the top guns envious, grows even closer. They’re starting to finish each other’s sentences before long, communicating with glances and more inside jokes than not. They don’t fail a single simulation test, even faced with worst case scenarios they remain cheerful and strong-spirited and flawless, and nothing seems able to break them.

This is what Shiro lives for. This is what space really does: it brings out the very best in humanity, honing the good and blunting the bad. It is a test of will and endeavour, but also of fire forged into gold.

Shiro throws himself into it with abandon.

Even past the sickly violet glow of unseen galaxies and the bite of blades across his skin, even despite pairs of yellow stars and crescent moons shaped like leering fangs, no matter how deep or impenetrable the darkness, what he knows still remains as stark and clear as a brilliant summer dawn.

That patience and focus are choices he’s made, and they have never failed him once.

That he has something to come back to on Earth.

That if Shiro looks through the heart of Orion he’ll be looking at Keith, waiting.

It’s Shiro’s last night on earth, and he’s spending it with Keith.

Matt and Samuel have gone home to be with their family for one last, heartwarming home cooked meal. Shiro had followed Keith down to the hangars, each hopping on their hoverbikes, and speeding out into the desert.

They race one last time in silence, cresting their favourite plateau before settling down on a rocky outcrop.

Together, they admire the night sky.

Keith is silent and pensive, all the signs pointing to a rehearsed script somewhere, or a list of things to say. Shiro simply waits, because Keith will open up to him when Shiro least expects, like a burning comet streaking through the sky just as you look away from your telescope.

Six months and a day, thinks Shiro. Six months and a day, and he’ll be back on Earth and he can set about piloting a new life for him and Keith. God knows Keith deserves so much more than he’s getting in the garrison. He deserves to run his own classes. Deserves a suit of silver uniform, a set of wings to honour his fine flying. Deserves someone holding him close, rekindling the fire of his garrison dreams from time to time.

Keith deserves all that and more, but not now. Shiro doesn’t want to entertain the real chance that Keith will revert back to his self-destructive days, or worse yet — that Keith, roaming creature that he is, will find someone else to revolve around.

No. That is not a future he has any benefit in visualising.

“Hey, Shiro?”

“Yes,” he responds, a little too fast. If Keith is surprised he doesn’t show it.

He draws a deep breath, trying so hard it makes Shiro ache. “I…” His voice falters.

“Hey, it’s alright. It’s hard to say the things that need to be said.” Shiro chuckles softly, then leans his weight on his right arm so their shoulders touch. He can feel Keith’s warmth through the fabric. “And even if you don’t say anything, I am still the happiest man in the garrison.”

“Cool, that’s nice, now that takes first place over the ‘heart of Orion’ thing. Gross,” Keith grumbles but also leans his weight against Shiro nonetheless.

Shiro laughs, because he really is the happiest man in the garrison.

Eventually Keith murmurs, “I have a lot of things I want to say to you, but…”

At this, Keith actually glances over his shoulder and Shiro has to bite down an amused smile.

“Look, I know it’s stupid, but I’m not good with my feelings, okay? I’m… nervous.” Keith half-snaps. “These words are meant… meant only for you… and so, I… ugh.”

Shiro nods firmly. “I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. There’s nobody out here for miles; your thoughts are safe with me.”

“Nobody else will hear this,” Keith fixes Shiro with a deathly stare. Shiro twitches at the ferocity in it. “You can’t repeat this. Ever. Not even in your sleep or something.”

“Do I sleep-talk?”

Keith scowls, as if insulted. “No! But that’s not the point!”

“Alright, alright. This conversation will only stay between us, and these desert sands will be our only witnesses.”

Shiro listens and Keith, finally satisfied, pours out his heart.

The words hang in the still air between them like stars, glittering with deeply crimson light all on their own.

When Keith is done, Shiro’s eyes have welled up with tears and Keith looks uncomfortable enough to die.

“Shiro? Shiro, oh no. Shiro, please don’t cry.”

Shiro takes a deep shuddering breath and then Keith is squeezing his chest so tightly, the embrace tight and warm, and that’s when Shiro finally dares to hope that Keith will be here for him, six months and a day later.

As the galaxy collapses and sun gives off its last light, Keith’s words are a single shard of crystallised magma that continues unceasingly shining, the only fleck of color through the suffocating haze of fear and pain.

“I have a lot of things I want to say to you, but…”

Keith wants a sinkhole to appear under him so he can vanish into the depths of hell and not have to say what he wants to say to Shiro, which will definitely be twice as gross as Shiro’s bad romantic jokes. He feels the tickle of someone’s glare on his back, though he knows there can’t be anyone here. Just to be safe, he turns to look.

When he turns back Shiro’s looking at him with a bemused expression, and Keith battles the urge to close himself up and retreat for good.

“Look, I know it’s stupid, but I’m not good with my feelings, okay? I’m… nervous. These words are meant… meant only for you… and so, I… ugh.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. There’s nobody out here for miles; your thoughts are safe with me.”

“Nobody else will hear this. You can’t repeat this. Ever. Not even in your sleep or something.”

“Do I sleep-talk?”

What? Why is Shiro even asking about sleep-talking? Shiro’s the one good with words, Shiro should know what a simile is. (Or a metaphor? Is it a metaphor? Or something completely different?)

“No! But that’s not the point!”

Shiro raises his hands. “Alright, alright. This conversation will only stay between us, and these desert sands will be our only witnesses.”

Keith deflates.

He doesn’t even remember what he says next. It’s a mix of fragmented thoughts, spliced together awkwardly with connectors that make no sense and comparisons that only contradict. He just needs to get it all out, before Kerberos—

Shiro, damn it, you’re so good to me. I was so bitter that I had to give up flying forever, to become the garrison’s lackey, push planes around and set things up for people destined to fly. And yet here you are, one of those people destined to fly, and I just want to see you chase your dream even if it means letting you travel across the entire fucking solar system.

I still don’t think the garrison deserves you. You’re too good for these people. They won’t know what an amazing person they have in their midst, not even after you’re gone from here. Things are going to continue as they always have, the recruits will still fail their flight tests, the food will still suck. But everyone’s going to keep comparing everyone else to you, Shirogane Takashi, the first man who destroyed the limits of flight and then built a new one. Nobody’s going to come anywhere close to you. Not even me.

Remember I told you Kerberos was destroying you? I was mistaken. I forgot how rock needs to be crushed and transformed before it becomes diamond. Or how specks of space dust needs to burn before it becomes a star. Kerberos didn’t destroy you. It's making you better. It's making you stronger, even if you forgot how to live on Earth for a while.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Kerberos is the best thing that happened to you, isn’t it?

Well, it’s the best thing that has happened to me, too.

You know what? You’ve ruined the garrison. You’ve ruined patience, and you’ve ruined focus.

Look what you’ve done, Shiro! Look! You’ve ruined everything. And don’t you dare forget —

You’ve ruined me.

I’m going to be stuck here on earth without your stupid alarm, all I’m going to get are crappy sparring partners, and mac’n’cheese dinners are going to be lonely and I’ll be drinking too much damn coffee. I’m going to be stuck here waiting for you and, and, and fuck. Fuck —

I’m still going to feel happy for you. I can’t not be; I’m so proud of you. I’m going to be so, so happy, and that’s saying a lot because I am the angriest person I know.

But tomorrow… tomorrow, I’m going to be happier than I’ll ever be in my entire life.

Tomorrow comes too soon.

Shiro's alarm rings. He gets up automatically. Keith is waiting for him. They meet each other’s gazes. Keith’s softens, Shiro’s does not, even though he smiles.

Stress.

They head down for breakfast with Matt and Samuel and the rest of mission control, their last meal a piece of toast and some eggs, just enough to last the morning. Shiro’s by Keith’s side, on the fringes, carefully deflecting conversation towards Commander Holt to steal just a little more time away for them both.

Keith is filled with the same nervous energy that Shiro feels, as though they’re walking a tightrope over a drop to another world.

At 0830, they return their trays.

Then they pause. Their silence begs to be filled.

“See you at the launch site?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods. “Yeah. See you.”

“Lift off’s at —”

“1200, I know. Now go.”

Shiro smiles and squares his shoulders for Keith, who rolls his eyes in a retort of That’s a facade too, but it seems to help Keith put something in its proper place and calm him down.

Matt and Samuel wave too, and they leave Keith standing alone in the middle of the mess hall.

When nobody else is looking Keith gives him a smile that tries to be brave, tries to be warm, tries to be soft; instead it brims with Keith's steadfast faith and trust and pride. Compressed in that one smile is a solar flare that has lights dancing at the corner of Shiro’s eyes. The breath catches in Shiro’s throat.

Keith smiles, eclipses the sun, and then turns to leave Shiro to his destiny.

One last round of pre-flight prep. Shiro’s mind whirls. It’s all familiar by now, but on the precipice of the actual takeoff, everything feels… out of place, just a little, as if they’ve been moved three millimeters to the left. His right hand is trembling.

Behind him to his left, Matt’s humming at his screens. And over on his right, Samuel’s calm, steady voice fills the cockpit with the reassurance of a father. Under his breath Shiro repeats Keith’s self-declared mantra, patience yields focus, patience yields focus…

It’s just like they’re in the simulator again, Shiro tells himself. He’s just buckling into his seat in the simulator. It's the same horizontal seat, the same gravity he'll be fighting. The same protocol that he's since memorised, perfected to a T. He slips on his headset, using the headband to press his fringe backwards.

Time is slipping from between his fingers, no matter how hard he tries to hold on.

You have all the time in the world, he hears Keith’s voice overlaid with that cryptic surety.

Kerberos made you better, he hears Keith’s voice murmur in the night air.

No, Shiro thinks as he anchors himself to the stubborn immovable force that is Keith, Not Kerberos — you made me better.

He gets to work.

“This is Kerberos-Ground launch control. We have just passed the 10 minute mark for our countdown for the Kerberos Mission, and are at 9 minutes and 45 seconds as of now. We’re perfectly on schedule for our planned lift-off on the hour.

“Kerberos Mission crew is conducting their final tests of all internal systems. Pilot Shirogane Takashi has just finished his status check on all engine propulsion systems, and has confirmed that all systems are GO. Engineer Matt Holt is informing control that all bio-support systems on both the Kerberos Ascent Module and the habitat are GO for the mission. Commander Samuel Holt on Communications reports telemetry, communications, and tracking are GO.

“Commander Samuel Holt has just completed his check on all Kerberos Mission crew. They still have the same bold cheek as ever, ladies and gentlemen. We are now at 6 minutes and 18 seconds into the countdown.

“6 minutes 0 seconds. The swing arm on the spacecraft level is now fully retracted. Telemetry for the landing module has been powered down. The launch module is ready, all buildup slow and steady.

“Engineer Matt Holt doesn’t want earth to miss him, quote, ‘Because Aliens’. Pilot Shirogane Takashi will miss garrison mac’n’cheese nights, looks like he’ll be demoted for poor palate. Commander Samuel Holt and self-declared photography nerd promises to update his Vine account.

“4 minutes 19 seconds. We are GO for Kerberos Mission. We’ll go on automatic sequence standing at 3 minutes 0 seconds. Commander Samuel Holt handles the countdown for the Kerberos Mission crew. 3 minutes 58 seconds.

“We’re still GO at this time. Mission control wishes them good luck and godspeed. Create our future for us, Kerberos Mission crew.

“T-minus 3 minutes 30 seconds.

“We are on the automatic sequence. We are GO with all mission components at this time.

“T-minus 2 minutes 8 seconds. Pressure is stable, tolerance green. Kerberos Mission is still GO.

“T-minus 1 minute 2 seconds. Second and third stage tanks have pressurized. All indications are GO.

“50 second mark, we are going on full internal power. Guidance systems are now on internal. We are still GO with Kerberos Mission crew. Astronauts reported, smooth countdown, everything feels good.

“T-minus 30 seconds and counting.”

“This is surreal,” mutters Shiro.

“All I can think about are the space rocks,” remarks Matt.

“Don’t get too used to it,” replies Samuel. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Good luck, Kerberos Mission crew,” Iverson’s voice is tight with emotion. “It’s been an honor.”

“Right back at you,” grins Samuel. “Here we go. T-minus 10. 9… 8…”

“Main engines start,” says Shiro.

“7… 6… Tower released, ignition ready and waiting,” says Matt.

“We’re going to Kerberos,” says Shiro, still not quite believing it.

“4… 3… 2…”

The Kerberos Shuttle roars.

From the launch site, Keith watches it carve a magnificent arc into the boundless sky, a searing burst molten gold that turns air into milky plumes.

His heart is so light, and yet so heavy at the same time. It’s so fierce that it hurts. This isn’t even what it must feel like, being torn apart by the shuttle to Kerberos while the Earth clings gamely on.

Keith reminds himself that it’s just six months, there and back — all the time in the world.

“Hey, Shiro!” Matt taps him on the shoulder, and Shiro needs to crane his head to look at Matt, who is upside down and grinning. “It’s your turn at transmissions.”

“Katie finally hung up?” Shiro puts down the book he’s reading (shoves it into his drawer so it doesn’t float away) and kicks towards the door. “Did she manage to debug that code she was working on?”

“Yeah,” Matt pulls a face, waving Shiro off. “I finally managed to find that missing semicolon, and then in thanks, she got her tablet to swear at me. In Shakespearean.”

“Hey, she knows her classics,” grins Shiro.

“Oh begone, you brutish rump-fed puttock.”

Faintly, Samuel shouts “Mind your 16th century language!” from the supply room.

When he floats into the transmissions room and its myriad of cameras, Keith’s already on the screen, grinning like an idiot. Every transmission might as well be their first one all over again, what with the open joy that Keith always greets him with. 

“Shiro!”

“Hey, buddy!” Shiro tucks his legs under him so he bobs in midair. Keith snickers at the motion. “Talk to me.”

“Life’s boring. Wish I was up there being motion sick in zero G’s,” says Keith, though the playful twinkle in his eyes says otherwise.

“I see,” Shiro plays along. “Ah, what a shame.”

“Yeah. I only got two measly presents for Instructor’s Day. Can you believe that?”

Shiro’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, Shiro,” says Keith slowly, and he sounds like he’s gloating, “I got more than zero presents. These recruits are idiots.”

“What did you get?” Shiro can’t help his smile.

“One of them got me face cream.” Keith brandishes the tube. It’s a brand Shiro recognises, and it’s an expensive high end brand. Really, really high end. “And it came with a note.”

“Are you going to read it?”

“Yes, of course I am going to read it.” He holds up the card and clears his throat. “Dear Keith. TY for your coaching. Please accept our small token of gratitude. We wish you all the best, good health, and good complexion so you won't look like a raisin before thirty.”

The note creases as Keith grips it tighter still. Shiro wants to laugh, because Keith looks mad and exasperated enough to murder someone using only moisturiser. Shiro's half convinced Keith has the ability to do that through the camera, so he just puts his face in his hands to smother his laugh. “Congratulations on the bounty on your head.”

“It isn’t signed,” gasps Keith, slamming his arm on the table. The camera trembles. “It isn’t fucking signed. I can’t even make the guy do extra drills.” He throws his hands to his hair. “I am so mad, Shiro!”

“If it helps, you could avoid the skin at the corner of your eyes,” Shiro taps his finger to indicate. “Crows feet make a smile look cuter.”

“Shut up,” says Keith, throwing the tube at the camera. It misses. (Purposefully, Shiro notes, because Keith has expert aim; he can catch Shiro in the back with a balled-up receipt from halfway across the mess hall.)

“Just saying,” Shiro shrugs. “So what’s the other gift?”

Keith instantly turns from enraged to embarrassed. “Well… it’s nothing. Just a Gundam model.”

“Whoa.” Shiro feels his jaw slacken. “That has to be expensive.”

“I heard they pooled money for it. Or something.” Keith rubs the palm of his hand against his neck sheepishly, looking at somewhere off camera. “What the hell, Shiro. It’s a Gundam Raiser. And it’s legit.”

“You must’ve really left an impact on them,” Shiro says fondly.

“I just shouted at them until they suddenly managed to fly.” Keith shrugs. “I don’t even know.”

Shiro laughs. Keith isn’t all spines and prickly parts. He genuinely cares for the people he’s chosen to care for, genuinely wants them to succeed as much as he’d want himself to. Shiro had slotted him to help with the freshmen because of this. Because Keith knows how it feels like, to be ostracized for being worthless, and yet ostracized for being great. Keith’s viciously rough around the edges, but past his harsh words he’s a good demonstrator —

And, as Shiro has learned from first hand experience, praise from Keith really goes a long, long way.

“Alright, I’ve talked enough. Your turn.”

Shiro scratches his head. Keith’s eyes follow his movement and the ruleless swish of his fringe in zero G's. “Hmm… today I ate a whole potato for lunch. It wasn’t freeze dried and it tasted delicious.”

Keith snorts playfully. “Simple pleasures, huh.”

“Not at all!” Shiro huffs. “Matt’s still rationing my share of caffeine water.”

“You deserve it,” yells Matt from the other room.

“See? I can’t even enjoy my space coffee!” Shiro groans. “I miss earth coffee so much.”

Keith raises an expectant eyebrow.

“As much as garrison mac,” Shiro continues playfully, after a beat.

“Idiot.” Keith scowls, folds his arms.

“It’s the truth.”

“Hey,” says Keith suddenly, raising his phone into the camera’s vision. “I want to do something. You just sit there and look pretty.”

Shiro blinks as Keith fiddles with his phone, then flips it around so the camera’s facing them. Keith turns his back on the Keberos transmission camera.

“Ready?” Keith holds up his other hand in strangely childish ‘peace’ sign, and it makes Shiro’s heart swell.

“You know, you could’ve just asked for a photo before I flew off,” Shiro quips.

“Again, please shut up and just let me have this. Three, two, one.”

Shiro shifts at the last moment, just before the shutter goes off. He returns to his original position as Keith turns around and checks his phone again.

Keith’s face turns a beautiful, bright red. He holds up the phone. “What the fuck is this, Shirogane Takashi?”

Shiro hums innocently as he looks at the photo. Keith’s framed by the dull grey of the garrison transmissions room. On the screen behind Keith, Shiro’s leaning over so he looks just like he’s nuzzling into Keith’s hair, while Keith beams at the camera, perfectly oblivious to what’s behind him.

“This is adorable,” Keith laughs. He holds out his hand. “You need to take another one with me.”

No complaints? No cacophony of swears that sends the other two Holts rushing over? His sides are supposed to ache with laughter, so hard that tears come to his eyes. That’s supposed to happen. It feels like it’s already happened, one entire lifetime ago.

Hasn’t it?

Shiro rolls his eyes. “I already took one with you.”

“You are blurred in this capture,” Keith points, and sure enough, Shiro notices his outline going fuzzy, losing its shape.

“I really shouldn’t,” he protests. “I should be manning the shuttle.”

“The shuttle? It is on auto pilot, is it not?” Keith looks confused. “Come.” He holds out his hand again.

Keith’s gloved hand hovers, just within reach, and Shiro realises how much he longs to take it in his.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?"

“I promised you that all this would wait until after I got back.” Shiro averts his eyes. “Please… please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, Keith.”

“Can you at least come to the rooftop to gaze at the stars with me? We do not need to touch.” Keith’s voice has grown quiet. "Just let me help you through the screen."

His world is slowly dimming. Shiro glances behind him. The lights have gone off. Outside the shuttle, the stars are nowhere outside the shuttle, and all that's left is an impenetrable ocean of ink.

Instead, the stars are inside his monitor screen. The Kerberos corridors behind Keith are generously littered with gently sparkling stars, and Keith still stands with his hand sticking persistently out.

Shiro contemplates. They are on autopilot right now, and the garrison shuttle is self-monitored for another few days yet. Samuel and Matt can keep an eye on things, after all…

“Alright. Just for a minute,” Shiro relents, and gently fastens his hand in Keith’s so he can step through the screen.

His palm is soft and warm, and though Keith’s nails are sharp, Shiro doesn’t think much of it.

They follow the trail of stars littered along the grey corridors of the garrison. It’s beautiful. Shiro wonders how he’s never noticed how beautiful the garrison is. How the lights bounce off the grey walls and create spectrums of colors he’s never seen on earth. It almost feels like walking down hallways made of silvery, glassy metal that traps and splinters their reflections. He's not sure if it's rippling, or how deep it goes in all directions. 

Framed in this gorgeous light, Keith looks like a sprite of the stars.

Yet the sight makes him feel just the slightest bit timid, as though Keith might fade away in his grasp like the tail ends of a good dream gone bad.

“Keith?” his voice is so unsure.

“Yes, Shiro?” Keith doesn’t turn back, leading Shiro to the stairway at the end of this long, winding corridor without doors or windows.

Something shifts in Shiro’s mind, an itch he can’t get through his starched garrison uniform. He looks down. His right hand is just a hue off, as though caught in the wrong light by a poor camera.

“Nothing,” he says after a brief hesitation.

He passes by a star that fractures the light funny, and for the slightest of moments it winks at him.

Shiro stops and Keith slows.

He’s staring at that one star, how it shines white-hot with a tiny crimson inside.

A shard of crystallised magma.

Keith tugs on his arm. “Shiro? What is wrong?”

Suddenly, Shiro has just ran a mile. He’s out of breath. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“Shiro,” Keith comes up to him, eyes wide, eager, worried. Too put-together. “Shiro? What is wrong?”

Shiro takes a faltering step backwards. “No,” he whispers. “I’m… I’m, I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You are. You belong here, with me always.” Not-Keith steps into his personal space and forces Shiro back another step. The gaze of that not-Keith hardens. “Shiro, what is the meaning of this? Why do you fear me?”

“You…” Shiro’s throat tightens. “K-… Ke-…”

At the periphery of his vision, the star suddenly bursts in a shower of sparks. Shiro tries to run, but he can’t. His legs are lead. His arms can’t move. He can only flinch from the light, and he can’t fight the grip around his right wrist.

“Shiro!” Keith’s voice is venomous as he tugs Shiro him out of bed. They tumble out of the sheets, the darkness closing in all around them. “It’s 0530. Get up! We gotta go!”

These barbs, so familiar and so Keith, pierce the haze. Keith. Shiro’s gasping, gripping Keith’s hand for support as they sprint down the hallways. His feet don’t cooperate, left and right muddled Perspiration presses his fringe to his face, it’s draining of its inky color, splattering his grey uniform with oil.

It’s a trail that the darkness surges after. Yellow eyes open in every shadow, behind every piece of furniture at the edge of his vision.

“The hoverbikes,” Shiro shouts. His throat is ripped by the cold. The air is chilling around them, freezing, melting, snapping back into ice.

“There’s not enough time, Shiro!” Keith turns angrily, then fear as he sees something over Shiro’s shoulder and hauls him forward again.

More stairs sprout from every landing they round. By now Shiro has run so far that tears are coming to his eyes, and still he knows if he looks back he will certainly be lost. Keith’s hauling him bodily up the stairs now, each one of Shiro's steps feeling sickeningly like his last.

“K-Keith,” he forces out. “Where, where are we—”

Keith growls impatiently, glaring at the endless staircases. He pulls open a door that wasn’t there before and they stumble out onto the garrison rooftops. The tiles are pulsing, the orderly lines between them shifting, coiling, ravenous snakes.

The desert is rippling, it is a sea of violet blood and there's a monster in those depths with fangs like scythes and eyes like dried piss and a gaping maw that leers.

“Pluto,” Keith clutches at Shiro’s shirt. His eyes are wide, manic. “Tell me where Pluto is.”

“In the heart of Orion,” replies Shiro, lifting his right arm to point, but he freezes mid way when all that’s left is a broken stump attached to the broken pixels of a shattered LCD screen.

“Where?” Keith shakes him. His colors are running, a simulation gone wrong. “I know you know where the damn not-planet is.”

“It’s…” Uselessly, Shiro turns his towards the space where there should be countless stars, where there should be drops of ivory against ink. There is no moon, no light, no stars to be had; they are all broken and shattered in the garrison that is being swallowed by the opaque darkness that will drown them any moment.

A beam of violet light cuts into his vision, levitating chunks of rock and ice cores and flimsy earthen metal, and everything is shot to hell.

From somewhere far away, Keith’s voice echoes. Patience yields focus.

Shiro spins on his heel. Keith is gone. 

“Keith?” He breaks into a run. “Keith? Where are you?”

The garrison is gone. The sky and ground are gone. 

Patience yields focus, right?

“Keith! Where did you— Keith, I can’t—”

When you’re back, neither of us will have to focus any more.

“Keith!”

There is no time here.

There is no light here.

Shirogane Takashi is lost.

They’re remaking him.

Bloodthirsty roars reverberate too loud too close too familiar, by those who wish his blood spilled by the hulking fiendish lumbering weight of Myzaks looming over him. That face splits. Fangs show. Too many, too big, too marred with blood. The hooked Galran sword disappears from his grasp, he is battered, beaten, alone, and he has no choice but to run, run, run.

They are taking everything.

Eyes stare at him from all around they pierce the suffocating veil of darkness he hasn’t been able to breathe under for days, weeks, months, years, lifetimes. They see into, through, deep inside him. Those boorish, slimy, unsettling gazes, pus yellow rotted meat crying wounds they cake his skin and he can’t shake them and he’s drowning, starving, struggling, bleeding,

They fill him with ugly thoughts that are not his.

No, he is not going to bend.

They root about in his memories, slimy hooked claws and vile magics that coat his insides like tar, everything they touch becomes warped beyond recognition and all he can do is watch.

No, he is not going to die.

You are the Champion, they tell him.

My name is Shirogane Takashi he rebukes the sunspots and the collapsing stars and the meteor storms, where his skin flakes and his flesh falls like ash and hail and rain.

You are the Champion, undefeated in the ring, they tell him.

My name is Shirogane Takashi he tells the cacophony of voices that never speak but are always heard Back home everyone calls me Shiro and back home I have a team whom I would die for if I am champion it is because of them I am no Champion at all.

You defeated the reigning Champion Myzaks.

My name is Shiro he tells himself he fumbles to hold onto the memory of someone close, someone precious, someone who is the nearest star his favorite constellation and the gravity that holds him together,

You defeated the reigning Champion Myzaks and you will take his place.

and they wrestle it away from him,

this memory of a someone cradling the foreign word Shiro like a prayer. the only miracle that can save him. the one salvation that has kept him going through the soulless metal walls. that has guided him as he navigates the fickle waters of Hades’ rivers

. they take his fondest memories and twist them beyond comprehension and he can’t remember, he can’t remember what Keith used to say, or what lay beneath his veneer of callous indifference, or how true happiness looked on him, or, or, or

or what?, he thinks, and his mind supplies no answer.

they laugh as they prise his struggling grip apart and do not give it a second glance before they dash it all

to smithereens.

K   e i    t   h  

there is nothing left to take

Shy glances careful brushes of hands under the table stormy gazes and eyes deep dark vast all-seeing all-encompassing all-accepting like circles of night sky seen from Earth, through the heart of Orion, his home,

there is nothing left to give

the warmth in his palm that isn’t blood, a blade honed razor sharp that won’t cut him, the lightning storms that roar and thunder and fill his once-lonely room in the garrison,

I have nothing left to give!

You will be our weapon,

they tell him, as they erase him too,

You will be Zarkon’s greatest weapon.

They leave the Champion in the darkness, sobbing and begging for light. Everything is too cold, too sharp to the touch. His right arm, his right arm—

He curls into a pitiful ball, trying to still his breathing.

But there is one thing, one final thing that the Galra have passed over without noticing its presence,

it is a single shard of crystallised fire.

The Champion of the Ring picks it up with his cyborg hand. He could crush it with hardly any force at all, but he does not. He watches as it pulses with a light all on its own. It calls to a part of him that does not exist any longer.It is beautiful, so beautiful it aches. And it is alive, linked by the barest of threads to something precious at the distant edge of the galaxy.

The Champion of the Ring folds the fingers of his cyborg hand around the fragile shard, and knows that even with his ruined body, he must hold on tight. He must remain patient, and he must remain focused.

No matter what happens, he knows it will lead him home.