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The thing about Takashi Shirogane, is that he is beautiful. Most of the time, he looks like he walked straight out of a high-end clothing commercial: hair immaculately groomed, clothes effortlessly cool, eyeliner bold and sharp. His laugh is the brightest in any room, his voice the warmest, and his presence is a breath of fresh air in the mundane, stale routine of the Garrison.
(The thing about Takashi Shirogane is that Keith may be more than just a little bit in love with him, but he is as far from reach as the moon.)
The other thing about Takashi Shirogane is (and Keith has known this for a while) that he usually shines so bright, that when his light dims even just a little, it is really easy to notice. Shiro knows it too, which is why Keith knows something is wrong when he doesn’t see Shiro for three days. Or, well, when Shiro doesn’t let himself be seen for three days. Yeah, he’s texted, but that doesn’t count. Keith knows him better than that to actually believe his vague reassurances that only come when Keith messages about ten times. And Shiro knows Keith better than to think he would believe it.
So if everyone knows everything that well, surely it’s just stupid for them to be playing this game?
“Shiro, just open up. I’ve got food,” Keith repeats for the third time tonight, kicking the solid door that’s currently hiding his friend (crush, idol, love of his damn life), and probably kicking a bit too hard. It’s not his fault. Keith is trying to do a good deed. He’s got tonight’s spaghetti carbonara stuffed into a box in his left hand—with plastic cutlery from the cafeteria balanced carefully on top—and in his right, he has two packets of chips, and a bar of chocolate. His only goal tonight is to get Shiro to eat, and who knows what that idiot man wants?
But, yeah, no free hands means kicking. And a stubborn man who won’t open the door means more kicking.
“Keith, you’re gonna break the door.”
“Then open it!” Another kick, and another weird look from a fellow cadet who’s scuttling past. Lucky Shiro’s senior enough to rate his own room, otherwise Keith might be getting an earful from a roommate. Although Shiro’s old roommate had always been almost as fussy as Keith when it came to looking after Shiro, but unfortunately the thing that was making Shiro stress out was also (probably) what had Matt Holt—ex-roommate and Keith’s long-time friend—muttering under his breath distractedly at dinner. So, it’s only Keith left on the front lines of Shiro’s nutritional wellbeing.
“I said I already ate!” yells Shiro, a frustrated growl coming through the door that is a big, fat lie.
“Yeah, what food? You haven’t even left your room!”
“Keith—“
“Shiro, c’mon. I’m about to drop all this stuff.” Keith says the last bit with only a hint of a whine. He feels bad for, like, two seconds, playing on the pure heart of a golden boy. But only for a second—they wouldn’t be here in the first place if Shiro would just let Keith take care of him for once. For someone who gets on Keith’s back for not eating enough red meat on a daily basis, Shiro skips meals way too readily.
There’s a long silence, and Keith’s preparing to kick the door down, detentions and reprimands be damned. But just as he’s about to do so, Shiro opens the door.
As Keith damn well expected, Shiro looks like crap. He hasn’t bothered to do his hair or makeup, he’s in his rattiest training tee, and his lips are chapped from biting them. Keith knows that Shiro only does that when he’s nervous, because Keith knows Shiro.
(Keith also knows that Shiro’s lips are still kissable as ever, chapped or not. Keith also promptly buries that thought under mountains of denial and feigned ignorance.)
“Food delivery, you better tip well,” he says, before stepping inside.
The room is…clean. Because Shiro stress cleans. Because Shiro stress cleans to the point that all his textbooks are arranged alphabetically on his bookshelf and his pens lined up in height order on his desk, but he can’t even eat damn dinner properly. It makes Keith unreasonably angry that Shiro does this. Doesn’t he know he’s important?
And, Keith wants to scream at him, doesn’t he know that he can’t do this when he’s inevitably sent on the next mission and Keith’s not around? The announcement for Kerberos is soon (which probably explains the state of Shiro’s anxiety right now), and Shiro’s going to get it, because Shiro’s Shiro. He’s the Takashi Shirogane of the (in)famous Takashi Shirogane and Matt Holt combo, and they’re pretty much unstoppable.
Point is, Shiro is going to be floating in space soon enough, and Keith’s not sure that an intergalactic space mission is going to take kindly to their pilot not eating for days on end. He’s going to have to learn, and learn fast.
And the point is, Keith admits (at least to himself), Keith’s going to miss being able to bully him into self-care like this.
Shiro shuts the door behind him, and his sigh ruffles the air of his room that Keith’s sure Shiro has organised molecule by molecule as well. “I really am fine, Keith.”
“Not buying it,” Keith says, and places the food on Shiro’s desk. He sets it down carefully, so he doesn’t disturb Shiro’s carefully arranged pile of sticky notes. “So you get your pick. Weird cafeteria pasta,” he says, pointing, “or absolute junk that I yanked out of my snack drawer. It’s been sitting there for a while, but should be good to go.”
When Keith turns back around, Shiro’s just standing in the middle of his room with the beginnings of a faint smile on his face. “You’re not going to let up, are you?” he asks, and Keith’s heart hurts at how cute he is, tugging at the stupid tuft of hair that flops over his eyes.
“No,” Keith says, crossing his arms and scowling. “So pick.”
Shiro sighs, and finally, finally smiles. “Pasta then,” he says quietly. “But only if you’ll eat with me.”
Keith scowls. “Why’s that?”
“Food’s no fun without company,” Shiro explains, and he shoos Keith aside. Keith shuffles to one side. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on where you stand on interactions with hopeless, long-term crushes—it’s not far enough, because when Shiro steps around Keith to get to his desk, his arm brushes against Keith’s for a wonderful little moment, the contact sparking warmth along Keith’s skin. And it’s ridiculous, because it was an accident. Shiro’s just grabbing some paper plates from inside one of his drawers, and the way that he bumps his hip against Keith’s is just—just a friendly gesture. Part of the teasing that the two of them have always done. Nothing special, except that those casual touches have always driven Keith crazy.
Nothing special at all.
“All right, you weirdo.”
Despite the insult, Shiro looks stupidly pleased that Keith has agreed, even though there are still shadows under his eyes and his hair is a greasy mess. With a huff, Keith grabs the box of pasta, and plants himself down on the bed next to Shiro, shuffling back so his legs dangle from the floor. “Give it here,” he says, gesturing at the plates, and Shiro hands them over one at a time.
They move in a familiar rhythm. Keith doles out the food. Usually there’d be a bigger portion for Shiro, but Keith knows by now that when Shiro gets like this, he can’t stomach much. In the meantime, Shiro grabs a can of soft drink for himself, but bottled water for Keith, knowing his preference. Wordlessly, Keith passes Shiro the little sachets of pepper he snagged from the cafeteria, and Shiro nods in silent thanks. And when Shiro settles down next to Keith, murmuring a quiet “thank you” as he takes the plate, Keith realises this is all he’s ever wanted.
This is what he fell in love with. Not the chiselled line of Shiro’s jaw or the breadth of his shoulders, because Keith loves him even with shadows under his eyes, his hair sticking in a thousand different directions, and pasta sauce smeared across his bottom lip. Honestly, Shiro looks like he’s been run over by a truck—or maybe ten—and Keith still loves him so much it aches. He fell in love with the quiet ease of friendship between the two of them, with Shiro’s patience, his kindness. Not just the size of his muscles (though that doesn’t hurt), but the depth of his heart, as cheesy as that sounds. He loves how easy it is to just be here, eating lukewarm pasta off paper plates in silence, their elbows bumping together, and the occasional glance that Shiro shoots his way, and the smile when he catches Keith’s eye.
As much as Keith likes silence, Shiro has also taught him the value in words. So once he’s cleared away his little portion (not very big to begin with because he’d already eaten dinner, unlike some people), Keith clears his throat, and makes swirly patterns in the remains of his sauce with his fork. “So…do you want to talk about it?”
Next to him, Shiro shifts, and the bed sinks a little as he does so. “I’m okay,” he says eventually.
“That wasn’t the question,” Keith says softly, and sighs. “I’m here if you need it. Like, I know the Kerberos announcement is coming up soon, and that’s gotta be stressful,” he says, a little hesitant. He’s not sure what Shiro needs tonight. He knows that all of this—holing up, not eating, the cleaning—is because of Kerberos, but that’s about as far as he’s gotten. Keith doesn’t know if Shiro needs quiet, or a distraction, or what.
“It is,” Shiro agrees after a while. “It has been…on my mind, I guess. I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“Makes sense. But even if you don’t get chosen, you’re still good, right?” Keith says, bumping his shoulder against Shiro’s. When he glances up, there’s a little smile that’s starting to turn up the corners of Shiro’s mouth, and that’s a small victory. “You’re still the best pilot here, even if you don’t get it. You’re still gonna do great stuff.”
The words are stilted and awkward, but they need to be said because Keith needs him to see. Keith needs Shiro to know how damn amazing he is. He’d give anything to get Shiro to see what Keith does every time he looks at him: diligence, beauty, patience, kind-heartedness. Everything that Keith didn’t know the value of—didn’t want to know the value of—until Shiro came into his life.
All the little things Keith didn’t know that he wanted to be until Shiro came into his life.
After a very long silence, Shiro speaks. “It’s not just…it’s not just about proving myself. There is a bit of that,” Shiro admits. “I do want this badly, ‘cause it’d just be…amazing.” He sighs, and smiles, his eyes wandering over to his desk. “It’s stupid, because we might not even get it. But it’s…I realised that if I do, I’ll be gone for a long time. Which means I won’t be here. Obviously. Just…I have a lot of good things here.” For a moment, Keith thinks Shiro’s finished. He’s trying to think of what to say—that home will always be waiting, that his family will still love him and only want the best for him—when Shiro starts talking again. “I’m just…scared, I guess. Of people forgetting about me.” He smiles faintly. “Kerberos is a long way away.”
Now, Keith doesn’t even have to think before the words are out of his mouth. “I won’t forget you,” he says, quiet but fierce. How could Shiro think that anyone would?
But apparently he does, because Shiro’s looking at him with this baffled expression on his face, as though Keith just said something that Shiro had never even contemplated. Keith just glares back at him. “What? It’s true.” He huffs out a puff of air, and swings his foot so that it thumps against the bed. “You’re not exactly forgettable, Takashi.”
Still, Shiro just stares at him. Keith wants to yell at him for being rude, but then…but then he smiles, and Keith’s heart combusts with the radiance of it. It’s small, it’s tentative, but it’s real. Keith has to fight—desperately—to stop his heart from racing, and the horrible urge to lean in against Shiro, to just bridge the little gap between them so that he can curl into him and never let him go.
“Thank you, Keith,” Shiro says, and the way he says Keith’s name—all warmth and tenderness—should be illegal. “That means a lot.”
Keith swallows, and shrugs. “Any time. You know I got your back,” he says gruffly. “You don’t have to do the stupid lock yourself up for three days thing, y’know. You can talk to me. I know I don’t look like it, but I do know how to listen.”
Shiro just laughs, the jerk. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. It just seemed so…trivial. Especially over something that hasn’t happened yet.”
“You know you’ve still got me, whatever it is,” Keith says quietly, and picks at the covers. “Anyway,” he says abruptly, because he doesn’t think he can keep talking about what he feels about Shiro without accidentally blurting out something embarrassing, “it’s been three days, have you showered?”
“Um…” The sheepish grin Shiro sends him answers that question.
Frowning, Keith stalks over to Shiro’s tiny wardrobe with the rage of a thousand suns in every righteous step. There’s the deep red button down that always looks great with the way it hugs Shiro’s chest in just the right amount, and Keith grabs a warm black sweater to go over the top, and a pair of jeans as well. “Here,” he says, throwing the clothes Shiro. “Shower, change; we’re going out.”
Shiro blinks, and the pile of clothes hits him in the arm. “We are?”
“Do you have anywhere else you need to be?”
“Well, not really.”
“Then we’re going out.” When Shiro still looks uncertain, Keith lets go of some of the anger that seems to stick around even when he’s trying to look after someone, and sits down next to him. “Look, if you want a quiet night in, we can do that too. I just thought…you might want to go outside after a couple of days cooped up in here, but it’s up to you. I’m good with whatever.”
For a moment, Shiro just looks at him. He looks…lost, staring into Keith’s eyes, and Keith wonders if he’s done something wrong here. Shiro’s eyes flicker downwards, away from his own, for just a second, and he opens his mouth to say something.
But then he shuts it, and nods. “Let’s go out then,” he says quietly. “I’ll take that shower.”
Keith blinks. “Right.”
Shiro smiles, again, but it still looks shaky. And as Keith watches Shiro gather up the clothes, walk away from him, and shut the bathroom door with an odd finality, he can’t help but feel like he just lost something.
And so Keith finds himself in the middle of a crowd that smells like grease, sounds like the indistinct chatter of too many people in a small space, and feels like freedom.
Keith's lucky that the winter markets are open now, available as a welcome distraction for Shiro. There are long rows of stalls selling all kinds of food. But of course, the first thing Shiro spots is…
“Fairy floss!”
And before Keith can even react, Shiro’s dragging Keith along excitedly to watch a machine spin around in circles and magically spit out an ever-growing cloud of pink and blue.
“Can we get six?” Shiro asks, already pulling his wallet out and keenly eyeing the rows of candy stuck on popsicle sticks. Keith blinks before his brain catches up at the ridiculous amount of fairy floss Shiro is aiming to buy, and his hand on Shiro’s arm stops the idiot man from paying before there are regrets.
“Maybe get the ones in the bags?” he suggests. “You can stuff yourself at the end of the night. I don’t want to deal with you on a sugar high for the next few hours,” he grumbles, but he lets himself smile, and smile even more when Shiro deflates a bit.
“All right, then,” Shiro says sheepishly. “The ones in the bag, not the sticks,” he tells the vendor instead. “But still six of them.”
Keith just sighs, and watches fondly as the vendor hands Shiro a plastic bag with six packets of fairy floss. Shiro grins like a child, and Keith’s heart just floats away.
After that, the two of them wander around slowly, without any need to rush, trying out everything. It's a nice night, and what's even better is that he can see Shiro relax as the sun slowly sinks, see the way that the smiles come easier and how he starts talking more. Mostly about food, but Keith's happy to listen to him all night, especially because Shiro gets so excited.
“Oh, they've got those swirly potato things, let's go get some!”
“Ah, I've wanted to try these fish balls for ages!”
“This custard tart is great, Keith, try it!”
Laughing, Keith takes a small bite of the tart that Shiro has all but shoved in his face, chewing as he silently congratulates himself on the childish grin that Shiro's wearing.
“You're right,” he mumbles around his mouthful. “S'good.”
“You want more?”
“Nah, I'm good,” Keith says, swallowing. “You're enjoying it too much anyway.”
“Well...” Shiro pretty much shoves the rest of it in his mouth, and smiles like a two-year-old who got to stay up an hour past his bedtime. “Can't argue with that.”
“You've got custard on your chin, idiot,” Keith grumbles. He digs a serviette that they got after buying one snack of another out of his pocket, and grabs Shiro's arm. “Hold still.”
Obligingly, Shiro stops, and bends down just slightly to accommodate their difference in height. Still grumbling about nothing, Keith lays one hand across Shiro's cheek to steady Shiro's head, and swipes at the offending yellow splash.
He's about to step away, but then Shiro grabs his hand—gentle fingers circling his wrist—forcing him still. Forcing the tips of Keith's fingers to stay where they are, resting against the soft skin and faint stubble of Shiro's cheek. Forcing Keith to stay where he is, way too close. Close enough to see the way that Shiro’s lips are slightly parted as he breathes, the way Shiro’s eyes track his own. Close enough to smell the light sweetness that clings to his skin, and see the way the festival lights spark universes and uncharted stars in Shiro’s eyes.
It’s Keith who breaks the spell.
He steps away, tugs his hand from Shiro’s, and stares at trampled debris and dirt on the ground instead of the deep of Shiro’s eyes. “Anything else you wanted to try?” he asks, and makes a show of stuffing the used serviette back into one of his pockets. He is definitely not blushing. The crowds make it warm, and he’s overdressed because Shiro insisted he wear one of Shiro’s own jackets “because it’s cold outside, Keith”, so now he’s too warm and the warmth that’s burning his cheeks is not a blush.
“Nothing that catches my eye right now,” Shiro says, somewhere over Keith’s head. “Got everything I want right now, I think.”
“Right.” Keith clears his throat. “Should we just…keep walking, then?” he asks helplessly.
He risks a glance up at Shiro. It’s a risk because as soon as he sees Shiro’s soft smile—all gentle happiness in the twilight—Keith almost has a heart attack.
“Yeah,” Shiro says, as though he didn’t just commit murder via cardiac arrest. “I’d like that.”
There’s not really much except for food, so they just keep wandering. Keith’s been cooped up in the Garrison for a while now, too—though at least he left his room—so it’s nice to be outside.
“Thanks for bringing me out,” Shiro says abruptly, when they’re walking past a nut vendor. There’s some distant announcement that Keith can’t hear very well, not that he really needs anything other than the low rumble of Shiro’s voice. “It’s been nice. I needed it.” And there he went again with the shy smile.
“Yeah, well, I figured you might,” Keith says, lowering his eyes. “Everyone needs a break sometimes.”
“Mm. But I don’t really have anyone else that bullies me into it like you do, so thanks.”
“Well, next time I’ll give your other friends a memo then.”
Shiro laughs. “No, that’s fine. That’s fine. I…” He hesitates, and Keith glances up to see that Shiro’s eyes are turned to the stars. “I’m glad I’m with you.”
There’s a moment where Keith feels warm all over, as though his heart were embers and Shiro just coaxed them to spark and crackle with a gentle breath. There is starlight in his fingertips and galaxies in his lungs, and the words build him up brick by brick and make him invincible.
“Me too,” he says softly. This time he can’t pretend that he’s not blushing, so he just ducks his head and hopes that he hides the colour behind the turned-up collar of Shiro’s borrowed jacket.
(He doesn’t see the way that Shiro just melts, how a smile inevitably lights up his face, and the helpless love, love, love in his eyes.)
As they keep walking, the crowd starts buzzing a little, and people are turning to stare at something in the distance. Keith wonders what it is for a moment, before he finally makes out the words of the announcement that’s been playing for the past few minutes.
“The first one hundred visitors will receive a free honey-pistachio sorbet!”
And apparently that’s enough to launch a stampede.
Neither Keith nor Shiro notice it at first. Keith doesn’t know what Shiro’s distracted by; he keeps glancing down at Keith and smiling, but Keith’s not tall enough to see what Shiro can that seems to be so funny. Keith, though, he’s just kind of caught up in Shiro’s smile. How their arms keep brushing together. Just…Shiro.
As damn always.
Point is, neither of them notices as the crowd picks up. At least, until someone shoves into Keith, which means that he has to look away from Shiro’s gorgeous face to instead look at his own feet (far less attractive) so he doesn’t fall over.
On the plus side, Shiro’s hand falls on Keith’s arm to steady him. “You all right?” Shiro asks.
But before he can reply, someone else barges between them. “Yeah, I’m—” Then another. “Shiro—” And where is—there, bright red scarf and—
“Shiro—” Ouch, people are vicious for free food. “Shiro—” But Keith can’t see him anymore, the crowd a huge wall surrounding him. Shit. “Shiro!”
“Right here,” comes Shiro’s voice, closer than Keith expected. Then, a quiet but firm “excuse me”, and the two beefy men who formed a very solid wall of visibility obstruction in front of Keith move aside to allow an equally beefy—but familiar—man through.
“Shiro,” Keith sighs in relief. “There you are, sorry, people are—”
Once again, Keith is blocked off.
But this time, it’s Shiro. Shiro moving into his space. Shiro’s strong hand closing around his arm to pull him close. Shiro draping his arm around Keith’s shoulders to draw him in, to nestle Keith snugly around his side.
Keith swallows. He tries to speak. He really does, but the words are stuck in his throat. Some kind of combination of what the hell and are you all right? and never let go that are all flooding and twisting his heart so that all he can manage is a sharp inhale, and nothing else.
“Stay close,” Shiro says, and god, his voice is closer than ever and Keith just wants to bury himself in it. “Wouldn’t, ah, want to lose you again.”
Keith just—can’t—words. “Oh,” he says, really smoothly. “Right.” Even smoother.
But for some reason, Shiro keeps his stupid arm around Keith’s stupid shoulders. Because of it, Keith can’t stop his stupid heart from doing this stupid fluttery thing where it’s doing backflips or some other weird shit in his chest, and it needs to stop. This is Shiro. This is Takashi Shirogane, golden pinup boy for the Garrison, loved by all and feared by many. His arm around Keith’s shoulders is nothing—nothing like that. It doesn’t mean anything, because it’s a damn miracle that Keith even gets to call him a friend. He can’t—he can’t get his stupid hopes up just because Shiro’s looking out for him, like Shiro always does.
Everything is stupid.
“Let’s get away from this crowd a little bit.”
Keith just nods, and falls into step with Shiro.
Shiro guides both of them away from the crowd, charting his course with firm repetitions of “excuse me” and broad shoulders which are useful for barging people out of the way. Before long, the air that Keith’s breathing is only being breathed by him—not shared with twenty-seven other people—and Shiro’s leading him to an open space where people are sitting around little fire pits. The flames flicker and dance in orange and yellow as they make their way across the grass.
And even though they’re away from the crowds now, Shiro’s arm is still wrapped around Keith’s shoulders.
Doesn’t mean anything, Keith has to insist. Shiro does shit like this all the time. He’s just nice like that.
Except, the other part of Keith’s brain supplies helpfully, he’s not like this with everyone. Sure, there are friendly hugs and pats on the back, but Shiro doesn’t really hold anyone like this. Keith doesn’t remember Shiro touching anyone for anything longer than a few seconds. Keith doesn’t remember Shiro touching him like this for anything longer than a few seconds, so it’s a first even for Keith.
But he just lets it go. Come on, he can have this one thing, for one night. Not even the night, just for five minutes of the night. Nothing will go wrong, so Keith lets Shiro lead him to one of the fire pits which don’t have people surrounding them, and they seat themselves.
“Can I eat this yet?” Shiro asks, and raises his other hand from which the plastic bag full of stupid amounts of fairy floss is dangling. The other is still slung around Keith’s shoulders, but Keith’s getting used to that now. His heart is only running at double the normal rate, instead of triple.
He raises and lowers one shoulder. “Sure,” he says. Reaching over, he grabs a packet from the bag. Then he tries to open it, but it refuses to budge.
“Need help?” Shiro asks, and Keith can hear the smile in his voice.
“Nope,” Keith says stubbornly. “I’ve got this.” Of course, if Shiro helps, that would mean that he has to remove his arm from around Keith’s shoulders. Keith doesn’t want to give him any excuse for that to happen.
“You sure?” The words ride on a chuckle, but Keith still shakes his head.
“Nope, I’ve—” The stubborn plastic finally lets him in, and Keith almost elbows Shiro in the ribs. “Got it!” he announces triumphantly, grinning up at Shiro. Shiro smiles back down at him, and the arm around his shoulders tightens a little.
“Well done,” Shiro says. “Can I have some now?”
Keith rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, just hold on.” He tears a chunk of the sticky, fluffy goodness off, and makes to pass it to Shiro—but then shoves it in his own mouth.
“Mmm, that’s great!” he says. Or at least, he tries to. It comes out more muffled than he wanted it to, around the stupidly large chunk of fairy floss he just stuck in his mouth, which is rapidly melting against his tongue and saturating the inside of his mouth with sugar.
“Hilarious,” Shiro says, but the corner of his mouth is quirking upwards, as though he can’t help it. “Can I get some, please?”
“Fine,” Keith huffs, tearing off another chunk. “Open up.”
Shiro obliges, and Keith’s heart pounds as he leans in close, and gently pushes a chunk of fluffy candy past Shiro’s lips.
For a moment, they’re close enough to kiss.
Keith wants to. All he has to do is lean in, press his lips gently against Shiro’s. Close his eyes and fall into the dark to give himself courage, so he doesn’t have to see Shiro’s shock, his anger, his disgust—
Keith pulls back, and hurriedly grabs another piece for himself.
Weirdly enough, they…keep doing it. Keith yanking off a small portion for himself, and then another to pop into Shiro’s mouth while Keith ignores the ridiculous urge to press his lips to Shiro’s. They make their way through the first bag, then half of another, before both of them feel kind of sick from it all. Still, Keith wouldn’t trade this for the world. He’s got Shiro’s arm warm around him, if only for this one night, and he’s spent the better part of the past twenty minutes with a good excuse to stare at Shiro’s face under the pretence of feeding him candy.
And maybe it’s being tired after a long day of worrying about his friend, and the sweet relief of that friend okay. Maybe it’s that things are okay right now, that lures Keith into a false sense of security. Maybe it’s all the food and sugar and contentment that’s just made him relaxed and the world a little fuzzy, or the flickering of the fire which seems to give the night an otherworldly quality.
Whatever it is, it has Keith relaxed enough to just lean into Shiro a little more, rest his head against his shoulder, and wrap his arm around Shiro’s waist.
Next to him, Shiro stiffens.
Then, so does Keith. Keith waits, because maybe, maybe if he just sticks at it, he can pretend like this is nothing. A best friends thing. Nothing to note in the long story they’ve written together, which could all end tonight if Keith played this all wrong.
“Keith?”
There’s no ignoring that. Keith knows Shiro’s voice in every shape, every tremor, every wave of emotion. And right now, the slight quiver in Shiro’s voice, the soft way he shapes Keith’s name, that’s a hurricane.
The warmth turns cold, and the haze lifts for Keith to see the world with brutal clarity.
As quickly as the damage was done, he withdraws his arm, leans away, and shuffles over to make some space between him and Shiro. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just…tired. Sorry about that.”
“About what?” Shiro murmurs, and Keith can’t look at him.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
“Keith, it’s all right.”
But Keith just shakes his head. “No, I…I shouldn’t have done that,” he insists to his knees. “I invaded your space, I didn’t mean to…” To what? Befriend him, cherish him, love him?
“Keith,” Shiro says. It melts all the stupid pieces of Keith’s pining heart, and he can’t take it.
“That’s me,” he says, trying to lighten the situation.
But the weight remains, and Keith can hear it in Shiro’s voice. “Keith.”
“What?” he snaps, still to his knees. “Stop saying my name like that.”
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Well I don’t—I don’t want to talk. Not now. Please, Shiro.”
His words are met with silence. Keith doesn’t know what’s worse: the quiet, or the soft, broken sound that next comes from Shiro’s lips. “I’m sorry.”
What the hell?
“What the hell?” Keith says, and he whips his head up—
—and oh, boy, is that a mistake.
Shiro looks disappointed, and soft, and caring. Keith can’t take it. Keith can’t take how damn beautiful he is here, with the faint lights from the festival and the fires dancing with grey shadows across his face. He can’t handle the way that Shiro’s looking at him, concern creasing his brow that Keith just wants to lay his lips across, mouth set in a hard line that Keith wants to wipe away.
“Did I overstep?” Shiro asks.
“What? No!”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing,” Keith says, desperately. “Seriously.”
“I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
Keith just gapes. “What the hell? It’s not you,” he says, because doesn’t Shiro get it? It was Keith, as it always is. Shiro was just looking out for him, and Keith went and made it weird. And now Shiro’s apologising. “I promise, it’s not you, it’s just—” Keith stutters, and shudders, and he has no idea how to save this. “Just, please, can we not talk about this?”
Silence. Keith’s screwed up. He’s tried and tried and tried, but in the end, his god damn feelings and stupid crush (you know it’s more than that) has screwed everything up.
Now, he realises with numb certainty, he loses Shiro. He loses the one friend that he’s ever let see all of him, ever let have all of his heart and affection. The realisation makes him cold all over, and his stomach revolts. It’s not just from the candy.
“Can I say one more thing?”
Keith clenches his eyes shut, and forces the words out of his throat. “Go ahead,” he croaks.
I appreciate you looking after me, but it’s too much, Keith. I’m not really looking at dating anyone right now, especially not you.
“I’m sorry if I forced this all on you,” Shiro says quietly.
Keith doesn’t understand.
“I just thought—well, it doesn’t matter,” Shiro continues. “But I’ve liked you—”
What?
Keith—Keith can’t process this. Shiro’s still talking, but Keith’s caught up on those three words. I’ve liked you.
“—for an incredibly long time, not that that is any excuse at all, so when you asked me out tonight, I was…happy,” Shiro continues. “I still am. One of the things that’s been worrying me about Kerberos is…well, I was afraid I wouldn’t have the courage to ever make this a thing. And it’s all right if you don’t want to start anything now, when I might be sent away at any time.” Words. Too many words, but Shiro just keeps talking. “I mean, you don’t even have to start anything, ever. I don’t need you to…do anything. I just thought that you should know that you’re incredibly important to me, and above everything, your friendship is incredibly important to me. And I was hoping that…we could still be friends.”
Keith opens his eyes.
What.
“You—what?” he manages to choke out.
“I want to be your friend,” Shiro says, and Keith knows this face. Even though he’s smiling, sadness is written in the slight downturn of his mouth and the crease of his brow, and Keith hates it.
“No, I…I know that already,” Keith says. “I meant…” He can’t get the words out, because it seems impossible. But then he takes a deep breath, and takes the plunge. “You said…you like me?”
Shiro stills. Opens his mouth; closes it again. Slowly, a single word forms. “Yes.”
“As in…not just as a friend.”
Shiro licks his lips. They’re really good lips. “Yes,” he says again, and now the crease between his eyebrows is gone. He looks…hopeful.
And then he just looks alarmed when Keith growls in frustration, and punches Shiro’s arm.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Keith snarls.
Shiro’s brow furrows, and it’s damn adorable. “I just did.”
“No, I meant—oh my god, you’re the worst,” Keith groans, and before Shiro can protest the insults anymore, Keith wraps his arms around him and buries his face against Shiro’s chest. Inhales the sweet scent of his cologne, drowns in the warmth of Shiro’s skin. Of Shiro’s everything.
“I, um…” God, Shiro’s voice is even better like this. Pressed up against his chest, Keith can feel the way it rumbles through his skin, fills his very soul with the love he has for this ridiculous man. “Would it be safe to assume that the feeling’s mutual?”
Keith grunts, and buries himself deeper in Shiro’s chest.
“Ah, I didn’t quite catch that.”
But Keith knows he damn well did, because he’s spent enough years with Shiro to hear the smile in his voice. Plus, the arms that wrap around him are a dead giveaway.
“I said, ‘yes’,” he still grunts, because Shiro’s ridiculously melodramatic, and needs to hear these things to be content.
“Ah.” The arms around his shoulders squeeze tight, and it is glorious. “Good.” Shiro lets out a contented sigh, and Keith absolutely melts when Shiro starts running his fingers through the longer bits of Keith’s hair, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
“It is.”
“Mmm,” Shiro hums in agreement, his fingers still gently playing with Keith’s hair. Then, “you know, you can hardly complain about me not saying anything earlier when you didn’t either.”
“You’re older,” Keith mumbles. “You’re supposed to be responsible.”
“Haven’t you said multiple times that my age slows me down? Reckon you should’ve beaten me.”
Frowning, Keith finally lifts his head, and Shiro’s eyes are glittering and his smile is teasing. “Shut it, Shirogane.”
Shiro’s laugh is like gold dust floating on the wind. “Your wish is my command.” And when he brushes his lips against Keith’s forehead—again, the sap—Keith’s frown melts away. He sighs a little, breathes, and then smiles. Shiro’s eyes reflect the starlight and fire, both those which glitter in the night time, and those in Keith’s heart. He falls a little more for the way the wind kicks up the fluff of hair that falls across Shiro’s eyes, a little more for the sugar he can smell on Shiro’s breath, a little more for the warmth of Shiro’s arms around his shoulders.
“What if…” Keith licks his lips, heart pounding. “What if my wish is for you to kiss me?”
Shiro blinks, and his mouth curls in a smile. “Though you’d never ask,” he murmurs, and brings his lips to Keith’s. It’s quiet, and chaste, and warm. It feels like home, and love, and life. Keith never thought he’d find that in a person, though he really should have.
Because, you see, the thing about Takashi Shirogane? He’s the love of Keith’s life, and Keith’s never letting go.