Archive of Our Own ^beta

For Kuroh, life in general returns to relative, familiar normalcy the moment Shiro comes back. Of course, they have a thousand-and-one things to think about, to worry about, to mull over and plan and consider and deal with. But for now, this evening, their world has narrowed down to this apartment, the meal that Kuroh has prepared, and the comfort of the blanket of nostalgia that has swept over the three of them. They’ve done this before, many times, and there isn’t anything different about it, except there is. Kuroh can’t put a name to it, exactly, but something is just slightly off, and he feels it thrumming through every cell that makes up his body.

It isn’t a bad different, exactly. But there’s something about tonight, something about these moments immediately following their king’s return, that makes him feel as if something is going to happen, something needs to happen.

Kuroh prepares their evening meal, just as he used to. They eat in relative silence, save for Neko’s happy proclamations of “Shiro’s home!” every now and then, between mouthfuls of rice. Shiro simply keeps on eating and smiles, unhurried and with no traces of worry to be found on his face. It is almost as if there had been no disappearing act, no moments in which Kuroh and Neko had sat here without him, picking at their food, worried about Shiro’s safety.

Almost. And yet.

And yet.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Kuroh had told him upon their reunion, and he had meant it. He had also meant so much more, but there hadn’t been time, and that hadn’t been the proper place, and the words had been stuck somewhere in his mind, all jumbled and incapable of being pieced together, the moment taken away by Neko’s joyous outbursts and affectionate gestures.

Kuroh hadn’t been angry or upset with her, not really. She’d missed Shiro, just as he had, and unlike him, she had no qualms about displaying affection. She had ran to Shiro, while Kuroh had remained kneeling and staring, partly due to something akin to disbelief and partly due to sheer and genuine relief.
When he had brought himself to a standing position, he’d tried to speak, but he’d known his words weren’t audible above Neko’s jubilant chatter, and once she’d calmed down and he’d heard the sadness in her voice, he’d known that she was fighting back tears and any annoyance he’d felt towards her had quickly dissipated. He’d felt the saltwater sting his eyes as well, and he’d blinked it away after Shiro’s gentle teasing (“This is supposed to be our big tearjerker moment.”).

Everything was as it should be, but there was something here that was slightly askew. Kuroh could feel it; knew that Shiro could feel it, too, and it was only a matter of time before the dam broke, and this abnormality – whatever it was – came flooding in to fill the space between them, to make it impossible to think, to breathe, to pretend.

It happens sooner rather than later. It’s a little after eleven in the evening when Kuroh gives up on trying to sleep for the moment and opens his bedroom door, and Neko’s quiet kitten-snores are the first thing he hears as he steps into the hallway. How typical of her, to simply plop down wherever she pleases and fall fast asleep. He is careful not to wake her, mindful of the places where the floorboards creak, deliberately avoiding them.

The second thing he notices is that Shiro’s bedroom door is also open, and the second thing he hears is the television; the volume is turned down low, and for a moment he wonders if Shiro had fallen asleep watching it.

That particular question is answered as soon as he steps into the living room, however. Shiro is wide awake, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He is looking at the television, but even after their separation, Kuroh still knows his king well enough to pick up on the fact that while Shiro’s eyes may be glued to the screen, his mind is elsewhere.

Kuroh, on impulse, crosses the remaining distance between them and settles down beside Shiro and watches Shiro watch the screen. The light from the television flickers, casting shadows in some places in the room while making Shiro’s skin glow, all green and then red and then, ironically (or perhaps not so much), silver.

The silences between them have never been uncomfortable, just as this one isn’t, but it’s heavy. It’s heavy and it’s filled with the weight of the words that they’ve left unsaid, words that have built up over the months—and perhaps that’s it, that’s what’s flooding this space, the words that deserve to be said.

“We’ve missed you,” Kuroh blurts, then pauses and corrects, emphasizes: “I’ve missed you.” The feelings come easily enough, it’s the words themselves that have to be forced past the sudden lump of emotion that seems to be clogging his throat. He’s clenching his fists, all white-knuckled and anxious, glaciers bumping into each other somewhere inside his abdomen as he waits for his king’s response, well aware of the fact that he is being ridiculous and yet equally aware of the fact that he seems to be incapable of being anything but.

And how strange it is, for Shiro to be the calm one, the reasonable one, or maybe it really isn’t so strange after all. Kuroh can feel the smile in Shiro’s voice (he can’t bring himself to look at him, not yet) as the other man responds: “I’ve missed you too, Kuroh.”

Kuroh closes his eyes, feeling himself release a breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “I didn’t know when I would see you again. There were some days part of me worried that I wouldn’t, worried that you’d been lost to us, to me. Even though… you are the Silver King, the Immortal King, the nightmares were sometimes easy to accept as reality. I was afraid I’d forget the way you cling when you’re concerned, or the way your eyes light up when you’re surprised, or the simple sound of your voice.” He knows he’s rambling, but he seems to be unable to do anything about that, either.

“Kuroh,” Shiro says, touching one of his clenched fists with gentle, warm, slightly calloused fingers. “Look at me, won’t you?”

It isn’t like Kuroh can (or would) disobey (even though it isn’t really an order). He turns his head to meet Shiro’s steady gaze. “I’m looking,” he says uselessly, as if Shiro needs further proof of what’s already happening right in front of his eyes.

“There were things I had to do, things I had to remember, relearn.” Shiro’s fingers tighten briefly on his hand. “But please believe me when I tell you that I never – for a single moment – had the intention of staying away from you or of making you worry and wonder if I would ever come back home. It was painful, being away, and I hope you know that I’ve missed you, too.”

Kuroh studies those eyes that remind him of fossilized amber, sees the muted flecks of gold within, and forgets himself at the multitude of emotions that he finds there. He dissects them, separates each one, categorizes them, files them away so that he can remember them later. What stands out the most is the ache.

“I know,” Kuroh assures, and before he can rationalize the action that he is about to take and before he can let uncertainty talk him out of it, he (irrationally and without a hint of hesitation) leans over and lays his lips very gently against Shiro’s.

Shiro makes a noise that, much to Kuroh’s relief, sounds like surprise as opposed to indignation, and he shifts slightly, the motion tipping his head and changing the angle of contact, deepening the light caress, turning it into something else entirely.

Before he even realizes it, Shiro’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, like this moment between them has been a long time coming, and perhaps it has. Idly, Kuroh wonders if this should feel unusual, off, wrong, because it doesn’t. This is the most right that he’s felt in months, maybe even longer than that, and it comes as no surprise at all (at least to his heart) that it’s because of this enigma of a man whose lips are pressing (urgently, almost needily) against his own.

Kissing Shiro feels like finally; it feels like coming home. It’s all so ironic and paradoxical, that Shiro’s been the absent one this whole time, this is his homecoming, and yet… Kuroh feels like he himself has just returned home after being away for a long time (and maybe in some strange way, he has. Maybe there are pieces of him that have been missing, gone with Shiro, and now that Shiro’s back, all of the pieces are slipping effortlessly back into place).

It’s sensory overload for him in the best way. There’s the taste of salt, of mint, of the sea, and there’s a warmth and a knowing and a need. It’s funny how it’s all a jumble, and Kuroh’s more than okay with it. Kuroh, who feels the need to analyze everything and bring order to everything he touches, is perfectly content to lose himself in this, in this boy who’s pulled him in and has had him, even from the start.

When at last he finally pulls back, Kuroh breathes, “I hope you know that you are stuck with me.” He knows his grin is lopsided, silly. His lips are still tingling even as he decides to become more serious: “I will defend you, my king, until my death. My sword is yours, and I will do whatever you ask of me; I will be whatever you need me to be.”

Shiro’s smile is easy, full. It reaches his eyes. “I do not ask it of you, Kuroh, and you do not have to tell me that which I already know, although it is nice to hear… and all that I need you to be is this. You, without masks, without hesitation. That is what I ask of you.”

Kuroh bows his head just slightly, already wanting to kiss Shiro again, but the amusement written all over Shiro’s face gives him pause, and piques his curiosity. (Good thing he isn’t Neko… curiosity and cats, and all that). “What’s funny?”

“Oh, I was just thinking,” Shiro begins, and then chuckles softly. “I wholeheartedly encourage more of this particular behavior, but I will ask that you refrain from tape-recording me, because you know that’s creepy.” It’s all light-hearted teasing, and the spark in Shiro’s eyes coupled with the silly grin tells him as much.

Kuroh feels himself blushing and he bites back an indignant noise, instead choosing to be incredibly bold and, uncharacteristically throwing caution to the wind, he leans in and nips (not exactly gently and yet not hard enough to mark) at Shiro’s bottom lip.

Shiro’s breath hitches, and it’s dizzying, electrifying. It sends heat spiraling through him, gathering and twisting in his lower belly. He’s already wonderfully addicted to this sound that Shiro’s made, and he won’t need a recorder—he’s committed it to memory, this delightful noise, and he knows that he’ll spend a great deal of time in their future endeavoring to make Shiro make that sound again and again.

For now, he’s content to nuzzle at that place where Shiro’s neck and shoulder meet; he’s content to allow Shiro’s chest and arms to support some of his weight. He’s content to breathe him in, to feel and hear his heartbeat, to appreciate this synchronicity.

“Welcome home,” Kuroh murmurs, and means it.

Shiro’s home.

Both of them are.

~END~