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Keith has too much time on his hands. It’s not a big deal, at first. There’s clean up, there’s training, there’s studiously suppressing his almost decade old less-than-platonic-feelings for Shiro.Business as usual.Except—Except it’s that last one that’s giving him trouble. Keith’s well practiced at keeping them under wraps. He’d only let it slip when they’d slipped, from a knife’s edge away from death to nothing between them and free fall.Shiro hadn't said anything about it since, so Keith hadn't either. And then there was no time to think about what he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about.It’s a lull, maybe. A break in the chain of non-stop fucked up fuckery that’s been their lives for the past few years.Three for them, five for everyone else, not accounting for time dilations and space whales. But everything was a slipshod and frantic scramble and the truth of it was that has never been enough time.There was no time to think about how much he wanted Shiro's hands on him.There’s nothing but time, now.___________________________________“You should take the afternoon off,” Commander Holt says. He’s earnest and convincing and before Keith knows it, he’s on a hoverbike out in the desert sketching the hard stretch flat plains and the distant line of caves on the horizon.Or.That’s what he’s meant to be doing.Without realizing it, his pencil decides on another path; the discrete ridged knuckles, the broad open palm—Shiro’s new arm.Keith frowns. It’s not a bad drawing but it’s not great, either. It doesn’t look right; there’s something missing. Something he can’t put a finger on.He turns the pad to a fresh page and presses pencil to paper again. Okay.He’ll get it this time.___________________________________But he tries and tries and tries and still, something's not quite right. Whatever it is, though, it keeps eluding his grasp.___________________________________Shiro’s been more physically distant since being restored to the clone’s body. The smiles, the words, the looks just for Keith, all those are still there. But now he hesitates before curling a hand around Keith’s shoulder, or poking his side during a boring meeting, or wrapping Keith in his arms for a hug.“Am—did I do something?” Keith says. He’s thinking of the cold purple light of the facility, the searing heat of Shiro’s plasma blade against his cheek. The words that he’d forced out, not quite wrong, but not quite right, either.“No ,” Shiro says. “You didn’t do anything. It’s me.” He runs a hand through his hair. “After spending so much time without a body—”Keith tries, and fails, to suppress his wince.“—I’m more sensitive to physical stimuli than before.”Oh. Well. That's—“We can fix that,” Keith says.“I don’t know that it’s something I can fix,” Shiro says. “This body may not have—it may be healthy but there are bound to be drawbacks.”“We can fix this,” Keith says, and he feels like he’s talking about too many things at once.“I'm not sure,” Shiro says, but he’s hesitating.“It can’t hurt to try. Worst case scenario? You’re in the same place you started, but at least you gave it a shot,” Keith says. Shiro’s fighting a smile because he’s the one who said that to Keith, years ago.“It's not just this body, though. It's the arm too,” Shiro says. He holds his new prosthetic out in front of him, palm up, and flexes the fingers.Keith's throat goes dry. He swallows again and then again but it doesn't help.“So it's got more sensitive touch receptors?” Keith asks. His voice cracks a little but he pushes past it. He's got “avoiding mutually uncomfortable conversations about our relationship” down to a science, but this is how they've always been. They've always been able to sense the shape of one another's orbit and emotions, even through silence.“Yeah. It's almost like—before. I have a better sense of textures, temperatures, that sort of thing," Shiro says, looking away. The tops of his ears have gone red but he's still wearing his uniform jacket. Maybe he's just warm. "I guess I got used to the old one. That plus the body...it feels like I'm made of nerve endings, sometimes.”“So then all we need to do is get them dialed in to a normal level of contact.”“How?”“Well. It's like wading into a pool of cold water and adjusting to the temperature. You know, exposure therapy.”“So, what, I just, ask people to touch me?” Shiro asks, palming the back of his neck.“You don’t have to ask just anyone. It should be someone you feel comfortable with. Physically.”Shiro’s face glows a dull red. “Oh, uh.”“What?”“Well. You’re the only one that fits that description. And I can’t ask you to—”“You don’t have to ask. I already said I'd help.”“Keith—”“Not negotiable.”Shiro is still flushed but he smiles and says okay and that’s all the go ahead Keith needs.___________________________________It's not until later that he realizes just what he's suggested and agreed to.___________________________________Keith shifts, hard and red hot and wanting. He needs—He needs.It's dim and dark and he can't see anything but he can feel. Something cool brushes across his forehead before dipping down to thumb the curve of his cheek.“Keith.”The voice is familiar but—it's deeper, rougher.“Keith.” “ Shir—”Keith wakes up.Why is his room so hot?He twists and turns in his bed, sheet tangled up between his legs, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead. He’s not wearing anything other than underwear but the sheet keeps sticking to his skin and no matter what he does, he can’t get comfortable. He’s not sure sleep’s even worth the attempt at this point. He ends up facing the left wall of his room; Shiro’s just on the other side. He could—No, he can’t. Shiro doesn’t sleep well as it is, he doesn’t need Keith interrupting. Especially not when Keith’s—whatever this is. Keith had spent last night in Shiro’s room, anyways. Had fallen asleep on the couch, face mashed into the surface of his data pad. Keith turns over, whines into his pillow. It’s like there’s something itching under his skin. He can’t put his finger on why, though. That’s fine, he thinks, rising to his feet and pulling on a shirt, I can put a fist to a punching bag instead. He can and he does but even though it takes some of the sting off, it doesn’t do much to soothe the burn smoldering beneath.___________________________________Keith doesn't mean to talk to his mom about his sex adjacent dreams, it just sort of happens.They meet a few times a week to have dinner. Keith keeps expecting her to cancel one week or another, tell him the Blades need her for some urgent cause off planet. It's not that he thinks she wants to leave, but if there's a universal power out there then it has a sadistic enjoyment of snatching the people he loves the most out if his life without warning.It's not going to be any easier, but this is the most he can prepare.Still, his mom is there when he enters the mess hall. She sits with her shoulders square and fingers laced together, surveying the rest of the room's occupants. No one sits near her; there are a few stragglers sitting on the outskirts of her table, but the middle is her domain. She waves to Keith, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth.Keith takes a seat across the table, bag thumping against the bench when he sets it down.“How was your day?” Krolia asks, eyebrow raised. “Do I need to prepare to hide the bodies?”Keith rolls his eyes but smiles.There are a lot of reasons Keith loves his mom, but a big one is how she never assumes he's frustrated without reason.“Not yet,” Keith says. He sets his tray down in front of him and pokes at the vegan meatloaf in front of him. Resources are still hard to come by, so the Garrison chefs have gotten creative with soy. Or tried to.“Keep me posted,” Krolia says, tone at odds with the amusement in her eyes.“I will,” Keith says. He pushes his meatloaf apart with his fork. It doesn’t look any more appetizing in pieces.“What did you do today?” she asks.So he tells her. About running drills with the younger cadets, about them calling him sir, about how weird it is to be on the other side of things.Even now it amazes him how invested she is in every detail of his life.(Making up for lost time.)“And you had to do those kinds of drills when you were a cadet here?” “Yeah. Though I wasn’t any good at them.”“I find that hard to believe, you’re an excellent pilot.”Keith lets out an ugly snort. “Sure but these aren’t about piloting. They’re more like the multiplication tables of flying—a good basic foundation, mind numbing, and frustrating as hell.”The multiplication tables of flying; Shiro had called them that, before—everything. It’s not like the drills had gotten any better after that, but Shiro managed to convince him that if he could color inside the lines for a little while, the brass wouldn’t mind as much when he colored outside of them.Keith yawns.“Not sleeping well?” Krolia asks with an unreadable smile. “Uh. No, ” Keith say, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear from where it’s slipped free of his ponytail."Someone keeping you up at night?""Nope. Definitely not." Sometimes, the fact that she's lived through so many of his memories comes to back to haunt him."Keith."Keith glances at either end of the table; no one’s close enough to overhear. He leans in.“Is there, I don’t know, is there uh—what’s Galra puberty like?”Krolia chokes on her water.“That’s not what I was expecting.”Keith hesitates. “What were you expecting?”She laughs, “I had a couple options in mind but not that one.”She's not telling him the whole story but she’s been a Blade for a long time, he’s not getting it out of her unless she decides she wants him to know.“Why do you ask?”Keith flushes. “Just. Some dreams. Have made it difficult to sleep.”She laughs and the back of his neck burns. “That sounds like human hormones to me,” she looks at him with a wry smile. “Those seem to be the more dominant set of genetics.”“I would have to agree with Krolia on that,” Kolivan says, appearing from nowhere. He hands Krolia a drive smaller than a thumbnail. "Besides, if you were having Galra puberty , as you termed it, you would know. Most of the Garrison would.” Kolivan continues, both reassuring and terrifying.“Right. Okay. This never happened,” Keith says. He stuffs a bite of meatloaf into his mouth. It tastes awful but it's better than continuing this conversation.At least his mom and Kolivan both specialize in keeping secrets.___________________________________ But Keith can't shake the memory of his dream, not when he goes to meet Shiro for their first “touch therapy” session. Especially not then.It haunts him during their second try, too.And their third.And their thirtieth.___________________________________
Shiro's the one who suggests the lounge. Maybe out of lingering nostaligia for the one in the Castle; the rare quiet nights when they'd watch incomprehensible Altean movies more for company than entertainment.Keith agrees.They start side by side, thighs pressed together, poring over a map of the territories still occupied by Galra warlords and the last holdouts of the Empire.Shiro tenses at first. Keith stays exactly where he is and lets Shiro adjust. By the end of the night, he only relaxes a few degrees, but it's something.And it's something that's working.A few weeks in, it’s an arm around Keith’s shoulder, Keith’s head tucked against Shiro’s throat. Keith tries not to think too hard on the way Shiro’s pulse races against his cheek, or when Keith breathes against his neck, nose buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder.Then, more recently, it's Shiro in Keith’s arms, head against his chest, pouring over a report on his data pad while Keith draws patterns on his scalp with his fingernails.Keith doesn't think sanything of it until Lance swaggers into the lounge one day, loudly regaling the MFE pilots of the time he saved an entire planet of mermaids. He stops mid sentence, eyes wide, before Rizavi holds out a hand."Pay up, sucker."Lance sighs, and dips his hand into his pocket.He pulls a few bills from his wallet, and hands them over. Rizavi shuffles the bills in her hands like they're playing cards."This is bullshit. And I owe Pidge twenty bucks, too,” Lance mutters.Shiro squirms a little against Keith’s chest. “Lance. Can I talk to you?” Keith says. He winds himself from Shiro’s arms, chest already cold.“Shoot.”“Alone.” “Sure thing, team leader,” Lance says with an insufferable grin and a salute that makes Keith want to punch him—well, punch him more.Lance can thank the two years on a space whale for the fact that Keith waits until they're in the hallway to do it.“What the hell was that for?”“I'm the one that should be asking you that,” Keith says. “What was that about?” Even as he asks, Keith still isn’t sure he wants to know."What was what?""The money. Rizavi.That, " Keith waves a hand around, "whole thing."Lance rolls his eyes. “Buddy. You seriously cannot think none of us noticed that you and Shiro started dating. You guys are like, the most obvious couple I've ever seen. It's kinda cute but also kinda gross. Which is a combo that just screams new relationship.”Keith is pretty sure he's woken up in an alternate reality because what. “I'm not dating Shiro.”“Right, I get it, you're a modern man, he's dating you ,” Lance says with a wink. Keith is going to have nightmares about that face. “But if you wanted to keep this under wraps you probably shouldn't have cuddled in the lounge.”Keith's not going to open the can of worms in Lance’s last sentence. “I'm not dating Shiro, Lance.”Lance's grin falters. “Dude, are you dating someone else? Did you tell Shiro? You gotta tell Shiro, he's going to be heartbroken—”“Neither of us are dating anyone,” Keith pauses. “At least I'm not.”“Okay,” Lance says. “So. What was that ?”There are times Keith really hates his life.“I'm just—helping Shiro. Physically and emotionally.”“Helping him physically and emotionally. That sounds like you’re dating. Exactly like you’re dating.”“We’re not.”“Can't wait to hear about the platonic handj—actually you know what? I never want to hear about that. Forget I said anything.”Keith is going to forget everything about this conversation. “Done.”“So, if you're not dating,” Lance says, “what's all the PDA about?”“Like I said, helping Shiro." Then Keith turns and walks back into the lounge.“Everything okay?” Shiro asks. He's still on the couch but he's vertical now and Griffin, Leifsdottir, Rizavi, and Kinkade are all gathered around the couch in a loose semi circle. His face is a still flushed and he's pushed his hair back out of his eyes.
Is he getting sick?
Griffin’s staring at Keith, though, arms folded across his chest and a look Keith has no idea how to read.“Yeah. Fine. I'm gonna head back to my room,” he says. No sooner has he said it than he feels the wolf nosing at the center of his palm. “See you later,” he says and then he's gone in a flash of ozone.It’s a smoother exit than he probably deserves, but that’s the wolf, not him.___________________________________They do exposure therapy in private, after that.___________________________________Operating under the Garrison’s chain of command is a special kind of hell, and Keith has been to enough alien planets to have a healthily developed infernal spectrum. The temporary peace means that the wartime dismissal of paperwork is over. And there's a lot of paperwork—a lot. Keith could swim in it for a full day without ever breaking the surface.The other paladins have some, too, but not as much as he and Shiro do. Shiro has the captain’s quarters on the Atlas, noticeably bigger than everyone else’s rooms. Although Shiro had tried to cede them to Commander Holt, Atlas made sure that no matter what door Shiro walked through in the evening, he always ends up in the captain’s quarters.Shiro and his ship are well matched for stubbornness, but as much as it’s unstoppable force meet immovable object, Shiro still needs Atlas’s consent to fly.Altas also always makes sure Keith's room is right next to Shiro's.Not that it matters much—Keith ends up spending most of his time in Shiro’s quarters, anyways.They get into a routine. Worldlessly orbiting around each other given shape by one another's gravity. Keith carves out a place on Shiro's couch, both of their piles of paperwork teetering precariously no matter how much they think they've gotten through that evening. Shiro always starts at his desk, hunched over beneath the pool of lamplight. He's started wearing reading glasses recently and Keith is suffering just like he always suffers because Shiro makes everything impossibly attractive.Still, Keith keeps helping Shiro get accustomed to his new arm, like the self destructive dumbass he's apparently decided he is.One time they test the range of Shiro's arm with the wolf. He teleports away and Shiro tries to summon it back to him. The arm is so attuned the electromagnetic field surrounding Shiro's body it can return to him even when the wolf takes it out into the middle of the desert near the shack.Shiro laughs when the door to his suite slams open, as the arm returns to him, the wolf in hot pursuit, smile lines creasing the corners of his eyes.Keith wants to see that look on his face more often.They do tests on dexterity and range and sensitivity. So many goddamn tests for sensitivity. Keith becomes familiar with the feel of metal fingers sifting through his hair, now long enough to fall past his shoulders. He's familiar with the feel of cool fingers mapping the lines of his plan, gentle but sure. Keith is aware of what Shiro's hands feel like across so many parts of his body—both of them. They've been trying to give Shiro's prosthetic a set of sense memories to work off of as a guide, which means Keith lives with the after image of Shiro's hands tracing the shape of his shoulders, his scalp, his waist. It's wonderful and terrible all at once.Keith has more than enough imagination to dream about what those hands would feel like in other places, too.They're supposed to remain dreams, but they're insidious; determined and they find their way into daylight, running through his head and running him ragged.It's just—it's just that Keith has too much time.___________________________________Keith goes out the desert to draw again. It's become a habit now that they're in a lull. Before, it was whenever he could grab some time out of the ridiculous schedule that the universe dictated.He'd sketched the Lions, the other Blades between missions, and the dips and ridges of distant planets he could never be sure he'd see again.All his life he'd been leaving people and places. This way, he could hold on just a little longer, push his understanding a little deeper, find a way to keep some hold on the things he had to leave behind.It's twilight by the time Keith only makes it out to the painted cliffs. He sits alongside the edge, the desert stretched out before him, a labryinth of caves pressed against the horizon.The sun is setting fast, though, so he doesn't have long before he'll be drawing stars instead but its a good timer. It forces him to draw instead of think. And all he's been able to think about lately is—
no
focus.
It works until it doesn't. Once night falls, he keeps drawing and ends up with a whole sheet of hands. Shiro's hands. They look better than last time, but they're still not right.Keith closes his sketchbook. He stuffs it into his bag before slinging the strap over his shoulder. This time of night the desert is cool, all the heat leached from the sand. But, there's an unshakable warmth beneath Keith's skin.He loosens the top buttons of his coat. It doesn't help. He still feels tendrils of heat curling up from the base of his spine as he swings a leg over his bike and revs the engine. Even after the long drive back to the Garrison, wind stripping his skin, he still feels too warm.___________________________________He doesn't expect Shiro to be waiting for him when he gets back, but there he is, popping his head out of his doorway just as Keith goes to unlock his own.“Hey,” Shiro says.“Hey,” Keith says. He frowns, "is everything okay?"“Just...didn’t want to do paper work alone,” Shiro says, palming the back of his neck with his Altean arm. Keith tries not to track it too closely, fails.“Okay, let me grab mine.”“It's already here, you left it on the table yesterday.”Keith doesn’t remember leaving it, but he hasn’t been sleeping well. He lets it go and follows Shiro into his suite. He’s still too warm. He drops his bag on the ground and shucks his jacket. It helps a little but not enough."Did you have a good time?" Shiro asks."Yeah. It was good," Keith says."I'm not gonna ask, but maybe bring sunscreen next time," Shiro says with a smile."Okay, Captain, " Keith says.It’s only then that he remembers he still has the drawings of Shiro in his bag. A whole sketchbook full of them.He sits down on the couch, and desperately tries to think of something. Anything other than Shiro and his drawings of Shiro and the fact that Shiro’s arm is floating across the room to ruffle his hair.
Wai—
Keith jumps, but manages to contain the worst of it. He thinks.“Are you okay?” Shiro asks.“Fine,” Keith says, but his voice cracks a little and without looking he can tell that of the two people in this room, exactly zero of them believed that.“Okay,” Shiro says, pulling out the chair at his desk. He pauses before sitting down, “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”Keith smiles. It’s true—with one glaring exception. “Yeah, of course. You too.”Shiro smiles at him and gets to work. Keith sighs and does the same. It’s going to be a long night.___________________________________Four vargas later, Keith frowns down at the stack of paper in his lap. He's been staring at the same page for twenty doboshes.Something prods him in the back of the head. He turns and sees Shiro suppressing a grin. His prosthetic hovers near Keith's ear. It's been a while since he's seen Shiro look like that.Keith headbutts Shiro's arm because, even though he'd never admit it, Shiro secretly enjoys when Keith's a little bit of a brat.“What was that for?”“Could ask you the same thing,” Shiro says.“If you're gonna distract me at least bring the rest of you over here.”That's all it takes. Then Shiro's across the room and at the other end of the couch, prosthetic floating back towards his shoulder, heading for the space between Keith's open arms.And Keith is weak. The feel of Shiro pillowed against his chest in a flash, chin flush with the top of Shiro's head. Keith can feel the rise and fall of Shiro's chest.“How was your day?” Shiro asks. Voltron and Atlas worked separately today. Shiro’s command over Atlas is incredible and her maneuverability has grown in miles not feet, but these are the kinds of days where Keith feels Shiro's absence from the Lions like a constant ache beneath his skin.“We’re getting better at piloting remotely. Still need to practice though,” Keith says. He leans down to press the side of his face against the top of Shiro's head. It smells just like it used to, before Kerberos. Keith wonders a little that of all things, it was Shiro's old brand of shampoo made it to the other side of the war. “What about you?”“Drills with Atlas, working on mobility. Mostly I was with the Holts, they wanted to run some tests on my arm. Next step is optimizing it for combat,” Shiro sends it across the room to grab some papers from his desk. “I want to keep testing the range, see what it can really do.”Keith can't take his eyes off Shiro's arm as it floats back towards the couch. He thinks of the way it spans his waist when whey hug, how it cups Keith's shoulder when they spar, thinks of Shiro using it to keep Keith thighs spread apart as Shiro ducks his head between his legs—“So you're getting used to it?” Keith asks with an equal mix of desperation and curiosity because Shiro’s shifting against his chest at the worst possible moment.“Yeah,” Shiro says, “I think so.”At least one of them is.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Keith is burning. Flames snake across his skin, sneak beneath his muscles, seep into his blood, the lick of them keeping time with his heartbeat. A set of hands is working their way across his body and under his shirt to trace patterns across his chest. One cool and one warm, both of them familiar in a way that his mind shys away from recognizing—like a piece of heated metal that’s still too hot to touch. He arcs into the feeling, into the way it leaves each millimeter of his skin indelibly altered. It's not enough—but it's still better than those painful seconds where the hands leave his skin all together—Keith wakes up hard and wanting. When he takes himself in hand, there's only one person he's thinking about, only one person whose name spills from his lips in gasps and sighs as he comes.
Shiro.
It’s not like this is new. Shiro’s been his go-to masturbation fantasy for years. Keith’s just as skilled at handling his sword as he is at handling his, well, sword and looking Shiro in the eye the next day.Masturbation fantasy Shiro is Keith’s longest and most lasting relationship.Not to mention, he’s been spending most of his free time with Shiro, with Shiro’s hands wandering over (almost) all of him. The whole point was helping Shiro decrease his touch sensitivity and it seems like it’s worked. So why the hell isn’t it working on Keith, too?He pushes his sheets away, snagging his datapad to check the time. Only 2am. Not early enough for him to camp out in the Garrison cafeteria and pretend he’s decided to get an early start, but still too late for him to make his way to the gym and pummel a punching bag into some semblance of purpose. He’s already letting the light of his datapad screen dim, already dozing, ready to drift off as he leans in to the feel of heat buzzing underneath his skin. _____________________________________________If Keith were ever dumb enough to confess his feelings (he's not), he knows Shiro would let him down gently. He’d give Keith a crinkle-eyed smile and a warm hug and Keith wouldn't feel the mortification seep in until he was alone. That's what he’d done, years ago, when Keith had approached him, shoulders square, chin defiantly raised and told Shiro how he felt. Staring down a deadline and the reality that he'd be spending the next three years alone, it was now or never before light years of stars separated him from the most important person in his life. It had been okay, standing there in Shiro's arms, head tucked in the crook of his shoulder, to feel like everything would be alright. Shiro made it clear how much Keith meant to him, made it clear that even though he didn’t return Keith’s feelings, he did love him. His love was just a different shade of red than Keith’s. It’s been a while since then; back when Shiro was seventy-five percent of the beefcake he is now, still sharp-jawed and striking, but dark-haired and with smiles that held less weight at the corners. Shiro still meant—means—everything to him; Shiro's friendship isn’t a consolation prize. Keith knew where they stood then, and he knows where they stand now. He can still see the dim, sickly purple light of his second confession, hear his heart racing in his ears. They’d both made it out of there with new scars, but some things had clearly stayed the same; Shiro’s feelings, devoted but platonic, hadn’t changed, even as Keith’s had only gotten stronger. _____________________________________________Ten thousand years of unimpeded conquest means that Zarkon and Co. covered a lot of territory. The planets on the fringes of the Empire are always the hardest to convince that the Coalition is a change for the better—especially when most of them barely know what it is. Some of Earth’s diplomatic visitors are more enthusiastic though—maybe a little too much so. Keith’s become far too familiar with at least eight politely phrased variations on thank you but no thank you, we really can't accept this plant until we know what sort of effect it'll have on Earth's ecosystem.Each of these generous “requests” means meeting after meeting while the Coalition leaders try to decide what the next variation of their answer will be. This is meeting number We-Don’t-Even-Bother-To-Count-Anymore. Keith’s trying to contain himself, but his collar is damp with sweat against the back of his neck and his legs keep twitching. He can’t stop thinking about his dream.Shiro’s just making it worse. He keeps sending Keith looks, and his prosthetic keeps darting out and pausing just above Keith’s knee, as though to still him. That’s just the sweetest bit of torture—hoping that this will be the time that Shiro decides to put his hand on Keith’s knee—innocent and habitual as it would be for him—while praying that he won’t, because Keith’s body might as well be Judas, ready to hand up his feelings on a silver platter.
Focus.
Keith used to be so much better at this. He used to be better at pretending he wouldn’t let Shiro fuck him right here and now, on the table in front of everyone. “Time to move to our next item of discussion; planning for a new diplomatic contingent from Pallux,” Commander Holt says.A month earlier the newly restored Palluxian Prince Liandros offered an orchard of potentially biome-shattering Not Trees at an interplanetary summit as part of securing an alliance between Pallux and Earth. While the Coalition declined Liandros’s very generous gift, the Coalition’s interim political council had offered an invitation to spend a week on Earth instead. The Palluxians accepted with grace and—in Keith’s opinion—suspiciously pleased smiles.“What do you think Keith?” Allura says. “Keith?”Keith tries to contain his panic—unsuccessfully. From the expertly suppressed smirk on Shiro’s face, Shiro knows that Keith hasn’t been paying attention. At all.“We’ve got most of this handled and there’s still a week before the Palluxians arrive. It seems like you could use some time off, too,” Shiro says.He places a hand on Keith's shoulder. The Altean one. It's a familiar gesture between them, but Keith feels unsettled. He shouldn’t be afraid of getting hard just because Shiro touched his shoulder. But shouldn’t doesn’t mean shit._____________________________________________But the Paladins could all use a break from these Coalition meetings and they’ve all got time— something they didn’t have before. Something that’s slowly been driving Keith crazy.So, Keith agrees. It’s not until later that Keith finds out that Lance is the one who suggested a beach day. He doesn’t even attempt to mask his surprise. “I’m offended. I have tons of good ideas!” Lance says.Keith makes a non-committal noise because that’s patently untrue. Lance’s good ideas are like Shiro’s calendrical birthday—they only happen once every four years.But a yes is a yes and the team picks a weekend where they’d already planned on taking a break from drills. Keith insists on stea—borrowing one of the MFEs. Griffin keeps saying that there’s nothing like flying one and Keith wants to see how it handles. Shiro gives him a look when Keith reveals that he swiped the codes from Commander Holt. “You could have just asked me,” he says before he slides behind the cockpit of his own MFE fighter. Then he shoots Keith a smug “Race you,” and takes off before Keith even has a chance to get his own code keyed in. “Did Shiro just do...that?” Keith hears Lance say over Blue’s comms.“See you there,” Keith says, gripping the controls, already halfway out of the hanger and closing the gap between himself and Shiro. He can just see the gleam of Shiro’s MFE hurtling toward the horizon, a small plume of exhaust behind him. Keith knows the the MFEs don’t normally emit exhaust—they don’t need to. Shiro did this on purpose, a trail of breadcrumbs turned taunt. Keith smiles. It’s so on. _____________________________________________In the end, Keith and Shiro get there at about the same time. A photo finish, or it would be, except that they’re both so far ahead of the rest of their party there’s no one else there to take a photo and decide who won. Keith peels out of his MFE to declare himself the winner. Shiro’s already there, sweat-damp hair matted to his forehead and a breathtaking smile splitting his face. It’s a smile Keith hasn’t seen in—years. The soft sort of smile he was half-convinced he’d imagined all together, some sort of fevered, hormone-derived daydream that had never been shared with anyone other than his fist.“Guess you still can’t beat me,” Shiro says. “Only because you cheated,” Keith says. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” Shiro says. Then he lunges in and wrestles Keith to the ground. Keith squirms in Shiro’s grip, ignoring the way he desperately wants to stay exactly where he is. He manages to work his way free in spite of that and springs to his feet.They circle one another on the sand, shucking their shoes as they go. “You really think you can take me?” Keith says. (God, he wants Shiro to take hi—no.)And then Keith trips against a rock and has to regain his balance, too. “Big words for someone so unsteady on his feet.”“We’ll see who’s really unsteady on their feet after I win,” Keith says. They keep circling. Keith desperately ignores the way Shiro’s muscles flex under his shirt as he moves.Earth sand is the actual worst, but he just has to make the conditions work for him. Keith gathers himself, shifts his weight to the center, and charges, hoping to catch Shiro by surprise. The move works, but barely. Shiro’s got a quick mind and even quicker reflexes—and he’s not afraid to fight dirty when he needs to. He’s clearly decided he needs to. He feints left while sending his prosthetic to the right to clip Keith behind the knees. Keith buckles, bracing just in time to narrowly avoid landing flat on his face. He rolls to the side, trying to regain his ground but Shiro’s on him before he can blink, pinning Keith on his back to the sand with his prosthetic.It’s resting high on Keith’s thigh and Keith could—Stop.Keith kicks out, clipping Shiro in the shin and sending him sprawling onto the sand beside him. He swallows his inconvenient feelings as he curls his fingers around the wrist of Shiro’s metal arm to wrench himself free. His fingers don’t even make it all the way around Shiro’s wrist. It’s messier, after that—until Shiro gets a good grip and seems to have won. Keith leverages their weight just in time to keep Shiro from complete victory. He shakes Shiro’s hold and topples him onto his back, swinging his leg over Shiro’s own and sitting astride his thighs. They’re both breathing hard. “You guys know this is a public beach, right?” Pidge says. Keith turns to see Pidge, Lance, Hunk, Allura, Coran, Romelle, and Matt standing on the sand. Lance is making a disgusted face, Matt just looks amused, and Hunk is covering Romelle’s eyes.Romelle claws at his hand. “Stop it, let me see!”Pidge just adjusts her glasses before taking them off and cleaning them on her shirt. “Uh. Yeah,” Keith says. He’s still panting. He’s also still sitting on Shiro.Pidge slides her glasses back onto her face and cocks an eyebrow. “Right. Okay. Just checking.” Keith rises to his feet and pulls down his shirt where it’s bunched up around his arms. Shit. He hadn’t even realized that’d happened. He’s glad he’s wearing loose shorts.“How long have you guys been here?” Shiro says as he stands. He’s a little red. Maybe they’ve been rolling around in the sun for longer than Keith realized. “A few doboshes,” Allura says. There’s a smile stretching across her lips and the only thing it spells is trouble. “Long enough to see the lead up to Keith’s finishing move.”Keith carefully smoothes his face free of any reaction to the word “finishing.” “You’re very clever with your hands, Keith,” Allura says, bright and devious. Lance isn’t even trying to hide laughter, and neither are Pidge or Matt. Keith is entirely sure that Lance has been spending all of his free hours teaching Allura euphemisms. “So, towels?” Shiro says. It’s not a very neat redirection. At all. Pidge rolls her eyes and Lance mimes something that’s probably supposed to be a chicken dance but looks more like he’s been electrocuted. Allura pats Shiro on the shoulder in a way that’s probably meant to be consoling but comes off more condescending. Matt doesn’t even attempt to hide his laughter.“Yes! Towels!” Coran says, a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps Keith can show us some festive ways to arrange them since he’s so good with his hands!” “Sure, fine,” Keith says, shifting back on his heels. The sooner he gets his towel, the sooner he can repress this moment.The beach is a small, sandy crescent protected by sheer rock faces with a twisting path winding down from a parking lot perched atop the cliffs. It’s mostly flat but there are small rock spires scattered at either end, and a set of natural caves carved by the sea over millions of years.Keith rolls out his towel in the perfect spot. He’s near enough to the others that he’ll still be able to talk to them if they holler, but far enough out that unless they’re really trying to get his attention, the only thing that he’ll hear is the ocean.He leaves his towel behind, strips off his shirt, and goes to stand in the water, letting the waves lick at his feet. It’s quiet out here. There’s the occasional shriek from a seagull, but for right now it’s just Keith, the sound of the waves, and the temporary relief from the fire licking at the underside of his ribs. (During their two years atop the space whale’s back, Keith had to see a vision of a future he wasn’t sure he’d ever had. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes to see the old house in the desert, fixed up with older versions of himself and Shiro sitting on the front porch. Even that fleeting fragment hurt in ways he wasn’t sure how to hold. He sat there, still and uncertain, until his mom came over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes it just catches up with you.”)Keith wades deeper into the water, past his knees, past his shoulders, until he’s squeezed his eyes shut and gone completely under, turning the whole world silent.
Sometimes it just catches up with you.
_____________________________________________Keith drips his way back to his towel and shakes out his hair, flinging drops of sea water everywhere. He wants to stretch out and let the warm rays seep into his skin. Let them erase all the thoughts in his head. Shiro's lying on his towel, face down and shirt off. He apparently moved his own closer while Keith was in the ocean. Keith is so weak and so so unprepared to deal with this. He shouldn’t be. He knew that this was a possibility; more than a possibility, a probability. Going to the beach with Shiro meant seeing him shirtless and that was fine—except that it wasn’t. Keith is strong. He’s been through Marmora training. But Marmora training was all about espionage, not about hiding your erection when confronted with an actual eight pack courtesy of the very chiseled, very buff love of your life. Keith can handle this. Keith is fine. Keith is laying himself down on his towel right now, and definitely not narrating his own actions to avoid looking at Shiro, avoid even thinking about what it would be like to run his hands over his sun-warmed skin to—No. Keith sighs and lets the sun sink into his muscles, the heat melting them into something more manageable and malleable. It’s almost enough to make him forget that Shiro is so close by and very, very half naked. He’s still tense, sure, but that’s just the set of his shoulders these days. Besides, Keith shouldn’t even be this affected. He's got practice handling this. But his attempt to come to grips with his feelings again is like catching hold some sort of slippery eel—which is not a good train of thought an—
Focus.
Keith’s all of patience and all out of focus. What’s left of it is busy tracing the arch of Shiro’s back where he’s splayed out on his towel. He’s got his head pillowed on his arms and he’s tragically but blissfully unaware that Keith is dying a slow, but delicious, death just a few feet away. This is fine. How many times has Keith had to stand with Shiro in a communal shower and not get hard? How many times have they cuddled on the couch without incident? How many times will Keith have to smile and smile and smile and pretend he doesn’t want to rip Shiro’s clothes off even as he’d do anything to keep him close, no matter what their relationship is?As many times as it takes. He’s almost managed to drift off when something cool and smooth prods him right at the center of his back. Keith’s had a lot of practice staying put when push comes to shove, but this—he isn’t ready for this.He squeals. “What the fuck?” “Sorry,” Shiro says, not sounding all that sorry as his prosthetic retreats back towards his shoulder. He nudges Keith's side a little with his toe and it sparks the embers of the flames that lick at the hollow space behind his ribs.These days even the most innocent, incidental touch is enough to set Keith aflame. But Shiro can’t know that.Keith flips him off instead, lets himself sink into the laughter that follows, and closes his eyes. Combined with the persistent beat of the ocean tide against the sand, it’s almost enough to lull him back into the half-sleep he’d been drifting into. “Keith.”“Mmm,” Keith says. He turns his head to get a better look but Shiro's standing in front of the sun, the edges of his silhouette lined in gold. “Keith.”“Yeah?”And then Shiro crouches down next to Keith’s towel, hands braced atop his knees and Keith gets a view that almost makes him choke on his own spit.Because—God. Shiro's not playing fair. He’s already crouched down next to Keith’s towel, hands braced atop his knees. Shiro's thighs are so close and so thick and all Keith can think is how the fuck is Shiro's dick not falling out because holy mother of god those shorts really live up to their name. They also have less than zero support. Somehow seeing Shiro’s dick print feels more obscene than seeing him naked any number of times in the communal showers. It was a good run, and if this is how Keith dies then at least it's to a formidable and worthy opponent. He may have a few regrets about his life, but he doesn't think death by dick will be one of them.“Do you need something?” Keith says. Keith would do anything and everything for Shiro but right now he honest to god hopes that Shiro says no. Otherwise this little dance they're doing of Keith studiously ignoring Shiro studiously ignoring Keith's feelings is gonna dissolve and fast.“Help me with this?” Shiro holds up a fluorescent plastic tube. “Yeah, I'll meet you at your towel, just give me a minute," Keith says, like an idiot. He's going to need weapons grade emotional repression to make it out of this mess.“Okay.” When Keith feels the full heat of the sun return to his skin he sighs with relief. He spends a few minutes to think of the most desperately unsexy things he can manage—including Iverson in a swimsuit. Or Slav in a swimsuit.Shiro's laid out on his towel like a feast, propped up on his elbows, hips cocked at an angle, and looking entirely too tempting for Keith's fragile state of mind. “Look who finally decided to join me.”“Shut up.”“Did you drown on your way over here?” “I will leave, Shiro.” Even as Keith says it he's already bending down to snag the sunscreen out of Shiro's hand. He flips the top and squirts a dollop into his palm. Instant regret. Maybe he should be impressed that Shiro managed to find Earth sunscreen after everything the planet’s been through, but all Keith can think is oh god, why does sunscreen have to be white, thick, and sticky. “Can you make sure to get my shoulders?” Shiro asks, turning over onto his stomach and giving Keith an incredible view of his back. And his ass.Shiro’s shoulders are pure muscle. Keith’s present and future is pure suffering.Of course, Keith gets it. The space between your shoulders is tough to reach, the angle is all wrong and—wait. “Shiro.”“Mmm.”“Tell me if—” Keith pauses in the middle of squirting more sunscreen into his palm. Shouldn’t Shiro be able to reach his back with his prosthetic? “If what?” Shiro says, muscles flexing as he turns.He probably just didn’t want to risk sunscreen interfering with the tech. “Never mind.”“Keith.”“It’s nothing. Just—tell me if you think I missed a spot.”“Okay.” Shiro says. “Nothing else?”“No.” Yes.“If you're sure.”“I am,” Keith says. He presses Shiro down towards the towel, forcing him to lie flat on his belly and Shiro lets out another soft sigh.Keith had years to inoculate himself against Shiro's—everything. Not to mention god knows how many hours of exposure therapy over the past couple months. But if the exposure therapy has managed to help Shiro get less sensitive to touch, just like Shiro says it has, then it's had the direct opposite effect on Keith. Keith may not be good at lying, but he learned early and he learned fast not to trouble other people with his emotions. This is nothing he shouldn't be able to handle. Except he's not handling this. Not at all._____________________________________________Lance is apparently full of good ideas today, because he suggests that they play volleyball.Keith would make a revision on his Good Lance Ideas timeline but then Lance makes a huge mistake during the first rounds: despite years of evidence, he still lets Keith and Shiro team up.It's not a fair fight. They'd trained together before Kerberos; before a pack of sentient cats had taken them to reaches of the galaxy further than they'd even thought to imagine. As Shiro's most frequent sparring partner, Keith knows how he moves.And the level to which Shiro and Keith and Pidge kick Hunk and Lance and Allura’s asses only serves to re-ignite Lance's one-sided rivalry with Keith.“Okay, new rule, Shiro and Keith aren't allowed to be on the same team again. Ever.” Lance says. They’re taking a break from volleyball-turned-bloodbath, camping out on the sidelines with the orange slices Coran brought for all of them. “Yeah, you two have some weird, freaky force-sensitive Jedi thing going on here.” Hunk says, hand waving a more specific explanation. “We do not!” Keith says.“Guys, back me up here!” Lance says. “I hate to admit it—” Pidge says.“Hey!”“—but Lance is right.” “Thank you!”So they switch teams the next set. Allura, Hunk, and Keith against Shiro, Lance, and Pidge. And Keith wants to win. He wants to kick Shiro’s ass. He may be just a little obvious about it because the others notice.“Yeah, I mean, I thought Keith and Shiro were competitive together but I think they're even worse against each other,” Hunk says as Shiro uses his prosthetic to send back the volley Keith just sent over the net.“I'm not surprised,” Matt says from the sidelines. He's shaded by a large, brilliant green umbrella and cradling a brightly colored drink in one hand. Coran has recently discovered Earth cocktails and he and Romelle get enthusiastic about decorating their finished drinks. This, of course, means that Matt’s drink has seven more of those tiny little paper umbrellas than he actually needs. “Shiro didn’t set all of those Garrison records because he was master of chill.” “Matt,” Shiro says, just as Pidge tosses him the ball.Shiro raises the ball high over his head for a serve. The seam of his shorts ride dangerously high up on his thigh, just centimeters from the crease that separates his hips and his thighs. His dick looks like it’s about to jailbreak his shorts at any moment. The ball sails right past Keith. He doesn’t even get a chance to move. “And that’s the game to us,” Pidge says, turning to high five with Shiro. Keith’s not sure when it happened—and he’s not sure he’ll even know, honestly—but somehow the two of them and Lance have managed to come up with some sort of complicated handshake that probably took more time to think of that it takes to do. “Alright, let’s go home,” Lance says, once they’ve finished. “You’re only saying that so you can leave before we can beat you in the next game.” Pidge arches a brow. “Keith. You’re not beating anyone. That last shot? Pathetic.” “Hey.” Keith says, which—isn’t really an argument. The look Allura shoots him in response says that she knows it. They all know it. “Your game does appear to have suffered, Keith,” she says. “In Keith’s defense, he seemed a little distracted,” Hunk adds.“Better luck next time,” Lance says, shooting him the most obnoxious set of fingerguns.Shiro slings an arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Yeah, better luck next time.” _____________________________________________Riding the high of a day at the beach, Keith attempts to force things back into their regular pattern once they get back to the Garrison compound. And pummel whatever the hell is going on with him into submission from sheer exhaustion. There are more than enough meetings to help him along.He never thought he’d be thankful for a diplomatic visit, but he figures at least all of the planning will keep him from thinking too much. Or it would, except that Shiro always sits next to him in meetings. It’s not a conscious decision. Years of orbiting around one another mean they’re inevitably pulled into the other’s gravity. It’s fine; more than, really. Keith likes it that way.(Most of the time. Right now, it’s pressing on his ability to compartmentalize. Right now Shiro’s got his Altean arm settled on Keith’s left shoulder, fiddling with a strand of hair. Right now he’d like Shiro to pull his hair, too, or maybe push three thick fingers into him while making Keith cry a little.) Keith forces himself to breathe in hopes of quelling the flames simmering under his skin. Today, Shiro outlines the plan. The Coalition wants to provide support to the rebel fighters stationed in the far reaches of the Galra Empire’s dying grasp. There are roadblocks to consider: pirates and looters and the fact that some of the people trying to send them distress signals don’t always have the best methods of communication. The Palluxians are known for their psychic ability to communicate lightning quick across vast distances of space. It’s something Pidge is trying to replicate with technology, but it’ll take time. The Coalitions needs their help.Shiro's still talking when his arm drifts away from Keith’s shoulder. He's gotten incredibly good at using the sensitivity on his new arm as a radar of sorts, tuning in to the crystal so that he can have a clear idea of where it is at all times. Keith figures Shiro’s sending it off to get something he forgot to bring with him.Keith's still thinking about the time that they played an incredibly long range combo of tag and hide and seek when something brushes against his leg. He looks down and sucks in a breath. Shiro's prosthetic is resting against his thigh, more than halfway to his groin. He turns and sends Shiro a what the fuck? look and Shiro responds by tilting his head almost imperceptibly towards Keith's thigh and flashing him a wink. He looks around the table but while he’s surfing the edge of anxiety no one else seems to notice. No one else seems to notice Shiro—and Shiro’s hands—as much as Keith does.Keith looks down again and notices the note tucked between Shiro's fingers. He plucks it free, unfolding it to reveal Shiro’s messy writing.
Meet after?
Keith nods at Shiro and it's then that he hears Commander Holt exclaim, “Wonderful, I'm sure all of us are looking forward to Admiral Shirogane and Paladin Kogane’s demonstration tomorrow.”Keith has no idea what he's just agreed to._____________________________________________If he’d been listening, Keith would have known that the demonstration was a bad idea from the start. The main argument for them squaring off against one another was that the Palluxians needed to see that the strength of the Coalition lay with its members rather than its ships. So: an exhibition match between the Coalition’s best fighters. Keith and Shiro are the only ones who can hold their own against one another—but that’s physically, not emotionally.They peel off from the rest of the Paladins as they near Shiro’s quarters, until it’s just the two of them standing outside his door. The meeting went on later than usual and Keith’s exhausted—though how much of that’s from the meeting and how much of it is from fighting himself, it’s hard to say.Some of it is knowing he’s going to have to fight Shiro again and remembering what happened the last time he did.They pause outside of Shiro's door and Keith's just about to say it when Shiro speaks first. “I know it's late, but do you want to come in?”“You're not tired?”“I don't want to be alone right now.” Maybe Shiro’s thinking about their fight, too. He looks soft and vulnerable and so young under the glow of the hall lights. And what can Keith say to that other than yes._____________________________________________Keith thinks I’ll just sit on Shiro’s bed while he changes and then we’ll go back into the the lounge like we usually do. Except. Except that the longer Keith spends on Shiro's bed, the more the day starts catching up to him. Before he knows it he's horizontal and surfing the edge of sleep. “Keith?”“I'm awake.”“Keith.”“Gimme a few seconds and I'll get up and go back to my room,” Keith says, trying to force his eyes back open. A warm hand pushes his hair back from his forehead while a cooler, broader one cups his right cheek. “You're too warm,” Shiro says. Keith can hear the frown in his voice. “S’fine.”“It's not fine. I think you have a fever.”Keith turns his face into the blissfully cool palm of Shiro's prosthetic, feels the fingers skim over his lips as he moves his head.“Don't worry 'bout it. Dad alway said I ran hot as a kid.”“I think you should stay here tonight.”
What.
Keith pries one eye open. Shiro can't mean it the way Keith wants him to. “I don't think that's necessary.”“It is if you're sick.”“If I am then I need to go. We can't afford to have both of us out of commission.”“Keith. Please.”“I'll take the couch,” Keith says, but his eyes are already slipping shut again. “You're dead on your feet and I won't sleep well unless I can keep an eye on you. Just, stay. Please.”Keith's already asleep before he can raise another protest. _____________________________________________Keith is dreaming. He dreams that he’s asleep in Shiro’s bed. He dreams that he drifts, half sleeping, half waking, drawn out of slumber of a hand trailing down his stomach, of Shiro’s hot breath fanning over the nape of his neck, of Shiro pressing closer and grinding against the swell of his ass. In his dreams, he turns, pressing his lips to the soft skin below Shiro’s jaw, decorating it with a bouquet of bruises, like a dark purple “no vacancy” sign, coyly broadcasting there’s someone I belong to; someone who wants me. Keith knows what and who he wants. Knows who he wants to want him, to touch him, if only he could just—Keith is burning; he’s burning and he doesn't think he can stop.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Keith's spent a lot of time thinking about what it would be like to wake up next to Shiro and then even more time scrubbing those scenarios from his brain.
He's not counting the times they'd shared a cot in Black. Shiro had still been recovering and Keith trusts Allura, he does, but the universe is uncaring and unkind and it felt like the moment he turned his back it would try to take Shiro from him again.
This isn't the same.
It isn't the same as when they fall asleep on the couch together, papers strewn over their laps a tablet still still clenched in one fist.
No. This is close quarters. It's Keith's eyes flickering open and closed as he takes in the arm hooked around his waist, the hot breath ghosting along the top of his spine—Shiro hard against his ass and there's a wave of flames licking at the tender space between his ribs, racing through his veins, snaking outwards across the rest of his body. He needs—
He needs—
He needs to get out of here.
It's harder than it sounds. Everything in Keith’s body and soul is screaming at him to stay exactly where he is. But despite the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the faintly dizzy sensation bouncing between his ears, Keith knows he has to get up. Has to go. He curls his hand around where Shiro's fingers cup his waist. Their hands don't line up exactly, Shiro's hand is warm and broad against his skin and it dwarfs Keith's own when Keith lays his palm against Shiro's knuckles and tries to pry himself loose.
And the other hand is even bigger
, his mind supplies, unhelpful as ever.
It is huge, though. It’s resting on the dresser catching the light that’s filtering in the the far window. Keith can’t take his eyes off of it.
Shiro shifts against him in his sleep and lets out a small whimper. Keith tells himself that he has no idea what Shiro's thinking about. That people get hard in their sleep without it meaning anything.
It’s hard for it not to mean anything when he’s just had a sex dream about Shiro while lying in Shiro’s bed.
He keeps telling himself this as he worms his way free from Shiro's grasp and stumbles off the side of the bed, just catching himself before he crashes into his nightstand. His datapad chirps at him and he swipes through the long list of notifications.
There are way too many. Keith skims them and quickly notices a common theme.
Right. The demonstration is this morning. Of course. At this rate, it seems like Keith’s getting a message from the universe that he might as well get fucked.
He isn’t, but god, he wishes he was.
//
Things being what they are, the first person that Keith runs into is Commander Iverson. Who’s followed by Commander Holt. Keith is still in the clothes he was wearing yesterday and he hasn’t looked in a mirror yet but he doesn’t really need to one to know that he’s a mess.
The look Iverson’s giving him could melt the polar ice caps—if humanity hadn’t already managed that on their own.
“Paladin Kogane, I trust I don’t have to lecture you on what presentable diplomatic attire looks like?”
“No,” Keith says. There’s an expectant pause and he tugs at the collar of his shirt. It’s stifling. If a shirt feels this bad he’s dreading the feel of his uniform, starched and stiff; constricting.
Because there's no getting around it; the Coalition always wants to put the paladins on parade. Which meant dressing the part was non negotiable.
Ordinarily Keith didn't mind the new paladin uniforms, but whatever was going on with him, it was making a lot a lot of problems spring up where there hadn't been any before.
But making that clear to anyone with clearance high enough to rehearse him from his duties isn't someone he wants to confide in re: sex dreams about his best friend and fellow face of the inter planetary alliance.
He hadn't even wanted to tell his mom.
Keith had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it. And even though he couldn't bring any to mind right now, he knew he'd borne worse.
//
The Palluxians land prompt, as planned, at 0800 hours. Their sleek silver ship looks like something out of a vintage earth science fiction film. Some part of Keith isn't sure how the thing manages to fly.
It's arrival’s heralded by about as much pomp and circumstance as Earth can muster, given the limited they have in a post alien invasion world. At the very least, it's a better show than it would have been just a few months earlier. Their relief efforts have definitely made a difference.
It's a bigger crowd than Keith would have expected, considering.
Shiro's already there, waiting for their guests, by the time Keith arrives. Keith slides into a spot at the opposite of Shiro. It doesn't pass by unnoticed. Hunk elbows Keith right in the ribs and Keith had to fight to keep from doubling over.
“Hey, buddy, are you alright?” Hunk says.
“I'm fine.”
“You look a little...flushed.”
“You just elbowed me in the ribs, of course i look sick.”
Shiro considers that for a moment before he frowns, “no, that's not right, you've looked off since last night.”
“It's nothing,” Keith hisses at both of them. A ramp emerges from the Palluxians ship and the ambassadors are already descending, already making their way right towards them. The last thing they need is to start an incident when this visit is meant as a bit of apologetic diplomacy in the first place.
“Keith—” Shiro starts before Allura cuts him off with a look. There's a moment where his mouth hangs open, like he's going to keep speaking out of protest, but then Colleen Holt shoots him an even more alarming glare and he quickly shuts it again.
God, Pidge’s mom is scary. If they'd let her loose against against Sendak, the war might have ended a lot faster.
The Palluxians descend from their ship in two neat lines, matching one another step for step, not one foot out of sync. Once they reach Earth’s diplomatic contingent, they fan out into a single file line. This ends up putting them face to face with each of Earth’s representatives one on one. They each reach a hand out simultaneously, like they're part of some kind of choreographed dance that no one on Earth ever learned the steps to—or even knew in the first place.
Thankfully, since the Palluxians had paid Earth a visit pretty recently, the diplomatic greetings are relatively short. Soon enough, Commander Holt is leading their representative with him towards the Garrison’s central compound. Keith's glad that it's over, because he's starting to feel light headed. His collar is sticky hot against his neck and he only just manages to keep himself from tugging the top most buttons open before everyone breaks formation. Allura’s caught Shiro's attention and they're wrapped up in a conversation about—well, Keith doesn't actually know what they're talking about and he's not sure that he'd want to even if they were to turn around right now and try to get him to join their conversation.
Keith's fine right here, where he's got a great view of the strong, broad planes of Shiro’s back—
Moments after he starts admiring, a surge of heat rips through him, from his gut all the way up his spine. He trips a little, barely managing to keep himself from flying face first into the Garrison’s runway.
“Nice one, Keith. Real smooth,” Lance says. Keith doesn't have to look at him to know that he's got an insufferably smug look on his face. He also has less than zero desire to see Lanc looking so pleased with himself; especially not at his own expense when his body has apparently decided to lead a revolt against him—or whatever the fuck it's doing. Keith would still like an answer to that one.
Unfortunately for Keith, if par for the course for his life recently, Lance’s obnoxiously loud voice is enough to draw Allura's attention—which also draws Shiro's. Of course.
“Keith?” Shiro says, turning in a dime, moving far more gracefully than most men his size would be able to manage. Keith can't help but notice it, but regrets it immediately when a fresh wave of heat washes over him. His skin feels hot and too tight, like it's [a noose that's been pulled over his organs]. His face feels flushed and warm, like his sweat might turn to steam at any moment.
Keith grunts in response but apparently Shiro decides that's not good enough because the next thing Keith knows is that Shiro's detaching himself from Allura's side and hurrying over. Keith tries to force out an
I’m fine
, but as Shiro draws closer, another wave of heat crests river his body and the words get caught i. his thrust, like they've swelled to five times their size and blocked the way completely.
“Hey, buddy, are you okay?” Hunk says. He walks over and leans down. Keith has no idea what his own face looks like but the expression on Hunk’s face tells him that whatever’s going on there is decidedly not good. Still, Keith nods and gets to his feet. He holds his hands out in front of him, both palms scraped bloody from the fall.
“You sure?” Hunk says, unconvinced. At this point most of the delegation has come to s stop, turned around, and trained their eyes on Keith. Keith? who opens his mouth to protest that he's fine, again, and immediately doubles over again when Shiro gets close. When Shiro curls a palm around around his shoulder, Keith feels like someone's pushed a white hot iron brand into the meat of his upper arm. For the first time maybe ever, Keith flinches away from Shiro's touch. Shiro's hand hovers in the air for another moment, tracing the negative space Keith left behind, before falling limp against his side.
If someone were to take him to the trial stand and ask, Keith would swear that he sees a flicker of pain flash across Shiro's face—but it's gone just as quickly and Keith's having enough trouble keeping himself upright to catch it before Shiro's placid diplomatic mask slides back into place, effectively closing the door in Jeiths face, denying him any chance at addressing it here and now.
And despite the fact that Keith's still unsteady on his feet, he knows that he'd push his own discomfort to the farthest edge of the universe of it meant Shiro's happiness.
“Keith?” Pidge says. Sam and Colleen Holt hover just over her shoulder, ready to swoop in at a moment’s notice. In theory, it just makes him feel like he's already messed things up just as the diplomatic visit’s only begun.
He's not sure exactly what he says—or how he even manages to force the words past the limp in this throat—but he manages to make his excuses well enough that he's able to flee without anyone following.
He knows the Garrison well enough by now to find his way to the hospital wing without much trouble. Well, without much trouble other than whatever game his body has decided to play with him.
Despite the fact that he's unsteady on his feet, Keith makes it to the hospital ward in one piece. Thanks to the diplomatic contingent currently parked in Hangar Three, the hospital wing is empty. It might as well be one of the mid western ghost towns that Keith saw photos of in his elementary school history textbooks, pages stained and dog-earred with age, the contents almost a quarter century out of date.
Keith heads into the nearest room and rifles through the drawers for antiseptic, antibiotic ointment, and some gauze bandages. His head still feels like someone's stuffed it full of cotton but it's clearer than it was a few minutes ago. Hopefully no one bothers to canon me looking for him. His knees buckle, sending him flying forward. Without a moment to think, he holds his hands out in front of him to brace against the impact. It's the lesser evil, but only just. His hands are scraped raw red and the cold metal cabinets bites into his skin. He grips the edge even tighter, an involuntary response he regrets the second it's happened. Even though he rights himself as soon as possible he still feels s little dizzy. The sink is only a few steps to his left but the distance as he wobbles over feels so much farther.
It takes him longer than it should to get from point a to point b but he manages. He's fine. This is fine. At least that's what he keeps telling himself; at least this this time there's no one else here to watch him struggle.
For just a second, he has a brief flash as he remembers the concern written clear as day in Shiro's eyes just a few minutes earlier.It hurts to remember, because of the way his gaze shuttered into something a little bit colder and a lot more unreadable.
(Though maybe, if Keith is honest with himself, it may be like seeing the familiar symbol of his mom’s knife carved on the interior of Zarkon’s ship—there was the budding sense of what it would mean, but that was crushed beneath the weight of intentionally ignoring all the implications, of the knowledge that consciously acknowledging that his knife meant more than just sentiment, that it was volatile tinder with a fuse just a few inches from from a sparking flame, ready to blow apart the fragile equilibrium that was the closest thing to normal and steady that Keith could hold—at least since he'd stood behind the observation gate at Cape Luo and watched the
Persephone
break Earth’s atmosphere.}
This feels a little like that, like he's one step away from something he doesn't know that he'll be able to deal with.
Shiro isn't the problem here; he never was. It's always been Keith. Because Shiro would never want to make Keith uncomfortable but Keith's happiness is more dependent on Shiro finally getting a chance to breathe again after a war that took more from him than from anyone else.
After bearing the stinging disinfectant, Keith grips the end of roll of medical tape between his teeth and pulls a strip free, winding it tight around his hand. It’s not his best decision, his palms are still tender and he’s already made the injury worse. But it doesn’t matter. He steels himself and suppresses his wince until his hands are wrapped tight. Safe.
He stares at them for longer than he needs to, but it seems like the pain did the trick, gave him just a little bit more focus. It’s not much, but his head feels a little clearer and his feet a little steadier. He makes his way to the door, flexes his fingers into fists for a moment just to feel the sting, and then leaves the hospital wing.
Everything is fine
, that’s what he keeps telling himself at least.
But despite that, he can’t shake his sense of impending doom.
//
Even though Keith knows that he should focus on rejoining the others, he doesn't think that he can handle that . Instead, he sneaks into the officers hangar and swipes a hover bike, using a code that Iverson, or some one else, really should have changed if they didn't want Keith taking one whenever he wanted to escape the compound—like right now.
It's still relatively early in the day and the desert hasn't yet reached its full sun-baked zenith. Keith takes a quick detour on his way to grab his bag with his sketchbook in it. It's a level of forethought that punches a couple of bullet holes in his half baked excuse that this is a spur of the moment getaway but Keith doesn't care. His head is a little clearer than it was but there's still the ever present feeling that someone's stuffed his brain full of cotton.
Despite the mild mid morning air, Keith's skin is coated with a thin sheen of sweat. He fumbles the code, there's a brief moment where the alarm starts to blare, sounding out a few shrill notes that ricochet off the walls of the hangar before Keith manages to key in the correct sequence and the hangar settles into silence again.
Keith swings his leg over the side of the bike. The hangar doors slide open with a mechanical clink and if anyone were to find him and stop him, it would be now.
But no one does. He makes a break for the desert. Along the distant horizon he can see the network of caves where they found the Blue Lion. Something there calls to him, but it’s not the same sort of pull that it was all those years ago. It’s more nostalgia than anything, maybe a bone deep ache for a time when the most complicated thing in their lives was the fact that sentient robot lions existed at all.
//
Keith bolts to the dining hall. He's starving—though not entirely for food. Still, he figures at the very least it'll prevent most people from asking him questions and, for the ones who'll still insist on talking, chewing will give him enough time to stall while he comes up with an answer.
And privately, he can admit that being distracted may not be the worst thing, provided his brain catches his mouth fast enough to prevent any major disasters.
He's not sure that he’ll be entirely successful but he'll deal with it if he gets there; that's a hypothetical problem for future Keith, current Keith has enough to deal with already.
He manages to snag a corner table near a window. He's had lunch with his mom here a few times and with Shiro even more.
Keith may have left Shiro's room but Shiro hasn't left Keith. Keith's still intimately aware of how he woke this morning, their bodies tangled, Shiro's hips pressed against his own.
No. That hasn't left him at all.
He concentrates on his bowl of cereal, staring into the mush of what is probably supposed to be wheat bran but looks a lot closer to regurgitated woodshavings.
But he finds he can’t concentrate. The dining hall fills up as keith has a stare off with his breakfast. Every minute feels like the grim reaper is hovering behind him. His body feels hot all over, his skin itches from…whatever this bullshit is.
And then Liandros joins him. This must be what hell feels like. With the flamey feeling, the grim reaper, the awkwardness with the people you love, and people you can’t stand hanging all over you.
Liandros tries to kiss his hand when Keith goes for a roll. Tries being the operative word.
Yes, this is
definitely
what hell feels like—or maybe Keith’s already there.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Later he finds out that he’s blindingly agreed to his own destruction. Of course.If he’d been listening, Keith would have known that the demonstration was a bad idea from the start.The main argument for them squaring off against one another was that the Palluxians needed to see that the strength of the Coalition lay with its members rather than it’s ships. So: an exhibition. They needed a match between the Coalition's best fighters. And Keith and Shiro are the only ones who can hold their own against one another—but that’s physically, not emotionally. Keith’s emotional battlefield isn pockmarked and covered in scars from past skirmishes where he hadn’t quite made it out clean.It shouldn't matter the way it does, not when he's spending practically every night with Shiro's body pressed against his—even if it's platonic. At least on Shiro’s side.Maybe it's just that Shiro's always summoned the rawest and most vulnerable parts of him, even unmasking him from himself.Because Keith's never been good at saying no to Shiro—even to the things Shiro won't let himself ask for.Especially the things that Shiro won't let himself ask for.The demonstration is this afternoon so they meet to spar at the gym and warm up before the event starts.. Keith makes the last turn before catching sight of the gym’s doorway. He pushes down the growing need in his gut. These days, it seems like he only has to think Shiro’s name before he find himself halfway hard.The gym is dark, lighting dimmed, most of the equipment drawn closed. Keith shifts through the shadows, acutely aware of how everywhere he looks he sees the after images of his own emotional ghosts.Shiro’s already there. What’s left of the gym’s lighting catches the bone white of Shiro's hair, haloing him from behind. At the same time, Keith steps closer and Shiro's eyes flash, too, bringing Keith back to the cool purple light of Haggar’s cloning facility on a distant abandoned moon. Keith freezes, shoulders tense, heart pulsing in his throat.It's just a moment. One, singular moment where everything freezes and the colors of his world shift and his surroundings seem to flicker.“Keith?”It brings him back. It's the way that Shiro says it, like he can feel the cold snap of fear hammering against Keith's chest.Like he knows exactly where Keith is without having to ask, or talk about it all.But that not talking thing, maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe the air between them is just too thick with all the ghosts of the things they haven't said.Maybe—“Maybe we should put this off,” Shiro says and Keith has to fight a laugh because isn't that part of the problem? But it's not like Keith wants to face Shiro turning him down a second time. Because maybe that’s what’ll finally make him leave.And while Keith doesn't really believe Shiro will leave, not in the way that he used to, the scar tissue beneath those wounds is the kind that’s still fresh enough to sting under someone’s touch.“No. I'm fine, we should get started.”“It's okay if you want to—”“Shiro.”“Okay,” Shiro says, rising to his feet.They head over to the mats, and Keith takes a deep breath. He wishes they could raise the lights, just enough so he could see Shiro's face better but they're walking a fine line being here after hours, no matter what ships they pilot.“Best five of seven?”Keith nods. Feels the flames that continually lick at his ribs swell to a full blaze at the thought of Shiro’s body pressed against his.And they start.It’s touch therapy, just…a little different approach. Yep.// An hour and a half later they're on their way back to their rooms, sporting an impressive new collection of bruises.(There were a few times where Keith froze, distant and distracted by the memories of another fight. But he'd fought through it, recentered himself through Shiro's concerned frown, reminded himself he was somewhere, somewhen different.)Neither of them went easy on each other and they'd made it out with Shiro as the narrow victor.“Well at least neither of us will be at full strength later,” Shiro says.“Doesn't matter, I'll still kick your ass.”“We’ll see about that.” // Keith takes his time getting ready. He might spend some time pressing his fingers against the new bruises, just to remind himself who put them there.It makes him inconveniently hard which is just great considering he’s supposed to be getting ready for the demonstration.He’s had a lot of time with imaginary Shiro.Keith walks into the exhibition hall, heart beating way too loud, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. His impending sense of doom trails him like his shadow.It doesn’t let up even as he drags his feet down the hall to one of the main exhibition spaces that the Garrison uses for the classes with newly minted cadets, hopes still fresh and shiny like a new coin.Not for the first time Keith wonders how much the Garrison has gobbled up over the years. Might as well be hungry hungry hippos at this point.There are about 15 simulators in the room and a large crowd of Palluxians are gathered around, poking buttons cadets can’t touch until their second year. They’re taking photos with the cameras they pilfered from the room where the Garrison keeps their outdated technology; probably a double bonus of clearing out their storage and impressing the Palluxians at the same time. Keith hopes it doesn’t go too long. A bead of sweat runs down his neck and disappears under hisA little shameless but Keith’s never been a fan, so maybe this is the only decision the Garrison made that he agrees with.“Keith!”Shiro’s coming towards him which is great, but the entire Palluxian delegation which is not.“Shiro.”Shiro doesn’t stop when Keith expect him too, instead he walks closer—close enough the if Keith were able to physically inhale twice, their bodies would be touching.Then he raises his hand to Keith’s forehead. “Are you alright?”“Fi–” Keith doesn’t finish before he passes out. // When he wakes it’s to the dusty light of the shack and his mom sponging his forehead, the way he always imagined she would as a kid.“I guess Galra puberty comes for us all, even if you’re half Galra. Though usually they have a partner for it.”“Wonderful.”“Sorry,” Krolia shrugs. “Ask Kolivan about his later, it’s a wild ride.”“I’ll pass on that.”He’s never wanted to know something less. What a delightful lesson this shit’s been. // His mom leaves at some point, though to Keith it feels like he says something and then a sentence later she’s gone and he’s alone again.Keith’s twisting and turning in his sheets. He can’t get comfortable. He has the vague sense that he was supposed to be somewhere hours ago but he couldn't move. All he could think was that his skin felt too tight on his skeleton and the flames licking under his skin had too much energy with nowhere to go.He’s paralyzed, the front of his boxer briefs sticking to his skin with sweat and precome. Something is wrong with him and he has no idea what it is. Or if he even really wants it to stop. // Keith’s burning hot. There’s a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and the deja vu of twisting and turning without comfort around any bend is a hell of a sight. It’s too warm, and he’s too hot, and he’s too hard against the thin, constrictive fabric of his boxer briefs. He doesn’t even know why he’s wearing them. It’s a blur of motion and then they’re gone all together.He’s given up on trying to make sense of the whole thing. Instead, his hips spark upwards, pressing against empty air, in search of a relief that isn’t there. In search of a body that’s not there to meet his own. All that’s left are empty spaces. It’s not enough to take himself in hand anymore, not enough to push the other arm backwards and press one, two, three fingers inside himself in search of relief.It’s still not enough; he’s not enough. He needs—He needs someone else.The shack is dusty and dim and deserted. No one’s coming out here without good reason and there’s only one person he’d want to join him, anyways. He whimpers into the silence. It echoes for a moment until the desert swallows it whole, leaving no survivors. No one’s here to pass judgement on the sounds he makes and when he presses a fourth in it’s still not enough and—He imagines skin-warm steel kissing the insides of his thighs, working their way upwards to the crease of his hip, fingers tickling the sensitive skin like a series of butterfly kisses. It doesn’t take much from there until Keith’s a mess of come and sweat, keening as he arcs into his own fist, wishing it were cooler, harder, and on the other end of a pair of storm grey eyes telling him how good he is, how beautiful he is, how much he’s loved–That’s all it takes. He cries out, coming over his own fist. The buzzing beneath his skin dulls, just for a little while, more of a hum than the rabid sting that’s built up over the past few days. It won’t be enough, not for long anyways. His body knows that he’s seeing companionship, not just release.But that’s all he gets.Time blurs after that. It’s a mess of sweaty, unsatisfying handjobs and fantasies that are half daydream and half hallucination. Keith gives and gives and gives but finds himself running dry off his own energy, palms chaffed red and a burn low in his gut that no amount of manipulation seems to satisfy. He keeps going and going and going. And then he drifts. //“Keith? Keith!” There’s a cool, solid weight against the side of his face. Keith is burning and he leans into the touch, leans into the small amount of relief it brings.“Shiro?” Keith croaks, his voice is dry and rough from disuse and from the fact that there’s only so much that his body has left to give. Shiro holds a bottle of water to his lips. The water is icy and burns his throat as it trickles down but as soon as he swallows he feels a little more like himself. “What are you doing here?”“Your mom said you were out here. I was worried,” Shiro says, a soft pink flush dusting the top of his cheeks. Keith wants to kiss the soft skin just beneath jaw and trail a line of kisses down the side of his neck, mark Shiro as his own with a web of bruises no one would dare miss.“I’m okay,” Keith croaks. His voice betrays him, demonstrating just how not okay he is.Shiro’s brows draw together. “Sure seems otherwise.”“It’s not. I’m just—” Keith coughs into his fist before he can finish the sentence, “—I’m fine.”Shiro’s prosthetic is cool and calming against the side of his face. Keith desperately tries not to think of how much he wants it around him; inside him. In a fit of desperation he thinks about Coran’s mustache but now he’s thinking about sitting on Shiro’s face and this was a mista—“You don’t sound fine,” Shiro says. And he’s one of the only ones who would know. The only one who’s seen Keith high out of his mind on an ill-advised combo of cough syrup and painkillers; the only one Keith trusted to see him when he was that out of sorts.“Well, you know, appearances, deceit,” Keith croaks. His throat is so dry. He leans towards Shiro who gets the hint and tilts the bottle of water to his lips again. “Thanks.”“Is something wrong? I asked your mom and she said you weren’t sick but—I was worried,” Shiro says. Keith opens his mouth to say something, anything, but then Shiro runs his prosthetic through his hair, the thick fingers glinting as they catch the late afternoon light. Keith swallow, leans in to get another sip of water.“Not sick,” Keith says. But that’s all he can say, because how do you tell the man you’ve been in love with for almost a decade that your alien biology means you need someone to fuck you or you’ll (sort of) burn up from the inside.You don’t.Shiro sits down at the edge of the bed and presses a warm palm against Keith’s forehead. Almost without thought, his metal hand lands near Keith’s knee. Keith could just, he could just shift his thighs the smallest bit and let himself linger under Shiro’s touch.“Are you sure? You feel really warm?” Shiro says, frowning. He lowers his hand and replaces it with his prosthetic, the cool metal providing the smallest amount of relief for Keith’s overheated skin.Keith tells himself that Shiro won’t notice the way that Keith leans into his touch. Shiro has to notice the way Keith whines a little when he takes it away, though.“Hey,” Shiro says, falling back first against the best. He holds his arms open and Keith can see himself wrapped up in Shiro’s embrace before he even falls into it. He leans his face into Shiro’s chest, feels the shift of Shiro’s fingers sifting through his sweat-damp hair.God, he’s so hot. The fire itching its way under his skin has roared back in full relief making itself noticed and demanding his attention.He shifts, already regretting it the second he moves. He’s getting hard, not like that’s novel or difficult in his state, but it’s the first time since, whatever this Galra puberty hell is started, that he’s had another person here. One who Keith would love to dip his hand beneath the waistband of his pants and give him what he needs.He whines a little into the side of Shiro’s throat, and god, it’s a mistake because as soon as he does, Shiro only draws him in closer, wedging a thigh between Keith’s legs. There’s no way he doesn’t know how hard Keith is, has to feel him pressing against his leg, and though some distant part of Keith’s brain is screaming at him to stop, oh for the love of god please stop, he can’t.His hips make contact, rolling against Shiro’s thigh, seeking some kind of release, knowing that this is it. This is what makes Shiro leave him, first through a gentle I don’t feel the same and then too polite distance, and then all together, as that person that Shiro used to know. That Shiro fought alongside but now that the fighting was over and Keith had ruined the delicate balance between them, had given Shiro no choice but to leave in the wake of Keith’s overwhelming feelings, he can just imagine it, the tone of Shiro’s voice letting him down gently—“Keith,” Shiro says. And he’s not pushing him away. His arms tighten around Keith’s waist and Keith can feel where Shiro’s hard, too, against his hip.Maybe—No. Keith knows better than to give himself hope. Knows that Shiro’s attracted to men and that it’s probably been a while and that—Shiro places gentle fingers beneath his chin, tilts his face up. “Are you—” he starts, because Keith rolls against Shiro’s thigh again, can’t help himself when Shiro’s right here and this feels better than any of his fingers ever did.“Shiro, please,” Keith whines, tucking his face against the side of Shiro’s neck. He’s not—he’s not kissing, Shiro exactly, but he can feel the heat of Shiro’s skin underneath his lips, the way his breath fans across the curve of Shiro’s throat—Shiro presses a hand against Keith’s lower back, drawing him closer and Keith bucks up into this hips with a whine. He’s, god he’s so close, and Shiro’s hand creeps lower, thigh solid and hard between Keith’s legs and—Keith come with a cry, teeth scraping against Shiro’s neck. Shiro holds him through the aftershocks, hips twitching against Keith’s own, hands tracing gentle circles over Keith’s back.And then his hands are trailing under the waistband of Keith’s sleep pants. “Hey, let’s get these off,” Shiro says, wiggling them off Keith’s hips. It’s only at that moment that Keith realizes how sticky and sweaty he is, and the pants come free, but not without a struggle.Objectively, it’s disgusting and Keith is still hard, but Shiro places a soft kiss against Keith’s forehead before getting up from the bed and heading into the bathroom.When he returns, he gently wipes Keith clean, fingers trailing over places Keith’s only dreamed of them being. It’s hard to stop himself from bucking against Shiro’s hand. So he doesn’t. Shiro seems to get the hint, grinning in a way that would stop Keith’s heart if it weren’t already beating a million miles a second.“I’ll do my best to keep up,” Shiro says, pressing his lips to Keith’s before reaching down to get a hand between Keith’s thighs. It’s too much; it’s not enough. Keith needs, he needs—“Lower,” Keith hisses and he reaches under his pillow and tosses Shiro the half empty bottle. Probably more than half empty, if he’s honest. Shiro flushes, but he flips the cap, coats his fingers and settles between Keith’s legs.“Are you sur—”“Yes. God. Please,” Keith says. And he wants to look, wants to watch Shiro’s face as he presses the first finger inside but it’s so much better than his own fingers were and yet, there’s still something that’s missing.“Can,” Keith gasps, “Can you use the other hand?”Shiro looks up at him as he works in a second finger, “are you sure?”“Please,” Keith says because he’s never been more certain in his life.The first kiss of metal against his skin is strange and cold but it’s also so much and it’s exactly what he wants. He feels overwhelmed in the best way. Shiro can only use one finger at first, his prosthetic is a lot thicker than his other hand but it’s what Keith wants, what he needs, what he’s been thinking about, torturing himself with for months, and now that it’s here it feels so good he almost doesn’t want to end.And then Shiro decides to use his mouth at the exact same time that he presses a second finger inside at just the right angle and Keith is gone.It’s the best he’s felt in—it can only be days, at most, but it feels longer. Feels like this is what he’s been waiting for this whole time, ever since he shut himself in his room alone, since he first drew Shiro’s arm out on the painted red cliffs of the desert.By the time he comes back to himself, Shiro’s mouthing at the soft skin of his jaw, using his own hand to push himself towards orgasm. Keith pouts a little through his haze—he wanted to help. But it’s okay, he decides, lacing his fingers with Shiro’s metal ones. He’ll find a way, next time. // And there is a next time. And a next. And a next, and another after that. There are so many nexts that Keith loses track of where one begins and the others end. It’s an ongoing, ever shifting wave after wave of pleasure and it’s all he can do to hold on.He finally gets the chance to do something he’s been dreaming about after god knows how long. He grabs Shiro’s prosthetic by the wrist and draws it down with him as he settles between Shiro’s thighs, using his own hand to get Shiro wet and then pressing the thick metal fingers inside of Shiro, hand circled around Shiro’s metal wrist using it to push him towards the edge just like he’d used it to push Keith.He may have travelled across the galaxy and orbited the edges of countless distant stars, but Shiro’s face when he lets go—of control, of himself—is the most beautiful sight that Keith’s ever seen. He uses his own hand to work Shiro through it, licking the come off his fingers before crawling up Shiro’s body to capture his lips in a kiss.“Oh my god,” Shiro says, panting, Keith’s head cradled on his chest. Keith’s feeling a little less hazy now, but there are still so many things that he wants to do. He wants Shiro inside of him.Shiro reaches down to push some of Keith's hair back from his forehead before moving down to trace along the edge of his cheekbone. “Hey,” he says, and the way he’s looking at Keith is so tender, that Keith has to turn his head to the side, lean his head into the warmth of Shiro’s right hand, to remember this is real without having to think about what any of this might mean.That road only leads to disaster, and Keith’s long since barred it with signs reading “Keep Out” and “Enter At Your Own Risk,” —and it’s true, the risk has always been his to bear. His alone.