#sheith #prekerb #chronicpain

The thing about Shiro, is that he’s never been afraid to dream big.

As a kid he hadn’t asked for the moon, he’d asked for the whole god damn galaxy.

“Your dreams are big, Takashi,” his grandfather would say, hands under Shiro’s armpits as he lifted him up and into bed.

“Yes,” Shiro would agree.

“You must keep your feet on the ground, little one,” his grandfather would say, pushing the dark hair from Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro would nod. He always listened.

“But Takashi, there is something else,” he would say. He always smelled vaguely of spices and tea. He smelled like home.

“What is it, Jiji?”

“Feet on the ground, but your dreams in the sky. You will make the Shirogane name proud.”

Back then Shiro still had bad dreams that left him sneaking into his grandfathers room in the middle of the night. He still needed to arm milk before bed and the stuffed bear he slept with.

As he got older his needs changed.

His grandpa still had to help him into bed—not because he was too small to reach but because of /the pain/.

He no longer drank warm milk at night but a tea that left a biter taste in his mouth.

“Does it help with the pain, Takashi?” His grandfather would ask, the worry lines on his face pronounced as he made more tea. Always the tea.

“Yes, Jiji,” Shiro would lie, taking the tea with his left hand to hide the trembling in his right.

“That’s good, Takashi. They said it might help,” he would say, brushing the hair off Shiro’s forehead the same way he did when Shiro was a child.

“You still need to dream big,” his grandfather would tel him.

“But the doctors—“

“The doctors know what your body can do. Not your heart or your mind. You are strong, Takashi.”

“Yes,” Shiro would answer, unsure if it was a lie.

Over the years other things changed too. Shiro had a growth spurt that left him looming over his grandfather. He got into the Garrison. and he learned what it meant to be alone. Really alone.

He learned other things too. Like what it took to make a dream come true.

Shiro kept a list. He liked lists. They were reliable.

1. Success took sacrifice.

It didn't matter what it cost his personal life. If Shiro wanted to make his dreams happen only one thing could be his top priority and it was space. It was always space.

2. There was no room for anything less than perfection.

To be an explorer took guts. To be a top pilot took skill. To do either with a degenerative disease meant Shiro didn't need to just be top of his class he needed to be the best there ever was.

There was absolutely no room for weakness. No room for failure. And definitely no room for mistakes.

3. Be Happy.

People like happy people. Which isn't to say Shiro's personality was a lie. He was happy and he was positive.

But he was other things too.

Except the other things Shiro was weren't going to put him on Garrison posters, or in the hearts and minds of the decision makers.

The other things Shiro was weren't going to land him on the mission to Kerberos.

Shiro learned early on that like his physical pain, his darker thoughts and less positive attributes were better left unsaid.

4. Be patient.

Shiro was never going to get to space on his first day. He was in it for the long haul no matter what it took.

5. No distractions.

The last one was the hardest, but Shiro did his best.

Shiro always did his best.

He didn't let anything get in the way of his dreams. Not the loss of his grandfather, or the end of the only long term relationship he'd ever had.

6. Pain was temporary.

This was the most important one. Shiro had a lot of pain, but it never lasted. Nothing was forever. Not pain, not life. Not even death really if you believed in reincarnation.

Shiro believed.

Shiro kept the list by his bed. It was a good reminder on the days where Shiro's patience wore thing, on the days where his pain left his skin feeling pulled too tight and his heart in the wrong place.

"I'll make you proud," Shiro would say, standing in his kitchenette with nothing but the light above the microwave on.

On those night he made tea.

The tea didn't help. It didn't even taste good.

But it was something to do and it reminded him of his grandfather.

Try as he might, there are times Shiro isn't very good at following the list.

These times involve Keith.

It starts innocently enough. Shiro doesn't have any ulterior motives the first time he meets him.

It's undeniable that Keith is the best they saw, and undeniable that he deserves a place at the Garrison.

Shiro doesn't put much stock into the whispers that follow when he uses the little bit of leverage he has at the Garrison to get him in because its what Keith deserves.

Anyone with that much talent deserves a shot.

A week later when Keith ruins that shot and steals Shiro's car, he puts everything he's got on the line to keep him there.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Adam had whispered.

Shiro hadnt been sure if he was angry that Shiro was risking so much, or angry that he was doing it for someone that wasn't him.

Except the thing was, Shiro wasn't lying when he said he was doing it because it was the right thing to do.

Keith was smart as hell and poised to be better than Shiro was one day if he got his shit in line. He was fierce and funny and he was alone.

And Shiro, well Shiro knew what that felt like.

He didn't want anything back. He didn't expect anything back.

He just wanted Keith to have what he deserved.

Keith had other ideas. Keith always had other ideas.

"What, do you wanna be friends or something?" he'd asked, banged up knees and a split lip and hair in his face.

"Oh, well, I mean--"

"Okay then," Keith had said, settling the conversation. If it could be called that.

The next day Keith plopped his tray of mystery meatloaf down next to Shiro in the mess hall.

Every single head had swiveled round to them.

Keith had looked ready to bolt, or fight. Neither were a good option at 1100 hours on a Tuesday. No clear shot to yard and too many witnesses if things went bad.

"Do you want my roll?" Shiro had asked, pretending not to notice the deadly silence.

"Shiro."

Shiro slid his roll across the table and onto Keith's tray. It was the only good thing to eat on Tuesdays. Shiro knew it and Keith knew it.

"Don't look at them, look at me," Shiro said.

Keith did.

He started to look and he never fucking looked away.

Shiro had spent his entire life looking up at the stars, but he'd never had anyone look at him like he was one.

Shiro’s in too deep by the time he realizes he’s breaking his own rules.

There’s no stopping the swell of emotions that engulf him every time he catches sight of Keith—still scrappy and full of fire but with a focus in his eyes that makes something inside of Shiro burn.

Keith’s not a distraction exactly. If anything he makes Shiro want to push himself harder and further.

It’s no longer just proving he can do this to himself, but to Keith.

For Keith.

He wants to be worthy of the faith Keith has in him—of the way he /looks/ at him.

So no, Keith isn’t a distraction—he’s something infinitely more everything.

More exciting.

More confusing.

More inspiring.

More dangerous.

It’s dangerous because Shiro is afraid of the things he would do for Keith.

If Keith asked him, he thinks he’d give up Kerberos.

Keith would /never/ ask him, and it makes Shiro love him all the more.

Keith is a boy who thinks he deserves nothing.

Who wants nothing.

It makes Shiro want to give him /everything/.

Shiro tries to hold back, just a little bit. Not for himself, but for Keith.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

He starts to push himself harder—physically and mentally. There’s no room for anything less than perfection if Shiro doesn’t want to lose his spot for Kerberos

Except the long days take their toll.

Not on Shiro’s performance. If Shiro wasn’t sure he was capable of piloting this mission he wouldn’t take it. There are other lives on the line beside his own and even Shiro’s dreams have limits.

He would never put anyone at risk no matter how much he wants this.

No, Shiro’s ability to fly never falter: they won’t for a few years at least. For now his reaction times and endurance is unmatched.

As is his pain tolerance.

Despite the warning signs he pushes. He can feel the tremble in his arm at night, feel the ache so deep in his bones he can’t sleep.

This too shall pass he tells himself.

Except it doesn’t.

There’s no reprieve.

Pain meds take the edge off but Shiro hates them, and the rebound ache is always worse.

He doesn’t let on that he’s suffering because it’s no one else’s business. His ability to fly and keep his team safe isn’t at stake—only his own comfort and that Shiro will sacrifice.

He’s sure he’s doing a good job of hiding it too. No one asks why he takes to using his left hand, or why he takes a less hands on approach with sparring

Shiro smiles and everyone is fooled

That’s the thing about people. They’re not bad but they tend to see why they want to see

In hindsight Shiro feels like he should’ve seen what happened next coming.

Keith is not everyone.

Keith notices things.

Keith notices /Shiro/.

The knock on his door comes at nearly midnight. It’s too late for a visit and it’s most definitely past lights out. No one with any sense—or at least any fear of consequences—would be knocking at his door.

There’s only one person it could be.

Shiro sighs heavily, eyeing the flimsy white tank top he’s got on and yanking his Garrison sweatshirt over his head before he answers the door.

“Hey, Keith.”

Keith grins, as if his presence isn’t completely against the rules. “Hi, Shiro.”

“You could get in trouble being here this late.”

Keith’s grin simply widens. “Guess you better invite me in so no one else sees me.”

Shiro laughs, stepping aside as Keith slides sideways through the doorway.

"You got any hot cocoa," Keith asks, making his way towards the kitchen and directly towards the cupboard where he already knows Shiro keeps it.

"Not sure," Shiro tries, going for casual.

He definitely does not mention that he arranged an off base trip solely to procure more of the instant cocoa with marshmallows Keith likes.

He doesn't like to think too hard about why he feels the need to make sure Keith feels at home with him.

"Jackpot," Keith cries, pulling the box of cocoa from the cupboard and waving it in the air.

"Wow, look at that. Your lucky day," Shiro says, biting his bottom lip to keep from smiling.

"Lucky me indeed," Keith grins.

He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there.

(He does.)

He puts on a kettle for water, humming to himself as he pulls down two mugs. By the time the water has boiled he's dumped 1 1/2 packets of cocoa into each cup.

Keith doesn't ask Shiro if he wants cocoa too. It's an assumption, and one Shiro is grateful for. He likes that Keith doesn't usually give Shiro any room to pretend he doesn't have needs.

It's sort of ironic that Shiro's spent the last year trying to make sure Keith knew he deserved good things, and that Shiro wouldn't give up on him, and somewhere along the line it's Keith who made Shiro feel the same thing.

"Hey, do you have any—"

"Top of the fridge, behind the cereal," Shiro answers.

Keith moves with grace, rising onto tiptoes to reach behind the box of corn flakes. Clutched in his hand is the jar of marshmallows. There's only a little bit left. Just enough for one mug.

Shiro leans against the kitchen island, too sore to stand upright but also too sore to sit. He watches with bemusement as Keith tips the mini marshmallows into his palm and proceeds to divy them up equally between the two mugs.

Shiro would gladly let Keith take all the marshmallows, but he knows Keith has an easier time sharing Shiro's food when Shiro has some too. Besides, there's something sweet in the way Keith divides them with such intensity.

They might technically be Shiro's marshmallows, but it's Keith's attempt to share with Shiro. It matters to him and so it matters to Shiro.

It's easy to get lost watching Keith—his movements easy.

When he's done mixing, Keith passes Shiro a mug of cocoa—exactly eight marshmallows floating on top—and smiles.

"How is it?" he asks as Shiro takes his first sip.

He always asks, even if the answer is always the same.

"It's good, Keith."

Keith's smile is nothing short of radiant.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Shiro assures him "I don't know how you get all the lumps out. Whenever I make it, it never mixes this good."

A flush spreads across Keith's cheeks as he lifts his own mug. "I'm just that good."

"Yeah, but I already knew that," Shiro says.

It makes Keith choke on his cocoa. It's sweet the way Keith's bravado seems to disappear any time Shiro gives him a genuine compliment.

A lot of things about Keith are sweet.

As Shiro sips the cocoa, he feels some of his tension melt away. The pain is there simmering beneath the surface but there's something else too, something lighter since Keith's arrival.

"Missed you at dinner," Keith says, in a way that would be easy to mistake for casualness.

It's not a question. Things usually aren't with Keith. It took Shiro awhile to realize Keith had his own way of asking things, ways that made sure Keith was never put in the position of being denied or rejected.

It's sort of like a Keith code.

Shiro's really good at Keith code.

"I wasn't hungry," Shiro offers as explanation.

"You're always hungry," Keith retorts.

"Usually, yeah," Shiro laughs. "But not tonight."

"Not tonight," Keith echoes.

"Right."

"Because you're hurting."

It's Shiro's turn to choke on his cocoa.

"You can tell me you know. When things aren't good...you can tell me."

"I know, Keith."

Keith makes a funny noise, fixing his gaze on Shiro. "I hate when you lie."

"I don't lie."

Keith snorts. "An omission of truth is still a lie, asshole."

"I don't mean to lie then," Shiro tries, which is uncomfortably close to the truth.

"I get it you know. If you don't /want/ to tell me, but—"

"I want to tell you."

"Then why don't you?" Keith asks, as if its that simple.

Shiro swallows around the lump in his throat, attention unconsciously draw to his wrist. He took the bracelet off when he showered after dinner and he hadn't put it back on since. Matt called him a masochist once. Shiro's not. He hates pain.

But sometimes its the only reminder he has that his body is still his own.

Keith sets his cocoa down, reaching out for Shiro's wrist and pushing the cuff of the hoodie up.

"Hurts?"

Shiro nods, breath catching in his throat as Keith draws the pad of his fingers over the delicate inside of Shiro's wrist.

"The extra training?"

"I can handle it," Shiro says.

"Course you can," Keith agrees.

Shiro's never lacked faith in himself or his abilities. It was a necessity when the would tried to coddle him.

Keith doesn't coddle him. He challenges him.

He pushes Shiro to try harder, to be better.

Keith pushes the sweatshirt further up Shiro's forearm. The muscle beneath Keith's fingers is tight as a bowstring and when Keith presses into it Shiro grits down hard enough his teeth grind together.

"How bad is it?"

"Maybe a five," Shiro gets out through clenched teeth.

"Jesus fucking christ, Shiro."

"I said five."

"I heard you," Keith huffs. "You, Mr I'm-always-fine, said five. That means it's probably most people's nine. How long?"

Shiro's ability to deflect wavers as Keith's calloused fingers strokes over his forearm. He had physical therapy Monday but that was five days ago. Five days straight of feeling like someone twisted his muscles up with a screw driver.

"It's my own fault," Shiro mumbles, setting his cocoa on the counter before he accidently spills it down his front. He doesn't trust himself with hot liquids while Keith's touching him.

"You're such a martyr," Keith mumbles, turning Shiro's wrist in his hand.

Shiro has no idea what he's doing but the touch feels nice, even if it does nothing to alleviate his physical pain.

"It's true," Shiro challenges. "I skipped my exercises to fit in some extra sim training. It was my choice. I accept the consequences of my actions."

“Where’s your med kit?”

“There’s nothing in there that will help.”

“So there are things that do help,” Keith says, lifting his gaze.

It would be so easy to say no.

“Yes,” Shiro whispers.

“Okay,” Keith says.

He doesn’t ask if Shiro will tell him. Of course Shiro is going to tell him. There is never a question of what Shiro is willing to lay on the line for Keith—including his own pride.

“I have some stuff in my room.”

“Lead the way,” Keith tells him, slowly lowering Shiro’s hand.

Keith’s been into his room before to study, and even once to nap when his roommate was being obnoxious. But that was different.

Keith has always come into Shiro’s personal space because /he/ needed something.

This time it’s Shiro’s turn and he feels the weight of that difference in every step he takes. Feels it in the sound of their footsteps down the hall and the way Keith remains firmly in his personal space the entire time.

Keith is quiet as they step into the room, observant as Shiro grabs clothes off the end of the bed and throws them into the closet.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company and—“

“I’m not company,” Keith says with enough conviction that Shiro nearly sways on his feet.

Most of the time it’s Shiro who reminds Keith to be patient, of his own worth, or offers a few words of wisdom. So much so that he forgets how damn good Keith can be at offering support too, in his own way.

Shiro licks his lips, suddenly aware of all the unsaid things Keith has picked up on.

It’s been so long since Shiro let himself think or feel without filtering his own responses based on how others might perceive him that it’s easy to forget how goddamn perceptive Keith is.

“It’s all in here,” Shiro tells him, moving to the bedside table. He opens the drawers, forgetting to mask a wince as he bends his fingers.

He only notices his misstep when he turns around to find Keith watching him with some akin to concern.

“I’m fine.”

“And I love the Garrison,” Keith retorts, closing the distance between them.

“Okay well that’s not fair. I have it on good authority you like it here a little bit.”

Keith tuts. “The rolls are good. Flying sims is pretty awesome.”

“See, you like it.”

“I like it because you’re here,” Keith says, displaying another brutal bout of honesty.

Shiro hides his truths behind an iron wall, Keith wields his like a goddamn sword.

Sometimes Shiro is sure that Keith knows what he’s doing—that he says these things on purpose to get a reaction from Shiro. Other times Shiro is sure that Keith has no idea how devastating he can be.

Today is the later.

There’s no way Keith has any idea what kind of affect his words have on Shiro or he’d doing a lot more than standing across the room simply staring.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Shiro, please. When was the last time I did anything I didn’t want to.

“Intro to ethics. We’d say, January 9th—you have a speech on—“

“Shut up, Shiro,” Keith laughs. “You know what I mean smart ass”

He does know but he loves making Keith laugh too much to miss the opportunity

Shiro's smile falters as he unclenches his fingers, holding out a tube of pain cream.

He knows this is fine, that it's just Keith. Still, the effort it takes to hold it out to Keith is monumental.

He's always the one helping, taking care of others, proving he's capable.

Shiro spent the last year telling Keith it's okay to trust people, to need them, and the last thing he wants is for Keith to think Shiro doesn't trust him.

It's not about that. It's about Shiro, and his fucking inability to let anyone else take care of him.

Partly because he fucking hates being coddled and partly because he's spent most of his life asserting his own independence and strength.

Moments like tonight are the ones Shiro makes sure no one else sees.

Shiro's hair a mess and there's a stain on his hoodie from the microwave mac and cheese he'd secretly inhaled in the kitchen earlier and his stupid fucking hand is shaking and he doesn't even want to look in a mirror right now.

Shiro feels weak and scared and he hates.

He hates the way his own positivity falters in these moments and the way his confidence wavers.

He doesn't feel like the Shiro that Keith idolizes.

He feels like a shadow.

Keith swipes the cream out of Shiro's hand, drooping down onto the bed and crossing his legs.

It's easier to sit down if Keith does it first. He's sitting down to make Keith comfortable, not for himself.

Still, the relief is visceral as his ass hits the mattress.

"There are no directions on here," Keith says, turning the tube around in his hands to study all the sides.

"It's a compound prescription. The directions were on the box but I threw it away. I have them memorized by now and it's not really complicated you just, you know...rub."

Keith nods, flicking the cap open to smell it. Shiro laughs at the way his nose wrinkles.

"It makes me smell like an old man," Shiro snorts.

"Does it help?" Keith asks, giving it another tentative whiff.

No amount of pride or self doubt would let Shiro answer a direct question from Keith with anything less than complete honesty. Its what Keith deserves.

"Not as much as I wish," he confesses. "Better when someone else does it. Its hard to massage it into the muscle with one hand"

"Okay, so where do I put it?" Keith asks, scooting closer until his knees bump up against Shiro's.

Again there's no question about whether he will do it.

Shiro's not sure if this is to protect Keith or him but it makes a lump rise in Shiro's throat all the same.

Keith doesn't seem to believe he belongs anywhere, except with Shiro.

Shiro's not sure what the hell he did to deserve Keith's intense loyalty and trust but he knows he will cross entire universes to prove to Keith he's worthy of that devotion.

Shiro's never been afraid of things that are hard, but he's a little bit afraid now.

Things with Keith aren't hard. They're easy.

They're too easy.

Shiro had to fight for every single thing he's had, except this.

Keith's friendship, his trust, is something Shiro work for. It was something Keith just decided to give him and Shiro feels wrong footed sometimes by the way it makes him want more.

He has no idea what will happen with Kerberos, or how many good years he has left.

He should be making sure Keith finds someone else...finds a second best friend in case Shiro needs to be replaced.

Except he can't. Shiro doesn't want to share Keith.

Shiro is a selfish fucking asshole because he doesn't want to be replaced. Ever.

"You can just do my wrist, it's the easiest," Shiro says, holding out his right arm.

"I didn't ask for easy," Keith challenges, a fire blazing in his eyes.

It makes something inside of Shiro spark to life.

Shiro's learned to be reasonable with the things he wants.

He's not reasonable with Keith.

"Where do you want me to put it, Shiro?"

Keith knows exactly what he's doing with the question, knows Shiro won't lie. There's a relief in it, in the way Keith doesn't leave room for Shiro to be anything less than painfully honest.

It would be easier to name a place that doesn't hurt, a place he doesn't long for Keith's touch.

In lieu of words, Shiro settles for reaching behind his neck and yanking on his hoodie, his dog tags clanking together as he tugs it off.

He feels more exposed than if he were naked somehow, but he resists the urge to pull away and instead turns his body sideways and presents his entire right side to Keith.

"Good," Keith whispers, squeezing some of the cream into his hand.

"I don't know if I'm any good at this. If you need it different, or more or whatever you have to tell me," Keith says.

It's not a demand, but a reminder.

Keith can handle Shiro, in every way. Keith is not afraid to hear Shiro's truth.

"I'll tell you," he whispers.

"Good." Keith murmurs, rubbing the cream between his hands and smoothing it over Shiro's wrist and forearm. He's tentative at first—gentle.

Too gentle.

It's sweet, but it's not going to help.

"Harder," Shiro whispers.

Keith nods, eyebrows knit together and tongue stuck out from between his teeth as he digs his thumbs into the underside of Shiro's forearm.

Before he can school his features, a grimace appears. He slackens his jaw but its too late.

"You'll tell me," Keith reminds him.

He doesn't stop massaging, because Shiro didn't ask him to, but he gentles the movement.

"It's not a bad pain."

"I wasn't aware there was good pain," Keith laughs, eyes on Shiro's face with every stroke of his thumbs.

"There's bad and worse," Shiro offers.

"But this isn't worse."

"No, Keith."

This is enough for Keith to continue, rubbing the cream into every inch of his wrist and forearm.

Keith sets Shiro's hand down on his knee and then he's reaching for the cream and squeezing more out.

This time he moves to Shiro's hand, digging his thumbs right into the palm f Shiro's hand and over the taut muscle.

A sob is ripped from his throat.

"Doesn't hurt," he chokes out before Keith can worry.

"It doesn't hurt," Keith echoes, looking unsure.

It hurts, but not in the way Keith thinks.

It hurts because it's Keith.

It hurts because it's not a doctor or physical therapist or Shiro's stupid left hand doing it.

It hurts because someone who loves him is doing this.

Keith loves him.

He's never said the words but Shiro knows it anyway. That's the thing with Keith, there's more in what he doesn't say than what he does.

Keith code.

Shiro's reading the unsaid now.

A midnight visit.

Cocoa.

Noticing what no one else has.

Touching him.

It's all Keith code for /I see you, Shiro. I'm here for you./

It's more than Shiro knows how to handle.

Patience. Discipline. Self sacrifice.

These are things Shiro is good at.

This though, this is new.

Shiro's had relationships but none came close to this. He never would have given anyone else this. They knew it and he knew it.

He wants to give Keith every part of himself.

Not the beautiful, bright parts. Those are already Keith's.

He wants to give Keith the small parts.

The ugly parts.

The tired, sad aching parts of him.

"Look at me," Keith says.

Shiro looks, and he knows he won't ever look away.

"Keith," he chokes out.

"Yeah, Shiro. Yeah."

"Keith," he repeats, jaw trembling as Keith gives Shiro's palm a squeeze, lavishing attention to each individual finger.

He's purposeful, thorough—most of all he's Keith.

His movements aren't practiced. He doesn't know how to massage. But he's confident and careful, applying just enough pressure to soothe the ache without hurting him.

By the time Keith's finished massaging every digit Shiro is trembling.

Surely Keith notices, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead he opens the cream again, squeezing more onto his left hand.

This time he moves upward, starting at Shiro's elbow and moving his way up Shiro's bicep. He uses more pressure as he goes up, thumbs digging into the flesh.

The higher Keith goes the more aware Shiro becomes of just how bad he let it get without asking for help.

The blood in his veins burns, the ache in his bones throbs. None of it hurts more than Keith's kindness.

It hurts.

It hurts so much Shiro wants to cry.

"It's really bad," Keith observes when he grips Shiro's bicep and a tear leaks out. "Don't do this again."

"I can't stop flying, Keith."

Keith pauses, eyes rising to Shiro's. "No one said anything about not flying. Just don't do /this/."

This.

Neglect his own needs.

Suffer alone.

"I know how to do this now. You're going to come to me when it hurts, you hear me? I can do this a lot. My hands get bored now that I can't punch anybody."

"I never said you couldn't punch anyone."

"Technically true," Keith agrees, massaging his fingers up beneath the side of Shiro's cotton tank and into the tight shoulder muscle. "Your exact words were, 'I wouldn't recommend using your fists as a stress outlet.'"

Somehow talking about something besides his pain makes the fingers digging into body easier to bear,

"Wow, you mean you actually listened to me?"

Keith snorts, pushing Shiro's shirt sideways as his fingers slide down over the shoulder blade. "I always listen to you, asshole."

"I think there's some sort of rule against calling a junior officer asshole."

Keith laughs, deepening his touch. "Like you care about rules."

"I care about some rules."

"Rules are stupid," Keith says. "The consequence is never fair for everyone."

"sometimes rules keep us safe," Shiro says, thinking about the list in the journal of his bedside table.

"Safety is an illusion," Keith says, the cream long rubbed off his fingers. Still, he continues to rub.

“Don’t you want to be safe?” Shiro asks.

Keith’s inhale is sharp, his fingers stilling on the curve of Shiro’s shoulder.

“I want a lot of things,” he answers.

Two direct questions in a row is pushing it, but Shiro’s always been a risk taker.

“What do you want, Keith?”

"You know, Shiro," he mumbles. He looks so much younger like this, with the armor of confidence he always wears worn thin.

"I can guess, but you've never said."

"I never say a lot of thing," he huffs, skimming his hand down Shiro's arm. "That's never made a difference before."

He's right.

Shiro has never cared if Keith said things explicitly. They've always had their own way of communicating. For all they talk, they're both disasters with words sometimes.

Words can be confusing, inadequate and unclear.

Actions are decisive.

With no warning, Shiro tugs Keith.

Keith moves with no resistance, slipping his arms around Shiro's middle as his cheek comes to rest on against his collarbone.

"You know how important to me you are, right?"

"I know, Shiro," he whispers.

"It'd be selfish of me to ask you to wait for me"

Keith's entire body goes rigid, hands clenching in the back of Shiro's shirt.

"It'd be so selfish of me to ask," Shiro repeats, tracing the line of Keiths spine. "Two years is a long time"

"Be selfish, Shiro. Please be selfish"

Shiro forgets the pain. He forgets the reasons this is objectively unwise.

He forgets every rule he’s ever made for himself.

He forgets it all for the boy he will never forget.

“I have a ticket for the launch in a few months,” Shiro says. “I’d really like if you came.”

“The launch,” Keith repeats, his words barely audible about the thrumming of Shiro’s heart.

He can practically hear Keith’s thoughts.

The launch is only for family. Maybe an exception for engaged couples. It’s not for friends. Not even best friends.

“But Iverson—“

“Iverson already knows,” Shiro answers, tightening his hold on Keith. He doesn’t need to know the details.

“I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you hate goodbyes but—“

“Then don’t let it be a goodbye,” Keith objects

He pulls back, his big eyes on Shiro. The fire in his eyes has dwindled, still warm but less intense.

“Don’t let it be a goodbye, Shiro.”

Shiro’s hand shakes as he brings it up to cup the side of Keith’s face—awed by the way he leans into the touch.

“I’ll come back to you, Keith.”

“Promise,” Keith says. Whether it’s a demand or a question he has no idea.

“I promise, Keith. No matter what it takes. I will come back to you. I will always come back to you.”

Shiro’s never seen Keith cry.

He cries now.

Silent tears that stream down his face as he rubs his cheek into Shiro’s palm.

Shiro drops his hand from Keith’s cheek to reach for the chain around his neck, carefully pulling it over his head before draping it over Keith’s.

“I won’t keep these,” he sniffles, rubbing the back of his hand over his nose. “You better fucking come back for them.”

“I will,” Shiro assures him, settling the dog tags around Keith’s neck. He likes the way the metal looks against the hollow of his throat—the way Shiro’s name look resting over Keith’s chest, over his heart.

“Good,” Keith says.

Shiro doesn’t think, just acts—dropping his face down to kiss Keith.

“Oh,” Keith exhales, his own hands pressing against Shiro’s chest.

The acidic smell of camphor and capsaicin clings to his nose as he kisses him, the taste of salt on his tongue.

It’s perfect.

“Stay,” Shiro murmurs when they’ve stopped kissing long enough for him to catch his breath.

Shiro doesn’t specify if he means the night or forever—ready to take whatever Keith will give.

“Was already planning on it,” he grins, a hand on Shiro’s side as he urges him to lay down.

Still sore, Shiro ends up flat on his back with Keith spooned up against his left side.

“Hey Shiro,” he whispers, voice heavy.

“Yeah, Keith.”

“I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes. I’ll wait.”

Shiro isn’t strong enough to tell him no. Instead he tightness the arm around Keith’s shoulder as he kisses the top of his head.

“Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah, Shiro?”

“Want me to smuggle some space rocks back for you?”

Keith laughs, the sound reverberating into Shiro’s chest.

“Okay,” he answers. Shiro can feel his smile even if he can’t see it.

In this moment Shiro knows with certainty that no force in the universe will stop him from keeping his promise.

He will come back to Keith.