Archive of Our Own

***

Keith leaves the Garrison with the same duffle bag that he brought with him from the home three years earlier. Back then, the strap across his chest made him stumble under its bulky weight; not so now. He leaves behind his crisp cadet uniform, his textbooks, his license to fly, his future. 

He’s broken every flight record they’ll let him at, made the top marks in every class. It doesn’t matter. There’s only so much allowance he can be given before the rigorous training of the Garrison flight program demand that he move on. Only so much grief he’s allotted. It’s not enough, it would never be enough. 

There’s only one objective he’ll work towards now, and it’s been made clear that they won’t authorize another mission to Kerberos. Never let a pilot so young take the helm again. He knows that it’ll be years now, years , before he’ll breach the atmosphere. It’s not right. Keith could do it. Right now. He knows he’s skilled enough, if only they would give him a chance. Shiro would have given him that chance. Shiro was---

Shiro is---

Keith walks towards Hangar E with his head held high. He knows the codes to disable the alarm by heart. He knows which speeder he’ll take. And he knows he has to leave. 

Shiro is gone but Keith refuses to give up.

*

One year, seven months, and three days prior to the launch of the Kerberos Research Expedition, Shiro finds Keith purely by accident. 

The Arizona air hangs hot over the Garrison’s sprawling training grounds, and Keith is hunched as if suffocating beneath it. He’s sitting outside. Body wedged close to one of the buildings, back bowed, knees drawn up to his chest, the toes of his boots scuffing against each other. A hand wrapped ‘round each ankle, hold tight enough for the skin to blanch around his knuckles. His face is buried against his knees. 

It might have been easy for another person to overlook the student huddled just around the corner, nearly out of sight---as close to isolation as one can achieve on the ever busy Garrison campus---but one glimpse and Shiro recognizes him. He walks over to Keith without a second thought. 

(He’s found it difficult not to see Keith. Not since he stole Shiro’s ATV right out from under the noses of three Garrison officers. Not since his record shattering entrance flight scores placed him at the same level as pilots who have years of experience over him. Not since he’s excelled in every class, and simultaneously failed to make a single friend. Not since he’s so clearly been watching Shiro, not with sunny admiration as Shiro has become accustomed, but as if waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Shiro to turn against him, to write him off, to send him away.) 

“Keith,” Shiro says, not loud enough to startle. Keith doesn’t immediately stir, though his position is too strained for him to be asleep. Like a rubber band pulled taut---the only respite to snap or split. “Keith,” Shiro repeats, louder. 

Keith raises his head. 

He has a red mark on his forehead from where its been resting against his knee.  

His dark bangs fall over the mark as he tilts his head upward to identify the person who said his name. White knuckled hands release their death grip on his ankles. “Shiro.” He rises to his feet, wariness in his eyes as they meet Shiro’s. The puffiness around them is telling, as is the drawn pull of his mouth. But whatever tears may have fallen are long dried. He just looks worn. And young.  

“Is something wrong? Why are you sitting out here?” 

The concrete path between the hangar housing the training aircraft and the rest of the Garrison grounds hardly seems like the best place for solace. 

“No.” Keith’s tone is firm but quiet. “Nothing is wrong. I---” He squares his shoulders. “Just wanted some space. The barracks and mess hall are always crowded.”

“Felt like you needed some alone time, huh?” Shiro eases into the conversation, offering what he hopes is a sympathetic smile. He leans against the wall, keeping plenty of distance between them. Keith still shifts on his feet, further away. 

“I think I get that. My first year I thought I would go crazy from the lack of personal space.” Shiro shrugs, “That’s the price we pay as lowly individuals furthering the grand interplanetary design of the Galaxy Garrison.” 

He tilts his head at Keith knowingly. Keith blinks up at him. 

“That. Was a joke,” Shiro offers. 

Keith looks dubious. 

“You could laugh anytime now,” Shiro says, casually turning over one hand in the air between them. 

Keith looks at his palm. One dark brow ticks up ever so slightly. “That would mean it was funny.” 

“Ouch, Keith,” Shiro feigns pain, back sliding across the wall as he staggers. He’s not usually such a ham, but it’s worth it when the ghost of smile eases the press of Keith’s lips. 

Shiro makes a snap decision. His work for the evening can wait a few more hours. 

“So now that my pride is irreparably wounded,” Shiro stands up. “Come with me,” He motions for Keith to walk with him across campus. It’s late enough in the afternoon that classes are over, but there’s still a good number of students and faculty milling about. Without fail, they all know Shiro. One or two call out his name as Shiro passes through, and he raises a hand in greeting and shouts back, but he doesn’t stop to chat. 

He’s all too aware of Keith’s stiff pace at his side. It’s not arrogance, although the posture---chin held high, expression level and closed off---would be easy to mistake for aloofness if a person wasn’t paying attention. It’s self defense. As showy as he can be while piloting, Keith with two feet on the ground is withdrawn. He stays just out of Shiro’s reach even as they walk together. 

Their destination is Hangar E, smaller and further from the center of campus compared to the main hangars. Shiro takes out his wallet and slides his ID through the keypad by the door. It pings in greeting and Shiro pushes open the door, motioning for Keith to step inside. 

They’re greeted by the familiar, almost bitter, smell of machinery---the diesel-y, acrid kind of smell that seeps deep into a space and lingers in clothes and memories alike. Shiro breathes it in and sinks into the nostalgia that it carries: there’s the first plane he ever saw, at his grandfather’s independent airport in Iejima, the first plane he ever flew, before he even drove a car, at that same airport. The first time he flew higher and further and faster than ever before, here at the Garrison. The moment that he knew it wasn’t high enough. 

The hangar is windowless, dark. Shiro punches in the code to turn off the second alarm and flips the lights. They come on in waves, revealing the various vehicles stored within. Shiro watches the way Keith’s expression slowly opens, interest shimmering in his eyes as he takes in first the modular sims (the one he flew when he was scouted for the Garrison is among them), the ATVs (the one Keith hotwired and, er, borrowed is also there), before his gaze finally rests on a line of hoverbikes. Keith audibly inhales. 

“Gloves and goggles are in the cabinet on the far wall,” Shiro motions to the side. “Your coat isn’t regulation, but,” Shiro smiles, “I won’t tell if you won’t.” 

“What?” Keith takes a step forward as if drawn to the aircraft, before remembering himself. “No. I don’t---” 

“Have clearance to leave campus?” Shiro nods. He taps a finger to his mouth. “But if I remember correctly... Hm. Let’s see. I think it’s in Section C of the Student Handbook? Subsection 7: After Hours Conduct and Permitted Leisure Activities. Part Three. Cadets in years one through three may file a written request for temporary leave, that is, permission to leave campus outside allotted holidays and scheduled---” 

Keith shakes his head, that almost smile back on his face, and leaves Shiro behind. He strides towards the storage cabinet Shiro indicated,

Shiro follows him, raised voice echoing in the hangar’s tall ceiling, “I didn’t get to the important part! ‘With the exception of accompaniment by a superior officer,’” 

Keith chooses a pair of fingerless gloves, closing his hand in a fist to check the fit. He seems to approve, blinking slowly down as he turns his hand over. He looks up, almost startled to see Shiro so close. From behind him, Shiro reaches over his head to grab him a pair of riding goggles. He plops them on Keith’s head and selects a pair for himself. 

“Which, luck would have it, I am,”  Shiro finishes. He slips the goggles over his head and around his neck. 

“Lucky,” Keith agrees. The interest in his eyes shifts to excitement as they near the hover bikes. 

Keith isn’t shy about choosing a speeder, and--- Shiro notes with a kind of bemusement---he also isn’t shy about making it the sleekest, fastest model of the bunch. 

He listens with rapt attention as Shiro gives him a crash course in how to handle the bike. By now, Shiro has taught many students in many settings, (though none so unorthodox as this impromptu, after hours, weeknight hover bike lesson), but no one has ever listened quite like Keith does. Keith seems to drink in his every word, calculation of the words evident in the way that he tilts his head, unreadable commentary in his dark eyes. Shiro wonders if there is anyone Keith considers close enough to be privy to the responses he doesn’t share. It doesn’t seem that way. 

Keith boards the hover bike like he’s done it a million times before, easily trailing behind Shiro as the two of them slowly exit the Garrison’s campus. He stays quiet, head bowed as Shiro flashes his ID to the officer at the gate. But then, 

As soon as they are free from the long shadow of the Garrison and her surrounding walls, Keith kicks red-brown sand into a cloud of dust, his small frame half bent as he revs the engine into a dizzying speed. Shiro admires his control---the instinctive way he shifts over the bike, flying with his whole body over the dash, intuitive and giddy and fast . He takes off like a shot across the open desert. 

Shiro admires him, but he is not so distracted as to let Keith enjoy the lead for too long. 

He hears Keith’s whoop of delight as Shiro overtakes him, passing by and in front of his bike in a maneuver that Shiro would classify to his students as “unmitigated risk.” Keith has enough control over the bike to avoid a crash and adjust his heading to mimic the sharp turn that Shiro has taken. 

When Shiro looks back, a grin is spread wide across Keith’s face. His hair is whipping back around his head, body taught at the helm of the machine, the apples of his cheeks ruddy with color. The sight of it makes something lift in Shiro’s chest. He’s sought Keith out several times since their first meeting, shared the same campus with him for a few short weeks, but something tells Shiro that this is the first time he’s truly, truly getting the chance to see him. 

“Stay sharp!!” Shiro calls back to him, with just enough jibe in his tone to make Keith scoff through his grin. He means it though, ducking the bike down through rocky terrain, the crags, the swift drops, the narrow openings---all the features of the Sonoran desert that make it seem more lunar than terran. 

Keith mimics Shiro’s maneuver from before, overtaking and jumping in front of him, with the added twist of utilizing a crest of raised land to do so. They continue like that, flying through the desert in tandem, without need for aim or commentary. 

Shiro takes the final plunge into the canyon at its highest point. He revs once before the bike leaves the edge---and for that split second, Shiro is weightless, unstymied by obligations or the pain of his illness or the heavy burden of others’ expectations. He closes his eyes. He flies free, swooping down low into the belly of the canyon. 

(And if he could give one thing to Keith, it would be this: this feeling, this right now, the flying, the falling, the swoop, the trust. The trust. Even though, as Keith pointed out not so long after their first meeting, Shiro doesn’t know him. Despite that, Shiro can see the set of his jaw and the hardness in his expression and the distance that Keith puts between himself and the world. 

And Shiro understands, he understands so well , what it is to wear a brave face so that the world won’t hold you back before you can even begin.

And maybe that’s what drew him to Keith from the very start? 

Shiro may not know Keith, not yet, but something deep in his heart tells him that Keith deserves to find that feeling. To have that trust. And maybe, maybe flying will give it to him, like it has for Shiro.) 

A joy that’s like the easiest kind of laughter bubbles through his chest as Shiro’s bike reaches its zenith and begins its descent. He plummets and sweeps through the canyon, hoverbike madly whirling over the land until he brings it to a perfect stop. The sun is sinking quietly below the horizon, red sky over deepest red earth. The view is beautiful. Shiro is still smiling when Keith joins him, a little later on. “Kei---” 

“How’d you--that was---Shiro!” Keith is breathless and a little awed as he dismounts. He crosses the distance between them, close enough that Shiro can see, even in the dwindling daylight, that the high color isn’t gone from his face. He asks, finally within arm’s reach, voice full of wonder and almost reverence, about the jump. Listens---that calculating, careful perception flitting again over his face---as Shiro explains the physics of the maneuver. 

It’s what they needed. 

Keith stays at his side, closer now than he was before, expression lifted, even as conversation wanes and night falls. Even as he says goodbye to Shiro, back on campus, with a small wave and a smaller smile. 

*

Keith doesn’t know where to go. 

He considers the city, at first, but the faded motels and dusty gas stations that line the edges of civilization seem wrong. He can spend only a few days there---caught between lives at rest stops and in parking lots, soulless stretches of empty highway, tired trailer parks---before everything in him is protesting. He is lost. 

The desert calls him back. 

*

One week and four days later, Shiro is told that the evening he and Keith first took the hoverbikes out after hours marked the tenth anniversary of the death of Keith’s father. 

He didn’t know. 

And Keith didn’t tell him. 

Shiro responds to the information by dropping by the mess hall as the first years are eating lunch. Keith is sitting alone, with one boot on the bench, leg bent and drawn up so that he can rest a cheek on it. He’s flipping through a spiral bound notebook, the tray in front of him already scraped clean. 

“Keith.” 

There’s a soft tap as Keith drops his foot to the ground and sits up properly. “Shiro.” 

It takes only the slightest hint at provocation for the fire to return to Keith’s eyes, for the smirk to cross his lips, cocky in response to Shiro’s gentle tease. Shiro gives the suggestion and soon Keith is demanding a rematch for their previous hoverbike race. 

Hours later, Shiro is surprised that Keith attempts the same jump that so awed him the week before. He is more surprised that Keith completes it---soaring over the edge in a way that makes Shiro’s heart drop through his chest---seemingly without effort, swooping to the ground below in a near ridiculous show of ability, his call of Shiro’s name caught in the thick air and the rumbling roar of the hoverbike’s engines. 

And Shiro feels something expand within him, something somewhere between pride and affection, and he wonders, how could anyone ever overlook Keith Kogane. 

*

When Keith first crosses the threshold of his dad’s old property, he holds his breath. 

He doesn’t know what it might feel like to come home. He inhales through his nose, holds it, eye’s fluttering against what might be an onslaught of emotions, jaw set tight. He takes a step forward, into the house. 

He exhales. 

Turns out, it feels hollow. 

There’s the floorboard that creaks just so. There’s the radio, its dials still tuned the way his dad left them. There’s browned coffeepot in the sink, there’s the tiny bookshelf full of beat up paperbacks, their pages dog-eared long ago, there’s the pile of boots by the door, there’s---

The dufflebag drops to the floor and Keith stands there, home, but not really, not at all. 

*

Four hours before his last midterm of the first semester, Keith finds Shiro. 

Shiro is an early riser, more out of habit than force of nature. He jogs before the rest of campus wakes up, before Adam wakes up, before the sun can dig into the sky and pull itself high enough to start the new day. Running helps keep his muscles loose, and lessens the necessity of caffeine, which Shiro still craves, even though coffee interacts poorly with one of his numerous medications. 

He finishes stretching and is starting the jog off slowly in front of the dormitories when he is nearly tackled. 

“Shiro!!” 

Keith’s hair is a mess, like a bird made a nest in it days ago. There might be crumbs stuck in the tangled edges, and pressed into one of his cheeks, like he fell asleep on a bag of potato chips. His eyes are wide as he staggers into Shiro’s personal space, frantic. 

“I’m going to---I don’t know---there’s--and---I just---” 

Shiro sets a hand on Keith’s narrow shoulder. “Woah. Keith. It’s alright. Breathe.” He feels the rise under his palm as Keith obeys. “It’s not even five in the morning. No sane person is awake right now. What’s got you so upset?” 

“I’m not upset,” Keith spits, as though offended by the very idea. He sees Shiro’s resulting expression-- -one that says, really? Are you sure about that? ---and revises his reaction. “Okay. I’m upset. It’s normal. Because. I’m going to fail this exam.” 

As a flight instructor, pilot, and overall campus favorite, Shiro has access to every single one of Keith’s scores. “I find that difficult to believe.” 

Keith shoots him a look so venomous that Shiro suddenly has an idea of why people might find it easier to avoid him. (Those people are idiots. And cowards.) 

“Okay, okay. I take it you’ve been studying all night?” 

Keith nods. 

“And that---just a guess---you’re mentally exhausted but also too keyed up to fit in a nap now that the test is so close?” 

Keith nods again. 

As a first year, Shiro was so hungry to prove himself, to be at the very top of his class, that he put himself in the hospital no less than seven times with the effort. (Admittedly, with his illness, hospitalization is easier for him to achieve versus the average person. What can he say? He’s gifted.) It was only after Iverson threatened to pull him from the program that Shiro was forced to learn to balance his efforts. 

“Do you have running shoes?” 

Shiro follows his gaze as Keith looks down at his feet. He’s wearing his uniform boots despite being otherwise clothed in what appear to be sweatpants. They must be old---knees threadbare and saggy---and at least three sizes too big. The drawstring is cinched tight around his waist to keep them up. 

“I---yeah?” 

“Good. Go change into shorts and running shoes.” Shiro softens the order with a squeeze of Keith’s shoulder, then motions him forward. There’s still an hour or more until the punchy notes of Reveille will sound over the campus. 

Keith joins him just minutes later, sweatpants exchanged for the shorts that cadets are issued for PE and boots exchanged for sneakers. 

Shiro goes through his stretches again for Keith’s sake, purposefully slow so that Keith can mimic his mindful breathing more than any of the movements. He does, the stress that was caught in his shoulders gradually easing. And then they’re off. 

Keith matches his pace without trouble, and he makes no attempt at small talk, a problem which Shiro has encountered with running partners in the past. They jog; Shiro’s favored route extends far past the main buildings of the campus, towards the sportsgrounds with their sprawling fields of artificial grass, taking the running path beyond the rows of greenhouses, looping back towards the hangars and academic buildings. It’s quiet, save for the even huff of Keith’s breaths alongside his and the occasional sweeping drone of an aircraft far overhead. The run is long, and soothing, and uneventful. Sun stains the horizon with brightest orange that brightens into wide, clear blue as the day begins. 

Shiro directs them to the huddle of buildings that comprise the housing for the faculty and midrange officers. The apartment he and Adam share is nondescript, but it’s downright spacious compared to the tiny dorms of the first years. Keith’s eyes are as big as saucers as Shiro opens the door. 

Shiro unties his shoes in the entryway and pads into the kitchen, listening for the familiar sound of running water---he could set his watch by Adam’s routine. He’s always in the shower when Shiro returns from his morning run, so that it will be free for Shiro to get ready for the day. Forever predictable, forever courteous. 

Keith walks into the apartment as if he is expecting the couch to grow legs and attack. He runs a thumb over his knuckles---a nervous habit of his, Shiro has noticed---and stays close to the edge of the room. 

“Unfortunately, the butler has the day off,” Shiro jokes as he pours them both a glass of water. He opens the drawer where they keep the junk food and grabs one of his favorite protein bars---the kind with lots of chocolate chips that is basically a candy bar in disguise---to give to Keith. 

Keith’s interest in the living space is apparent---gaze caught on the awards and photos that line the shelves. He doesn’t touch anything, but he leans close. He pauses in front of a picture of Shiro and Adam in flight suits before their very first space flight. 

“Huh?” Keith turns and straightens up, brows unknitting from confusion as Shiro hands him a glass of water and the bar, which he immediately opens and inhales in just three bites. The wrapper gets crumpled in his fist. “Thank you.” 

Shiro nods. Keith looks better now---sallowness in his complexion replaced with a healthy flush. Skin sheeny with perspiration, bangs matted to his skin. Nerves quieted. He’ll do fine on the exam. 

In the next room over, Shiro hears the taps turn and the water stop running. It’s time to get ready for the day. 

“Alright, cadet.” Shiro adopts his ‘teacher’ voice. “Today’s orders: go get cleaned up and have something to eat in the mess hall. Ace that exam. Get some sleep.” He smiles, “Then message me how it went later tonight.” 

Keith blinks, lowering the glass of water from his lips. His mouth twitches, halfway to cynicism before he decides to play along. “Yes sir!”  

Shiro grins. 

Keith smiles back---the slow, shy one that Shiro is gradually getting to see more and more. 

There’s the sound of the door to the bathroom opening in the back half of the apartment. Keith’s eyes flick towards the noise before returning to Shiro’s face. He turns towards the exit and pauses, careful with his words. “Shiro?”

“Hm?” 

“Thank you.” 

Shiro shakes his head. “I should be thanking you. It was good to have a running partner.” 

Keith nods. “Yeah.” He tilts his head, just slightly, wets his lips, visibly considering saying something else. But he must decide against it. He sets the empty glass down, careful, and leaves the apartment with a quiet nod.

The exam scores come back later in the week, and Shiro makes a note to check them as soon as they are posted. Keith scores at the top of his class.  

*

Keith drops down, taking care to watch his footing on the rocky terrain. He pauses, eyes squinting against the sun, chest heaving, the sweat dripping down his back under his tee shirt. He’s been hiking all morning, hours away from his cabin now. He has a map, an old ink-and-paper fold out map---not at all the kind with which he learned to navigate as a pilot. He figures this is as good a place as any to rest, and sits cross-legged in a sliver of shade under an outcropping of rocks. He unfolds the map, takes out the blue ink pen he’s been using to mark his routes, and carefully places an ‘X’ on his current location. He takes a swig from the water canteen on his belt, and tucks the pen back in his pack. 

The map is worn thin at all the creases from where it’s been folded and unfolded so many times. His cabin is marked with a black triangle, the ink heavy enough to stain through to the other side. A black triangle, a little lopsided, lost in a sea of blue x’s. 

He still has more ground to cover if he’s going to complete the area he planned for today. But something gives him pause. Brows furrowed, he looks up at the canyon’s walls and studies the map, turning it sideways for a different perspective. He rises to his feet, walks a few paces, memories turning over in his mind. 

No. 

This...Keith runs forward, scrambling over rocks and underbrush, along the narrowest of streams. It hasn’t rained for so long, but at that time, the water rushed here. He finds that place, even though at that time it was dark, and his eyes were trained only on Shiro’s broad back. 

He slips inside the narrow opening, breathless, and halts. The worn map gets crumbled in his fist as his eyes smart with tears. He bites back the sob, though no one is around to hear it. It takes effort, real effort, to calm down, to stay upright on his feet. He wants to sit down, like that time. He wants Shiro to be here. He wants to cry. 

He sucks in a breath, throat and face hot with unshed tears, chin tucked to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. He stays like that---head bowed, hands clenched, throat tight---for a long time.

*

Five minutes after a disastrous conference call, Shiro messages Keith. 

He has an absurd amount of work that he should be doing---developing innovative training modules for his students on the sims, grading, his own flight work, the mandatory hours he needs to log weekly as a pilot, reports for his superiors---the list goes on and on. 

He’s not in the headspace to work on any of it. Not right now. It’s irresponsible, but he’s taking the rest of the day off. 

He should call Adam. But Adam knew about the conference call. He’ll want to rehash every detail. If Shiro sounds upset, he’ll want to analyze his every syllable . Adam means well, but Shiro is overwhelmed, and the thought of having to relive the last hour for the sake of discussion makes his skin crawl. 

To Keith: feel like getting some air?

The response is immediate. 

From Keith: meet you there in thirty 

Shiro turns his phone off---irresponsible.

He changes into civilian clothes---irresponsible. 

He fails to check the warning the Garrison has issued regarding the incoming storm---irresponsible. 

And that’s how he and Keith end up miles and miles away from the base, caught completely off guard as the first rumble of thunder echoes unmistakable across the desert. 

Thunderstorms in the desert are wonderful and rare, but to be caught in one could be a deadly mistake. The dry air crackles as the blanket of heat darkens into something more insidious in matter of minutes. Shiro halts his bike. 

“Oh shit.” Keith tugs the goggles down his neck and brings his own hoverbike to a halt. He looks over his shoulder at Shiro. “Did you hear that?” 

It’s almost comical, the way the thunder booms in response---not quite deafening, but closer and much louder than it was before. Lightning splits the sky. 

“The incredibly foreboding storm that’s currently approaching while we’re in the middle of nowhere, miles from home, and will probably maim and/or kill us? Yes, Keith, I heard it.” 

Keith blinks and gives Shiro the briefest of smiles. “We’ll be fine.” 

The sky opens up and the rain comes beating down in waves. Shiro is dripping wet in a matter of minutes. Swearing, he opens the digital map application on his bike. It unfolds, a holo image of the desert, his own bike a tiny red arrowhead in the very middle. Huge raindrops fall through, disrupting the projected image of the surrounding terrain. The distortion makes the map difficult to read. But, it’s fairly obvious---they won’t be making it back to the Garrison for awhile. At this point, taking cover is the best they can do. “Follow me,” he calls to Keith. 

In no time at all, water floods over the hard, unforgiving ground. The rush of water combined with the wind whipping over the light frames of their bikes makes flying near impossible. Shiro hands slip dangerously over the controls, adjusting them half blind through fogged goggles. If Keith were a lesser pilot, Shiro’s focus would be divided, but Keith has already proven he’s more than capable. Still, lightning flashes across the vast purpleblack sky, and a kind of primal fear rises in his throat, for both of them; Shiro waits for the crack of thunder before he shouts, voice straining over the wind, “Keith!!” 

Keith nods, following his direction---they find a loose outcropping of rock, not at all safe or dry, but better than being out in the open on their bikes in the storm. Keith almost stumbles as he dismounts, but Shiro is there, a hand at the small of his back. Keith shivers. 

Shiro swears again. Keith’s jacket is soaked through. This is not good...

Shiro ushers them further into the land. They’re deep within the rocky canyon, far enough out in the desert for this place to be as isolated as anywhere. There’s an opening here, a cave. Shiro ducks inside and Keith follows after. The tunnels seem to go far, far back; the inky darkness of the cavern behind them mirroring the sky overhead. 

“What do you think?” Keith asks him, breathless, as soon as they’re out of the storm. His hair is wet, dripping rivulets down his face into his eyes. He runs a hand through it, lifting his bangs off his forehead to sweep the wet hair out of his face. He looks up at Shiro; his eyes are wide and searching, dark brows raised slightly towards the disheveled widow’s peak of his hairline---he’s not at all afraid. 

Shiro has to laugh. Anyone else would be terrified in this situation, but not Keith. Anyone but the two of them would have probably crashed the bikes or worse. And no one else would be daring---or foolish---enough to be out here in the first place. The dry laugh that escapes his mouth echoes within the narrow confines of the cave.

Keith’s mouth twitches up at the corners, smile overtaking his lips as Shiro loses it, all of the day’s stress coming to a head---the conference call regarding Shiro’s upcoming mission, the anxiety of having to broach what he knows will be an uncomfortable subject with Adam, the abrupt storm---all of it suddenly seems ridiculous. Shiro laughs, one hand along the wall of the cavern before he collapses down into a sitting position on the rocky ground. He shakes his head, laugh still dying on his lips. What a mess. 

“Shiro?” Keith walks up next to him and touches his shoulder, featherlight, hesitant, “You okay?” 

Shiro tilts his head up to look at Keith. “I’m thinking I should’ve known better than to think I could take the day off.” He shrugs off his jacket, assuming that his wet tee shirt will dry better if it’s not under another layer of clothing. 

“If anyone deserves the day off, it’s you,” Keith responds, cross. Keith peels off his soaked outlayer, leaving a thin black shirt underneath. He looks to Shiro, his hands playing along the hem of it before he sits down. There’s a hand’s breadth of space between them. 

Shiro gives him a shrug in response. Right now he feels like he shouldn’t have brought Keith out here. He feels like he should apologize. Offer some kind of explanation. Sometimes I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, he wants to tell Keith. Silence settles between them as they listen to the rain. It’s warm in the mouth of the cavern. 

Sometimes I’m terrified. 

“Honestly, it’s kinda home-y in here,” Keith says, out of the blue. He’s looking up at the ceiling, fingertips drumming over his knees. He sneaks a look back at Shiro, gaze dipping from his face to his chest, before pulling back up to the walls of the cave. “Cozy.” 

Shiro raises his eyebrows. “My definition of cozy requires fuzzy blankets and at least one cup of hot chocolate,” he counters. 

Keith barks out a laugh and Shiro physically balks, surprised. Keith so rarely smiles, the laugh feels like a prize. Shiro shifts on the hard ground and overcorrects, knocking shoulders with Keith. Keith pushes him back, still grinning. 

“Obviously it wouldn’t be my first choice,” Keith continues. His body heat is seeping into the small space between them. Shiro leans into it, towards him, ‘til they’re sitting side-by-side. He can hear the shudder of Keith’s throat as he swallows. 

The rain beats down. 

“What would your first choice be?” Shiro asks. 

Keith goes quiet for a moment, lending weight to the silly question. He uses his index finger to flick a tiny rock deeper into the darkness. “I guess...I guess anywhere, actually.” The easy friendship that’s formed between them is too new, and Keith is often too restrained, for them to have had a conversation quite like this. It feels...significant. 

“The place itself doesn’t matter so much,” Keith says, voice soft. He looks at Shiro. Drops his eyes. “I dunno. I never had big plans for the future, not--not before you--um. Not really.” 

Shiro nods. So much of his life has felt like it’s had an expiration date that he’s racing against. It’s difficult for him to articulate. Nothing feels certain. 

The call today was about Shiro’s upcoming flight assignment. Shiro’s slated to launch in the next scheduled mission, but where Mars had once felt so grand, now the routine research expedition there seems almost insignificant. Shiro is hungry for more. He has his eyes set on something far more ambitious: Kerberos. Understandably, his superiors were not pleased that he withdrew from the Mars team. But the pilot for the Kerberos mission has yet to be decided, and Shiro would never forgive himself if he had the opportunity to fly it and didn’t at least try. 

He has to try now. While he still can. 

“That probably sounded stupid.” Keith says, matter-of-fact. His shoulders are hunched towards his ears. 

“No. It didn’t.” Shiro tells him. He doesn’t know exactly what Keith is thinking, but not having life figured out at seventeen is hardly a fault. He’s earnest when he says, “You’re so skilled, Keith. You could go anywhere.” 

Keith’s breath hitches, and he swallows again, face turned away. “Like you? Like Mars?” 

“Farther,” Shiro says. He means it. 

Storms in the desert are wonderful and rare. They are often also short-lived. This one brings the rain down a little while longer, and when it ends, Shiro trails behind Keith on the bikes. They take their time on the trek back to campus. 

*

Keith stays like that---head bowed, hands clenched, throat tight---for a long time, 

Until he notices the walls. 

Deep markings shorn into the stone. Splashes of subdued blue, the only color present despite the numerous pictures. Symbols he doesn’t understand. 

The strange carvings continue as far back as Keith dares to go---pictures of a lion, seemingly ancient. Keith touches one and it lights up something within him. It’s a strange energy. It feels like something new. It feels significant. It feels like hope. 

This spot on the map is marked not with an ‘X’ but with a circle---Keith records the finding with a shaky hand. 

Another circle gets added to the map the next day, as Keith explores the surrounding area. Another one the next. Another. Another. 

Keith brings with him notebooks, to copy down the pictures. He draws the symbols in one cave to compare with the next. He takes the pages home with him, turns them over and over again in his cabin at all hours of the day. They don’t mean anything but he feels compelled to do so. This is where he feels closest to Shiro. It doesn’t make sense, but even so, he keeps returning. 

*

A month into the second semester, Shiro uses the first of his sick leave and takes a day off.  

He got up this morning at the usual time. Quieted the alarm clock, shifted out from under Adam’s sleep heavy arms, sat up. But before his feet even touched the floor, he fumbled the glass of water on the bedside table. His hand just...was too weak to grasp it. Shiro swore as the glass rolled across the bedroom floor. He rose to get a towel to clean up the spill, but, on the way to the kitchen, he stumbled. Fell. His legs crumpled like paper underneath him, and, almost without warning, a lump rose in his throat---dread---followed by a rolling wave of nausea. He breathed in deep, focusing. Channeling anger and fear into patience. After a moment, Shiro managed to stand, only to find his legs too weak to support him. He was forced to wake up Adam then, forced to get back into bed. 

“Takashi,” Adam told him, concern swimming in eyes,  “Let me take you to the hospital.” 

Shiro argued. He hasn’t gotten this far without being stubborn as hell. If he goes to the hospital today, he tells Adam, it’ll be recorded. Official. They know about his diagnosis, of course, but as of now, they have no idea of its progression. This one day could change that. It will eliminate his chances at Kerberos. It will halt his life. 

It’s melodramatic to have phrased it that way---Shiro could tell Adam thought so too, by the way his brows rose over the frames of his glasses, just for a second---but it’s true. 

Adam agreed to leave him resting at home, under the condition that if Shiro worsens or doesn’t improve by the next day, he’ll go in for an evaluation. They both know that Shiro will only do what he wants to do, only ever on his own terms, but the spoken compromise is enough for now. 

Shiro half-dozes the day away. Types a few emails with sluggish fingers. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, but eats a little. His arms feel heavy. Legs too. He feels, more than anything else, trapped. Frustrated. Wings clipped. This is just one bad day, he tells himself. Not the end of anything. Not the beginning of something worse. He refuses to give up. 

His body holding him back from doing anything more, he submits to sleep. 

When Shiro wakes, it’s to the lightest touch, the softest fingertips brushing hair across his forehead, out of his eyes. The touch lingers, gentlest pressure on his temple, knuckles just barely grazing his cheek, until Shiro stirs. The touch withdraws. Shiro blinks the sleep away, eyes adjusting to the dim room. 

Keith stands up and takes a step back. Runs a thumb over his knuckles.  

“Adam told me you had a migraine.” He avoids eye contact with Shiro. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I---”

Shiro shakes his head. “Keith. It’s okay.” He sits up, willing his body to cooperate enough to complete the action. It does. 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

“Better,” Shiro still feels like shit. The drugs make his mouth dry. “I could use a glass of water,” 

The tension drops out of Keith’s expression. “Oh--of course,” 

He listens without being able to make out the words, to the low sound of Keith’s voice, speaking with Adam in the other room. The conversation is short. Keith is still so guarded around others. 

Shiro takes the glass without a word, when Keith returns, all of Shiro’s focus is devoted to the movement of his own hands. Like he can force the muscles to contract the way they should. To grip the cup, to lift it to his mouth, to sip without spilling. By force of will alone. He manages. 

Keith watches him. Shiro waits for it to come, for him to say, ‘This is not a migraine.’ For him to demand an explanation. He waits for Keith’s disappointment, the way his regard for Shiro will shift when he understands. 

“Anything else I...uh.” Keith pauses. Rephrases. “Shiro. I’ll go now. Unless...I can do something to help?” 

Shiro shakes his head. 

Keith moves to leave, but something in Shiro protests. He never, never, talks about his health---it will not define him---but Keith deserves his honesty. Shiro wants to be honest with him. 

“Keith.” 

At the sound of his name, Keith pauses, and Shiro barrels forward before he loses his nerve. “I don’t have a migraine. I’ve mentioned it before, in passing, but this,” he motions to his traitorous body, “Is part of a much more serious illness.” 

Keith’s expression remains stoic as Shiro rattles off the statistics with fierce clinical detachment. He’s heard them enough times to be an expert. Once diagnosed, the disease almost always progresses rapidly, eventually taking away the ability to walk, speak, and even breathe, and shortening the life span. But how fast and in what order this occurs is very different from person to person. While the average survival time is three years, about 20 percent of people may live five years, and 10 percent longer than that. 

Shiro finishes. “I don’t make a habit of talking about it. But. Maybe it explains why I’m so determined to fly. I might not have much longer.” 

“Don’t say that. You can do anything---” 

Shiro snorts, dry, “You should see me get out of bed in the morning. Really something.” 

“No.” Keith takes a step towards him, hand clenched at his side. “Don’t say that. If anything this just makes you more incredible. You’re not going to let something you can’t change about yourself stop you. You’ve already---it’s. I’m---I think,” He exhales a shaky breath. “I think you’re amazing, Shiro.” 

Shiro is surprised by the emotion that’s blazing in Keith’s eyes. It’s the same fire that he’s seen burn when Keith is faced with any challenge---the same reckless certainty that laced his tone when he declared that he could out fly any one of his peers. It’s almost alarming to have that certainty applied to Shiro, when he feels that life is anything but certain. 

Shiro realizes, not for the first time, how remarkable Keith is. “You really mean that.” 

Keith blinks at Shiro’s wonder, maybe surprised at the disbelief in his voice. He lifts his chin, defiant. “Absolutely.” 

It’s a confession of faith that Shiro doesn’t deserve, even though he can’t help but want it. “Thank you,” he responds, because words aren’t big enough to tell Keith that he needed to hear this today. 

Keith nods, determination in the set of his jaw giving way to something softer. 

There’s a thin line of unease in Keith’s expression though, one that tells Shiro that Keith has indeed been shaken by the extent of Shiro’s poor health. Shiro tries to lift the mood by making a show of a leisurely stretch above his head. He sinks back into the pillows, and gives him a sleepy smile. “Today at least, all I need is a little more rest. I’ll see you in training tomorrow.” 

The worry eases from between Keith’s brows. “I’ll be there.” 

Shiro decides that it’s a promise not just to Keith, but for himself as well, and he intends to keep it. 

*

The board is a new thing. 

Keith gets the idea from the true crime shows Foster Mom Number Three used to watch---the kind with the hard-boiled police detective, and the manila folder case files, and the push pins, the strings---but he doesn’t execute it until he lifts up a stack of papers and finds a very angry scorpion underneath. 

(Scorpions are always angry, as far as Keith can tell. Other bugs and the tiny little lizards that sometimes find their way into his home, they get safely ushered outside at arm’s length. But scorpions get the biggest boot he has and a lot of swearing.) 

And so. 

Keith spends an entire afternoon dragging the old corkboard up from the cellar and making enough room to tack it to the longest wall in the living room. He has photos, and drawings, his trusty map...he pins them to the board in a way that makes sense. He frowns, unpins. Moves things around. 

The police detectives in those shows are onto something, Keith thinks. When it’s all laid out in front of him---wow. 

Keith takes a step back and falls over the arm of the sofa. He half laughs---he’s not crazy. “I’m not crazy,” he tells the room, running a hand through his hair, voice raspy with disuse. He gawks  at all of his work, heart beating absurdly fast. “This is real. There’s really something out there.” 

He stands up, abrupt. He needs---

Grabbing his flashlight, Keith scrambles out the door, letting the screen bounce shut behind him. He jumps off the porch and makes his way back to the cellar, taking the cement stairs two at a time. Isn’t there…

Keith begins to pull boxes off the shelves in the cellar. Mostly cardboard boxes, filled with all kinds of things---books and old clothes, a set of dishes, tangled strings of Christmas lights---no, this isn’t---

He pauses over one of them. The folds of the cardboard are tucked beneath one another, but something makes Keith hook his fingers inside, tugging it open. The contents...Keith lifts darkest navy blue fabric out of the box. The cloth is made out of something he’s never felt before. It’s soft, like cotton, but pebbly too. A texture unlike anything else. And thick. Strange. It’s impossible to say what the garment may have been, because when Keith unfolds it, the edges are curled in terrible scorch marks. Half of it---or more---has been burned away. 

“Wonder why Dad kept this,” Keith murmurs, somehow unable to put it down. He sinks to the ground, the box nearly tipping out of his arm as he settles into the dust covered floor, original objective forgotten. 

The bundle of gray fabric is hidden towards the bottom of the box, between a yellow sundress and a baby blanket. Keith feels something like a chill as his hands close around the solid weight. He’s biting his lip as he slowly rises to his feet and climbs the stairs, up into the daylight where he can see more easily. 

The fabric falls away from the hilt of the knife as if eager. The hilt, a perfect match to his palm. Keith’s blood trills in his ears at the first sign of metal. He swallows. He unwraps it further, tracing a fingertip over the insignia, before unsheathing it fully. The blade is unlike anything else. It’s smoothest water; he tilts it, darkest blood; he raises it, sharpest sword. He passes it from palm to palm, oddly calmed. 

One more thing clicks into place. 

*

One hour into the official start of summer break, Shiro presents Keith with a fudgesicle with all the gravity of handing over a medal of honor. 

“You made it, cadet,” Shiro intones, using his best ‘superior officer’ voice. 

Keith accepts his award and salutes him, yellow wrapper caught between his teeth, “Just barely, sir,”

Shiro laughs and Keith opens his mouth to let the popsicle drop into his hands. He’s grinning as he rips it open. “Iverson’s a slick one, trying us with that Immelmann towards the tail end of the sim. Half the class flat out tanked. And the ones that didn’t crash were flying blind in the wrong direction!” He snickers. 

Shiro sucks his teeth and gives Keith the cheekiest grin. “What would you say if Iverson wasn’t the one who wrote the exam?” 

Keith stops, popsicle halfway to his mouth. He looks up at Shiro. “No.” 

Shiro bites his lip and gives Keith a nod. 

Keith bursts into a laugh and Shiro cuffs the back of his neck---resting his hand over the pale skin between the hair at the nape of his neck and the droop of the collar of his tee shirt. Keith sways, looking up at him for a moment before ducking his head back down.

He’s walking with Keith back to the first years’ dorms. Many students have already moved out for the summer term, but a few stragglers remain, haggard looking students carting boxes and backpacks out of their rooms. Shiro doesn’t know if Keith has packed yet or not. 

Keith takes an enormous bite out of the fudgsicle and chews, thoughtful. “It was a perfect maneuver though. If you could pull off the turn, the course flowed like anything after that. Smooth sailing.” 

Excited that Keith gets it, Shiro gives him an enthusiastic nod. “Exactly! The entire exam was designed around that one maneuver. I knew it would be a challenge, but I designed it to guide you to that endpoint. Difficult, yes, but it was the natural conclusion. Your class---” 

Shiro is so wrapped up in the bright feeling of having been perfectly understood that he doesn’t notice the way Keith is looking at him---all quiet happiness, adoration shimmering in his solemn eyes. He doesn’t notice until he stops talking and Keith ducks his face down again, concealing his smile. 

Keith takes another bite out his popsicle, teeth scraping along the wooden stick. 

Shiro falters, “Anyways---I take it there was at least one student who managed to pull it off?” 

Keith licks the chocolate from the edge of his mouth and nods before sticking the wooden popsicle stick between his teeth. “Guilty as charged,” he says around the stick. It wobbles in his mouth as he grins. 

Shiro cannot explain how warm the pride of Keith’s success makes him feel. It’s a new feeling, to delight in the accomplishments of someone else. All this time, Shiro has been working so hard against the figurative clock, killing himself to achieve ---higher, farther, younger, faster---that he’s never really enjoyed this kind of victory before. It strikes him then, how much he’s going to miss Keith during the summer months. 

* 

Something is coming. 

That’s the conclusion that Keith’s drawn. He’s been working through the puzzle, putting the pieces together as best he can, and that’s what it all means. He’s certain. 

He’s certain that something is coming and somehow it has to do with Shiro. 

Keith begins to prepare, even though he doesn’t know what he’s preparing for, or when exactly it will happen. 

But he’ll be ready. 

*

Halfway through the summer, when the temperature is predicted to reach 122 degrees, and the prediction is wrong---it’s even hotter---Shiro and Adam argue. 

“I don’t know how to explain this any better,” Shiro retorts, frustrated. 

Adam takes off his glasses. No matter how angry, Shiro has never heard Adam raise his voice in a fight; it’s just not in his personality. The act of him taking off his glasses and setting them on their coffee table is the equivalent of another person punching through a wall. He’s angry. “Takashi.” The name comes out clipped, Adam’s jaw is set, afterall. He inhales, and then exhales, through his nose. He’s choosing his words carefully. “That’s because it’s not logical.” 

Shiro’s mouth twists in heated retaliation. He wants to shout, to scream. How can Adam Just. Not. Get it? 

“And you know it.” Adam says, continuing before Shiro speaks. 

Shiro shakes his head. Adam is brilliant in so many ways. Long before they ever dated, Shiro always admired him: his attention to detail, his dedication to his work, his sharp mind. If this is something that he doesn’t understand, it’s because he doesn’t want to understand. 

“Clearly this is something we are not ever going to agree on,” Shiro says. He stands up, signaling the end of the conversation. He’s logged more hours in the advanced sim this week than any other pilot---three times more, actually---but he needs to get his feet off the ground. At least theoretically. 

Adam motions to his throat, indicating that Shiro should button his uniform collar properly before leaving their apartment. Shiro ignores him out of spite. 

It is not the last argument they have regarding the mission assignment. 

*

Three weeks later, they officially separate. It’s the worst break-up Shiro has ever been through. 

But he refuses to allow even this to hold him back. 

He throws himself headlong into his work. 

* 

Seven days after the break-up, Shiro formally accepts the pilot position for the Kerberos mission. 

The summer passes in a blur of paperwork and training and exhaustive briefings. Shiro becomes familiar with every detail of the journey, and the research that the Holt team will be conducting. From the most mundane to the most miraculous detail, Shiro comes away starry eyed. Kerberos. The farthest reach of humanity thus far, and his to fly. It’s everything. Everything he’s worked for. 

*

The summer passes and Keith begins his second year. 

He finds Shiro the week before classes start again, the soonest any of the underclassmen are permitted to move back on campus. 

“Shiro!!” 

Shiro is walking across campus to his office, but he stops dead in his tracks at the call of his name. That’s…

“Keith?!” 

Keith runs up to him, breathless and happy. “Surprised?” 

Shiro claps him on the back and pulls Keith against his side for a moment. He’s gotten taller. “By you? Never.” 

Keith nods, one hand coming up to touch his bangs, the dark hair failing to conceal a smile. His hair’s gotten longer. “I heard about the mission assignment. Congratulations, Shiro.” 

And Shiro can’t help but grin so wide his face is split, and pull Keith up, up off his feet and spin them around, right there in the middle of the courtyard. Keith laughs, squirming, face flushed like a hover bike race, and Shiro thinks this might be the happiest he’s ever seen him. His heart is full. 

When he sets Keith down, the smile isn’t gone from his face. He looks up at Shiro, expression hesitant, almost as if he wants to tell Shiro something.  

“So how was summer?” Shiro asks. Keith is following as he continues the walk to his office. 

“Well, I didn’t score any missions to the farthest reaches of our solar system, but, yeah. Summer wasn’t bad.” Keith’s smile tempers, and he looks down at his hands, before his eyes lift back up to Shiro’s. 

“Maybe next summer, then,” Shiro says lightly.

Keith laughs, soft. 

Shiro stops. “Wait. Have you seen her yet?” At Keith’s blank look, he clarifies: “The Kalypso?” 

Keith’s eyes grow wide. He shakes his head. “I tried...um. The home doesn’t have a computer that I can use, or internet, so. I spent a lot of the summer at the library...but the Garrison’s been really hush hush about her specs. I only know what the media’s been told.” 

“Wanna get the inside scoop?” Shiro pats his ID badge. 

“Hell yeah!!” Keith grins. He nods, biting his lip through the smile. “If it’s okay.” 

“Keith.” Shiro chides, already walking toward that sector of the Garrison grounds. He can’t imagine anyone he’d rather show. 

Keith’s reaction is exactly like he expects, once they get through all the security surrounding the ship. He stands next to Shiro, mouth halfway to a pout as he hangs on Shiro’s every word. He leans close to Shiro; it feels natural for Shiro to rest a hand between his shoulder blades, other arm outstretched as point out all the details of the aircraft. 

“So. What do you think, Keith? Everything you’ve ever dreamed of?” Shiro finishes. He looks down to find Keith’s face already tilted towards his, gaze soft. 

Keith nods. “I think.” He breathes out, turning his face back towards the looming ship. “It’s good to be back.” 

*

Keith pulls the quilt around his shoulders, the heavy weight of it cuffing the back of his neck. He tucks his feet underneath him on the couch, holding the quilt in place with one hand as he settles in. 

He keeps the radio on during the day, if he’s in the cabin. The familiar songs, wrapped in static snow, fill the silence in between the knock of the loose windowpane in the wind or the methodical ticking of the clock in his tiny kitchen. Keith sings along with the radio most days, under his breath while he works. 

The days stack up---in the beginning he works at making the cabin livable after being abandoned for so long, or maintaining the speeder, or gradual exploration into the surrounding desert. After he finds the markings in the caves, his focus shifts and a kind of obsession takes over. There’s something out there. The pieces aren’t all here yet, but Keith knows, he knows , that it has to do with Shiro. 

Pilot error, his ass. Yeah right. 

But that steady beat of confidence wanes as night falls. Tonight especially. 

Curled up here on the couch, he’s thinking about Shiro. Not about his starry smile, or broad shoulders, not the way he would say Keith’s name, voice catching against the syllables in a way that Keith wanted to hear forever. Not about the way he smelled---a combination of aircraft hangar, and desert air and the slightest hint of aftershave---a combination that Keith will now always take comfort in, because they mean flying just the same as they mean Shiro.

He’s not thinking about the way Shiro listened, really listened, no matter how clumsy Keith was with the words. Not about his sense of humor, or the patient way he used to explain things. None of those things, all of the things Keith misses every day. But instead, tonight, he’s missing Shiro’s hands. 

His hands. The easy way his hand settled on Keith’s back, right between the shoulder blades, when Keith stood at his side. He’d occasionally slide his hand up Keith’s back, squeeze Keith’s shoulder. His broad palm sometimes spanned the back of Keith’s neck, if he was leaning close. So many simple gestures, kind and warm in a way that Keith hasn’t felt since his father died.  

Keith would feel his face go hot at most of them, try not to make it obvious. They were such a genuine, honest thing---he didn’t want to make Shiro self-conscious. He didn’t want to give him any cause to stop. 

Keith misses Shiro’s touch. 

He used to let himself get lost in fantasies about that touch alone. Crave it. The idea of those broad hands drifting lower. The way they’re large enough to span Keith’s hips, maybe hold him down, maybe rough, maybe gentle, maybe perfect. The drag of his palms against Keith’s skin. The curl of his fingers through Keith’s hair. The dig of his fingers into Keith’s thighs, the scrape of fingernails, the way his touch would guide Keith---like all the ways he’s instructed Keith before---into something that would leave them both breathless. 

He used to let himself believe that he could be good for Shiro. That Shiro’s voice---his gorgeous voice---could gasp Keith’s name in a way that was so different from how he actually said it. Keith would let himself linger in those simple touches, hold them close, replay them to himself in the safety of his bunk at night, one knuckle shoved in his mouth for quietness. 

He used to. Not tonight. 

Keith remembers the weight of Shiro’s touch, innocent though it was. He remembers and pulls the quilt closer around his shoulders, and lets himself shudder out breath after breath because it’s not exactly crying. 

It’s late and he should sleep. 

*

Half an hour before the credits roll, Shiro picks up the remote control and turns off the movie. Without the noise from the television, the apartment settles. Shiro closes his eyes for a moment, listening to the quiet---the gentle buzz from the refrigerator in the kitchen, the whirr and click of the air conditioning shutting off, and Keith’s steady breaths from the opposite end of the couch. 

He’s sleeping with his mouth slightly parted, slumped over against the sofa’s armrest, knees tucked close to his chest. His flashcards---he has an exam tomorrow morning---lie forgotten on the coffee table, at home amongst tonight’s take out containers. 

Shiro stands, careful not to wake Keith. It’s okay for him to stay here. His dorm isn’t far, but Keith probably needs all the sleep he can get. The second year, as a general rule, is where many of the less serious students get weeded out. The coursework jumps exponentially in difficulty and many students just can’t keep up. Not Keith though, Shiro thinks, grabbing a throw blanket from the back of the couch and pulling it over Keith. Keith isn’t one to complain---the more demands the Garrison makes of him, the more serious he gets.  

Shiro has had the privilege of being there to witness it. He’s seen Keith outfly his classmates, yes, but he’s also seen him gradually ease into...well, not exactly friendships, but acquaintances at least. Keith is headstrong, but he’s never cruel, just awkward. His peers are beginning to understand, some of them, and respect him. 

Just last week, one of the girls in his sim group asked Keith for help on a difficult assignment. Keith went above and beyond to help her, drawing up a detailed explanation in his tight, careful script. He delivered it to her after class without even a hint of fanfare, completely unaware of how she looked at him. He doesn’t realize that the faculty love him too---the quietest student who takes no shit and consistently exceeds expectations. He has the makings of a leader. Shiro can see it. 

Shiro gets to see the more relaxed parts of Keith too. He has a ridiculous appetite. For junk food especially---when Shiro treats him to In-N-Out for the first time, Keith looks at him like he’s a saint. He’s a pack-rat. When he saw Shiro throwing out a pamphlet for a speech he gave regarding Kerberos, Keith retrieved it from the trash and threw veritable daggers out of his eyes. He has a sense of humor lame enough to rival Shiro’s own, even though it’s taken a long time for Keith to be comfortable enough around him to crack a joke. He’s competitive, and brilliant, and daring. He’s grown into the best friend that Shiro has ever had. 

Shiro stretches, raising his arms above his head in a drawn out, satisfying yawn. It’s getting late. 

He gathers up the slew of white boxes, pinning them shut to stick in the fridge with their older counterparts. Keith doesn’t stir. 

Shiro brushes his teeth and climbs into bed. Kerberos is close on the horizon now. Less than two months. It seems it’s all anyone talks about. Shiro’s flown other missions before, this is hardly his first voyage into space. But none of them ever felt like this. He’s swept up in it all: the planning, the fanfare---he’s been interviewed for several television spots, even!---and Shiro thrives on it. This is what he wanted---not the celebrity status, no, but the acknowledgement. He’s doing something meaningful . He’s making a mark. It helps him to rest easy. 

He’s not quite asleep when he hears the door slip open. And the strip of light that falls across the bed from the hall slowly widens. Shiro has his back to the door. Though the bed is wide enough for two, he’s still in the habit of sleeping on one side of it. 

Shiro hears the soft click of the door behind him. Just on the edges of sleep, Shiro relaxes, content. Keith probably came in to to say goodbye, and seeing Shiro was asleep, left without disturbing him. 

Shiro doesn’t even realize Keith is still in the room, until he feels the bed behind him shift under another person’s weight. Keith lifts the bedspread, slow, so slow. To Shiro’s sleep heavy mind, it seems like an eternity before he feels Keith, cautious not to disturb Shiro as he crawls into bed. 

Keith is quiet. He settles down behind Shiro’s back. Not close enough to touch. 

The seconds tick by, turning into minutes, and Keith remains tense behind Shiro. It seems far later that Shiro feels the lightest puff of a long exhale, gentle warmth over the back of his neck. The inhale that follows it is shaky, audible in the dark room. He hears Keith swallow, careful, as Shiro shifts against the pillow. It seems like it takes a long time for Keith’s breathes to even out, and by then, Shiro is already fast asleep. 

In the morning, though Shiro’s alarm still goes off at a hellishly early time, Keith is already gone. 

*

Far, far removed from the light pollution of the city or the Garrison campus, Keith is laying under the night sky, just as close to space as he can get. The roof of his cabin is still warm from the lingering rays of the sun, but the air is cool as it lifts his hair from his face. He settles into the metal slats against his back like they’re a king sized bed, just for him. Arms flung wide, legs outstretched, he’s a five pointed star. 

The moon hangs huge and near, creamiest gold in the endless sky. Each pinprick of light star is swirling together in their familiar pattern against black and blue, shifting slower than he can see as the Earth turns. 

Keith is laying out on the roof of his cabin, looking at the stars, and he’s thinking about a teacher he had in school, before Shiro came into life, when he would’ve never dreamed that he could reach the Garrison, much less fly. The teacher, she said---in that bright eyed way that people do, when they feel something in their hearts---that before any life was made, the elements within us came from the stars. Each person is intricately, inextricably tied there, cosmic in origin, impossibly connected. 

Keith didn’t get it at the time, but now that he’s met Shiro, he knows that it must be true. 

Because if it wasn’t, how could his heart ache this much? 

*

One day prior to Kerberos. 

The day prior to launch, Shiro wakes up to a notification on his handheld indicating that there is a heat advisory in effect. Record breaking highs expected the next three days. It seems like an apt prediction. 

The entire campus is crackling with anticipation surrounding the launch. From the moment Shiro ties his running shoes and steps outside his door, he can feel the restless energy. Or maybe that’s just his own nerves? 

He runs, chest heaving. Even in the very early morning, the heat is almost unbearable. The air is stagnant, too thick to breathe. The sweat rolls down his back and his face burns, but his body listens and cooperates the way it should. Shiro runs and runs and runs, like it could never be enough. Afterwards he takes an ice cold shower and thinks, I am alive. 

His possessions have been divied up---the majority packed in boxes and locked securely in a storage unit outside of Phoenix city limits. A smaller number given away to friends, or sold. An even smaller number carefully reviewed, catalogued, and packed into a dufflebag which is already secured in his bunk on the Kalypso Mk II. 

The temperature record is broken sometime between the final briefing regarding the minutiae of the launch day schedule and the last check Shiro performs on the ship that will become his home for the next three years. 

There’s a party. Nothing overly strenuous, but the entire Holt family---their daughter is like a miniature Matt, it’s crazy---and a few officers, other people from the department gather. Adam is there too. He hugs Shiro, lips brushing to kiss his cheek, and wishes him well. There’s food and laughter and a jittery kind of lightness as everyone talks about the next three years. It seems like so many people’s dreams are hinged on Kerberos. Shiro makes the rounds for a little while, then slips away. 

“Shouldn’t you be taking tonight off, sir?” one of the maintenance technicians asks him, catching Shiro walking across campus with purpose. 

“I am!” Shiro responds, hand raised in a wave. Hangar E is not so far away now. 

He’s not at all surprised, when he opens the door, to find that the hoverbike with the red detailing---the fastest of the bunch---is already missing. 

Though the sun has begun its descent, the air is still stifling hot. It’s not until Shiro is speeding away from the Garrison, as fast as the bike can take him, that it’s bearable. Finally, he can breathe easy. 

He flies now with none of the careful precision and regulated protocols that he’ll employ tomorrow. He thought Kerberos would be his to fly, and it is, but he’ll be flying for more than just himself. He’ll be flying for the whole world. Now, now as he drives the machine beneath him ever faster, as he drops, weightless and reckless over the edge---this is just for him. 

He finds Keith as the sun drops close to the Earth, lighting the desert sky up with color. 

Keith is sitting with one foot up on the saddle of the hoverbike, leg bent to rest his cheek against his knee. He’s still as Shiro approaches. 

“There’s a heat advisory in effect, cadet,” 

Keith’s leg shifts to the ground and he sits up straight, body tilting towards Shiro though his eyes are still trained out over the land. “It’s always hot,” he says. His voice is pitched lower, a slight rasp curling over the edges where it shouldn’t be. 

“Not like this,” Shiro says, tone soft, as he dismounts. He tugs the riding goggles off his face and tosses them on the bike behind him. He walks over to Keith’s side. “Keith. You okay?” 

“Not like this,” Keith agrees. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his palm. “Just thinking about tomorrow...I’m proud of you Shiro,” he says, turning towards Shiro to meet his eyes. He’s grown up so much over the past two years, and they’ve become close, best friends. But now Shiro is taken back to that first time he flew with Keith, when he looked at Keith and saw a kid trying not to cry. 

“Oh, Keith.” 

In one smooth motion, Keith is shifting over the bike seat, dropping down from the hoverbike’s raised platform, falling into Shiro’s arms. 

Shiro’s breath is knocked out of him and he’s forced to take a step back, even as his arms encircle Keith. 

He has his face pressed against Shiro’s chest. Shiro can feel all the tension tightly wound, and he presses Keith’s back, holding him tight. Keith shudders out a breath, one of his small hands bunched in Shiro’s shirt. 

Keith holds him and Shiro hears him swallow, like words not said. Like longing, he realizes then. A realization too late. 

“Keith,” Shiro tries. 

“Takashi,” Keith says, and Shiro chokes. Since the death of his grandfather, the only ones who have called him by his given name have been lovers. Keith knows that. 

Shiro pulls away, just enough to look down into Keith’s face. “No. Ke--”

“I---” 

“No.” Shiro cuts him off. He shakes his head. “That’s not fair to you, Keith.” 

Keith looks up into Shiro’s face, and Shiro can see it in his eyes---Keith wants to rush, bold and reckless and wonderful into this. Shiro wants to give him everything, but this. He can’t. 

And Keith never asks for anything. 

He never asks for anything, but now he pulls Shiro close once more, this time standing tall enough to hook his chin over Shiro’s shoulder, pull him close. Entire body flush against Shiro’s, he holds onto him with a desperate strength. 

And Shiro realizes something else then; he understands at that moment that he is one more person leaving Keith. And despite that, despite the hurt, Keith would never ask for an apology or try to hold him back. 

Shiro bends forward, holding Keith tight, arms wrapped around his slender frame. Suddenly so grateful that Keith found his way into his life. He can feel the dip of Keith’s adam’s apple as he swallows, pressed close. 

“It’s not forever,” Shiro says. The mission is a little over three years. One thousand, two hundred four days. It’s not the end. It’s not permanent. “It’s not permanent,” he tells him. 

Keith pulls back. His mouth works, eyes searching Shiro’s face. He nods, mouth pressed tight. The words go unsaid.   

*

The next day, Shiro embarks on the Kerberos Research Expedition. He’ll fly further than ever before. He’s doing it for everyone, and for himself. And he’s thinking of Keith. 

*

Shiro. Keith thinks, alone under widest Arizona sky. It feels permanent to me. 

***