Archive of Our Own

And babe I’ve been a lot of things 

I’m proud of just a few

But none of them compare

To being someone next to you 

—Anna Tivel, Dust and Magic 

***

Solar flares bloom around him in clusters, blue and white and fluorescent pink, like unfathomable hydrangea. Their ‘petals,’ however, hide deadly spires of magnetic force, amassing clusters of energy and broken asteroid alike. The final stretch of the route is the most dangerous. Keith’s hands are steady over the helm, pushing the ship faster, faster. When the visibility drops to near zero, he blinks, taking it in stride. Almost there, 

Almost, 

The ship dips past the planet’s thin atmosphere, utter darkness shifting into quintessence laden brightness in a split second. Spindling rock formations, unlike any mountain range on Earth, provide one final challenge as the ship slows from half-light speed. This stretch, too, he navigates with the same steady calm, betrayed only by a smile twitching over his mouth. And then— 

The finish! Keith’s ship marks the finish line in a zing of energy, skipping over the planet’s lunar-like surface until he pulls it to a stop in one long, elegant arc. The comm channel flips back to life and it’s as if the entire planet is cheering in his ears. 

“Thanks, guys.” Keith clears his throat, adrenaline betraying him with a certain giddiness in his voice. “That was, uh. Really fun.” 

“Commander of the Marmoran Blade Soldiers and Venerated Black Paladin of the Universe’s Voltron, we are honored .” One of the planet’s ambassadors, Monoceros, greets Keith as he jumps down from the ship onto the planet’s surface. “Only our most skilled aerialists are able to complete the Plancius, and you have outmatched even our fastest, your eminence.” 

It’s true that at this time, several moments after Keith’s finish, the ship that will take second place in the race is just now re-entering the atmosphere. Keith mimics the tall alien’s stance, placing his hands on his thighs and bowing his head respectfully. “Thanks. But, um. Just 'Keith' is fine.” 

“Just Keith!” Monoceros bellows. The cheers of the nation are drowned out by the second place ship careening downward. Keith tilts his head, watching. Not bad, considering the rough air, but the pilot could work on their pressure-altitude handling. 

His hair is whipped by the wind from the speed of the plane, and the humming of the crystalline engine, and the crowd’s roaring approval. So much so that he almost misses Monoceros’ next words.

“Sorry?” Keith blinks up at the tall alien. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder toward the ‘skilled aerialist’ and his jet, indicating the noise. “Kinda loud.” 

“As I was saying,” Monoceros’ expression almost breaks as he clumsily repeats his grandiose statement, “For such a renowned guest such as yourself, our offering is humble. But please accept a token of our people as your prize.” With a flourish, Monoceros indicates the ship in which Keith won the race. 

“Oh.” Keith blinks. “Yeah?” 

Monoceros gives him a stilted smile. He nods. 

“I don’t really…” Keith shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again. He doesn’t really need an extra ship or anything. It’s nice, don’t get him wrong, but, yeah. Kinda unnecessary. He looks up at the alien dude. Monoceros is looking at him expectantly. “I mean, cool.” Keith nods, doing his best to look grateful. “Thanks everybody!” He does a wave toward the crowd. “Really…yeah. Really appreciate it!” 

Thus, crystal key in hand, Keith hooks up his new ship to his Marmoran issued cruiser. Towing it is definitely going to add time to his journey home. 

*

“Yeah, so,” Keith nods, stuffing a large portion of bagel into his mouth. The galley of the IGF-Atlas is the only place this side of the Milky Way with cream cheese. “That’s why I’m late.” 

Lance gapes at him across the table. “You mean to tell me that you went to the planet with the galaxy’s most revered aeronautical geniuses and won their most advanced and sought after ship in a race ?! What the cheese, Keith?!” 

Keith shrugs and takes another bite. Isn’t that what he just said? “I think it was like,” Keith waves the remainder of his bagel in the air significantly, “A holy race. Special or some shit.” He chews thoughtfully. “Yeah.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“In my experience, Keith most certainly can be serious. When the situation calls for it, of course.” 

“Shiro!!” Keith is out of his seat and halfway across the galley as soon as he hears Shiro’s voice. Like always, Shiro takes his enthusiasm in stride and wraps Keith in an embrace— the hug is strong and steady and somehow feels like the only home Keith has ever had. “Sorry I smell like onion bagel,” Keith mumbles into the starchy collar of the captain’s jacket. 

Tucked against Shiro’s chest, he can feel the chuckle. “You’re fine, Keith. What’s this I hear about winning a ship?” 

Keith takes a step back and grins up at him. “D’you wanna see?” 

“Hey man!” Lance smacks a hand over the table. He shouts over the clamor of officers and Atlas staff. “You made plans with me first!! We have scheduled Bro Time from 14:00 to 17:00!! I even have it in my gcal!!” 

“Raincheck!” Keith gives him a thumbs up, walking backwards as he pulls Shiro towards the nearest exit. He ducks back into the galley from the hall, and hollers, with another thumbs up, “But uh, you’re doing great, Lance. Keep up the good work!” 

“Oh, can it with the ‘leader voice,’ mullet!” 

Keith snickers. He looks up at Shiro keeping pace next to him as they stride down the hall. Shiro has such a presence . No one else takes up a room like Shiro does. Just being around him— Keith will never be able to explain it, but even now, it sends the same shiver of excitement through him that it did when he was a starry eyed cadet. “Dude. You have good timing.” 

Quiet amusement shifts and Shiro lifts his brows in wry humor. “First I’m hearing of it.” 

“Yeah.” Now outside the more populated halls, Keith slows their pace. Shiro is so busy these days, he savors every moment they spend together. “You saved me. Last time Lance got me with ‘Bro Time’ we had to do pedicures .” Keith shudders. 

“The horror.” Shiro deadpans. 

Keith laughs. “You say that but you need to remember that means being locked in a spa room with Lance’s feet . Trapped there while he talks.” 

“I see your point.” 

“Yeah.” Keith nods. “Anyways. I’ve blocked it from my mind,” 

“Healthy coping mechanism,” 

“Shut up.” Keith grins at Shiro’s interjection. “Let me tell you about the Plancius race.” The heady warmth of having Shiro’s undivided attention starts in Keith’s chest and rises to his cheeks, the tops of his ears. He motions with his hands, intent on explaining properly, soon becoming lost in the various details of the course and the minutiae of flying it. He knows that Shiro would have been right there with him, matching him at every interval, and that idea is thrilling enough to keep him going. No one flies like Shiro flies. It’s not until they reach the hold that Keith realizes he’s been talking non-stop. “Sorry, uh. But, yeah. You would’ve loved it, Shiro. We should go together one day.” 

“I’d like that,” Shiro says. 

And it sounds so genuine that warmth in Keith’s cheeks becomes heat. Keith ducks his head. He mumbles something, embarrassed and happy. They’ve made it to the central hold, where the belly of the Atlas opens to space, where visiting ships and the Atlas’ own fleet is docked. 

Shiro whistles and the sweet sound of it echoes through the massive chamber full of aircraft. “Keith,” he says, “This is a hell of a ship.” 

Nodding, Keith agrees. “She flies even nicer than she looks.” 

He lets Shiro lead the way into the high tech aircraft, watching as Shiro takes in all of the details of the ship. It’s easy to forget how much of a legend Takashi Shirogane is in the world of aviation, until you have him up close and personal in something this state-of-the-art. With laser precision, Shiro zeros in on just how special this ship really is.  

“I’d love to fly it,” Shiro admits, sitting back in the pilot’s seat. His eyes are still caught in the ship’s impressive specs, laid out in floating screens all around the cockpit. The glow of them makes Shiro seem almost otherworldly, hair like starlight, profile handsome, the set of his uniformed shoulders so commanding in his perfect posture. Keith can’t imagine anyone looking better in the seat than Shiro looks right now. 

“It’s yours.” Keith says, hiding the moony-ness in his voice with a gruff cough. Sometimes he doesn’t mean to say exactly the words he does, but if he says them, he means the words he says. This is like that. “Fly it whenever you want.” 

“Excuse me? Keith, this is— you’re giving it to me?” 

“You deserve it,” Keith says, crossing his arms. Now that this impulsive idea has taken hold, he’s far too stubborn to take ‘no’ for an answer. “I— I want you to have it.” 

“Wow.” Shiro surveys the impressive helm once more, thumb and forefinger resting lightly on his bottom lip. It’s one of his many tells— this one is the one he does when he’s trying to hide a smile. His hand falls away and he looks up at Keith, smile now on display, boyish, playful. “Don’t expect me to argue.” 

“Good,” Keith says, relaxing enough that his shoulders aren’t hiked to his ears and his arms fall to his side. His heart is beating so fast. His face feels hot. “Yeah.” He takes the crystal key from his pocket and sets it into Shiro’s palm with purpose. “Anyways. Tell me what’s new with you.” 

They can’t linger for long. Shiro has only a few minutes before he’s needed for a press conference celebrating the Alliance’s latest. And Keith is scheduled to ship out to his next assignment later tonight. But every moment that he has with Shiro is one to savor. 

*

He hears from Shiro not long after he leaves the Atlas— it’s late according to Keith’s time, and Shiro, ever considerate, left him a video message instead of pinging him on the comm line directly. 

Keith sees the message while brushing his teeth. His stomach swoops like he’s pulling G’s in heavy atmosphere, face flushing hot right there in his Marmoran ship’s tiny lavatory. He spits, flosses, rinses with mouthwash, then takes his comm and bounds into bed. Shiro. 

“Scoot,” he tells the space wolf, worming his way under the covers. The space wolf is big and heavy, but at least his bed is already warm. And the small sliver of cot left to him is enough. Punching the pillow once to get comfortable, Keith kicks the blankets around until they’re arranged the right way. And then— Shiro. Keith holds the comm close to his face, the light from the screen washing over him in the dark room. Heart thudding, he plays the message: 

“Keith!!” Shiro is breathless on screen, grinning. His hair is tousled. He’s out of uniform and looks much younger for it, not the captain of the Atlas, not here. He runs a hand through his hair and Keith can picture him from years ago, laughing, shaking red Sonoran dust out of his dark hair after climbing off the hoverbike. The same captivating spark is in his eyes now when he grins at the camera, “You weren’t lying! What a ride!! As soon as I had a spare minute to myself I couldn’t resist.” He stands and the camera wobbles before focusing again on Shiro’s face. “I used the same settings you had already programmed and— wow.” His smile becomes softer, more intimate, “I think I needed this tonight. Thank you.” A pause. Shiro wets his lips, Keith tracks the movement, noting the way they purse around the next word. “I— I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon. Until then,” Shiro signs off with a casual salute, the kind that would look like a jerk if anybody else did it, but with Shiro just looks cool. 

Keith plays the message once more from the beginning, holding his breath the whole while. 

He plays it a third time, this time pausing the video halfway through. Happy. He looks so happy. Keith’s heart swells and it’s not just his own happiness in return, but pride. He made it happen. Shiro looks that way because of him. He can’t help it. He watches the video once more before he sends a message back: 

Glad you like it. -K 

*

Gomeisa’s vegetation is probably not sentient. 

At least, Keith hopes that it isn’t. He runs along the side of the cliff, dodging vines as they surround him, attacking, cutting through the thorny arms as they rush towards him like arrows. 

With a shout, he jumps, sword catching the light of the planet’s twin red suns, blade high over his head. He plunges it into the floral heart of the beast— the creature erupts in an explosion of pollen, bright marigold, buzzy spores floating in a cloud large enough to be seen from space, he finds out later. 

And then, the thing falls still. 

Keith hacks into the chlorophyll filled chambers of it, hair and skin and blade sticky with the sweet smelling sap and a gauzy layer of pollen. It takes a few minutes, but then he hears it: crying. 

Muttering to himself about focus, Keith is careful as he makes the next few slices into the prickly flesh of the giant plant. He doesn’t want to injure them. The innermost wall is thick— he throws his shoulder into it, driving the luxite into the wall with a grunt, and then uses a sawing motion to carve out enough of an opening to be a door. 

“Hi guys.” Keith wipes his blade off on the leg of his pants— it’s a bad habit, Regris is always telling him that he’s gonna lose a leg one day— and sheathes the knife. He sticks his head in first, and then crawls inside the enormous chamber. “My name’s Keith. I’m rescuing you.” 

The kids look at him, no longer crying, but also not…not crying. “It’s okay,” Keith reassures them. “Let me do a head count and then we’re outta here.” He counts aloud: “...five, six…I think we’re missing somebody.” 

One of the children— they look almost like Earth kids, but a little more green— points to the ceiling of the chamber. 

“How’d he get up there?” Keith frowns. It takes him another ten minutes to figure out a way to climb up to the upper level. “Hi,” he says, once he finally reaches the seventh kid. “My name’s Keith. What’s your name?” 

“Nangar.” The young boy sniffles. 

“Cool name,” Keith says. “You ready to head home?” 

The little boy nods and promptly attaches himself to Keith’s chest, arms around Keith’s neck. “Ohh…kay. That works.” At least it feels fairly secure while Keith navigates back to the ground. Luckily there’s vines in here. 

“Hands,” he says, addressing the group. Nangar doesn’t want to let go, so Keith helps him climb up to Keith's shoulders to sit. He holds onto Keith's head, taller than all the rest. With Nangar secure, Keith holds out both his hands. “Everybody holds hands and nobody gets lost.” A string of four kids grasp his hand on his left side, two kids on his right, and Nangar on his back. “Okay. Let’s roll.” All eight of them start the journey back to the village. Slowly. Little legs don’t walk so fast, and Keith makes sure they take a snack break too. 

“Our babies!!” A woman wails as soon as Keith is in sight. A couple of the kids rush towards her, but most of them are content to stay with Keith for the time being. 

“You truly are the universe’s finest defense of peace,” the leader says in a grave voice. Like the kids, she’s green, a healthy chartreuse, but she’s the only one wearing a crown made of leaves and sticks. She closes her eyes; a gesture Keith read is a sign of respect for these aliens. “How will we ever repay you?” 

“Uh,” he says, shrugging, feeling awkward with his own eyes closed. This is stupid because how will they know if they’re respecting each other if everyone’s got their eyes closed all the time? He squints, opening his eyes just a little bit. “Don’t worry about it?” 

It takes him a long time to say goodbye to the kids— Nangar especially wants to stay with Keith— and the alien lady insists that Keith take a bottle of fancy wine with him when he leaves. It sits next to him in his co-pilot’s chair as he jettisons away.  

*

As a general rule, Keith doesn’t usually visit Altea. But when the wolf won’t stop sneezing due to the pollen in his hair, he has to make a pit stop to clean his ship and take an actual bath. The castle will always have a room for him, he’s been told repeatedly— mostly by Coran— but that doesn’t stop him from feeling awkward every time he visits. Not because of any bad blood, just based purely on the fact that his room is...extremely pink. Allura decorated all of the paladins’ bedchambers herself, personally, and there are a lot of bows involved. Keith is in the midst of stacking frilly frou-frou pillows from his towering four poster bed onto an equally frilly chair when there is a business-like knock at his door. 

“Keith!” 

Without waiting for a response, the princess lets herself in. Well. She’s technically queen now. “RSVP or no, I should have known that you’d be here!” Allura says with a friendly huff. 

“Sorry?” Keith stands still while the princess wraps him in a hug. He never knows what to do with his hands. Allura is so soft and smells like expensive flowers. It stresses him out. 

“The benefit! Of course you’d find time to join us, such a good cause, I’m ever so—Keith…” She frowns. “ What is in your hair?” 

“Pollen.” Keith watches cross-eyed as Allura’s perfectly manicured nails pick a leaf out of his bangs. “And leaves.” 

“Were you attacked by a Xanthophytian xalendard en route?” She asks, incredulous. 

“I don’t think so?” Keith takes his leaf back. He sticks it in one of his belt packs for safekeeping. “And, I’m gonna take a bath, anyways, so don’t worry about it.” 

“Very well. I’ll let Shiro —”

“Shiro is here?” 

Keith doesn’t like the way Allura’s glossy pout turns into a knowing smile. She tilts her head and her sparkly earrings catch the light, sending color dancing over her shoulders and onto the pink wallpapered walls. “I had assumed that’s why you found time for our little benefit in your busy schedule…? Or is it not?” 

“Yeah. I mean, no ,” Keith feels his face flush. He scowls. “Whatever.” He grabs the back of his shirt and hikes it over his head. “I’m taking my clothes off now, so you better leave.” 

“Oh!” Ever demure, the princess covers her eyes. Naturally, she looks through her fingers, and happens to spot something sticking out of Keith’s trusty duffle bag. “Is that…? No it simply cannot be!” 

“Same bag as I always use,” Keith says, shrugging. He shakes out his shirt now that it’s off, and finds that more leaves come unstuck. And a couple of sticks. He’ll have to do laundry while he’s here. 

“Not the bag. This.” Allura withdraws the fancy wine from Keith’s bag. “Do you know what this is?” 

“Not really?” Keith shucks off his belt and undoes the button on his jeans. “It was a gift.” 

“The procyon only flowers once every hundred phoebes…and then the distillation process is extremely lengthy. All told, it can take over a thousand decaphoebs to make a single bottle.” Allura examines the unmarked glass bottle— the closure at the top is dipped in silver, and the liquid within shimmers iridescent. It’s delicate, smaller than the average wine bottle, perhaps, and only three-quarters of the way full. Like something very rare must be. “My father told me of it…I’ve never seen procyon liquor in real life.” She turns and realizes that Keith has taken his jeans off and is standing there listening to her in his underwear. “Oh! Keith! ” 

Keith smirks. “I warned you, princess.” 

She thrusts the fancy bottle into his chest, quintessence marks glowing in embarrassment. “You!” 

“See you later!” Keith calls as she fusses out the door. Her skirts make a swooshing noise as she escapes. 

*

Not one for formal events, Keith takes his time in the bath.  And even longer after he’s finished soaking to comb his hair out. But, eventually, finally, he grabs the fancy bottle and makes a beeline for the main halls of the castle, where Allura and the Alliance are hosting this charity event. 

Allura called it a ‘little’ benefit— it’s anything but. 

There’s easily hundreds of people here, most of them species that he knows, but some of the aliens, completely, well, alien. They talk and dance and do alien things under enormous displays of Altean pageantry— ribbons and banners and crystal chandeliers all hanging from the castle’s towering ceiling. 

It doesn’t matter. Regardless of how large a crowd might be, it’s second nature to find Shiro. No matter what, he’ll always find Shiro. Keith stays at the edges of the room, watching him through throngs of people. Shiro is so effortlessly personable. He looks powerful in his dress blues, shoes glassy with polish, hair styled, easy confidence on his features. Elegant.

Keith could be content to stay here in his orbit, heart quick in his chest, a decade worth of confessions in his mouth. He’d cross galaxies for this man— he has, he always will. 

Tonight it’s not a galaxy, but only a room. 

“Shiro.” 

At the sound of his name, Shiro turns. Calm confidence breaks into something far more sunny, “Keith?” 

“Surprise.” Keith says. And then, because Keith is not one to mince words— only bad guys— he lifts up the bottle. “I brought booze. ‘Supposed to be good shit. Wanna ditch?” 

Shiro lifts two fingers and places them on his own neck, lifting his chin, eyes distant as if contemplating. 

“What are you doing?” 

Smile twitching over his mouth: “I’m checking to see if I’ve died, Keith. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Keith socks him in the shoulder at the same time that a dorky grin breaks over Shiro’s face. “Stop with that. C’mon, before the princess sees us.” 

“Sir, yessir,” 

There’s a giddiness that he can’t shake off as Keith herds Shiro away from the party. He made it his business a long time ago to know the Castle of Lions inside and out— he sketched out the entire ship in one of his notebooks, every hall, every room, every closet— important information to have on hand in case of attack. The Castle of Lions is long gone, but this place is modeled in its likeness, and, sure enough, the same balcony exists here, tucked away behind a seldom used staircase. 

Back then it looked out into the vast expanse of space, endless black, but here the view is much less severe: Altea’s night sky is deepest purple, marked with bright blue clouds. Unfamiliar constellations peek through the cotton-like haze. 

Keith pops a squat right there, letting his boots dangle off the edge, far above rolling fields of juniberries below. Shiro sits next to him, fancy dress shoes next to Keith’s boots, close enough that Keith can feel the warmth from the constant glow of his prosthetic. 

“Here.” Keith hands him the bottle. “For you.” 

“Just for me?” Shiro wonders, turning the bottle in his hand to look at it. 

Keith shrugs. “I don’t drink much.” He picks at torn cuticles with his thumbnail, ducking his head, suddenly awash with embarrassment. He wants to make Shiro happy again. “Hope you like it.” 

Shiro looks at him for a moment, expression quiet with something unsaid. Keith burns under that, under Shiro’s knowing gaze. He always has. He can’t break away; he doesn’t try to. Not until Shiro turns his attention back to the task at hand: “Well. If I can open it.” 

“Oh,” Keith makes a grabbing motion. “Sorry. Sure. Let me.” He flicks his knife from its holster, easily using the edge of it to slip through the silver, dislodging the ancient closure. It opens with a hiss, the faintest hint of something special. 

Their hands brush as Shiro takes it back from him. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and pauses. Lowers it, tilts a smile towards Keith. “Wait. What are we celebrating?” 

“Uh.” Keith’s fingers tap over his knees, thinking. He comes up with…nothing. It seems to him that nothing could be better than this, nothing could be worth more than sitting here with Shiro, just like this. But that’s not easy to put into words. 

Taking the pause from Keith, Shiro comes up with his own answer. “Alright then. To more nights that need no cause for celebration.” 

Keith snorts because that doesn’t sound very Takashi Shirogane, Breaking Every Record and Taking the Universe by Storm of him, and Shiro laughs, taking a long swig of the bottle. 

He laughs again, lowering it, handsome features pinched before they smooth out. “Well. That’s strong.”

“Bad strong?” 

“Try for yourself.” 

Keith takes the bottle and mimics Shiro, taking a long draught from its shimmery contents. He doesn’t cough but it’s a near thing— the alcohol seems to travel up from his mouth through his nose and sinuses and settle directly into his head. He blinks, reeling. “Woah.” 

“Not bad,” Shiro says, taking the next sip. Keith’s brain is a haze, needlessly supplying the idea that Shiro’s pretty mouth looks prettier like this, and that Keith’s lips just shared the same place as his. He parts them, collecting wetness from the bottom one in a way that makes Keith feel hopelessly lost. 

Shiro purses his mouth, thinking. “Reminds me of…hm. Diet coke.” 

Keith nearly spits out his next swallow. “Dude.” He takes a more careful sip. The shimmering, strong glow settles in his head again, but the flavor behind it really does taste just like flat diet coke. “Holy shit. You’re right.” 

“Sometimes that happens,” 

“The princess would have a cow,” Keith snickers. “She said this stuff was the best there is!” 

“Seeing as Allura already has a complicated history with Kaltenecker,” Shiro winks, raising the bottle to his mouth, “Let’s not tell her.” 

A laugh breaks forth from Keith,

“It’s good to see you,” Shiro says, taking the words straight from Keith’s heart. “I’ve missed this. Couldn’t believe it when I turned around and you were there.” 

Keith hums, pleased that he managed to surprise Shiro. “We’ve never done this before,” he says, the first contrary thing that comes to mind. Just because he’ll blurt out everything if he doesn’t say that. 

“Hmmm.” As if involuntary, Shiro swirls the liquid, sending iridescence into a kind of contained storm before he swallows it down. “True. I did my fair share of drinking at the Garrison, but you were too young then.” 

That was a lifetime ago, and so much has happened, so much has changed. But, if Keith is honest with himself, he feels as if the very core of him will never move on from that time. The constant of loving Shiro is so wrapped up in everything he’s grown to be, how could he? Keith looks at his hands. Right now, still in hand-me-down gloves that Shiro gave him before the Kerberos launch. Everything has changed; Keith has changed, but that feeling is the same. 

“Lucky for me,” Shiro chuckles, “I’d have lost any good opinion you had of me if you knew what a lightweight I am.” 

Keith turns to him— noticing now that Shiro’s face is completely red, so much that his scar stands out, a brilliant white line over his nose. The flush spreads all the way up to his ears, the tops of which look painfully red. “Are you?” He watches Shiro blink, dreamy, slow, before he nods. “You are!” 

“In my defense,” Shiro says, and there’s no slur to his words, but they come out slower than usual, like Shiro is trying very hard to say them, “I had a few drinks before you showed up and handed me this.” 

“Huh.” 

“Oh no,” Shiro bites his lip, smiling, knocking against Keith with his shoulder, “There it goes.” 

“What?” Keith watches as Shiro finishes off the last of the bottle, watches with fascination the column of his throat, the dip of his adam’s apple, the line of his jaw. 

“Your respect.” 

Keith bristles. He knows Shiro is joking but he doesn’t think it’s funny. “It’s not going anywhere! Ever! For anything!” 

“That’s dangerous, Keith,” Shiro says with a sigh, settling against him. 

He’s hot, and heavy, and Keith is on fire with the weight of him, and the way Shiro’s big hand rests so comfortably on Keith’s waist. Keith can’t even think when Shiro settles into it, like he’ll stay this way forever. 

Keith can smell his cologne and the way the thrusters on the Atlas sometimes smell like burnt sugar and the perfumey detergent the Alteans like and Shiro has adopted. He can feel the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest. Keith swears under his breath, something about danger. 

“Tell me about your last assignment,” Shiro decides. A rumble of a voice that Keith can feel. Keith wonders if he knows that his thumb is stroking Keith’s hip, somehow tucked under layers of clothes now. 

“I—uh.” Keith swallows. His own face is hot, but it’s not from the few swallows of alien liquor. Shiro himself is far more intoxicating. “It turned into a rescue mission.” Shiro is patient with him, listening to all the words and the pauses between them until Keith is telling the whole story. He’s always been like that, so committed to understanding.

They get even closer, when another hour has passed and Keith hauls them both into a standing position. Shiro leans on him, laughing, tie undone, hair now out of place, shirt somehow untucked. 

Keith walks him back to his room. Watches in amusement as Shiro kicks his shiny shoes off at the door, staggering now. 

“Will you be alright?” Keith asks him, raising one eyebrow from the doorway. 

“Of course,” Shiro says, looking at him, slouching there in the doorway with him. Shiro never slouches. “Unless it’s possible to die by way of pink lace. In which case, I’m a goner.” 

Keith breaks into a laugh— this is what he’s been saying! He throws his arms out. “Right?! My bed has a gazillion pillows on it! Why?!” 

Shiro laughs too, and somehow they close the laugh together, caught in it. Shiro’s mouth looks soft as he smiles down at Keith, expression dreamy. “Thank you for this. Tonight. Keith— I.” He pauses and Keith looks up at him, watching the thoughts blink through his starry eyelashes. “I—Will you—” He shakes his head, still smiling, tighter now. “I’ll see you in the morning?” 

When he replays the moment in his mind— over and over again— Keith doesn’t know why he doesn’t just answer . He doesn’t know why his hand moves, reaching up to settle against Shiro’s cheek. He doesn’t plan the slow rise, the way he leans in, as if pulled, wanting, wanting this so badly it’s as if his heart stopped forever for this moment. He doesn’t know why he does it, only that he does. He presses his mouth to Shiro’s, just as soft as it looked— but real and solid, unlike any imagining. Warm. 

Keith breathes there, mouth parted enough to taste him, enough to catch his lips, enough to feel this. Shiro. 

And then his thoughts catch up with his actions and Keith drops back down to his feet and takes a step back, startled by himself. Unable to look Shiro in the eye— until he does and that’s the worst thing because Shiro is standing there and he just looks confused and who wouldn’t be because even Keith is confused and he’s the one who did it— 

“I’m—” Keith’s face feels so hot, hotter than it ever has, maybe, and his eyes are pricking and that’s mortifying. “I’m going now! Okay! Goodnight!” 

He flees. 

*

Keith heaves out a breath, sweat rolling down his naked back. He steps sideways, body taut, not taking his eyes off his opponent on the battlefield across from him, 

Not even when perspiration drips, stinging into his eyes. He shakes his head, slinging drops of sweat onto the ground, body leaden with fatigue. The Mothallan warrior in front of him is huge, with two sets of arms, all of them bigger around than Keith’s head. Keith lowers his stance. 

Unbidden, he thinks back to the way in which Shiro was standing in the doorway the night before. Grimances. The way Shiro looked….Keith swallows…after Keith kissed him. Keith lets out a groan, twisting embarrassment overtaking him anew. He wants to pull out all his own hair and be swallowed up by the nearest black hole and also run to the end of the universe and never come back again. Somehow all at the same time. He feels so much — he can’t take it— but he can’t do any of those things at this exact moment, so with a battle cry and an outpouring of that fanatical energy, he runs forward and rushes the Mothallan, 

He catches the huge warrior in the solar plexus, using his own bulk against him— the Mothallan tries to grab Keith’s ankle in a hold, but Keith anticipates this. He’s accustomed to taking on guys bigger than he is, and it’s only another moment of flurried blows before the guy hits the ground, hard. 

The buzzer sounds— it’s not anything mechanical but rather an enormous length of metal that surrounds the entire coliseum-like structure. Someone, somewhere, rings it, and the vibrations of sound makes the ground tremble under Keith’s bare feet. 

When it ends: “THE PALADIN!!!”

The ground shakes some more, this time from the stadium’s crowd stomping and screaming and clapping their many, many hands. 

Someone hands Keith a sound enhancing device and he juts his chin out, just now catching his breath from the fight, “Thank you?” 

More wild screaming. Keith nods and lowers his mouth to the sound enhancing device again. “Thanks everybody, really appreciate it.” 

Keith’s opponent, the big guy, goes by the name Hevelius. Now back on his feet, he shakes Keith’s right hand with all four of his, and then they repeat the gesture, this time with Keith’s left. It takes a while. 

“You have few arms and yet you are a warrior of the highest caliber,” Hevelius tells him, kneeling down so that he can look Keith in the face. 

“Uh, thanks.” Keith says. He moves to stick his hands in his pockets but remembers too late that the traditional garment they gave him for pants doesn’t have pockets at all, so his hands just end up hovering at his hips. This is a major design flaw, in Keith’s opinion. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m better with a sword, actually.” He doesn’t want to offend anybody though, so he adds on, “But you guys really gave me a run for my money. This was great.” Keith waves to the sixteen warriors whom he bested prior to Hevelius. All of them wave back with all of their arms. 

“We do not always allow outsiders to participate in the Triangulum.” Hevelius says, 

“Sweet. Glad I got the chance then.” 

“Far too many times it has resulted in casualties. This is a brotherhood of strength, we do not fight to kill! You have proven yourself both powerful and honorable on this day, Paladin! You have won!” 

“Awesome,” Keith says. He doesn’t know what else to say, but everyone in the stadium is looking at him, so he tacks on another: “You guys are great.” 

“As the Triangulum occurs only once every six decaphoebs, with it, the winner takes the moon as prize.” 

“Huh?” Keith looks up at the Mothallan sky. Sure enough, a moon hangs low and creamy against the dark. Keith jabs a thumb in the general direction. “That moon?” 

“Yes, Paladin Keith, that moon. She disappears from our sky from now until the next tournament. Six decaphoebs from now you will return and send her over the land to watch over another match. The winner then will take her, and six decaphoebs later will do the same.” 

Do they mean like, symbolic, or something? Keith shifts on his feet. How’s he supposed to actually have a moon? Also, privately, he sincerely hopes that he will remember to be back here six years from now. “Got it. Just 'Keith' is fine, by the way.” 

It turns out that it is literally the moon. The actual moon, somehow made small. Keith doesn’t really know how it happens— some kind of magic, but he flew a giant sentient robot cat for several years, so who is he to question things— anyways, they do a ceremony, right there on the battlefield, and when it’s over, he has the moon in his hands. 

The moon is heavier than it looks, and cold. It has a pebbly texture in his hands, and though, by all rights, shouldn’t glow on its own, does have a kind of luminosity about it. Keith lifts it to his face, and gives it a sniff. 

“Cool,” he says. “Thanks guys.” 

There’s a feast to follow, Keith learns, but he ends up ducking out early. 

*

Keith makes it about half a day into deep space before his Marmoran cruiser stalls. 

“Piece of shit!!” Keith shouts. He throws the work rag down in frustration. He crawls out from under the control panel. 

The space wolf looks at him. 

“No, that should’ve worked!” Keith lifts the manual to show him. He stabs the page with a finger. “See, this here!! I changed the line and restarted it, plus I know for a fact that the filter is brand fuckin’ new!” 

The space wolf looks at the page and then back at Keith. 

Keith shakes his head and slumps back into his chair. “Whatever.” He turns the manual back around and grumbles, “You don’t have to be so high and mighty all the time. Nobody likes a know-it-all.” 

The wolf sits. Tilts his head. 

“Hmph. Sure it is. Fine. What do you think the problem is?” 

Space wolf looks at him significantly. 

“Really?” Keith looks at the moon, glowing, right where he placed it in the sink of his kitchenette. (The cruiser is small and Keith didn’t want it to roll around.) “Huh. I dunno.” 

The space wolf inches forward to place his great head into Keith’s lap. He wags his tail. 

“You absolutely will not. No. Bad space wolf. Don’t bring him here, he’ll get mad. I’ll call him.” 

With a huff, the space wolf disappears. He reappears several seconds later in the bed. Keith rolls his eyes. Drama queen. 

Hunk picks up on the second ring. 

“Keith, buddy, what’d you break?” 

Keith bristles. “Nothing.” 

Hunk is in a kitchen. It could be a kitchen on several different planets— he’s opened a few restaurants now, spreading past the Milky Way. He’s holding what seems to be a very big whisk in his hand and the whisk seems to be covered in chocolate. However. Keith knows better than to assume. Hunk looks over the bowl of maybe-chocolate and gives Keith an unimpressed look. 

“Fine.” Keith unfolds his arms. “My ship is stalled.” 

“There it is,” Hunk says, placid. 

“Well don’t think it’s the de-con line because I already tried that and it didn’t do shit,” Keith grumbles. “The space wolf thinks it’s the moon I brought on board, but I don’t see how that could be it.” 

Hunk looks pained. He closes his eyes and says something under his breath and then finally caves: “The space wolf thinks it’s the what-now?” 

It takes a few minutes to explain that Keith has an actual moon on his ship and how that came to be, exactly. Hunk is, predictably, excited: 

“Dude, I can’t believe you actually got to participate in the legendary Triangulum!! That’s like, so, so, so rad!! The last time they let anybody foreign even witness the tournament was pre-Zarkon, by like, at least three hundred years. And you won?? And now you’re the Moon-Holder?” 

Keith gets up and holds up the moon. 

Hunk actually squeals in delight. 

Shaking his head, Keith puts the moon back in the sink. He sits back in his chair on the bridge, facing the comm screen and the helm of the ship. “So do you think that’s the reason my ship suddenly crapped out?” 

“Ooooh good question. Let’s call Pidge, I want their input.” 

“Hunk,” Keith tilts his head back, exasperated. “Really?” 

“Hey nerds.” Pidge only picks up their comm line if someone texts them first, so getting a hold of them takes a minute. And then it takes a minute more to get them up to speed about the moon situation. Impatient, Keith gets out his knife and starts cleaning under his nails while the two of them duke it out, science style. Hunk and Pidge are difficult to understand because it seems like they like to argue. It stresses Keith out. 

“Definitely the moon,” Pidge concludes after a long and heated discussion. “Keith, that’s gross.”

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” Keith sheathes his knife. 

Hunk has made a drawing on parchment paper using the maybe-chocolate as ‘ink.’ “The gravitational forces alone are likely throwing off allllllll your tech.” He sets down a couple of raspberries (probably) onto the chocolate illustration and Keith squints at what this new addition to the diagram is supposed to be showing him. “See, it’s actually so simple,” 

“I don’t get it,” Keith says after a lengthy explanation. 

“Keith isn’t a visual learner,” Pidge tells Hunk. 

“It’s raspberries!” Keith shouts, spreading his arms. “And a magic alien moon! What the hell am I supposed to be visualizing!?!!” 

“Regardless, the answer is that you’re not going to be able to fly with the moon on board.” 

Keith crosses his arms. “Yes I will.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

“Keith…” 

Gritting his teeth, Keith considers his options. There’s no point in calling the two geniuses on his team if he’s not going to listen to them, right? “Fine. Whatever. Tell me how to fix it.” 

“It’s risky to force it, even if you did manage to get the ship back up and running,” Hunk muses. “Kosmo could potentially transport the moon to a planet and from there you could leave it or secure a larger ship with more power, but, considering your current position, that’s dicey too.” 

“His name’s not Kosmo,” Keith corrects. “So that’s my best option?” 

“Call Shiro,” Pidge says, “Obviously. The Atlas has plenty of power and the tech is much more tractable.” 

Keith mumbles something. His face is feeling hot again. He sinks deeper into his chair. 

“What was that?” 

“I said,” Keith says, clearing his throat, “What if I don’t want to call Shiro?” 

Pidge and Hunk look at each other. 

“Buddy?” Hunk asks,

Pidge stares at Keith, tilts their head, frowns, and then types something on their computer. “Ohhhh,” they say, and then begin typing more furiously. 

“‘Oh’?” Hunk echoes. “What’s ‘oh’?” 

Oh no. 

“Pidge…” Keith begins— 

Their glasses glint with a menacing glow, 

And then they turn their laptop around. And there is a video feed of Keith standing in Shiro’s doorway. Shiro leaning towards him, the two of them laughing. Keith standing up on his toes—

“Fuck!” Keith shouts, springing from his chair. “The video feed is, uh, not working anymore! What’s that, Pidge? Sorry!! Can’t hear you! I think we have a bad connection!” He slaps a button and disconnects the call. 

The ship is quiet. 

“That was a close one,” Keith mutters to himself. 

The next two hours are spent painstakingly readjusting his headings to account for the added density of having a moon on board his ship. It’s slow work, but not impossible, especially for someone as stubborn as Keith. 

He gets lost in the work, sitting cross legged on the floor of the bridge, clicking through systems one-by-one. Completely focused on the task at hand, he doesn’t notice the passage of time, nor anything else, until he feels a pat on the top of his head. 

“One sec,” Keith says, lips pursed in concentration, “Just let me finish this row,” 

“I have time.” 

“Okay, cool—” Keith stops. Cranes his neck to look up and behind him. “S-Shiro??” 

Shiro looks down at him, smile hovering over his lips, clearly amused. He presses one knee into Keith’s back, playful. “Apologies for letting myself in. I hailed, but you didn’t answer.” 

Sure enough, when Keith scoots forward to check the call-log on screen, he has missed messages from Shiro. “Shit. I’m sorry, Shiro.” 

“Not a problem,” Shiro says, helping Keith to his feet. His arms are strong, steady. “I understand there’s an issue with—” 

“I have something for you!” Keith blurts, stepping out of them. 

The moon is a luminous, cool-toned gem. Keith presents it to Shiro. He thinks, as he hands it to him, that this is finally a gift worthy of the man. Shiro cradles the heavy sphere in his big hands, face bathed in its glow, his silver hair a match for starlight confined. 

Keith watches the way his fingertips press against its imperfect surface, gentle as he turns it. Despite everything, Shiro has never lost that wonder, the awe that accompanies the unknown. It’s one of the many things that Keith loves about him. 

“For you,” Keith repeats, voice low. The ship is quiet with the engines off. He’s certain that Shiro must be able to hear the wild thump of his heart in his chest. “If anyone should hold the moon in his hands, it’s you Shiro.” 

Shiro lifts his eyes and gazes at Keith. 

“Keith—” 

“I mean, I do have to give it back, but not for another six decaphoebs, and technically that’s only if I lose, which I won’t , so you can consider it—” 

“Keith.” 

Keith hunches his shoulders and doesn’t quite make eye contact with Shiro. His fingers twitch. “Yeah?” 

“Question for you.” 

Crossing his arms, Keith ducks his chin. “Go ahead,” he says, bracing for the worst. 

“Are you free this Friday? Around 17:00?” 

Blinking, Keith shuffles, arms coming back down to his sides. That’s not the question he expected. “Uh.” Technically, there’s a thing with the Octans this week, but, yeah, he should be done with that in plenty of time. “Sure. Do you need me for something?” 

“I do.” Shiro says, expression quiet. He doesn’t elaborate. 

“Then I’ll be there.” Keith nods, cementing the words into a vow. 

Shiro does the quick blink that he sometimes does when he’s satisfied. Keith will never tire of the smile that always follows it— it’s the one Shiro has that’s a little bit crooked, one side tilted from trying to contain it. 

“Excellent.” Shiro lifts the moon in his hands. “So. A moon?” 

He leans to one side, comfortable, moon in his hands and all the stars in the universe glittering in the display behind him; it takes Keith a moment to stop looking at him and process the question to respond. “Oh. Yeah. I blew off some steam in a tournament. The guys there were pretty nice. I guess— wait.” 

“Hm?” 

Shiro is nothing if not committed in a conversation. He listens like he’s taking in every word, like he’s giving Keith his full attention. He leans forward and Keith bulldozes through the memory of kissing him and the flare of heat in his own face. “D-don’t you have to fly Atlas?” 

“I’ve been known to multitask,” Shiro says, brows lifting. 

“Yeah? You have time?” 

“I have time,” Shiro confirms. 

“Time to spar?” Keith asks, sly. “I’ll show you first hand.” 

It’s impossible to miss the glint of challenge that sparks in Shiro’s eyes. “Oh?” 

Keith whistles and the space wolf— excited to finally show off— makes short work of getting him and Shiro to the private gym close aboard the Atlas.  

“I’m not a visual learner,” Keith explains diplomatically, as he shrugs out of his jacket. He watches Shiro carefully deposit the moon in a safe place out of the way. “Better to just do something than waste time explaining it.” 

He doesn’t think he’s imagining it— the way Shiro’s eyes rake up his body, linger there as Keith stretches. “Lucky for me,” he murmurs. 

Keith grins. He doesn’t give any warning before he rushes Shiro. Shiro meets the attack with confidence, every bit his equal. Lucky for Keith, too.

*

The fog of Octans rolls over an endless stretch of still water. Keith read that the oceans here, though they look placid on the surface, are as turbulent as they are deep. And below the hull of the boat in which he stands, there’s trenches deeper than the mind can fathom. 

He shivers. 

Not from fear. It’s just that, Keith is from the desert, and he’s not used to the ocean. Or the cold. He’s too stubborn to change his gloves to a more practical pair, but this mission is making a strong argument for mittens. Stomping his feet, Keith blows into his hands to warm up. “Uh. I think we’re close.” 

The boat’s wake disappears immediately— the vessel stops, and all is quiet. 

This place doesn’t seem any different than the water that stretches out in every direction, but for some reason, Keith gets the feeling that this is it. “Try, um,” he points to a spot that feels more intense than the others, off the starboard side of the boat, “Right there.” 

Wordless, the Octans move like ghosts. The crew of this vessel, The Good Hope , lower their nets into the sea. When they pull them back out, the nets are glowing— the light swells and spreads over the infinite surface of the water, rushing out to the horizon, until dense fog begins to shrink away. It is replaced by an ethereal glow which rises and skates across the sky like gentle lightning. 

“Huh.” Keith folds his hands into his armpits and cranes his head back to watch the sky start to open up from darkness. This isn’t like any sunrise he’s seen before. “Cool.” 

Murmurings from the Octans fall silent as their captain approaches Keith. 

She looks young but is old. 

Lacaille moves and color darts over her dark skin like an opal changes colors as it catches light. All the folks here have pearlescent eyes— it’s unnerving when she turns those wide orbs on him. Her voice is like many voices all at once: “Chosen One has unveiled the Well of Quintessence. Chosen One has unveiled it.” 

Keith nods, not sure if he’s supposed to respond to this. “Just 'Keith' is fine,” he offers. 

“Chosen One has unveiled it.” Lacaille repeats. 

“No problem,” Keith says, nodding some more. That is what they asked him to do, afterall. And it really isn’t a big deal, the quintessence finding thing. It’s just, like, a feeling he gets? But he shouldn’t minimize something if it’s important to them. “Uh. My pleasure?” 

“Chosen One will collect oblation before he returns to the stars. Chosen One will collect oblation.” 

He’s not needed aboard the Atlas for a while. Keith shrugs. He can do something else. “Sure,” he says, and then remembers that, even though she appears no older than ten, Lacaille is supposed to be an ancient god-being. “I mean, yes ma’am.” 

Keith looks around, but doesn’t see anything to collect. Not much here besides water, to be honest. “Just give me some more info on what it looks like and I’ll get started.” 

One of Lacaille’s small hands reaches up and wraps around his wrist. She is inhumanly strong and deathly cold. “Chosen One will collect oblation.” 

She deposits an ‘oblation’ in his palm. “Oh, you mean you’re giving it to me. Okay. Cool.” Keith says, inspecting it closer up. So this is what that means? He has no idea. But, regardless, this is really nice. He tucks it into one of his belt packs for safekeeping. “Thank you.” 

“Well.” Keith hedges. All of the Octans are swaying back and forth in time with one another and it’s getting weird. Plus, he’s freezing. “I’ll. Uh. See you guys later.” He waves and heads back to his cruiser. 

*

Keith nestles into the couch cushion. He narrows his eyes and watches the screen with intent. 

“Can you tell us a little bit about your cakes, please?” The man with facial hair asks. His voice is very kind, but his eyes are a wild shade of blue. Too blue, in Keith’s opinion. 

A blonde woman gives a halting answer before a different woman’s voice announces boldly: “Andrea’s Great Grandma Grace’s chocolate cake will be layered with strawberry jam and a vanilla buttercream.” 

“I like the idea of the combination,” the man tells the baker, Andrea. 

“Does anything ever happen in this show?” Keith asks his mom. 

Krolia shakes her head. The space wolf is sprawled out on the couch between them. He huffs in protest when she gets up. Keith watches a different man chop walnuts on Krolia’s big screen television and listens to his mom rustle around behind him. 

“D’you need help?” 

“No.” 

Krolia reappears a moment later. She sets a heavy blanket over his shoulders. 

“Wha—” 

“You looked cold,” she returns. When she sits down again, she has a sleeve of cookies in hand. She offers one to Keith and he accepts. Goes nice with the tea she made him earlier. 

He doesn’t realize that he’s nodded off until Krolia stands and turns the television off. 

“Did they finish baking?” Keith asks, stretching through a yawn. 

“Yes.” Krolia says. She nods to the ring that Keith has been holding loosely in his hand. He retrieved it out of his packs, somehow drawn to keep it close. It looks like silver, but it feels like quintessence made solid. Ever changing, thrumming with energy, intention. His ‘oblation’ from the Octans. “Beautiful,” Krolia comments. 

“Yeah?” Keith gives it to her, watching the way colors catch and change in the fine metal as it twists in her careful claws. “It’s going to be a gift,” Keith shares. 

Krolia sets the ring back into his palm. “He will love it,” she says, warm. 

*

Keith arrives at the door of the Admiral’s suite aboard the Atlas at exactly 17:00 sharp. He knocks. 

Shiro is there in less than a moment, breathless, for some reason, as he greets Keith. Behind him, the room is candle-lit— clusters of them flicker over the table and throughout the room, as if the space is connected with the far off stars outside the expansive window. 

“Did something happen to your lights?” Keith wonders, stepping past the threshold. He touches the switch closest to the door and the lights turn on as usual. “Nope. Working just fine,” he says, giving Shiro a thumbs up.

“Ah—thank you.” Shiro says. He looks quietly amused, a smile crossing his mouth before it gets tucked away. 

“Everything alright?” Keith asks, looking around. Shiro is naturally tidy, but his place today is spotless. Even the perpetually teetering stacks of file folders have been cleared off the end of his coffee table. There’s soft music playing in the background, and something in the kitchen smells delicious. 

“Perfect,” Shiro says. “You— you look great.” 

Keith looks down at himself. Shiro is the one dressed up— he must have come from an event or something— he’s wearing too nice of an outfit to have spent the day working, but he’s not in his uniform or dress blues. Besides, Shiro could look good in anything. Keith, on the other hand, is wearing his normal jeans and boots. His belt with his belt packs. A tee shirt, the kind he buys in packs of five because they’re reliable and don’t make his skin feel funny. Gloves. “Thanks?” he says, tilting his head. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “So. What do you need me to do?” 

“We’ll eat first,” Shiro says, firm. “Let me get you something to drink?” 

Laughing, Keith toes off his boots at the door. “I know where your sink is, Shiro.” He pads over to the kitchen in the Admiral’s quarters, noting once again how Shiro has definitely put in extra time with the cleaning— the dish towel left on the counter is the only indication that the kitchen has been used at all, despite whatever is in the oven smelling amazing. Keith grabs a cup from the cabinet and fills it with water from the tap. “You havin’ company over or something?” 

Shiro leans against the counter, watching him, expression rucked up into fondness that Keith wants to drink in. “Something like that.” 

Keith nods. Makes sense. He sips. “What smells so good?” 

Motioning to the oven, Shiro gives him a nod. “See for yourself.” 

“Oh!” The quiet exclamation escapes as soon as Keith squats to peer into the oven. “Is that…meatloaf? And mashed potatoes? And macaroni casserole??” 

“Correct on all counts.” 

“Okay, suddenly I’m really hungry.” Keith taps his fingers on the tops of his knees. Ducking his face to hide a smile. All his favorite foods? What are the chances?

Shiro laughs. “Sit down and I’ll bring you a plate.” 

“Wait. Really? Why?” Keith stands. “I can get my own or whatever.” 

Again with the gentle amusement. “Indulge me.” 

Can’t argue with that. Obedient, Keith wanders towards the table, taking in the glow of the gifted moon. The small celestial body rotates of its own accord, glowing and spinning over the tabletop in some kind of zero-gravity hold the Atlas has engineered. It’s beautiful. 

It’s even more stunning when Shiro murmurs for Atlas to lower the lights again as he returns with two plates of food. He sets one down in front of Keith, squeezing his shoulder briefly before sitting down opposite him. Candles flicker around them and the moon glows up above. 

“Wow,” Keith says, staring down at the plate Shiro sets in front of him. He wastes no time digging in. A home cooked meal of all his favorites, and not only that, but made by Shiro? He knew Shiro could cook well, but the type of food that Keith likes doesn’t seem like it would suit someone like Shiro. Comfort food. Simple stuff. “It’s so good,” he says, mouth full, grinning. 

“I’m glad,” Shiro says, accepting the compliment gracefully. Something about the way he’s looking at Keith makes Keith’s face feel warm. Like it always does with Shiro’s attention, but this time, somehow, more. 

It’s not just that— the view of the stars outside and the moon above, the quiet music wrapped around the room, the way Shiro seems settled into this moment here with him. Just the two of them. It feels so…special. Keith slows from shoveling in his food and looks up in time to catch Shiro looking at him. Just looking. 

“This is really nice,” Keith says, slowly, really taking it all in. The specialness has a name, he realizes. Romantic. He swallows. “But, uh. It almost feels like a date,” he mumbles. 

“Hmm?” 

“I said,” Keith clears his throat. His face is hot. “It feels like a date.” 

Shiro finishes a bite from his own plate. He’s calm as sets the fork back down. He takes a sip from his own glass. He nods. “It is,” he says. 

Keith blinks at him. 

Shiro grins. “The first of many, I hope.” 

“What?” Keith grips the chair under his legs. He feels untethered from reality. “With me?” he clarifies. 

Shiro leans back in his chair, calm, confident. “As long as you’re agreeable.” 

Keith stands. Shiro looks up at him. Sunny. Satisfied. Like he hasn’t just turned Keith’s entire world on its axis. Like he hasn’t just given Keith the opening to everything he’s ever wanted. 

“One sec,” Keith mutters. He takes off across the room and back again, pacing, warm from the back of his ankles, up his legs to his back, the nape of his neck, all the way to his hairline. His hands flutter with too much energy—

“Keith.”

Keith stops.

“Yeah?” he croaks. 

“Your food is getting cold.” 

Keith returns to the table. His meal is just as good as it was a moment ago. He looks up from his plate and snatches glances of Shiro between bites. He’s eating normally, content to wait for Keith to come around. 

When his plate is scraped clean, Keith rises again, taking it to the kitchen. 

He hears Shiro follow him. 

“I’m thinking.” Keith tells him, shoulders hiking up to his ears of their own accord. He runs the water to wash his plate so that Shiro won’t have to worry about it later. 

“I’m patient.” Shiro says. 

Keith turns around and finds Shiro smiling. “There’s dessert, too, if you want,” Shiro says, reaching past him to turn off the running water. “Peach cobbler.” 

“That’s my favorite,” Keith whispers. 

“I know.” 

“Shiro…” Keith’s chest feels tight. 

Shiro answers with the gentlest of touches— his large hand cups Keith’s face with encompassing warmth, stroking over Keith’s cheekbone with his thumb. “All the times I’ve wanted to bring you home, to kiss you, to run after you, to tell you what you mean to me. You have no idea.” Affected, Shiro nods, gathering his thoughts. He studies Keith. “Too fast? Too soon?” he asks. There’s no judgment in his bluegray eyes. Just patience. Understanding. 

“I have something for you,” Keith blurts. Shiro’s hand falls away. Keith is aware of Shiro’s gaze, heavy over him, as he roots through his pack for the ring. He knows it by the thrum of energy that he feels as soon as his finger slips through the band. “For you,” Keith repeats, presenting the ring to Shiro in the palm of his hand. 

Shiro peers down, looking at the contents of Keith’s open palm. He chokes on a laugh, “Keith—” 

“What?” Keith demands to know, but the question is swallowed up by the way that Shiro reels him in, enveloping Keith in a full body embrace. Keith holds the ring tightly in his hand, determined not to drop it despite the fact that he can feel the rumble of delight in Shiro’s chest. The smile he presses into Keith’s cheek, his jaw, over his forehead, 

His mouth, 

He’s kissing Keith. 

It’s not like the rushed panic of the hallway, an impulse and a drunken reply. It’s slow, steady, warm— all the ways Shiro has been present in his life. It’s a little bit desperate too— the undercurrent of the time they lost, making up for it. Keith is surrounded by him and yet still moves closer, winding his arms around Shiro’s neck, swallowing the low noise of approval that Shiro makes in response. 

Keith has always thrived on instincts coupled with Shiro’s guidance; this is that, a million times over. He doesn’t have experience, but he has want . He has eagerness, for anything Shiro would give him. Shiro’s big hand buries in Keith’s hair, and Keith deepens the kiss, drinking Shiro in like a dream made real. When he pulls away, breathless, satisfied, he looks up at Shiro and sees the same. 

“What?” he asks again, smiling at Shiro’s smile. 

Shiro finds Keith’s hand, curled into a fist around the ring. He gently opens it, a breath of laughter easing between them as he touches the glint of silver. 

“You know,” Shiro says, wetting his lips between the words— and Keith is still caught in the feeling of his mouth— “You know that old expression about bringing a knife to a gunfight?” 

Keith reaches behind himself and tugs at the hilt of his blade on instinct— Shiro touches his arm, grinning, shaking his head. 

“No, I just mean,” Shiro chuckles at himself. “I brought a first date to a proposal. Tragically underprepared.” 

Frowning in protest, Keith opens his mouth to respond— because this has been perfect, he couldn’t wish for a better night than this— 

“Let me catch up,” Shiro says, silencing him. He takes the ring and pulls Keith’s hand to his mouth; Keith watches as Shiro places a kiss there, in the palm of the gloves he gave Keith so many years ago. “I love you, Keith.” 

Keith sucks in a breath, holding it close to his thundering heart. 

He watches Shiro slip the ring past one knuckle, then another. 

“Oh,” Shiro says, swallowing thickly, “Oh, Keith.” 

“What is it?” Keith murmurs, fascinated by the twist of emotion over Shiro’s features. He’s alarmed when that emotion clearly becomes too much for Shiro to speak, when Shiro’s eyes turn glassy and tears threaten at the corners of his eyes. 

“I feel,” Shiro says, cupping his face again, and this time the band is hot over Keith’s cheek, even as Shiro’s mouth is meeting his own once more. The kiss is raw, aching—

“I can feel,” Shiro touches his chest—beautiful, charming Shiro, at a loss for words—caught in emotion, “I can feel you.” 

“Me?” Keith tilts his head, taking Shiro’s hand in his own, looking at the ring. 

“How you feel, baby,” Shiro smiles, even as a tear forges a path down his cheek. “The way you feel about me.”

The ring. Of course it’s not just a simple ring— it was forged in a well of quintessence, given to him by an ancient deity— nothing can ever just be simple. Frowning, Keith spins the ring around Shiro’s finger, noting the changing colors, the immutable warmth. 

“It’s too much?” Keith asks, face hot like it always is when his emotions are laid bare. He can’t put his feelings into words, only that it’s a constant, dizzying force within him. Shiro is the first person he thinks about in the morning and the last one he cares about at night. The single best thing that ever happened to him. For him, it’s always been like that.

“Keith.”

Keith looks up at the sound of his name. 

“No.” A core part of Shiro, one of the many things that Keith loves about him, is his ridiculous ability to overcome. He takes the onslaught of Keith’s devotion in stride, appears to bask in it, even. The look he gives Keith now is steady. Happy. He strokes Keith’s cheek again, tucking hair behind Keith’s ear. 

Keith’s eyes flutter closed as Shiro pulls him in. He feels Shiro kiss the top of his head. 

“No, baby. You’re not too much. Never.” 

“Not even when I ‘bring a knife to a gunfight’?” Keith grins, looking up at him. 

Shiro breathes out a laugh, as if settling into this newness, the feeling of them, together . Like he does everything, it seems to Keith like he takes it on with ease. He holds up the hand with the ring, so that they can both look at it. “It’s stunning,” he says. 

Inclined to agree, but unwilling to leave the circle of Shiro’s arms, Keith hums an agreement. 

“What should I call you now?” Shiro asks him. It’s a tease, coupled with a playful kiss over the edge of Keith’s mouth. “Boyfriend, partner, fiancé, husband?” 

“Oh. Uh.” Keith shuffles. None of those words are big enough for the whole of what Shiro means to him. Better to leave things straightforward. “Just 'Keith' is fine.” 

***