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The wind angrily whips through the trees—heavy branches swaying in the wind as the trunks of the tree bend from the force of the storm. Keith hasn’t seen it this windy since, well—ever. He’s heard stories about The Great Windstorm but that was long before he was born.
It’s louder than he imagined a storm like this would be, howling so loud his ears ring. Worse, the wind is biting as it whips across his face; it’s like his skin is being sliced open. Eager to avoid the sting against his face, he tugs the hood of his cloak down so far he can barely see where he’s going. Not that he needs to see. Keith knows these woods like the back of his hand, could navigate them in the dark if he needed to, which is good since it’s getting dark fast. Faster than it should for this time of the year.
Beside him Kosmo barks, apparently as unnerved by the rapidly changing weather as Keith is.
“I think we should get home too,” Keith says, shuffling the weight of his purchases under his left arm to ensure they remain safely hidden beneath his cloak.
He might be eager to get back home, but he’s not willing to risk dropping any of his goods, not when he spent a month’s worth of gold on these supplies.
In hindsight Keith probably should’ve just waited until the threat of a storm blew over before heading into town, but Keith’s never been very good at waiting. That, and he assumed the premonitions of death and danger, ‘a storm to end the ages’ the towns cryer kept screaming about for the last month had been fodder to attract naïve travelers into her shop and fatten her pockets. There’d only been a chill in the air when Keith hiked into town this morning, not a sight of snow or gust of wind, so Keith doesn't think he can be blamed for assuming she was scamming people. Especially not when the day he moved into town she’d taken one look at him, screeched a fallen angel will save your life then beckoned Keith inside with the promise of telling him his future for five gold coins.
At sixteen Keith was old enough to know there was no such thing as angels and that if anyone was ever gonna save Keith, it was gonna be himself. He'd been on his own since he went through puberty at the age of fourteen. The molting had been painful but he’d come out on the other side of puberty with his adult wings. While Keith had trembled with pride as he slowly unfurled them from his body, the rest of his clan had trembled because gone were the pale brown wings of his childhood, the same pale brown wings everyone else had. Now, Keith’s were black.
Black people had hissed with unmasked shock and fear. Black as your heart, they’d cried the first time Keith spread his wings wide.
For as long as he could remember he’d been different from everyone else; from the hint of yellow in his eyes to the sharp points of his ears and the way he never quite fit in with his peers at the orphanage. The wings though, those had been the final straw. No longer could people ignore that Keith was different—that he is different.
People, it turned out, don't like different very much.
Which is fine because Keith doesn’t like people.
People are fickle. One second they’re your friends, and the next they’re scared of you.
They’re unpredictable, untrustworthy, and they leave. Except no one can leave if there’s no one around, which is exactly why living out here suits Keith so much.
This far north the woods are sparsely populated. The town nearest Keith is a few miles trek and even that only has a few hundred people. There are two kinds of people who live out in a place this miserable; the ones desperate enough to endure anything for a little gold or the ones who society didn’t want. Keith is both.
As if that isn't reason enough for most people to not wanna live here, there’s a rumor that the woods are haunted by the spirits of the lost fae. If Keith started the rumor himself to ensure no one else dared move within a few miles of his home, well no one is the wiser.
Between the isolated and unforgiving terrain and the poor weather, no one chooses to live out here unless they don’t have another choice.
Out here survival is the name of the game and Keith, well—he is a survivor.
The one upside to the generally unfriendly disposition of the locals and the transient nature of everyone else who passes through here, is that it offers Keith anonymity. The people in town who know him don’t care why he always hides his wings beneath heavy cloaks even in the summer or why he refuses to make small talk. All they care about is the gold Keith can provide when he buys his supplies and the fact that he can fix anything for anyone.
During the bi-annual migration, the town is so full of travelers coming and going that no one pays attention to Keith and his wolf.
This place isn’t much but it’s all Keith’s got. Hidden high up in the treetops is the place Keith calls home—a place he desperately wishes he was right now.
Again Kosmo howls, letting his displeasure be known as he stumbles blindly across the ground—his foot falls almost immediately covered by a fresh layer of snow.
It’s not just the wind that has picked up but the snowfall as well. If Keith doesn’t make it back home soon, he might not be able to ascend his tree, and that is a prospect Keith will not entertain. He hasn’t survived six journeys around the sun in this place just to be done in by a little storm.
Beside him Kosmo yaps.
“Fine, big storm,” Keith concedes, peering at Kosmo through the crack in his hood.
He’d found Kosmo not long after moving here, or more accurately Kosmo found him. He’d been curled up in his wings trying to sleep in a cave when Kosmo had simply appeared out of nowhere. At first Keith thought the wolf wanted to eat him, at least until he’d dropped a dead rabbit at Keith’s feet and then curled up beside him.
Keith doesn’t have a damn clue where he came from or why he stays with Keith, and at this point he’s ninety nine percent sure the wolf can read minds. Or at least Keith’s. It would certainly explain a few things.
Either way, Kosmo is all he’s got, so he accepts a little snide judgement from the wolf sometimes. He probably deserves it. Especially times like now where they should’ve been nestled securely inside drinking a hot cup of kaglog and watching the storm from the safety of their treehouse. Admittedly a treehouse doesn’t sound like the safest place to be in a storm like this, but Keith built it, and that thing ain’t coming down.
They just need to get there.
This proves to be more difficult than anticipated when halfway home the wind picks up, blowing his hood back. He tries to put it back but it’s no use, the wind is too strong and it won’t stay down. Luckily for Keith he’s well versed in the art of being physically uncomfortable and ignores the sharp sting of wind and sleet against his cheeks and the way his eyelashes start to freeze.
The deeper into the forest they go the louder the sound seems to become, the wind making the trees scream as Keith weaves through the maze of roots and tree trunks. We’re anyone else to get this deep in the woods they’d surely get lost but Keith knows exactly where he’s going—home.
Keith’s footfalls are heavy, dead leaves and snow crunching beneath his boots as he shoulders his weight against the gale like winds and moves forward. He stumbles once, nearly tripping face first into the snow, but Kosmo is quick, moving in front of Keith to give him something steady to hold on to.
“Thanks,” Keith says, ruffling some of the snow from Kosmo’s head as he steadies himself—his bundle of goods clutched so tightly to his chest the fingers in his left hand have nearly gone numb.
Almost there he reminds himself, eyes tracking his surroundings. The snow has blanketed everything in white so that it all looks the same, but Keith doesn’t need physical markers to find his tree. He can feel her.
It’s just one more abnormal thing about Keith that other people wouldn’t understand. When he was small he’d thought all of his kind could feel the earth, feel the trees, but as he’d gotten older he realized that was anything but the truth. As a small child the townspeople had thought his i made friends with a tree was cute. They didn’t think it was cute when he was older.
All the strange things Keith did as a child, that the adults at the orphanage said he’d grow out of, had not disappeared despite Keith’s best attempts. Turned out just because you tried to hide everything that made you different—and apparently hard to love—didn’t actually make them go away.
As if aware of Keith’s mental spiral, Kosmo nudges his nose into Keith’s back to urge him forward. Letting out a heavy breath, Keith shakes the snow from his hair and moves forward. It’s less than half a mile now, but it takes longer than it ever has before, the snow making it nearly impossible to move quickly.
So caught up in watching where his feet are, it takes Keith a minute to realize that Kosmo is sprinting ahead of him. This is not what catches Keith’s attention though, it’s the howling—a primal sound unlike any he’s ever heard Kosmo make.
Keith might not be able to read Kosmo’s mind the same way Kosmo can read his, but he’s known him long enough to understand him and there is something panicked in the pitch of his cries.
The snow is blowing hard enough that even a mere fifteen feet ahead of him, Kosmo is out of sight. Unable to see what it is that has him so agitated, Keith quickens his pace, stumbling in the snow as he races towards Kosmo. He can’t let anything or anyone hurt him—he won’t.
Prepared to keep Kosmo safe at all costs, he lets his right hand slip inside his cloak, curling around the hilt of the dagger at his waist as he runs.
“Kosmo,” he shouts, pinpricks of fear crawling up his spine.
If Kosmo can hear him over the deafening wind, he makes no indication as he continues to howl, circling the base of their tree.
“What the hell are you doing?” Keith yells, tone sharper than he means as he drops his hand from his dagger in favor of rubbing his shaking hand over Kosmo’s snow covered head. “Don’t do that again, okay? You spooked me.”
Kosmo howls again, biting the edge of Keith’s cloak between his sharp teeth and tugging hard. With a frown of confusion, Keith allows himself to be led sideways, unsure what has Kosmo so riled up. He finds out seconds later when he nearly falls over something—or someone.
“What the hell?” Keith breathes, his bundle of goods falling into the snow with a thud as he reaches his hands out on instinct.
There, nearly buried in the snow are feathers—white as snowfall and attached to someone’s wings. Wings. This is not a human or a fae, but someone like him.
Not like you, he quickly reminds himself. No one is like Keith. Especially not someone with the purest white wings Keith’s ever seen, white as an angel.
Like a flash, the words from the town cryer come back to him. A fallen angel will save you. First the storm and now this. If Keith was a more spiritual person he might suspect something was going on, but he chalks it up to a coincidence. The stranger might have fallen from somewhere, and yeah maybe they look like an angel, but if anyone is saving anyone right now it’s Keith.
Not that Keith has decided if he’s going to save him. Yet.
With curiosity he squats down, admiring the wings as snow falls atop them. Most of their kind have some variation of tan or brown wings. White wings are just as uncommon as black, the only difference between Keith and the person laying in the snow, is that most of their kind believe white to be lucky. From where Keith is standing, this poor person doesn’t seem very lucky—wings curled around themselves as they freeze to death in the middle of nowhere.
“Qux,” Keith curses, bile rising in his throat.
All he wants to do is get home and get warm, to make something hot to drink and watch the snow fall outside of his window. He doesn’t want to deal with some half dead stranger. But he can’t just leave them here to die—well if they’re not dead already.
He doesn’t think they’re dead. Maybe. Hopefully.
Kosmo howls again—his primal cry carried away in the wind—before he noses against the stranger’s wings making something heavy settle in Keith’s chest. He’s worried, Keith realizes.
If Kosmo is worried, then so is Keith and his own heart rate speeds up as the reality of the current situation hits him. There is an unconscious person at the foot of his tree.
Not a person—an avian.
The prospect of bringing one of his own kind into his home makes bile rise in his throat. He can only imagine how they will react to realizing someone like Keith saved them. For all Keith knows, they could get violent or aggressive. Yet even knowing what might await him when the stranger regains consciousness, Keith knows what he has to do.
There is no telling what tomorrow might bring, but today Keith knows he must save them.
Already, worry for the avian at his feet has Keith’s heart in his throat. The longer he stares the more clear it becomes they’re not just cold; if the bent feathers are any indication, the avian is hurt.
Keith hates being worried, especially about people. The only one who dislikes people more than Keith is Kosmo who never trusts anyone. He once attempted to bite the hand of the baker when he tried to scam Keith out of an extra gold coin (and has been banned from going inside ever since). On more than one memorable occasion Kosmo has guided Keith away from interactions that could have ended up with Keith locked up or worse had Kosmo not intervened before Keith’s temper got the best of him.
To this day Keith’s not sure why Kosmo likes him of all people, but it's something he’s never questioned because he's less alone with Kosmo at his side, but he’s questioning it now.
If Kosmo wants to save this stranger there’s a reason, even if Keith doesn’t understand it. Hell, Keith wants to save them too. Well, want might be a stretch but he certainly doesn’t want them to die. For all he dislikes people, he would never let someone suffer if he could help them. The fact that Kosmo wants to save them too makes it all the more confusing and interesting, but it doesn’t change the fact that deep down Keith knew he was going to save them the moment he saw them.
It’s just that helping this stranger will require Keith to do something he’s never done before—let someone into his home.
The thought of another avian in his personal space has Keith’s feathers ruffling beneath his cloak, but there’s no time for him to deal with his own uncomfortable feelings while someone is freezing to death at his feet.
“Awoo,” Kosmo gets out, nudging Keith’s elbow with his snout.
“I know, I know,” Keith grumbles, unused to Kosmo being so impatient. “I’m just trying to figure out how the hell to get them inside.”
Kosmo barks unhelpfully, leaving Keith to figure out how to get this stranger twenty feet up into his tree. Usually Keith flies up, but that seems impossible given the sheer girth of this person. Their wings might be hiding their body from view, but it doesn’t hide the fact that they’re a good seven feet tall, and that does not take into account the sheer width of their wings. They’re huge.
Of course, Keith does have experience flying others up to the tree house, since he usually holds Kosmo, but Kosmo isn’t a massive avian, he’s a wolf. It’s different. But then again Keith doesn’t exactly have many options since he can’t exactly climb the damn tree while carrying the unconscious stranger.
“Awoo,” Kosmo howls again.
“Fine, fine,” Keith sighs, reaching up to fidget with the heavy metal fastener on his cloak. “I’ll fly.”
His cloak is soaked through from the earlier rain turned snow, but it’s still warm and well worth the six months wages it took Keith to buy it. Without it, Keith would be entirely exposed to the elements.
Keith loves his cloak, but he can’t wear it and fly, which means it’s got to be left in the snow with the rest of his purchases to be retrieved later. He can only hope this avian is alone and there’s not someone hiding in the shadows waiting to rob Keith blind.
“Awooo,” Kosmo howls, louder than ever, butting his head into Keith’s back.
“I’m hurrying,” Keith says, finally popping the metal clasp so that his cloak flutters down into the snow behind him.
Immediately wind whips across his bare torso and wings, brutal and cold. He’s only been exposed like this for seconds and already his wings are starting to ache. He can only imagine how the person in the snow feels.
Whatever fears Keith currently holds, they pale in comparison to the need to get this poor avian somewhere warm even at the expense of Keith’s own safety and comfort.
Sighing heavily, Keith squats down and tries to pick them up. He can’t, frowning as his arms end up full of fresh snow instead. He nearly gets him the second time but he’s unprepared for the avian's dead weight and ends up dropping them into the snow. He winces in sympathy as they roll out of his arms.
“Qux,” Keith curses, unsure if they can hear him. “I’m sorry.”
This is exactly why Keith should never be left in charge of rescuing anyone. He’s going to end up hurting them more. For a brief second he imagines walking away before he makes things worse or but the thought is gone as fast as it appeared.
For all Keith wishes he was up in the warmth of his treehouse right now, the idea of abandoning this stranger to suffer the elements alone makes his stomach turn. He knows all too well what it’s like to be abandoned, to be unwanted, to be too much trouble to help. He can’t do that to anyone else. He won’t.
“I’m going to carry you if it kills me,” Keith grunts, more prepared this time as his arms slide all the way under the stranger.
There’s no resistance when Keith hefts him up against his chest like a sack of potatoes, incapable of anything more gentle with the wind trying to knock him on his ass. He succeeds in lifting the stranger but still stumbles sideways as the weight destabilizes his balance. Before Keith can tip backwards into the snow there's a solid and steadying presence at his back.
“Thanks, Kosmo.”
Finally balanced, Keith gives himself a second to catch his breath, painfully aware of the thundering of his own heart. This is insane what he’s doing. It’s going to get him killed.
With one last steadying breath, Keith closes his eyes and exhales, letting his wings out.
Even with everything happening, he can’t suppress the euphoria Keith feels every time he’s able to use his wings. He flaps them—the strength of them sending the snow away in billowing gusts.
Adrenaline floods Keith’s veins as he flaps them harder and faster, his body straining against the extra weight.
I can do this, he thinks, jaw clenched tightly and limbs shaking.
It takes longer than it normally would, the extra weight no small burden, but eventually Keith’s feet leave the ground. All it takes is that few inches of space between Keith’s boots and the snow for his confidence to soar.
He can do this. He is doing this.
With every beat of his wings they rise and Keith’s grip on the stranger tightens as the force of the wind slams into his back. Each gust attempts to push them into the spindly branches of his own tree and the snow is falling so thickly that Keith can hardly even keep his eyes open.
Normally Keith navigates this journey upwards with ease, but normally it’s not the worst storm in a century; and normally he doesn’t have a two hundred pound armload of unconscious avian in his arms.
The extra weight in his arms proves to be more challenging than the storm, since it throws him off balance and tests the limits of his abilities. Keith’s a damn good flier, but this is uncharted territory and someone weaker would crumble under the physical and mental strain. Keith’s not weak.
He doesn’t give up, not even when the strain makes it feel as if his wings are being ripped from his body.
With every inch they soar higher, his strength seems to grow. It’s a close call a few times but what matters is that Keith does not drop the avian or crash back down to the ground and instead manages to get his feet onto the edge of his porch, body swaying as he falls to his knees. The avian nearly rolls out of his arms but Keith manages to tighten his hold, his arms burning with the strain as he pulls his wings close to his body.
Standing up while holding two hundred pounds of avian is just about as difficult as Keith might imagine, and it’s only sheer stubbornness that gets him off his knees and back up to his feet. By some miracle he also manages to get the front door open, and a flurry of snow blows inside as Keith turns sideways to maneuver himself and the avian through the doorway. When Keith built it, he made it extra wide to accommodate his own wingspan, but apparently it’s still not quite large enough for both of them. Despite his caution, Keith still manages to bang the avian’s wings against the doorway and to his immense dismay he ends up getting a few of their feathers caught in the rough wood of the door jam.
The avian doesn’t even startle when Keith tries to shove them through the doorway and inadvertently pulls several beautiful white feathers from their wings. Definitely unconscious then, he thinks. No avian would lose a chunk of feathers like this and not react.
The sight of those beautiful feathers stuck in the rough woodgrain of his door jam has his stomach turning, an emotion he pushes aside in favor of getting them settled. It’s both a blessing and a curse that this person is unconscious. Good because it means they're clearly not conscious enough to realize what’s happening as Keith lugs them inside with no finesse or grace. Bad because Keith has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do with an unconscious person.
Guilt makes his stomach turn as he stumbles inside, choking down a frustrated cry. He knew he wasn't the right person to do this. How can Keith be expected to save anyone when he can barely take care of himself?
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, swallowing down the rising guilt.
Maybe Keith isn’t good enough but he’s all this person has and it has to be enough.
Carrying the avian through his home, Keith is distinctly aware of how small it is and he bypasses his lumpy sofa in favor of taking the stranger the whopping five extra steps to his equally lumpy bed in the corner. The upside to the bed is that at least it’s bigger and because of the strange layout of Keith’s little one room treehouse it’s also closer to the wood burning stove which will hopefully get them warmed up.
That is if he can start it. Something that seems increasingly impossible as he eyes his empty tin of matches on the corner of his stovetop as if taunting him with its lack of matches.
Right. No matches. One of the reasons Keith had braved going into town. Except he doesn’t have his matches because they’re tied up in a bundle with his other purchases at the bottom of the tree, probably buried under two feet of fresh snow—as is Kosmo.
Kosmo is probably howling up a storm down there. He’s probably freezing. He’s—inside.
“What the hell,” Keith gasps, watching with no small amount of shock as Kosmo pops into existence beside Keith’s bed—the bundle of purchases from town held between his teeth.
As if his ability to simply teleport into Keith’s treehouse is no big deal, he shakes the snow from his fur, covering the floor in a flurry of white before dropping the bundle at Keith’s feet. Here he seems to say, nudging it towards Keith with his nose.
“What the hell, Kosmo,” Keith repeats, shocked stupid.
Looking decidedly unphased by Keith’s reaction, Kosmo chuffs.
“You mean to tell me you can teleport? All this time? Years I’ve been flying you up this tree and you can do that?” he grumbles, remembering every single time he had to fly up sixty pounds of deadweight wolf up to his tree, every day—multiple times a day.
The rumors in town that Kosmo is a witch’s familiar suddenly take on a whole new meaning. The first time Keith heard them he’d been delighted, encouraging them as subtly as he could in the hopes that people would be too afraid of what Kosmo might be capable of to realize he was nothing more than an overgrown wolf who thought he was a lapdog. Now he’s not so sure.
Kosmo’s unexpected appearance in his life, and the way he’d always had access to food back when Keith was half starving to death and still living in a cave suddenly seems far less coincidental. But Keith’s not a witch? He’s avian. His wings are proof of it.
Yet, if that was all he was then why has he never fit in with others of his kind? Why are his wings black as midnight? And why is his pet wolf, who—okay, yeah always seemed to be able to read his mind— now teleporting in and out of his treehouse.
Nothing makes sense.
Except, maybe it does. Maybe it all makes too much sense.
Keith doesn’t remember anything about either of his parents, the community elders refused to ever tell Keith about his father’s untimely death when he was a toddler or his mother’s unexplained disappearance after his birth. He tries to think back, to recall all of the strange things that have ever happened to him and finds himself coming up with more questions than answers.
A childhood marked by differences—trees that need to speak to Keith, animals that no one else dared approach, treating Keith as one of their own when he played alone in the forest. Always alone.
The way everyone looked at him as if they were afraid of what he was capable of.
If Kosmo truly is a witchs’ familiar, and that sure seems like the only possible answer to his ability to teleport, then what does that mean for Keith? Witches' familiars don’t bond to just anyone, and certainly not an avian with no magical blood.
He blinks, looking up at the herbs and spices hanging above his stove to dry, then over to the small pile of crystals on his side table he’s been collecting for reasons unknown except that he felt drawn to them when he went into town for things that were definitely not crystals, and feels entirely wrongfooted.
Surely someone would’ve told Keith if was part witch, right? Right.
With a heavy sigh, Keith hangs his head. No. No one would’ve told Keith.
Unable to dwell on this life altering possibility for too long, his eyes wander to Kosmo as he wonders what other things the wolf is capable of. He wishes now he’d paid more attention to the rumors. There was never exactly a lesson in school called What to do if you suspect you’re not entirely avian or even ten ways to find out if your wolf is actually a witches familiar. Or well, Keith doesn’t think they did. School wasn’t exactly for him and he’d dropped out about the same time he ran away and decided living on his own was worth any cost—even his own life.
Then again hadn’t Kosmo found him just when things were at their bleakest? When Keith was certain he couldn’t continue?
Kosmo howls, dragging Keith’s attention back to the present as he nudges the bundle with his snout, pushing it across the wooden floor towards Keith.
“Yes, thank you for bringing the stuff,” Keith mumbles, aware he has no time to think about himself right now. He can have some kind of existential crisis later when there’s not someone possibly dying on his bed.
With a pleased chuff, Kosmo turns around.
“Don’t think you and I won’t be having words later mister,” Keith says, bending down to grab the bundle. “I can't believe you kept something like this from me.”
I didn’t want to.
The thought is in his mind, quiet but firm, and decidedly not his. He drops the bundle, the knot coming loose so that the contents of his earlier shopping excursion spread across the floor as Keith stares at Kosmo.
“Was that you?” he asks.
Unblinking, Kosmo trots across the floor to press his snout into the open palm of Keith’s hand. All the thoughts in his mind are his own, but something seems to happen as Kosmo licks at his palm—a kind of calmness overtakes him.
“What are you doing to me, Kosmo?”
Kosmo chuffs against his palm before pawing at the mess of goods on the floor.
“Right,” Keith says, the calm feeling disappearing now that Kosmo has moved away. Keith doesn’t have time to try and figure out Kosmo. He has things he needs to do. Important things.
“Matches,” Keith mutters, shuffling through his stuff. “Where are the matches?”
The matches it turns out are stuck to the bottle of grooming oil Keith purchased from the apothecary. He’s not entirely sure why he purchased it since it cost three times the gold of Keith’s normal oil. Granted Keith’s normal oil isn’t actually meant for feathers but it’s cost effective and Keith’s never cared what his wings look like—a fact he’s starkly aware of now that there is another avian in his home.
The other person’s wings are beautiful, and even wind blown and ruffled from the storm, all it took was holding them in his arms for a few minutes for Keith to appreciate their softness. This person’s wings are healthy, clearly groomed often, and well taken care of. Keith’s own wings look like he got hit by a bolt of lightning. Not that Keith cares what his feathers look like, or what anyone else thinks about him. Still he’s got a brain that notices these things even if he does not want to.
Aware his thoughts are getting decidedly off track, he drags his attention back to the match finding. The grooming oil was a ridiculous, impulsive buy and Keith shoves the bottle to the side in favor of grabbing the tin of matches. The metal is stuck, frozen shut maybe, and Keith has to roll it between his hands for a good minute before the metal will slide apart. Once he’s got it open he wastes no time in lighting the fire in his stove, shutting the heavy iron door to keep the heat in, in the hopes it will eventually put heat out.
“This is gonna take awhile,” Keith sighs, depositing the rest of the matches on the little shelf above his stove.
It’s a good stove, and provides a steady amount of heat for Keith’s little home, but it takes forever to warm up. Especially when the cast iron is as cold as it is now. It’s lit though, allowing Keith to at least feel like he’s doing something.
Fire now burning, Keith returns his attention to the mystery guest currently laying in his bed—wings still tightly wrapped around themselves.
He needs to do something to help them. Something that involves touching probably.
Keith doesn’t touch people, not if he can help it. Back in the early days when he’d first run away he’d taken refuge at a small pub and inn, and had inadvertently had a knife pulled on him when he’d tapped someone on the shoulder for directions. People, it turned out, didn’t always take kindly to the way Keith looked and as a means of self protection, he’d learned to keep to himself.
In hindsight, it is possible the incident had more to do with the guy being drunk on cheap mead than something about Keith, but it was a risk Keith was never willing to take again.
There was an important lesson Keith learned that day—if he wanted to survive, it was going to have to be alone.
He’s certainly not alone now though. He’s got someone in his home for the first time ever and it feels strange. Keith might not be the one half frozen to death, but he still feels decidedly exposed by the entire ordeal.
Pushing past his own discomfort, he moves towards the bed. The avian hasn’t moved an inch, their snow white feathers completely still as Keith’s eyes rake over them. There are bits of twigs stuck in them, and several feathers bent or broken. For some reason it makes Keith sad, imagining someone who must care so much about their wings to see them in such a disarray. Still, it's better than dead Keith thinks as his knees connect with the mattress so he can lean over them.
It takes a minute for Keith to figure out exactly where one wing ends and another begins but when he does, he lays his hand at the bend of the wing, breath catching in his throat as his hands make contact with the velvet soft wings. Touching them is entirely different than holding them in the snow or flying with them. Before, it was just about survival, this is still intentional but in a different way.
Ever so slowly, Keith smooths the feathers, his hand sliding down the carpal edge further down to slip his fingers beneath the primary coverts. This is it, he thinks. Once he sees their face there will be no going back. For better or worse, Keith has brought someone into his safe place.
Keith prepares himself for the possibility this has all been a giant ruse to get into his home or harm him. As his fingers slip further beneath the wing fold he prepares for the possibility of being punched in the face, or worse.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he whispers, pulling the wing back, fully prepared for the first.
Somehow, he is not prepared.
He’s not at all prepared for the sight of the beautiful man hidden inside of the wings—hair as white as his wings with a face that looks cut of marble. There’s a nasty scar across the bridge of his nose that somehow makes his appearance even more striking.
With bated breath Keith’s eyes track across the man’s face and down to the hollow of his neck. Curled onto his right side, Keith didn’t immediately notice the missing arm—shirt tied up at the bicep.
His shirt is finely made, the silver toggles on the front of his shirt now scratched and one missing. The shirt itself is completely ruined—a large gash across the front alerting Keith that the man is bleeding. The skin on his hands are completely covered in little scratches too.
It's easy to imagine him blown astray during the storm—tossed around by the wind and slammed into the trees—to imagine him fighting his way through the forest as he fought to stay in flight.
This man is a survivor, Keith realizes.
“How did you get all the way out here?” Keith whispers, hands shaking as he reaches for the toggles on his shirt. Not only is it ruined, the cotton is soaked through from the weather and can only be making things worse.
An unconscious person makes for an uncooperative and heavy person and it’s no easy task to get the shirt off without potentially hurting the man and his wings further. In the end Keith settles for grabbing the knife at his hip and simply cutting the shirt off.
“It was already ruined,” Keith tells him.
It’s a horrible apology, and one unneeded considering the man can’t hear him, but Keith’s been alone so long that talking out loud without anyone responding is entirely normal for him.
“I’m gonna have to take your pants off too,” Keith says, eyeing the snug-fitting pants.
They seem to be made of some kind of animal hide—Vronguht perhaps. Whatever it is, the material won’t cut with a knife, leaving Keith the arduous task of taking them off. He removes the small holster at his thigh first, setting the bag to the side before moving on to the pants. It’s painstakingly slow to roll the pants down the man’s hips and over his expansive thighs and with every inch of skin he exposed Keith is reminded of how very long it's been since he’s touched another person.
There’s nothing sexual about it, how could there be when the other man is unconscious, but there is deeply intimate about exposing the flesh of another. Were their roles reversed, Keith would take his knife to anyone who dared to touch him without permission and he can only hope this man is not as rash as Keith, because the alternative is leaving him in his freezing clothes to die.
It’s a strange realization to know that Keith will risk anything to save a stranger, because he is a man worth saving. Of this Keith is sure.
Why he’s sure of it he has no idea. Intuition maybe. A sixth sense.
Your magic knows, another voice seems to say.
“I don’t know anything,” Keith snaps, clamping his mouth shut when he realizes he’s responded.
He dares a glance at Kosmo only to find him watching Keith intently. This time he’s sure it’s Kosmo speaking to him. The how and the why though still eludes him.
Perhaps it should terrify him. He’s sure most people would freak out to realize their pet wolf is actually a witches familiar and has probably been reading their mind for five years and can apparently teleport. Keith’s not most people and he is not afraid. Besides, Keith’s done all the talking for years, it’s only fair Kosmo finally talks back.
“I don’t have magic and I don’t know anything,” Keith repeats, unsure why the words feel like a lie.
Yes, you do. You know you do.
Keith frowns. “Stop thinking in my brain. I didn’t give you permission.”
There is no response, but somehow the silence echoes louder than any of Kosmo’s thoughts might have.
This is what you wanted Keith reminds himself, returning his attention to the man on his bed.
Man on his bed.
There’s a man on his bed—a turn of events Keith never thought he’d see. Granted the man in question is battered and bruised and half frozen to death, but he’s still in Keith’s bed.
“Don’t say it,” Keith grunts, waggling a finger at Kosmo who turns his tail on Keith, settling himself in front of the stove.
The silence is deafening this time, leaving Keith to nothing but his own thoughts. It might be what he wanted but it doesn’t feel like a victory.
He waits a few beats but Kosmo doesn’t send any thoughts his way, or do anything really except lick his paws as he attempts to warm himself. Meaning the only thing Keith can do is return his attention to the man on his bed and stop getting distracted.
A few more minutes and a lot of finagling and Keith manages to get the pants off him along with his boots leaving him sprawled across Keith’s bed completely naked, pillowed atop his own wings.
Even wounded and bruised he’s the most beautiful thing Keith’s ever seen. Far too beautiful for Keith’s poky little home.
Keith shakes his head to rid it of unwanted thoughts. Admiring others has never gone well for Keith, and he’s quite certain this man won’t be endeared to Keith solely because Keith saved him. Not that he hopes the man will like him, he’s simply doing what he hopes someone else might do if the roles were reversed.
Now that the man is naked, it’s easy to assess his wounds. None of them appear to be life threatening thankfully since Keith’s healing knowledge is limited at best.
Though none of them appear to need an actual healer, they certainly need tending so Keith retrieves his supplies from under the bed—spreading his collection of mismatched bandages and vials of ointments and tonics on the bed. It’s a hodgepodge kit at best, but someone like Keith can’t exactly afford to stroll into the apothecary and buy exactly what he needs. Instead he’s collected what he can over time—salvaging worn clothing into bandages, foraging for rare ingredients in a poor attempt to make his own tonics and doing odd jobs in trade for salves and creams he couldn’t manage to make himself.
One day, Keith imagines having a house with room for all of this—shelves crammed full of tonics and potions. A place to bottle and store the herbs and flowers he likes to dry—his own apothecary. It would be beautiful—crystals hanging from the window and casting rainbows upon his goods, maybe even a chair near a bookshelf if he ever learns to read.
In hindsight this feels like another thing that Keith should’ve realized had deeper meaning. While an avian in healing isn’t unheard of, an avian apoth is, which is exactly why Keith has never told another living soul about his dream. The telling off he’d got when he was five and pretended to make potions in an empty tree trunk in the forest was enough to scare him for life. Which, in hindsight, feels like another glaring sign that Keith was not entirely avian.
Instead of feeling anger or confusion, he merely feels resigned. Of course he is part witch. Of course he is.
It explains every oddity about Keith, and while the new knowledge about himself doesn’t exactly change anything because he’s still just Keith, there’s a little hole in his heart as he thinks about how much this knowledge might’ve comforted a smaller, more lost version of himself.
Expectantly Keith glances over at Kosmo, prepared for a knowing look, but as instructed Kosmo is curled in front of the stove, ignoring him just like Keith wanted. Or thought he wanted.
Exhaling a shuddering breath he turns his attention back to the bed and the man shivering on it.
“Sorry,” Keith mumbles, glad the man isn’t conscious to witness Keith’s distractibility or emotional turmoil. “I bet this isn’t how you wanted your day to go either.”
He reaches for the largest jar, then a scrap of t-shirt which he pours the liquid on to. The scent of cloves and tea tree is cloying as Keith brings the cloth down towards the man’s bare flesh.
“This is going to burn,” Keith tells him, aware there’s no point in warning an unconscious man but doing it anyway.
With firm but careful strokes he wipes the antiseptic over the deep scratch across the man’s chest and the one at his hip—careful to wipe the area clean. The cloth gets soiled quickly and Keith has to use two more before the worst cut at his hip is clean—using up the entire jar of antiseptic, cleaning the many cuts at his hand and wrist before he feels comfortable that he won’t get an infection.
Wounds clean, he reaches next for his healing salve. The one at the apothecary uses bodriger root and essence of accroves but Keith can’t afford either. His version might not be as potent but the yiyasley root he collected on his hike last month is damn close to containing the same anti-inflammatory and pain relieving properties. Keith’s personally convinced the only reason the apothecaries don’t use it is because they can’t make as big of a profit off it. The yiyasley root is stupidly easy to collect, but it’s also a bit of a nightmare to extract the seeds which offsets how easy to find it is.
As Keith uncorks the lid, the scent of rotting moss assaults his nose making him frown. The smell is probably also why the apothecary doesn't use yiyasley root. But beggars can’t be choosers and Keith doesn’t particularly care what he smells like, so long as the salve does its job when he hurts himself.
“You’re going to smell horrible, but it works,” Keith says, scooping a rather generous amount of the cream onto his fingers.
Normally Keith is sparring with the cream because it's so difficult to make, but Keith has no idea what kind of pain tolerance this stranger has and Keith’s propensity to just deal with pain apparently doesn’t extend to this stranger. That and something in the tightness of the unconscious man’s face that makes Keith ache to take away his pain. Unfortunately Keith possesses no healing magic so offering him this pain salve is as close as he can get.
“It’s probably cold too,” Keith warns, smoothing the cream over the wound.
Though the man doesn’t move, Keith finds himself wincing in sympathy as the cream covers the gash—the unsightly wound now hidden under green goo. Though the wound isn’t particularly deep, he must’ve crashed against a rather large branch because the size of the wound is certainly not small.
Once he’s content that he’s done as much as he can, Keith retrieves several bandages and ties the ends together to make something long enough to wrap around the man’s middle—his own heart in his throat as he all but hugs him in order to slide the bandage beneath his body.
It’s the closest Keith’s been to another living person since, well—ever.
For a few seconds Keith hesitates above him, tracking the rise and fall of his chest. With their bodies so close he can count every one of the man’s pale white eyelashes, can see every ridge in his full lips and can feel the way his body still trembles from the cold.
It's impossible to know how long this man must've been at the bottom of Keith’s tree. Between the time it takes to hike to town and back and the many hours Keith spent doing odd jobs at the apothecary, and general store to barter for the things he couldn’t pay for, Keith had been gone most of the day. It’s entirely possible this man was left in the snow for hours.
Most of the time Keith doesn’t spare much of his own energy worrying about how anyone else survives, but the idea of this man nearly freezing to death makes Keith’s heart lodge itself in his throat.
Who are you? Keith thinks, the reminder of how fragile the balance of life is, making his hand tremble. If Keith hadn’t got home when he did, if someone or something else had found him—things could have been different. So different.
Still, despite his current fragility, something in this man oozes strength. Though the cold has robbed him of consciousness, his life force is still strong. So strong, that if Keith lowered himself further he might even be able to hear the steady beat of his heart.
The thought alone makes heat flood Keith’s body. It’s an alarming thought yet once he has it he cannot unthink it. He’s heard Kosmo’s heartbeat before, when he rests his head on his fur and hugs him close. He’s never heard the heartbeat of another avian though. He wonders if it sounds the way his own heart feels when it thuds in his chest.
Is it strong? Is it clear? Is it beautiful?
It's such an all encompassing thought it takes Keith long moments to realize his wings are expanding—as if he were presenting himself. It’s the most ludicrous thing Keith’s ever experienced and he nearly tumbles off the bed in his haste to move, pulling his wings tight against his body where they belong.
“Get ahold of yourself,” Keith mutters, ignoring the way his hands shake as he ties the bandage into a knot around the man's trim waist, careful not to let his fingers brush naked flesh again.
Keith’s lived much of his life without physical contact and this moment aside, nothing will change that.
As soon as this stranger is able to leave, they will; and they likely won’t spare a glance or thought to Keith again. Letting himself get carried away with fanciful thoughts about companionship or physical contact are not going to do anything but hurt Keith. There will be nothing to keep the beautiful avian here and the best Keith can hope for is that he leaves peacefully, allowing Keith to return to his life of solitude. It’s what he wants. At least he’s pretty sure it is.
It’s hard to explain how unsettling it feels to have someone else in his home when he’s done so much to keep everyone out, and the feeling has Keith’s heart racing as quickly as his mind.
Eager for a distraction he looks to Kosmo, but he’s staring at the floor and not at Keith.
He’s the one who asked to be left alone so he’s not sure why the fact that Kosmo is doing it has him so wrongfooted.
“Fine, just talk to myself then,” hurrying to add some of the healing salve to the man's battered hand. It’s a bit tricky since the cuts are all over and he ends up needing to wrap the entire hand in bandages. It won’t get infected though, so Keith can only hope the man doesn’t take unkindly to waking up and realizing he can’t use his only good hand.
It’s a rabbit hole Keith can’t go down, not because he can’t imagine how the man might react but because he can; because there are a multitude of ways this might go and most of them won’t end well for Keith.
It’s ironic that Keith should be faced with this after a lifetime of cautiousness. For all he knows this avian is on the run from the law, or crossed a fae line and is being cursed for his insolence. Maybe he even secretly trades feathers on the black market. For all Keith knows he’s bad news and Keith’s signed his own death certificate allowing him inside.
Even as he thinks these things he knows they aren’t true. How he knows, Keith doesn’t have a clue, but he knows.
Whatever this man might be, and the possibilities are still vast and unknown, he is good—of this Keith is certain.
It’s a certainty that allows Keith to finish tending the avians wounds before he piles him high with blankets. Of course there aren't many considering Keith only owns two and one of them is decidedly worse for wear. The small hole in the corner has grown so much recently the blanket is nearly split in two.
He wonders what the man might think to wake up here, or what kind of accommodations he’s used to. No one too well off would end up this way yet his clothing and well cared for wings speaks of a level of comfort in life that is difficult for Keith to conceive.
Instead of feeling jealous, Keith feels glad. His sixth sense or whatever it is, makes him feel certain life has not always been easy for this man. A few creature comforts in a hard life are well deserved. He only wishes he had more to offer as he tugs the tattered blanket up to his chest.
Kosmo was right about saving him.
As soon as he thinks the thought, he snaps his head around expecting Kosmo to look smug. He doesn’t. There's no cocked ears or knowing look and he’s definitely not gloating in Keith’s mind. He’s acting like, well—a normal wolf.
Keith hates it.
“Fine, you were right, Kosmo,” Keith says, hoping to get a rise out of him as he shoves his vials back into their little bag with little care. “You don’t need to be smug about it, though.”
Kosmo is not smug about it. He merely rests his snout on his paws and watches Keith quietly.
“Stop it,” Keith grumbles, cinching the bag shut and sliding it under the bed frame. This time he’s at least careful enough to do so without breaking the bottles. “You’re so quiet. It’s annoying.”
Still Kosmo does not react.
“Why are you doing this?” Keith sighs. “I’m sorry, alright. You know I am. I’m difficult. This is why you’re the only one who puts up with me.”
Still nothing.
“For goodness sake, Kosmo, I said I was sorry,” Keith sighs, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want, a letter engraved in gold? Formal permission?”
Kosmo’s tail twitches at the words as realization dawns.
“Oh. Oh you can’t, can you. Because of what I said?” Keith guesses, recalling his earlier words.
You don’t have my permission was what he’d told Kosmo.
Could it be possible that Kosmo truly can’t answer him? That his words hold power over him?
A shiver races up Keith’s spine. He doesn’t want to hold power over anyone, especially not Kosmo. He hadn’t meant anything binding by the words, yet there seems to be no other explanation for Kosmo’s stout refusal to acknowledge him.
Very little is known about the bond between a witch and their familiar, and even if Keith had finished his studies, he’d be none the wiser about this bond, the secrets of which are tightly guarded. Which is exactly why the rumors of Kosmo being a witches familiar in town had been enough to keep people away from them—because no one knew what that meant.
The parameters of what a witch's familiar are capable of and their bond to their witch is a highly guarded secret, which to Keith’s admittedly limited knowledge is only passed down through familial bonds
Except Keith doesn’t have a family, or anyone to explain to him what is going on. All he can do is guess.
“I uh…take back what I said before. You have permission to think in my mind and to well, just do what you would normally do.”
He waits expectantly, rewarded when Kosmo stretches out his front paws. You catch on fast.
Relief and pride flood Keith in equal measure.
“I didn’t mean anything before, I didn’t know…I didn’t—” but he pauses, unsure how to articulate the vastness of what he doesn’t know. How do you express that you don’t know who you are anymore? Or what you’re capable of? How do you explain in words how terribly alone you feel?
Turns out, he doesn’t need to, because Kosmo trots over to nudge his head against Keith’s hand until Keith turns the flat of his palm down against Kosmo’s stove-warmed fur to pet his head.
You will learn.
“How?” Keith croaks, embarrassed at the way his jaw wobbles.
You have me, and him.
Keith snorts derisively, turning to look at the stranger on his bed. With his head turned to the side and his mouth slightly open, he looks like an angel.
“He’s not staying. He’ll be gone the second he wakes.”
Will he?
“Of course he will,” Keith counters, though something in Kosmo’s tone has his surety wavering. “Kosmo, what do you know?”
What do you know? Kosmo counters.
“Qux,” Keith curses. “You’re speaking in riddles.”
Perhaps, Kosmo says, or thinks. Keith’s not entirely sure which it counts as when the conversation is happening inside of his mind. It’s yet one more example of how little Keith knows.
You are doing well.
“Oh,” Keith whispers, unsure why the assertion makes him want to cry.
I have waited many moons for this.
And yeah, okay, Keith feels his eyes watering. This is too much.
Is it so hard to believe someone might wait for you? Kosmo asks as he follows Keith to the stove.
“Yes, obviously,” Keith says, slamming the kettle down on the stove with a bit too much force. It clatters loudly, and Keith automatically turns to check on the man on his bed but he doesn’t flinch at the sound, thankfully unaware of Keith’s emotional meltdown.
Putting on the kettle is hardly a meltdown, Kosmo points out.
Keith blinks, the words settling in his chest.
Having someone respond to his thoughts is going to take some getting used to.
I can stop if you wish.
“No,” Keith blurts, fully prepared to be uncomfortable if it means no longer being alone.
As you wish.
“What I wish is for things to go back to normal,” Keith sighs, pacing in front of his stove.
What is normal? Kosmo asks, eyes alert.
“Normal is when he’s not here and I was…well—” but he stops when he realizes exactly what the end of this sentence might sound like. When you couldn’t talk. Normal would mean going back to before he found the stranger at his treerstep, before he knew he was a witch and before Kosmo could speak to him. Would he really want to go back to this morning when he was alone? So very alone.
No, he thinks. No he wouldn’t.
“This water isn’t boiling,” he says, in lieu of finishing his first thought.
If Kosmo is aware of what he’s doing he says nothing, thankfully.
It is very cold outside.
Keith sighs. Kosmo’s right. This stove might do the trick on a normal day since the house is so small but it’s no match for the freezing wind whipping through the cracks in the windows and floorboards. When Keith puts his hand directly in front of the firebox it’s hot enough to burn, but when he takes a step back he can barely feel the heat. Same goes for the burner on top which is hot, but not enough to get the water to boil as it usually might with the little little flurry of snow sneaking in through the crack in the wall above his stove.
It’s a stark reminder of the places Keith’s home needs repairing, places he’s been putting off fixing, not because he can’t but because he’s grown weary of patching them up incorrectly only to have it fall apart. At one point he hoped to save enough to buy the proper materials to better survive the elements but money was tight over the summer then he’d needed to use most of his savings for new boots and gloves at the beginning of winter leaving nothing for home repairs.
Keith’s might’ve built this house with blood sweat and tears, might be the best tinker in the area, but there’s only so much one can do under these kinds of circumstances. He might be handy, and apparently a witch, but not even Keith can build something out of nothing.
Before this morning Keith’s pan was simply to deal with it. Granted he hadn’t anticipated a storm this bad but he’d dealt with worse things than wind. Besides, a little cold never bothered Keith who has always had an impossibly high tolerance for both the cold and the heat—a trait not shared by the majority of his kind.
Definitely not a trait shared by the poor avian shivering on his bed.
“He’s going to be okay isn’t he?” Keith finds himself asking Kosmo.
There’s a pause where Kosmo doesn’t answer, his paws pitter pattering across the wood floor as he moves toward the bed and closer to the avian. Still he’s quiet as he rests his snout at the end of the mattress studying him—quiet for so long Keith startles when his voice echoes in his mind.
Your kind is very fragile.
“But he’s going to be fine, right?”
He is a survivor, but no one can survive everything.
Somehow the answer surprises Keith. Not because of its honesty—he would expect nothing less from Kosmo—but because of the implications.
“Can you help him?” Keith asks, taking a step closer to the bed.
If he didn’t know better he’d swear the man was getting more pale, but that doesn’t make sense. Keith’s no healer but he did what he was supposed to do. He rescued him. He patched him up. He’s supposed to be getting better now.
I cannot help him, Kosmo says, and for the first time there is a heaviness in the words—as if Keith can feel what it must cost Kosmo to express them.
“Why not?” Keith asks, feeling very small. He shouldn’t care what happens to the stranger on his bed, but he does. He does in a way that is frankly terrifying. “You saved me.”
That was different.
“No it’s not. I can make you save him, then. If I can make you stop talking I can make you save him,” Keith says, surprised to realize his hands are shaking.
No, Keith. If I could save him I would, but I cannot. Not even if you command it. You cannot will me to do things I am incapable of.
“This is stupid,” Keith chokes out, clenching his hands into fists to hide the tremors.
He does not need me.
“But you said he was cold…he’s fragile.”
Yes, but I am not the one he needs.
“But I can’t get a healer in this storm. It’s an hours walk to town and in this weather they’d never come out this far and—”
You have wings.
Keith blinks at the interruption. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Your wings are not like other avians, are they?
“No,” Keith answers, glancing over his shoulder at his own wings which have already begun to expand without his permission.
He thinks back to what everyone said of his wings when he first presented—different, unnatural, dangerous.
Strong, Kosmo interrupts. Like you. And almost impervious to the cold if I am not mistaken.
It takes Keith a few beats to catch on to Kosmo’s meaning but when he does, his wings flutter even as his stomach rolls.
“You mean I should shelter him?”
I do not see anyone else capable of doing so.
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Keith sighs, taking one step close to the unconscious avain.
Rescuing him, carrying him in flight, even tending to his wounds are all one thing. Sheltering the avian, holding him in his wings is something else entirely.
Keith doesn’t know how. His earliest memories are of being scolded in the orphanage as a child for crying too much because he disliked sleeping alone. He can’t shelter him.
To hold another in your arms is to save them, to hold them in his wings is an intimacy Keith can hardly conceive of.
You do not have much time.
“I can’t do this,” Keith chokes out, nearly stumbling to the floor as he takes two steps back and bumps into his couch, collapsing down onto the arm.
Alright.
“Wait, you’re not going to argue with me?” Keith asks. “Or tell me that he could die if I don’t do this? Or give me some guilt trip about how it’s my responsibility to save someone in need if I’m able.”
,b>Why should I when you already know? It is not my place to change your heart, and you know what will happen if you decide not to. Only you can make this choice.
“Oh.”
Do you wish me to?
Keith sighs heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Not particularly.”
You are conflicted.
There’s no point in pretending otherwise when it’s clear Kosmo can read his every thought. “Obviously.”
But you wish for this often.
Keith’s entire body burns with shame at the words. Kosmo isn’t wrong, but it’s a wish Keith has kept buried for so long he hardly let himself admit to wanting it even in the privacy of his own mind. It’s startling to realize that for as long as Kosmo has known him, he has known this.
Even knowing Kosmo knows he cannot bring himself to acknowledge this.
“I have not, “Keith objects.
He waits for Kosmo to call him a liar but he doesn’t. Instead he moves over and curls up at the floor near the avian, in the same way he curled up next to Keith before he’d earned Keith’s trust.
Keith has never seen Kosmo interact with anyone else like this and it awakens a longing in him.
Like a flash he imagines himself crawling into the bed and pulling the avian close, close enough that Keith could shelter him in his wings.
The very idea makes Keith’s throat close and his cheeks heat as tears prickle at his eyes. This is ridiculous. This man is a stranger. He doesn’t mean anything to Keith, so why is he acting like this?
With a shudder he drags his gaze over to Kosmo, waiting for his vulnerabilities to be called out. All he finds is Kosmo watching the stranger, snout resting on his paws.
“Why does he matter?” Keith chokes out.
I think you know, Kosmo says, not unkindly.
“No I—” but Keith can’t even finish the sentence, cannot bring himself to lie.
He watches the man slumber and feels the pull—understands now the deep connection he feels to this man he has never met, and the absolute terror he feels at the idea of losing him. As he focuses on those feelings his wings flutter out in longing and he knows.
Oh, he knows.
This avian is his mate.
Keith’s gut reaction is to deny it. Someone like him can’t possibly have a mate, especially not one as beautiful as this. Yet his heart will not let him deny the truth now that he’s given words to the feeling.
A mate.
Impossible as it seems, there is no other explanation for what could make Keith, against all his better judgement and self preservation skills, bring a total stranger into his home. Then there’s Kosmo’s reaction which would be enough to assuage any doubts Keith might have.
He probes his own mind and finds he has no doubts.
Incredulity? Yes. Confusion, definitely. Doubt though? Hardly.
He is as certain that the avian in his bed is his mate as he is that Keith is not worthy of him. No one in their right mind would choose Keith as a mate.
Of course mates aren’t chosen, they merely are. There are a lot of theories about the formation of the bond, and what it would mean to deny one. Keith never paid attention to the stories because he genuinely assumed he wouldn’t have a mate. Not all avian’s do, or if they do not all of them find theirs.
The luckiest ones find them, Kosmo chimes in.
“I don’t feel lucky,” Keith mutters.
What he feels is trepidation—waiting for his beautiful avian to wake up, and then realize that Keith already knows they are mates.
Happiness does not flood his heart, but nervousness does. What could someone like him possibly think when they awaken in Keith’s home and take in the threadbare blankets and cracks in the walls, or Keith himself. Instinctively Keith pulls his wings in tightly, barely breathing.
What a disappointment they will feel.
You might be surprised.
Keith sighs. Perhaps he might be, but Keith has never enjoyed surprises and he hardly relishes the idea of knowing he is soon to be rejected. He’s gone to a great deal of effort in his life to ensure no one can abandon him again, so having invited the only person alive who has the power to make Keith feel deeply unwanted into his home feels like a very bad joke.
There’s half a second or so where Keith imagines flying away before they wake, prepared to face the elements rather than see the shock or horror that will cross this man’s face when he awakes to realize who his mate is.
The thought leaves quickly. Apparently Keith’s well honed self preservation skills have decided to abandon him because leaving is the smart thing to do. It could spare him immeasurable pain. And yet, he cannot leave. He won’t.
His mate lays on the bed, the bed shaking with his tremors, and Keith knows he will lay his heart on the line to save him.
When he wakes, he will leave, but at least he will be alive to do so.
Keith kicks his boots off, stripping his own damp clothing off and replacing it with a pair of worn sleep pants. He doesn’t bother with a shirt, in no mood to fuss with the buttons and hoping the extra skin to skin might keep his mate warm.
His mate.
The very word makes Keith’s heart beat faster as he climbs onto the bed, careful not to put a knee down on his wings as he crawls onto the mattress. It’s hardly big enough for two and Keith is painfully aware of this face as he settles himself beside his mate, careful not to touch more than is strictly necessary.
If Kosmo has thoughts on the speed of Keith’s movements, or anything else Keith is doing he keeps them to himself, which is just as well because Keith isn’t certain his mental fortitude could withstand commentary right now.
With every inch he moves up the bed he nears his mate’s face, not closed in peaceful slumber but in unconsciousness. It pulls at Keith’s heartstrings in a way that it should not, in a way that Keith has never allowed himself to care about the wellbeing of anyone beside Kosmo.
“What did you get yourself into?” Keith whispers, carefully pulling the blanket up to his chest.
He might be about to shelter him, but his mate didn’t choose this, doesn’t get to decide whether he’s clothed or held. The least Keith can do is offer him as much privacy and autonomy as possible.
Stretched out beside his mate, Keith nearly forgets how to breathe. He’s close enough to see the way the color is leaving his mates face, and the way his lips tremble.
Cold, he is so cold.
He needs more than a worn blanket or even half of a wing. He needs Keith.
It’s a strange moment to realize that his wings—the part of himself that has always ostracised him from his own kind—will be the one thing that can save his mate. Strange and terrifying. Keith is certain he would find it easier to face off with an angry Trhrolkoz with his bare hands than to close the last bit of distance between them.
With bated breath Keith slowly inches closer until their bodies are pressed together from chest to toe, the only thing separating them now are Keith’s pants and the thin blanket. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a man, to anyone really, and it sends his heart racing.
This close, he can feel every curve of his mate’s body, the thickness of him and the strength, and most especially the vulnerability in the way his body shakes.
“I won’t let you die,” Keith whispers.
He knows this might be the only time he’s allowed to hold his mate, but he can find no pleasure in a one sided embrace. He cannot take refuge in the sense of rightness that overtakes him as he slips his arm over his mate’s hip to pull him closer. Not when Keith is certain his touch would be less welcome if his mate were awake to realize exactly who was holding him.
Pushing aside his own insecurities, Keith focuses on the task at hand—warming his mate.
A rushing fills Keith’s ears, a white noise louder than the wind howling at the window as he lets his wings expand—goosebumps popping up on Keith’s forearms as his wings are freed. He shakes them loose before wrapping them tightly around himself and his mate.
Sheltered in Keith’s wings, his mate will be safe.
Kosmo was right before. Whatever else Keith’s wings might be, they are strong. It’s a small comfort to at least know that whatever else might happen, right now Keith is doing something right—that it is his wings and his alone which can shelter his mate from the storm raging outside.
For a few seconds the comfort builds, cresting like a wave on the shore, only to crash down into nothingness as Keith realizes that sheltering his mate with his wings means prolonged physical contact.
All too quickly the comfort is replaced by a growing sense of awkwardness as Keith tries to shift his body without rubbing himself against his mate, unsure where exactly is appropriate to rest his arm. He is also realizing that he’s placed himself in the precarious position of having his face smashed in the man’s voluminous chest.
With no idea how to move or even breathe without doing so against his mate's chilled skin, he does neither—remaining completely still and holding his breath as he tightens his wings around them both. As his primary wings slip around his mates back to cradle him in warmth, Keith let’s out a single shuddering breath.
This is fine, Keith tells himself: he can do this. How difficult can holding someone be?
The answer, it turns out, is very difficult.
Keith’s used to doing hard things. He once took down a full grown Trhrolkoz unarmed, built this entire treehouse with his bare hands and on a very memorable occasion challenged a fairy to a game of luck and won. Yet somehow, the most challenging thing he has ever done is this—cuddle his mate.
Perhaps it would be easier if his mate were awake so that Keith did not have to wonder if his touch was wanted.
As it is, Keith can do nothing but dwell on the what if, on the possibility that his mate will wake and be entirely displeased by who is holding him.
Maybe he won’t though. Maybe he won’t be entirely horrified. Maybe he might even be amenable to Keith being his mate.
The second the thought filters into his mind, he shuts it down. That’s a dangerous line to walk and Keith knows better than to get his hopes up, especially where other people are involved.
It’s entirely possible his mate is a good man. Something in Keith senses he is, and Kosmo obviously felt it too or he wouldn’t have urged Keith to save him before Keith could recognize his mate for what he was. But being a good man and wanting Keith, are two entirely different things.
If he is a good man then he won’t be aggressive or angry when he wakes to find an avian with black wings sheltering him. Perhaps he might even be kind to Keith, maybe even thank him. He seems like he would.
Something about this man makes Keith feel safe. But safety is fleeting—an illusion—and Keith knows better than to trust the feeling of hope.
Even knowing better, Keith finds the tension in his shoulders slowly slipping away as holds his mate close. He knows it doesn’t mean anything, or at least his brain knows. His heart doesn’t get the memo because his wings have never felt better than they do now.
Emboldened by the sense of rightness he feels, he allows his arm to slip further around his mate’s trim waist, his fingers now smashed between his mate’s hip and wing. The feathers are smooth against the back of Keith’s hand and wrist, and the sensation is enough to have Keith biting down hard on his bottom lip.
This doesn’t mean anything, he keeps reminding himself, but the longer he holds his mate the harder it becomes to remember.
His mate fits so well against him, as if their bodies were meant to slot together—as if Keith were meant to be right here.
Keith has always loved his wings in a defiant, angry way—loved them because no one else would. But he has never felt the way he does now about them; he can hardly put into words how good it feels. He has always loved his wings in spite of what they were, but right now all he can think about is what his wings are. They are big enough to shelter his mate—strong enough.
They are enough.
Keith is enough.
The thought makes tears prickle in his eyes as he breathes in deep, desperately trying not to disturb his mate who needs warmth and rest, not a mess of a person leaking against his bare skin. Yet try as he might, Keith can’t keep the feelings at bay—the weight of them staggering.
He has never felt like enough, has never been enough for anyone else. It’s why he’s been alone for so long, finding it easier to be the only one whose opinion of himself matters. Still he’s not immune to the reality of how others perceive him, or the way that sometimes triggers his own traumatic childhood experiences.
The very idea that he might be good, might be exactly what someone else needs, is too overwhelming to even give credit too. Overwhelming enough he feels his own body begin to tremble.
He’s certain it's the shock of it all—first Kosmo and Keith’s apparent magical heritage and now a mate and considering that Keith barely got any sleep last night and the long day tinkering in town and it's no wonder he’s feeling emotional. Still understanding the way and being able to sit with the feelings are two very different things. Keith knows he has every reason in the world to be overwhelmed, but still feels entirely incapable of having so many feelings inside of him at one time.
He tries to ignore the emotions swirling inside of him. He tries to ignore the pull to press himself as closely as possible to his mate so that every inch of them is touching. He tries to do a lot of things and he fails at all of them.
One second he’s stiff as a board, unmoving, and the next he’s inching his face closer.
Just to keep him warm, he tells himself as he rests his cheek against the man’s chest. It’s firm but soft and if Keith isn’t mistaken he swears his mate stops trembling. Because he’s warm, he thinks, unable to imagine it might be from anything else.
This is all to keep his mate warm, he repeats to himself, breath hitching in his throat as something loud thuds against his ear. He startles before he realizes exactly what it is he is hearing—his mate's heartbeat.
With a growing sense of wonder he presses his ear harder against his mate’s chest, the steady lub dub sound pounding in his ears. There are hardly words to explain the way listening to it makes Keith feel, or the things it makes him want.
In his arms his mate is full of life, a life that Keith can hear thrumming through his veins this very second. Every rapid beat proves that what Keith has done to save him, what he is doing right now, is working.
Strangely content, Keith allows the breath he’s been holding to escape his lungs as he counts the beat for no other reason than it pleases him to do so. He counts them until he realizes they are slowing, marveling at the very idea that his own presence could be the cause for such a dramatic shift in his mate’s body.
The longer Keith holds him close, the slower the beat drops, eventually settling into a slow and steady rhythm that Keith realizes his own heart is trying to match.
Keith has never been particularly aware of the beat of his own heart; he is aware now, able to track the moment his own heart slows to beat in time with his mate’s.
It is powerful. There is no denying it, no trying to diminish the weight of this moment as his own body fully recognizes his mate.
Calmness settles in his chest, likely triggered by some kind of new mate pheromones. Whatever it is, Keith likes it. He’s never felt like this, never felt like he could breathe so freely, never felt so steady, so relaxed.
Safe, he realizes a moment later.
Keith feels safe.
It is not a feeling Keith is used to, nor one he can fight. The logical part of his brain knows things will change when his mate wakes and sees Keith, but for this one moment Keith is going to be selfish. He is going to be desperately, painfully selfish and hold his mate in case it is the only time he’s allowed to do so.
He’s going to listen to every beat of his heart, feel the velvet softness of his wings beneath the tip of Keith’s fingers, and he’s going to hold the most precious thing in the world in his arms and pretend that all of it won’t be taken away when his mate wakes up.
Against all odds, Keith finds himself getting drowsy.
Most of the time Keith sleeps fitfully. Between his own propensity towards insomnia and his inability to ever fully relax, the slightest noise wakes him. Which means that Keith is chronically over tired, a fact which is apparent now in the way Keith’s breathing slows and he rubs his face into the soft warmth of his mate’s chest.
Tired. Keith is so very tired. Tired in a way that permeates his bones and his very heart. So tired of running, of fighting.
He doesn’t need to fight now though. He doesn’t need to do anything except lay here with his mate. That he can do, but he won’t fall asleep. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.
He fights it off for as long as he can, stifling a yawn as he struggles to keep his eyes open but it’s impossible to resist the pull of sleep when he feels so physically good.
Outside the treehouse the storm rages, making his bed sway while the wind howls angrily. Inside the cocoon of his wings it’s impossibly warm, the sounds around them muffled to a quiet background noise, allowing him to focus on the melodic lub dub against his ear. Attention focused solely on the soothing sound of his mate’s heartbeat, he finds that his eyelids begin to droop.
Warm and relaxed, Keith can no longer remain vigilant, or awake, contentment overpowers the logical part of his brain that knows it's unwise to fall asleep with a stranger.
“Please don’t be mean to me,” Keith whispers, the last words he says before the darkness welcomes him.
Minutes or hours later, Keith cannot be sure, he feels someone stirring against him.
He’s quick to rouse, but he finds himself disoriented and it takes long seconds before he remembers why he’s so comfortable and warm and that he is not alone.
Right, the man in his bed. His mate.
Eager to not be caught too close Keith slowly disentangles himself from the embrace, ignoring the pang of disappointment that lances through his heart at the loss of contact. He knew it would be short lived, but he was unprepared for how hard it is to pull away. Yet pull away he does, not wishing to make his mate unhappy or uncomfortable.
Keith might have made the choice to embrace but his mate did not, and while there is little Keith can offer him besides shelter, he can at least offer him his autonomy.
With slow movements he inches back as his mate stirs again, watching with rapt attention as he arches his back and rolls his shoulders, stretching one long arm above his head with an audible groan before his eyes slowly flutter open.
There’s a beat where his mate’s eyes—pale and beautiful as his wings—adjust to the dim lighting. A moment where he takes in his surroundings—takes in Keith.
“You.”
“I found you,” Keith blurts, pulling his wings back from around his mate.
Instantly his mate shivers, but Keith cannot bring himself to put his own wings back, unsure what to make of the look in the man’s eyes.
“You…you—”
“I didn’t hurt you,” Keith says, wings pulling so tight against his back it’s nearly painful. “You were unconscious and I was trying to help. I didn’t do anything to you, I promise. Your clothes and your bag are there by the stove. I didn’t steal anything. I didn’t even search through it, so you don’t need to be angry or…or fight me.”
“Fight you,” he repeats, looking decidedly uncertain as he tries to push himself up into a sitting position. Tries and fails, his face screwing up in pain as he reaches back to grab at his wing.
“You’re hurt,” Keith cries, arm shooting out before he can think better of it.
Guilt slams into Keith. He’d been so concerned with checking the wounds on his mate’s torso, and getting him warm, he’d neglected to fully check his wings out.
“Just a sprain,” the man says, the pain on his face apparent as he forces himself into a sitting position despite his own obvious discomfort. “But I need to get up.”
Keith’s heart sinks to the floor.
Of course, he’s leaving. Even wounded and barely conscious he’s trying to leave. The very idea that Keith let himself imagine otherwise is ludicrous.
“Of course, I’ll get your things,” he says, rising off the bed. “For you to leave.”
“Leave,” the man whispers, his face as pale as snow as he struggles to remain upright.
There’s such pain in his expression that Keith hardly knows what to do with it. He’d known his mate might be disappointed when he saw Keith, but he’d never imagined he’d have to bear witness to a look of such sadness.
“Your clothes are wet but you might be able to borrow something of mine,” Keith mumbles, averting his gaze. “It will be snug but it’s better than nothing.”
Keith
“I’m sure this isn’t what you expected when you woke up,” Keith says, hands shaking as he gathers his mate’s things.
Keith.
“I bet—”
Keith, stop, Kosmo interrupts, voice soft but firm.
Keith stops fussing, bag clenched in his hands as he spins on his heels to look at his mate. His mate who is sitting on the edge of the bed trembling from the cold, his blanket slipped down to the floor and his hand shaking as he tries to get off the bed.
“You are in quite the hurry to leave,” Keith says, nearly choking on the words.
“I will not make you uncomfortable,” his mate replies, jaw clenched as he stands. He’s tall, so tall and everything about him is big, from the width of his chest and thighs to the span of his wings, which even when pulled back are noticeably larger than Keith’s.
He’s so striking that it takes long seconds for what he’s said to fully register in Keith’s brain.
“Me?” Keith gasps. “Make me uncomfortable.”
“Yes,” his mate says, entire body trembling as he takes a step forward. “I apologize. I thought…but perhaps I was wrong. It never occurred to me that my mate might not want to be found, or that my presence could be so alarming. I’m so very sorry.”
Shock is the only explanation for what keeps Keith silent as he watches his mate stumble forward.
You’re going to lose him, Kosmo says, the words breaking through Keith’s stupor.
“Stop,” Keith cries, unable to stomach the idea of losing something he doesn’t have yet. “Please.”
“I can go to town,” his mate says, the lines of his face tight with pain. “Perhaps—”
But whatever else he means to say ends in a cry of distress as he reaches back to clutch at his wing as he collapses to the ground. It’s an awkward angle, his injured wing smashed against the side of the sofa and his head falls forward.
With absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but knowing he needs to do something, Keith drops to his knees and shuffles forward slowly so as not to spook him.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Oh. He’s like you. Kosmo unhelpfully observes.
“Stop talking,” Keith grumbles.
“Sorry,” his mate whispers, attempting to pull his wing around himself, as a blanket or a shield Keith has no idea, but it hurts. It hurts because his mate is not okay and Keith is making things worse.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Keith says, hand hovering awkwardly in the air. “Sorry.”
“Is there someone else here?” Shiro asks, eyes widening as he glances around the small room as if expecting to find someone invisible.
“Ah, yeah. Kind of.”
Kind of, Kosmo interrupts with a clipped tone. I am most definitely someone.
Keith resists the urge to reply to Kosmo, keeping his attention on his mate instead. “It's Kosmo.”
Shiro continues to look around the room until Kosmo moves beside Keith and his eyes widen in realization. “Oh, he’s your familiar.”
“Yeah, he’s—wait, how did you know that?” Keith gasps, struggling to understand how his mate could know something that Keith only just learned. “Was it the rumors in town? You shouldn’t believe any of the stuff people say about me, they lie. Well alright, Kosmo is my familiar, but none of them know the truth so…so yeah. Anything else you heard in town is probably a lie.”
“I haven’t heard any rumors,” his mate says slowly, as if carefully weighing his next words. “I can see your magic.”
Of all the things Keith expected this isn’t it. “How?”
“That’s a very long story,” his mate sighs, rubbing one of his feathers between his thumb and forefinger.
“I would like to hear it,” Keith says, surprised at his own boldness.
His mate’s gaze lifts, something quiet in his expression shifting as his eyes roam across Keith’s face. “I thought you wanted me to leave.”
“Me,” Keith nearly shrieks. “Why would you think that?”
“Your magic,” he says softly. “It’s hard to explain, but I can see how people feel. I can’t read their minds or anything, so don’t worry I’m not doing that now. But emotions, and abilities…they have colors.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Wait so before…you were going to leave because my colors changed?”
His mate nods, squeezing his eyes shut. “I swear I have a good explanation for all this, and several books in my library that might help, but right now I’m just a little dizzy and it’s hard to think. I practiced this conversation so many times, imagining exactly what I might say when I finally found you. I wanted to meet you under the trees, spread my wings and present myself to you properly, and if I was very lucky perhaps win your favor. Instead I crashed and now I’m ruining it all,” he says, and he looks so sad Keith longs for nothing more than to pull him into his arms.
“You’re not ruining anything,” Keith offers.
“You’re very kind.”
“I’m not that kind,” Keith snorts.
“I’m sure this isn’t at all how you imagined meeting your mate,” his mate says. “I understand I must be such a disappointment. If…if you might give me a second chance, I can do better. I can be worthy of you.”
Keith blinks, feeling as if he’s stepped into an alternative universe. His mate is worried about being worthy of him.
“I’m part witch,” he blurts, “and my wings are black.”
“They’re beautiful, like you,” his mate says. “I’m so embarrassed. I can’t even present my wings. What kind of mate can’t present their wings?”
“The injured kind,” Keith says, tentatively reaching out towards his mate’s wing. His bravery is rewarded when the tension in Shiro’s body slips away the second Keith’s fingers smooth down his wing. “Let me help, please?”
“You’ve done so much.”
“Let me do more,” Keith all but begs.
For a second he doesn’t respond, simply stares at Keith in a way no one ever has—with intention.
His gaze is unwavering, his focus intense, as his eyes roam over Keith’s face. It makes Keith feel stripped bare, his wings fluttering as his mate slowly uncurls his own wing from around his body in a small but powerful act of trust.
“Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay,” Keith echoes, unsure exactly what comes next as he scoots forward.
“Just one thing,” his mate whispers.
Keith pauses, hand held awkwardly in the air between them. “Yes?”
“Your name, please.”
“My, oh. I’m Keith. Just Keith.”
“Keith,” he repeats, as if the name is something precious.
It sends a shiver up Keith’s spine, a kind of longing filling his chest as he blinks away tears. How long has it been since someone called him by name with such open fondness. He likes to imagine his parents must have, but he cannot recall the sound of their voices or the way their love felt.
He wonders if this is what it feels like to be wanted.
“And yours?” Keith dares to ask.
“Shiro,” he says, eyes hopeful. “Call me Shiro.”
“Shiro,” Keith repeats, unprepared for the way Shiro’s smile widens.
It’s beautiful. He is beautiful.
He is also sitting on the cold, hard floor and beginning to shake. Keith didn’t go to all that trouble saving him only for him to freeze to death on the floor.
“We need to get you back in bed,” Keith says.
“Hang on, just give me a second. I can—whoa,” Shiro gasps when Keith picks him up from the floor in a deadlift. “You’re strong.”
Pride makes Keith stand taller as he carries Shiro to the bed. “I mean, I did fly you all the way up here by myself.”
So modest, Kosmo says and if thoughts could have a tone, there definitely would be one. Keith shoots Kosmo what he hopes is a withering look but Kosmo seems unfazed, likely because he knows Keith is all bark and no bite.
Unlike the flight from the ground to Keith’s treehouse, the distance from the couch to the bed is only a few feet and Keith carries him there with ease, delighting in the way it feels to hold him close.
“How are you feeling?” Keith asks.
“Never better,” Shiro says in an answer Keith isn’t expecting at all. He can’t tell if Shiro is being polite or if he’s lying.
Perhaps he is being honest, Kosmo suggests, trotting beside Keith on the way to the bed.
“I don’t see how,” Keith replies, only realizing he’s responded to Kosmo out loud. Before he can clarify, Shiro is responding, clearly thinking the words were meant for him.
“How could I be anything but happy, now that I have found you.”
“But you’re hurt,” Keith objects, slow to lower Shiro onto the bed. “And I’m just…” he stops, biting back his normal self deprecating comments, “I’m just me.”
Shiro sits on the end of the bed, gaze focused on Keith. “There does not seem to be anything just about you.”
Instinctually Keith’s wings flutter, sending a little gust of wind towards Shiro that blows the white hair off his face. His eyes widen in surprise, causing Keith to pull his wings tight against his back.
“Sorry, that was—”
“Wow.”
The rest of Keith’s words die on the tip of his tongue. Shiro doesn’t appear surprised or displeased, quite the opposite.
“You know, I dreamed of you, but my dreams didn’t come close. You are incredible.”
“I’m going to disappoint you,” Keith says, unable to keep the words in. “You have this idea in your head about your mate, but that’s not me. I’m not good with people. No one wants me. No one. And the most conversation I get in a week is when I try to barter in town with the shop owners who overlook my peculiarities because they want my gold. I’m not easy.”
Outburst finished, Keith shrinks in on himself—feathers ruffled as he hunches his shoulder.
Well that was something, Kosmo says.
Too embarrassed to even mentally respond, Keith diverts his attention to a spot on the floor between Shiro’s feet. He tries to think of how to recover from this, how to do something to fix the mess he just made but he comes up blank.
“Easy is overrated.”
Keith’s head flies up so fast he nearly gets whiplash. “What?”
“I don’t need easy, Keith. I don’t want easy. I want you.”
“You don’t know me,” Keith whispers.
“I would like to,” Shiro says, reaching out with his bandaged hand. “Will you let me?”
He doesn’t touch Keith, leaving his hand midair, letting Keith choose how to move forward.
“I might be bad at that, too,” Keith exhales, slowly reaching out to rest his palm under Shiro’s bandaged hand.
The shaky smile Shiro gives him makes his racing heart worth it.
“You know this is all new for me too. I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing. I imagined meeting you so many times, and now that I have it’s like all my words are failing me,” Shiro says. “I had a gift for you, but it got blown away in the wind and I wore my nicest outfit but that’s ruined and—”
“Wait, how did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Know you’d meet me. How could you have known?”
“That is another long story,” Shiro says.
Inhaling a deep breath, Keith slowly curls his fingers around Shiro’s injured hand in a loose embrace. “I have time.”
“Yeah?” Shiro queries, eyes lighting up with hope.
The look on his face punches all the air from Keith’s lungs. For so long he’s only had to worry about himself, uncaring about the effect of his own words or actions. But Shiro is here now and there is weight to the words he uses. Keith holds power over him, he realizes. To hurt or to heal, and perhaps if he is lucky, to give joy.
It’s strange and terrifying to hold so much power over another, and Keith feels a surge of protectiveness unlike any he’s ever known. He does not want to hurt Shiro.
“I don’t know where to start,” Shiro confesses.
“How about we start by getting you warm again,” Keith suggests, the urge to protect his mate nearly overwhelming. He needs something to do lest he get lost in his own thoughts, again.
“Warm sounds nice,” Shiro says, smiling softly as he watches Keith retrieve the blanket.
“It’s not much,” Keith says, draping the blanket over his lap and wishing he had more to offer.
“You must be very used to the cold,” Shiro observes.
“You could say that,” Keith answers, more used to being uncomfortable in general vs. just the cold. He doesn’t really want to say that out loud. “The stove usually warms it up pretty well but we’ve never had a storm this bad.”
Offer him food, Kosmo interrupts, watching Keith from the rug.
“Food,” Keith blurts. “You must want food.”
“Only if it's not an imposition,” Shiro answers.
He is very polite, Kosmo says. More than you.
Keith frowns, “Quiet or no food for you.”
Shiro blanches. “Oh I—”
“Not you!” Keith shouts, wincing at the implications. “I mean Kosmo. Sorry, he was talking, or uh…thinking? I don’t know what you call it? It’s sort of a new development.”
“You can communicate with him,” Shiro asks as his eyes dart between Kosmo and Keith.
“Um, yes?” Keith mumbles.
“That’s incredible,” Shiro says, looking strangely delighted considering he was just halfway yelled at. “I’ve done some research on witches familiars but the writing is usually in ulnez which is hard to translate. I suspected communication was possible but I had no idea it was linguistic in nature.”
“You research witches?”
“I research anything,” Shiro says. “I was sickly as a child, and while others were outside playing I was in bed. Books were…my only friend. Everyone said I’d grow out of it but I think the two rooms of books in my home would say otherwise.”
“You have rooms just for books?” Keith gapes, hardly able to imagine.
“Oh yes,” Shiro says, “perhaps I could show you. Although I’m sure you know all about witches already, my research would hardly be interesting.”
“I don’t,” Keith says, quick to clarify. “I don’t know anything.”
“But you’re a witch?”
“Yes,” Keith confirms.
“And you have a familiar,” Shiro says, clearly trying to make sense of it.
“I do.”
“But then—how?”
“I don’t really know. Kosmo just started talking to me today and—”
“You just learned you were a witch today?” Shiro gasps. Keith bristles, wings fluttering, but before he can get offended Shiro continues. “You’re amazing.”
“Oh,” Keith mumbles, forcing his wings down. “That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. You’re not what I was expecting.”
“You know I get that a lot,” Shiro laughs softly, his boyish smile devastatingly handsome. “I’m not sure what people expect from looking at me but it’s not—” but the rest of his words are cut off when Shiro slams his eyes shut, face screwed up in discomfort.
Keith doesn’t hesitate to rush to his side, wedging himself into the small space between Shiro’s legs. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Dizzy,” he answers a moment later, his entire body swaying forward. “Head hurts.”
Once he's finished speaking Shiro’s body tips forward, as if he might simply tumble off the bed if Keith weren’t there to stop him. Luckily Keith is here and he lays his hands on Shiro’s shoulders to steady him, staring down in surprise as Shiro’s face collides with his stomach.
“Easy,” Keith soothes, unsure where to put his hands now. He settles for leaving one on Shiro’s shoulder and moving the other to his head. He means to feel his face to check for a fever but the second Keith’s palm collides with Shiro’s flesh, his mate lets out a soft little whimper.
Frozen in place, Keith can do nothing more than watch the way Shiro’s face is exposed as he pushes the long bit of hair away. It causes Shiro’s mouth to fall open as his body weight slumps forward.
In his own shock and surprise, Keith had allowed himself to be distracted from the task at hand—taking care of his mate. Keith still has questions, so many, but right now Shiro is unwell and it’s up to Keith to ensure he heals.
“You need to rest,” Keith tells him, unsure what to make of the rapid fluttering in his chest.
You care for him, Kosmo supplies.
Keith exhales a slow breath. Yes, Kosmo is right. He does care. He cares very much. But that doesn’t make it any easier for Keith to figure out what exactly he’s supposed to do.
He was never supposed to have a mate. He left his colony too soon to be taught the nuances of mating rituals and it's not like there was anyone after who might explain it to him. And yeah sure there are books on the matter but why would Keith have wasted gold on books to learn about something he was sure would never apply to him.
You know more than you think.
Before Keith can mentally respond to that, Shiro is speaking again and his words gain all of Keith’s attention.
“I don’t want to rest. I want to get to know you.”
The words do something to Keith, something unquantifiable. No one has ever wanted to know Keith, but more importantly Keith has never wanted anyone to know him.
He thinks perhaps he would like Shiro too.
When Keith feels the tickle on his back, he doesn’t fight against it—allowing his wings to spread. It’s not his full wingspan but it's more than Keith has ever willingly shown anyone.
Shiro pulls back when he hears the flutter of wings, eyes widening as he takes in Keith’s dark wings. Unable to even breathe, Keith stands very still as he uses every ounce of courage he possesses to not close his eyes or avert his gaze.
“You…oh, Keith.”
It’s nothing he almost tells Shiro, but it wouldn’t be the truth. It’s not much, yet it is everything. It is everything Keith has and he is offering it to Shiro.
To his surprise Shiro tries to do the same, face screwed up as he expands his wings. They’re absolutely beautiful but the look of absolute pain on his face is anything but.
“What are you doing?” Keith cries.
“Have to,” Shiro grits out, the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut glass as he forces the injured wing open further so that his wings fill half the room. “You did the—”
But again his words fall short as he lets out a cry of pain.
“Shiro, stop,” Keith begs, unable to see him willfully causing himself pain.
“But you presented,” Shiro says, voice shaking. “You presented. I have to. I accept. I accept.”
Goosebumps pop up on Keith’s forearms as he reaches for Shiro. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The air goes out of Shiro as he deflates, injured wing curling around his right side as he tips his wide eyes on Keith. “You presented. I thought, oh.”
“You thought what?” Keith asks quietly.
“I thought you wanted me.” There’s something very small in his voice as he pulls his other wing back against his back leaving Keith standing there with his mouth open and his wings out. “You…I thought you were initiating the Trhral.”
Keith inhales sharply. The Trhral. It is one thing to find a mate, it is another thing to accept them.
“I misunderstood,” Shiro manages to get out, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. “I apologize.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Keith whispers, his own shame and guilt battling for dominance. “I’m sorry.”
Shiro shakes his head. “It’s alright. You don’t have to accept the mate pull. You don’t—”
“No,” Keith interrupts, desperate to make Shiro understand. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Literally. No one ever, uh…no one ever taught me. I don’t know what to do.”
Keith drops his head, the shame winning. What kind of avian doesn’t even know how to show their mate they are wanted. A bad one, that's what kind.
“So you weren’t initiating the Trhral?” Shiro asks.
“Not intentionally,” Keith answers, itching to reach out and touch Shiro.
Shiro deflates. “Oh.”
“I would though now,” he dares, stretching his wings out to their full glory. “Now that I know.”
“You…oh,” Shiro whispers, seeming to grow ten feet tall with the way his shoulders straighten and his good wing flutters.
“Just please don’t hurt yourself again, okay?”
“But I accept,” Shiro tells him, as if Keith can’t already tell. “I accept. You deserve the Inkel.”
“The what?” Keith asks.
“The inkel,” Shiro repeats, visibly ignoring his own discomfort as he straightens himself further. “It is the formal acceptance of a mate. The wings are displayed and if the feelings are mutual the other mate, me, must display as well.”
“Is it magic?” Keith asks.
Shiro shakes his head. “Not the way you mean.”
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“It would hurt me to not be able to do this,” Shiro says, and the truth of his words is unmistakable. “Please”
Keith doesn’t have it in him to tell Shiro no. Shiro is a grown man, he knows his limits. Besides, Keith knows all too well what it’s like to need to do something, no matter what the physical cost.
“What do we do?” Keith asks.
A light flares in Shiro’s eyes as he tries to stand. Tries and fails. Keith is there, a steadying hand on Shiro’s elbow, bearing his weight so he may stand tall.
“Just this,” Shiro answers, wings slowly flaring out.
There’s a moment where Shiro hisses, his entire body trembling through the pain as he forces his injured wing open. So focused on the lines of pain on Shiro’s face, it takes Keith a moment to realize he’s done it—wings extended fully and fluffed up. Unlike Keith’s wings which are medium long and narrow, built for speed, Shiro’s wings are long and broad with wide gaps between his primary feathers. He is not built for speed, but to soar. It explains why he must have struggled so much in the trees. His wingspan isn’t built for the terrain here.
Tip to tip his wings span most of Keith’s home, several feet wider than Keith’s. Under Keith’s watchful gaze, Shiro stands taller—the pain transforming into pride as Keith reaches a hand out to smooth over downy feathers.
“They’re beautiful,” Keith whispers, unsure if it's the appropriate thing to say. It is, if the way Shiro’s chest fills puffs up air and his wings flutter is any indication.
He is showing off, Keith realizes. Showing off for Keith.
“I wish I could touch yours,” Shiro says sadly, looking down at his fully bandaged hand.
Still marveling at the idea of someone desiring to impress him and emboldened, Keith gets an idea.
“Perhaps they could touch you,” Keith suggests, moving his wings around himself so that the edges of his primary feathers brush over Shiro’s cheek.
Shiro inhales sharply.
“They’re not as soft as yours,” Keith says, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak, hard to breathe. He was unprepared for how emotional this would be.
“They’re perfect,” Shiro whispers, turning his face to nuzzle his cheek against Keith’s primary feathers.
The touch has Keith shuddering and he fights to keep himself in check.
“This is better than I dreamed,” Shiro whispers, eyes opening slowly as he turns his gaze to Keith. “I want to hug you.”
“Is this part of the Trhral?”
“Part of the—oh. No, Keith.”
“Oh,” Keith exhales.
“Is it so strange that someone might want to hold you close?” Shiro asks, taking a shaky step forward.
“Yes,” Keith answers, too honestly.
Something hard to read shutters across Shiro’s face as he lifts his bandaged hand up to Keith’s chin, guiding his gaze up. “Perhaps one day, if it is desired, I might be able to change that.”
“How,” Keith breathes.
“By earning your trust. By being worthy of you. By holding you,” Shiro whispers, just inches from Keith now. “May I touch you, Keith?”
Not trusting himself to speak, Keith nods. Even with Shiro’s questions, and knowing it’s coming, he still feels wholly unprepared for being guided against Shiro’s chest. Shiro’s strong chest. Everything in his body bellies strength and Keith finds tears welling in his eyes. He’s been strong for so long but perhaps he doesn’t have to be strong alone.
“You are good at this,” Shiro says, curling his injured palm around Keith’s lower back, so it’s trapped between Keith’s flesh and feathers. It’s not true, Keith is awkward and emotional and he’s not sure where he’s supposed to put his hands or if it would be okay to bury his face into the soft warmth of Shiro’s chest.
“This is so nice,” Shiro adds, and Keith finds it impossible to hold back.
He can’t explain how or why but he knows that Shiro is not lying to him. However impossible it may seem, his mate is not disappointed. By some strange turn of events he is the opposite, overjoyed even. Overjoyed because Keith is his mate.
Yesterday the idea would have been unthinkable, but so would the idea that Kosmo could speak to him, or that Keith might be part witch.
Keith does not understand it all, but perhaps he doesn’t need to. As a child he could not imagine what about him was so unloveable that no one wanted him. Perhaps letting himself imagine the opposite—that he is wanted—would not be so hard.
“I can’t believe I found you,” Shiro whispers, dropping his cheek down atop Keith’s head and tightening the embrace.
Outside the wind howls angrily, the floor beneath them swaying as Keith’s tree rocks, but the steady lub dub of Shiro’s heart drowns it all out, ensuring Keith’s entire focus is on Shiro. Cradled against his mate’s chest, Keith breathes deeply—breathes freely.
The peace is short lived, because not ten seconds later Keith realizes Shiro is shaking. In his arms, his mate’s body trembles—the force of it making Keith tremble too.
“Are you cold?” he asks, reluctantly pulling out of the embrace.
“No,” Shiro answers, the shaking increasing.
Keith lifts an eyebrow, searching Shiro’s face for some other sign of distress, or even a sign that he is lying. Before he can sense anything, Shiro hangs his head with a soft groan.
“Perhaps I am a little cold.”
“Is that all?” Keith asks, surprised to find his worry growing. He’s not used to worrying about anyone but himself and Kosmo. This worry feels so different—more imminent.
Looking at Shiro so weak and trembling makes Keith feel like his heart is walking around outside of his body. He’s certain it must be the newness of the bond, but the worry makes it hard for Keith to think clearly or objectively. Even knowing he’s done everything he can to care for Shiro’s wounds, the worry tugs at his heart, urging him to do more.
“My head hurts,” Shiro confesses, sending Keith’s heart into his throat. Shiro must sense his worry because he smiles, lifting his bandaged hand up to try and brush back some of the hair off Keith’s face. “I’m fine, really. Just a little banged up but it will pass.”
“You are hurt,” Keith says, frustrated that he can’t simply magic it all away. As the idea takes shape, he turns to seek out Kosmo but before he can give the thought voice Kosmo lets out a quiet bark.
Magic does not work like that.
Keith sighs, returning his attention back to Shiro. He’d suspected as much but it’s still disappointing to get confirmation.
Between his own ignorance about mates, and knowing almost nothing about magic, he feels like two mismatched halves. Here he is with a beautiful mate standing before him and he has no idea how to finish the mating ritual or how to take care of him.
He’s a sorry excuse for an avian and a witch.
The little he knows about mates is the things he remembers being told when he was a child. That finding your mate is a gift, and that not every avian will be lucky enough to find theirs. That a mate is a once in a lifetime chance and there are no second chances.
This is it. Shiro is it for him but equally as important, he is it for Shiro.
Keith so wants to be worthy of him, to do right by him. But that’s hard when he doesn’t know exactly what comes next and Shiro looks like he might pass out. It shouldn’t be possible and yet he feels like he’s messing things up already.
Trust your instincts, Kosmo urges. They have never led you astray.
Keith breathes deeply. Kosmo is right. His entire life he’s felt pulled towards certain choices or decisions. He’d always assumed he just had a good gut instinct, but now he wonders if it’s more, if it was his magic guiding him.
It was.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Keith accepts the truth of words. He's made it this far in life by believing in himself when the rest of the world didn’t.. He can’t let a little insecurity change that or he won’t survive, neither of them will.
“You need to rest,” Keith says, and at least this he is sure of.
“I’m fi—”
“Please do not lie to me,” Keith interrupts, words quiet but firm.
An unreadable expression flickers across Shiro’s face as his shoulders slump, wings fluttering closed. “When you grow up with everyone treating you like you’re made of glass, you learn to be fine. It’s easier that way.”
“Easier for who?” Keith asks.
“Oh,” Shiro sighs, seemingly surprised by the question. “Everyone else I suppose. I don’t like people to worry.”
“Well just for the record, I don’t need easy.”
“What is it that you need, Keith?” Shiro asks, his body swaying into Keith’s personal space.
“Real,” Keith answers. “I need something real. I need the truth. What is the truth?” Keith asks, moving his hands to Shiro’s waist to steady him. Beneath his palm the bandages at Shiro’s waist are rough.
“I hurt,” Shiro answers, and Keith can feel what it cost him to say so. “But I am happy.”
Keith doesn’t need to ask why, it’s clear from the way Shiro looks at him that Keith is the reason for the joy. It is still impossible to believe, but apparently the impossible is becoming Keith’s new reality.
In all the confusion of so much new, Keith has hardly allowed himself a moment to be happy. He’s worried and fretted but enjoyed it? Hardly. He tries now, letting himself take long seconds to appreciate the man before him. He’s physically beautiful, yes, but Keith has never been swayed by pretty things alone. Beneath his mate’s appearance there is substance. There is still so much Keith doesn’t know but one thing rings true—his mate is special.
He can feel the truth of it, doesn’t need tangible proof to know that the things he senses in Shiro—kindness, gentility, strength—are things his mate possesses in excess.
Keith lets his gaze roam over Shiro as he takes in the scars that adorn his body, old and new, along with the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles at Keith and Keith is undone by desire to know him completely—body and mind.
“You are not like everyone else,” Keith whispers.
“I sincerely hope that’s a compliment,” Shiro grins, his smile tight as he pulls his wings in close.
“It is,” Keith is quick to assure him.
“Do you know, when I was a child I once read a book about someone who travelled all the way to the moon. I didn’t think there could be anything more amazing than that.”
“Was it real?” Keith asks, unable to imagine an avian flying so high.
“If you mean did it happen outside of the book? No,” Shiro says. “But was it real? Very. I used to dream of experiencing such wonders. As a child I read the book until the pages were worn thin and the spine bent. I could hardly imagine anything more amazing than that. And now—” Shiro pauses, the air between them charged as Shiro tilts his face down closer to Keith’s.
“And now?” Keith prompts.
“And now I do not need to imagine for I know that wonder intimately.”
Keith’s inhale is soft, almost unnoticeable. Shiro notices.
“Keith, may I ki—” but he doesn’t finish the thought, eyes going slightly unfocused as his body sways.
Keith is quick to steady Shiro with a hand on his elbow, berating himself for allowing Shiro to stand so long even after knowing he wasn’t feeling well. “Are you dizzy again?”
“No, I’m fine,” Shiro answers, almost immediately cutting himself off. “Or perhaps I am not entirely fine. It’s just my head though. Nothing to get yourself worried over.”
There is no just about things related to the head, but Keith refrains from pointing it out, quite sure that it would only make it harder for Shiro to admit what ails him.
“Let me help you lay down,” Keith offers, moving his hand down to Shiro’s waist, then adding the other. Shiro’s skin is cold, far colder than Keith would like.
“Your hands are so warm,” Shiro marvels, allowing himself to be guided back to the bed. “It feels so nice.”
Keith blinks, looking down at his own hands, each one wrapped around Shiro’s waist just below the bandages. He didn’t think he was that warm, if anything the room still has more of a chill in the air than he would like. Then again compared to shiro he supposes he is.
“I’m glad it pleases you,” Keith says, ignoring the way heat creeps up the back of his neck.
“Everything about you pleases me,” Shiro replies with such earnestness Keith is left momentarily speechless.
The praise makes the heat spread down his spine, filling his insides with similar warmth and it’s more than Keith knows how to handle.
“Food,” Keith blurts as he fusses with the blankets which he uses to cover Shiro’s lower half. “You need food. And something warm to drink.”
“I don’t want to be too much trouble,” Shiro protests, laying his hand in his lap.
“It’s just food,” Keith shrugs, grateful to have something to focus on. Not that focusing on Shiro isn’t nice but it’s a lot.
Your face is red, Kosmo points out, a most unhelpful observation. And one that has the warmth in his face increasing. He can only hope Shiro hasn’t noticed.
He probably has. He has not taken his eyes off you once. He looks at you like you hung the moon.
Instead of making Keith feel better, the words make him even more flustered.
“Do you, uh…you like kaglog?” Keith asks, moving towards the stove and adding more water to the kettle now that he realizes what was there has all but boiled away.
“I’ve never had it,” Shiro answers.
“Oh, that makes sense actually,” Keith says, realizing it’s a bit of a regional thing given the rarity of some of the herbs outside of this area. “You can only get the dwarven thorn in the blue hills here. I know the local apothecarist dries and sells it for use in other regions, but it doesn’t taste the same. He rushes the process, because he doesn’t want the roots to lose their color.”
“Why?” Shiro asks.
It takes Keith a moment to recover from such a simple question, so unused to anyone engaging him in conversation like this. He’d long ago accepted the absurdity of speaking out loud, but Shiro is here now and not only is he paying attention to the things Keith says, he’s even asking questions. It’s…nice.
“Oh, well…we get a lot of tourists here who want to buy local herbs and tinctures,” Keith says, pulling down different tins from the little wooden shelf above his stove, excited to have someone else interested in the things he thinks. “The problem is people just want things that look nice.”
“And looking nice isn’t good?” Shiro supplies.
Keith spares a glance over his shoulder, surprised to find Shiro watching him with rapt attention. Keith nearly knocks his tin of dried wobgore onto the floor when Shiro catches him looking and smiles.
“Depends,” Keith mumbles, turning back around before he does something embarrassing or ruins his meager supply of herbs and flowers. “People care too much about looks. They want things to look a certain way, and when it doesn’t they assume there’s something wrong with it…that it’s broken or defective. They assume that things are supposed to look only one way and if it doesn’t then…then it’s worthless.”
He swallows around the lump in his throat, surprised to realize his hands are trembling.
Are you talking about yourself or the dwarven thorn Kosmo asks.
Keith doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. They both know.
“The uh…the dwarven thorn is beautiful when harvested—the roots are a beautiful sapphire blue but the color fades quickly. So the apothecarist rapidly dries it with magic to preserve the color but it robs them of what’s inside the root in order to preserve the outside.”
Keith pauses, reaching for his own tin of dwarven thorn. He slowly twists open the lid of the jar to reveal his own stash–roots gnarled and broken and the same color as swamp water.
“If it doesn’t taste as good, why does he do it?” Shiro asks with genuine curiosity.
“Because most people don’t care so long as it looks pretty,” Keith answers, not mincing the truth of it. He’s seen first hand the way migrating tourists pay double the worth of things in the window just because of the way they’re packaged.
“Can I see yours?” Shiro asks quietly, the question taking Keith by surprise.
“Oh, alright,” Keith says, holding the jar in his right hand as he takes a few steps to get to the bed. He lowers himself, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sits on the edge of the mattress and tips the jar towards Shiro. “Mine isn’t pretty.”
“Says who?” Shiro asks.
“Uh, everyone?” Keith snorts.
“Well then perhaps everyone is wrong.” Shiro says, eyes not on the jar of dwarven thorn but on Keith. “I think it’s beautiful.”
Unsure if Shiro is talking about him or the dwarven thorn, he decides to assume the latter since it’s an easier topic of conversation to navigate.
“But they don’t look like the others,” Keith protests.
“They’re beautiful,” Shiro repeats, reaching out with his injured hand and yeah, alright—Keith might have been talking about the dwarven thorn but Shiro clearly is not. Even with bandages on, the touch of his mate's hand against the curve of his wing makes Keith shudder. “I’ve spent my entire life dreaming of what you’d look like, and the reality has far exceeded even my wildest dreams, and I have a very good imagination.”
“You keep saying that,” Keith says, mouth suddenly dry. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to know where to start, but I’ll try.” Shiro exhales a heavy breath. “The thing to know about me is that I’ve always been…different.”
“Me too,” Keith offers, surprised at how easy it is to say out loud.
“Different can be hard,” Shiro smiles, something weighted in his gaze as his eyes track over Keith’s face. He must see something there that puts him at ease because he continues. “I was born on the night of the three moons. The midwife who delivered me said I was kissed by Vrikko. I came out with a shock of white fuzz on my head and tiny white wings. Everyone said I’d lose them in my first molting but I didn’t.”
“I like your wings,” Keith blurts.
This makes Shiro smile. “Thank you. I do too, now. As a child though, well I stood out. No matter what I did, I stood out. I didn’t like it so much then. Kids can be unkind about things that are different.”
Keith feels his wings flutter in a protective flurry. How dare anyone ever say anything against his mate’s beautiful wings.
“It was a long time ago, Keith. It is alright,” Shiro soothes, smoothing his bandaged hand over Keith’s half spread wings. It doesn’t feel okay, but with every stroke down his ruffled fingers Keith feels his tension dissipating.
“There were other things too though,” Shiro continues, once Keith’s relaxed. “It wasn’t just how I looked. For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt things no one else felt, seen things no one else can see.”
“Seen things like what?” Keith asks, trying not to be overeager.
“Magic,” Shiro whispers, lowering his hand from Keith’s wing when his arm begins to shake.
Keith’s mouth falls open in surprise. It isn’t the answer he expected at all. He’s never heard of anyone being able to see magic, especially not an avian.
“Are you part witch too?” he asks.
“No, Keith,” Shiro says, eyes gentle. “No one knows why. When I was a child, the elders in my town said it was a gift, but it felt like a curse. I could feel everything everyone felt all the time. People hold joy, but…they hold other feelings as well. The darker feelings, those take a toll.”
Ice floods Keith’s veins, unable to imagine Shiro as a child bearing the weight of other people's emotions. He bites his tongue, unwilling to interrupt Shiro a second time.
“The older I got, the more intense it became. Then the headaches started. Crippling headaches that made it feel like the world was trying to split me in two. I was eight the first time I saw magic. My dad was trying to teach me to fly. I’d just gotten up in the air when a fight broke out below me between the local healer and a traveling mage. I tried to ignore the answer, tried to fly high enough to escape the suffocating blow of their anger but I could ignore the colors. One second I was looking down in euphoria as the people disappeared thinking I’d be free just for a little bit, and then the next second colors explored in front of my eyes. I was caught so off guard I fell fifty feet to the ground. When I woke up my right arm was gone and everyone had a faint haze of color to them.”
“Shiro,” Keith whispers, equal parts amazed and horrified.
“Don’t look at me like that please,” Shiro quietly begs. “I don’t want pity.”
“It’s not pity,” Keith whispers, inching closer. “I just wish I could’ve been there to protect you.”
“I survived,” Shiro says, words slow and careful. Before Keith can say anything else, Shiro is reaching out not to touch Keith but to touch the air above his head. “Did you know you glow?”
“I what?” Keith croaks.
“Your magic, it glows. It’s how I knew you were my mate.”
“What does it look like?” Keith asks.
“It’s like little threads that weave around you. The colors are strongest where your magic is the strongest,” Shiro says.
“And where is that?” Keith asks as Shiro lowers his hand to Keith’s chest.
“Here,” Shiro whispers, pressing his bandaged palm over Keith’s heart. “You leak magic from here.”
A heart witch Kosmo says, tone unreadable. Keith makes a mental note to ask him more about it later. For now he’s eager to know what Shiro knows as he stares down at Shiro’s hand laid over his heart.
“I thought witches were elemental,” Keith says, hating how little he knows about himself.
“Most are,” Shiro says, surprising Keith with his knowledge. “But the lesser known parts of the witches’ triad are the heart and mind. It’s less common but no less powerful. Actually I have a book about it at home. Perhaps I could show it to you one day.”
It's the first mention of the future from either of them and Keith’s heart thuds at the prospect.
“Oh, wow,” Shiro breathes.
“What?” Keith asks.
“It’s just beautiful,” Shiro says. “It’s gold you know.”
“What is?”
“Your magic,” Shiro clarifies, rubbing his palm in a circle over Keith’s heart. The touch is soft—the edges of the bandages there just barely skimming over Keith’s bare flesh—yet his heart races just the same.
“Your magic feels nice,” Shiro whispers, pausing the circular movements to simply rest his hand over Keith’s heart.
“What does it feel like?” Keith asks.
With a slow exhale Shiro drags his gaze from where his hand rests on Keith’s chest up to his face. “Most magic is loud, jarring. It’s like a buzzing in your ears you can’t ignore. Yours is different. It’s—”
Holding his breath, Keith waits for Shiro to finish.
“Gentle,” he finishes.
Keith can’t help but frown, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to make sense of that. He’s been called a lot of things in his life but gentle certainly isn’t one of them.
“It’s warm too,” Shiro observes, the rise and fall of his chest noticeably labored as he closes his eyes, focusing on the magic.
“It’s—” but he doesn’t finish, swaying backwards.
Before he can crash down Keith flings out an arm to cradle the back of his head, lowering him back down to the mattress.
“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles, eyelids fluttering. “Just tired.”
Truthfully he seems more than just a little tired, but considering what he’s been through it makes sense.
“You need to rest.”
“But I want to keep talking to you,” Shiro protests, words a little slurred as he yawns.
“We have time,” Keith says, surprised at what those words do to him—heart clenching in his chest as he lets himself imagine all the time they do have. He can hardly believe he has a mate. He has no idea what the future looks like, or how they’re going to make it work, but the prospect of no longer being alone settles an ache in his chest.
“You can rest,” Keith assures him. “I’ll finish making the kaglog and something to eat while you sleep.”
“Will you wake me when it’s done?” Shiro asks, eyes already falling shut. “Please?”
“I will,” Keith promises, unprepared for the rush of affection he feels as he watches Shiro slip into dreamland—lips falling open and body going lax. He looks ethereal and vulnerable and so very beautiful.
For a long time he stands there, simply watching. Marveling that he has a mate. And not just any mate but the most precious one alive.
The mate pull must be strong, Kosmo observes, making his way from across the room and back towards Keith.
“What do you mean?” Keith eyes, eyes darting back and forth between Kosmo and Shiro.
Now that Shiro is asleep, Kosmo appears free to observe him more intently as he paces back and forth at his bedside. I have never seen you like this with another person. You care about him.
“Is it…just the mate pull?” Keith asks, a horrible thought occurring to him.
How do you mean?
“That makes him like me,” Keith finishes. “Is it just—”
Is it just the mate pull that makes you enjoy him? Kosmo counters. Has it altered your own judgement and feelings?
“No,” Keith bristles, feathers twitching at the implications. “Shiro is special, I can tell.”
How can you tell. Perhaps the mate bond is misleading you about his goodness.
This time Keith’s wings flap open, the very idea that anyone, even Kosmo, might question Shiro’s worth his insides squirm. “The mate bond hasn’t made me like him, it's just helped me recognize our connection. A connection that I probably would’ve ignored if not for the mate pull but not because it can affect how I feel. It’s more like…like it lowered my guards. It helped me let him in. But I’m the only one in charge of how I feel. No one can make me do or feel anything I don’t want and—oh, I see what you did there.”
I did nothing, Kosmo hums, tail swishing through the air as he noses as rests his snout on the edge of the bed.
Keith snorts. “Sure.”
Not that you have asked me my opinion, but I rather like him.
“I like him too,” Keith says, squatting down to rub his hand over Kosmo’s thick fur. “But you know…it’s only been you and me for a long time. I don’t want things to change between us.”
Things will always change, but change is not inherently bad. My place will always be with you, Kosmo says, letting out a quiet chuff of pleasure when Keith scratches between his ears. But for what it is worth, I think he will be good for us.
Keith swallows around the lump in his throat. Even before Kosmo had words Keith knew Kosmo cared for him—it was apparent in his loyalty and devotion to Keith—but hearing it spoken in words is surprisingly affecting.
Continuing to scratch Kosmo’s favorite spot, Keith averts his gaze to the window to watch the snow fall outside, blanketing the world in white. It’s soothing and long minutes of silence pass, the only sound an occasional chuff of happiness from Kosmo.
Eventually Keith’s attention is drawn back to Shiro, and the unimaginable ways his life has changed in just one day. Even asleep, Shiro’s presence has altered the way Keith’s home feels. Not hollow, or lacking, but warm.
Keith has always prided himself on his home, let it be a safe haven in a cold and dark world. But the truth is there was something missing—or more specifically, someone. Someone who makes Keith’s heart feel bathed in sunlight even in the depths of winter.
Someone like Shiro.
Are you going to stare at him all afternoon?
Keith jumps, taken aback by the question. He’s quite certain it will take a long time to get used to someone else just thinking in his head like this.
“I was just thinking,” Keith mumbles.
Yes, about your Shiro.
Heat floods Keith’s cheeks as he rises to stand, turning his face away from Kosmo so he won’t notice the red that Keith can feel rising up his neck.
You look at him the way you look at a plate of freshly baked vulnun.
If heat was clawing its way up Keith’s neck before it’s nothing compared to now, and it occurs to Keith for the first time that if Kosmo can read his mind he can read all of his thoughts.
“Does this mean—”
Yes, Kosmo answers, without Keith even needing to finish the question.
“Right, I think we need to establish some boundaries,” Keith croaks. “If I have…intimate thoughts then you can’t respond or bring them up later. That’s…private.”
Private, Kosmo repeats, as if the very notion is perplexing. The race of man is so strange. Mating is a natural biological need. You have thought of mating Shiro multiple times. Especially when you look at his—
“No, no, no,” Keith groans, slapping his hands over his ears.
Finding out his pet wolf is actually his familiar? No big deal. Learning he was a witch? Just another weird day in Keith’s life. Finding an unconscious avian on his doorstep only to find out it was his mate? The world’s kindest gift to Keith.
But this? Someone knowing his most private desires. This is too much.
I did not mean to cause you distress, Kosmo says, tail between his legs.
“Qux,” Keith curses. “You didn’t do anything wrong it’s just—”
You do not wish me to discuss these matters.
“No. Yes. Qux why is this so hard,” Keith sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just…if anyone is gonna know the things I want, it should be Shiro.”
So you will tell Shiro you desire to mate when he wakes?
“No,” Keith shouts, slamming his mouth shut and glancing over at Shiro who to all intents and purposes is dead to the world. He exhales a low breath, glad Shiro is apparently a deep sleeper.
I am afraid I do not understand.
“Me either. If you figure it out let me know, huh?”
Kosmo yaps, moving to his small makeshift nest of blankets in the corner beside the stove where he curls up, turning his back on Keith.
“What are you doing?”
Kosmo lifts his head, sparing Keith one piercing look before resting his snout on his folded paws. Resting. I did not know it would be so tiring to talk.
“Oh,” Keith sighs, both surprised and not. His own head is beginning to throb uncomfortably as well. “Will it always be like this?”
He doesn’t elaborate on what this means, hoping Kosmo understands. He does.
No, Kosmo answers, burying his nose beneath his favorite blanket.
At least three more questions rise to the forefront of Keith’s mind, but just as he’s about to give voice to them he feels something inside him quiet and recognizes it for what it is—the lack of Kosmo’s presence in his mind. Meaning he must be asleep.
With a sigh, Keith turns towards the stove. “Figures I get two people to talk to me and they both fall asleep.”
Despite his grumbling, Keith doesn’t necessarily mind the quiet. After such a tumultuous day and the mental strain from his new bond with both Kosmo and Shiro, a little silence is welcome. He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply as he focuses on the soft snoring coming from Kosmo and the wind rattling against the window. So perhaps quiet isn’t exactly how Keith would describe it right now, but it’s adjacent to being quiet at least.
A quick glance at Shiro reveals him to still be slumbering, thankfully undisturbed by Keith’s previous conversation with Kosmo and him currently snoring like a bear.
“Right, kaglog,” Keith reminds himself, pulling the lid off his teapot. He adds a pinch of the dwarven thorn, a cinnamon stick, pulls the leaves off a sprig of knasceed and uses a rather generous amount of aromatic broadleaf. Just for good measure he adds in an extra sprinkling of powdered eakrortess, which he’s been skipping lately to make the drink a little more cost effective. It’s not the same but it was only for Keith so it didn’t matter if something was missing.
It matters now. Shiro deserves the proper brew and Keith isn’t going to skimp on anything when it’s for his mate.
Once he’s got the perfect mix in the bottom of the teapot, he lifts it up to his nose and inhales the rich and spicy aroma. He knows that nowadays most people prefer to buy the little pre-made sachets from the apothecary to avoid the tedium of this but Keith had always turned his nose up at them, not just because they cost more but because the taste was off to him. There’s a pride that comes with brewing his own from scratch. The same kind of pride and self satisfaction he experiences when he dries or distills herbs and flowers himself.
It never mattered if Keith was mixing up a batch of kaglog or trying to restock his own supply of healing creams and tinctures. The satisfaction of doing it himself is the same. Even when he has enough gold to buy things premade, he usually prefers to get the ingredients separate to mix it himself. Keith had long assumed he was just extra particular, or cheap, but it occurs to him now that his need to mix everything himself is likely a facet of his own magical heritage and not just a control issue.
The more Keith thinks about the more he realizes how many of his own personality traits he attributed to being strange or antisocial are likely just parts of his heritage.
Keith might not know much about witches, yet but he knows one thing—every witch thinks their mixes are the best. Granted not all of them are correct, judging by the subpar apothecarist they have in town. Keith’s is the best though, he knows it. And not because he’s biased. Probably not anyway.
He doesn’t know where all the pieces fit yet, but Keith’s okay with that., For now he’s going to keep on hoarding the little pieces away, letting them fill the holes in his heart.
Keith’s mind wanders as he pours the hot water into the teapot, watching with rapt fascination as the mixture swirls in the water. It’s only when he’s putting the lid back onto the teapot that it occurs to Keith he only owns one mug. Yesterday one mug seemed smart. Today it feels ridiculous.
How is he supposed to share kaglog with Shiro if he only has one mug? The obvious answer is to the give the sole mug to Shiro, but that makes something under Keith’s skin itch. He doesn’t know why, just knows it's important he share the brew.
If Kosmo were awake he could ask him why. He could ask him—
Ask me what?
“Oh, you’re awake,” Keith blinks.
You needed me. I could feel it.
Keith blinks, unsure if his own surprise or embarrassment is greater. “Oh I uh…sorry. I didn’t need you. Or I mean I did, I do but...It was just a silly question. I wouldn’t have purposely woken you up from sleep for this, I just—”
I do not mind, Keith, Kosmo tells him, stretching out his paws. Being needed is a familiar’s greatest pride. You honor me by needing me. Besides there are no silly questions.
“When you say it like that it doesn’t sound so bad,” Keith says, exhaling the breath he’s holding. “And I have a lot of questions”
I am sure you do. If you had been raised knowing who you are you would know this.
“Sorry.”
You misunderstand me Keith, Kosmo says, the pads of his feet a familiar sound on the hardwood floor as he moves to Keith’s side. This is your birthright. You do not need to apologize. I have waited many years for your magic to manifest.
“Why did it?” Keith asks, surprised at the quiver in his voice.
If I were to wager a guess, I would say you were keeping it dormant yourself.
“Why on earth would I do that? How could I do that?” Keith gapes, the idea absolutely preposterous.
To protect yourself I suspect, Kosmo answers, so matter of factly Keith can do nothing but gape. There is no reason your magic should have been inaccessible. Yet when Shiro came you let it out, consciously or not. The moment you had a mate you did not feel alone, and your magic felt safe enough to be free. Incidentally you also let me in too.
“You’ve just been waiting for five years?” Keith whispers.
Time passes differently for me. Do not feel so sad. The true sadness in a familiar’s life is to have no master. You were worth waiting for.
This time there are no words Keith possesses to express his own storm of emotions, so he remains silent as he drops to his knees and buries his face in Kosmo’s fur to hold him close.
“Is this still allowed?” Keith mumbles.
Yes, Keith, Kosmo answers, licking the side of his face.
Relieved by the confirmation, Keith exhales a heavy breath as he lets his hands smooth over Kosmo’s sides, the feeling of his thick fur soothing Keith’s agitated nerves..
Now what had you so worried before?
“Oh,” Keith huffs. “It’s stupid.”
No feelings are stupid.
“I just don’t have another cup for the kaglog. I wanted to share it with him, it’s probably ridiculous but it felt important.”
The first brew, Kosmo agrees, as if it makes perfect sense. Your first brew for him is important. It symbolizes your ability to protect and care for him.
“Yes,” Keith sighs, grateful Kosmo understands. “I don’t really know if its an avian thing or a witch thing or what but—”
Perhaps it is a Keith thing.
“A Keith thing,” he finishes, the phrase settling itself in his mind. He likes it. “Well whatever it’s called I don’t have another mug, which was fine when it was just me but now there’s Shiro and I can’t exactly share kaglog with only one—”
Before Keith can finish his thought Kosmo has popped out of existence, a strange tingling sensation making the hair on Keith’s forearms stand on end. He barely has time to process Kosmo’s disappearance, or the way Kosmo’s magic makes skin prickle, when Kosmo is popping back into the middle of the room. This time with a huge wooden stein from the local tavern.
Pride radiates off Kosmo as he drops the stein at Keith’s feet and barks.
“Do I want to know how you acquired this?” Keith asks, fingers curling around the handle.
I borrowed it for an indeterminable amount of time.
“You mean you stole it.
Kosmo snorts. I redistributed assets is all. Besides last week the tavern keeper swapped your mead for thogu, so they owe you.
Keith frowns. He thought the mead tasted off but he’d had too long of a day to bother questioning why his drink tasted of Krylkeht. Tightening the hold on the handle, he reminds himself not to ever drink at that tavern again. His own loneliness led him there, but he should have known better.
“It’s perfect,” Keith says, dragging his attention back to the present and Kosmo who is clearly waiting for some praise. “Good boy.”
Sure enough Kosmo lets out a little howl, his tail whacking the wall with a loud thump.
“Good boy, but also, shhh,” Keith laughs, giving his head a pat. He turns to look at Shiro who doesn’t appear to have moved a muscle. He must have been exhausted and he will probably be starving when he wakes, which means Keith needs to hurry and make the food.
Usually Keith hunts for his meals, or forages, but with the abysmal weather lately he’s found it difficult to do either, meaning his down to nothing but a tin of porridge, some dry beans that will take too long to cook and a few wild mushrooms he found yesterday. There's also a few wild beldeg eggs. None of it are things Keith has ever put together, but he’s pretty sure he can make it work so he gets to it, adding the porridge to his pot along with some water While it comes to a boil he chops up the mushrooms along with an assortment of his own dried herbs, tipping them all into the pot as it boils. Appearance wise it is definitely less than appetizing. It’ll be hearty though, something to offer Shiro some nutrition and energy that his body needs after such an arduous experience.
Undeterred, Keith continues to cook, adding in a generous pinch of dhelet before he begins to fry the eggs in a separate pan—pleased to realize that the smell of it more than makes up for what it lacks visually.
Curious to see how it tastes, Keith retrieves a wooden spoon and scoops out a bit of the porridge blowing on it until it’s cool enough to eat. To his surprise, it tastes even better than it smells, and while it's still not exactly pretty the rich mix of spices, earthy mushrooms and hearty porridge combine in a deeply comforting way. Or at least, pleasing to Keith. He can only hope Shiro agrees.
Pleased with the end result, Keith fills two bowls to the brim with the porridge before topping them off with the fried egg and an extra sprinkle of dhelet on top. Once that’s done he strains the kaglog, adding some wild honey to each cup. Keith doesn’t like his very sweet so he adds just enough to offset the bitterness of the dwarven thorn, but something tells him Shiro might like more so he trusts his instincts and adds a much more generous spoonful of the rich amber colored honey to Shiro’s cup.
Once he’s got the food and drink finished it occurs to him that he doesn’t have an actual table. Most of the time he simply eats standing up or sitting on his couch. A table had seemed unnecessary for just him and Kosmo. He wishes he had somewhere more proper to offer his mate a meal, but even if Kosmo could borrow a table like he did the mead stein—which seems unlikely—there’s not really room for it in his home anyway.
He settles for depositing the bowls of savory porridge on a small wooden stool near the couch, along with the steaming mugs of kaglog, before moving to the bed.
It seems a pity to wake Shiro when he has been sleeping so soundly but Keith promised, and he is a man of his words, so he settles himself on the edge of the bed as he tries to decide on the gentlest means to wake his mate.
“Shiro,” Keith whispers, pretty sure that won’t be enough to wake him from such a deep slumber.
It’s not.
“Shiro,” he tries a little louder, reaching out to brush the pale hair off his forehead. When his fingers make contact with Shiro’s forehead he frowns, surprised at how cold the skin feels beneath his fingertips.
What is wrong? Kosmo queries.
“He’s cold,” Keith says, shaking off the unease the discovery elicits. He can warm Shiro up when he wakes with a blanket and a warm meal. He’s sure he can.
“Shiro, wake up,” Keith says, voice pitched higher than he means to as he wraps his fingers around Shiro’s chin to turn his face towards him, a quiet gasp falling from his lips when he takes in the blue tint to Shiro’s lips and the unnatural pallor of his skin.
“Shiro. Wake up,” Keith repeats, gripping his chin tighter.
“Wake up,” Keith cries, pulling the blanket down to rest his hands on Shiro’s chest. Instead of warm skin his hands connect with freezing flesh as realization dawns.
Shiro is not sleeping.
Shiro is unconscious.
Keith.
Mind reeling, Keith smooths his hands over Shiro’s chest horrified to discover how very cold his skin is, far too cold.
Keith.
It was not a normal fatigue that had Shiro needing to lay down, it’s something more dangerous; something Keith has no idea how to fix.
Sure Shiro mentioned being sickly as a child, mentioned the toll his abilities could take on his body, but Keith thought he’d have longer to learn about it all—have longer to learn what Shiro needed. His mate is supposed to be safe with him, and the guilt threatens to drown Keith.
How did he not realize Shiro was this unwell? How can he possibly help? How can—
You are a witch, Kosmo howls.
“But I don’t know anything yet,” Keith objects, grabbing Shiro’s arm and pressing his fingers against the pale blue vein at the inside of Shiro’s wrist frantically seeking a pulse. It’s faint, the beat weaker and slower than Keith would like, but it’s there. It’s proof he has not lost him yet.
You can save him.
“No. No…I don’t know how. I need to get him to a healer,” Keith cries, trying to scoop Shiro into his arms, his own heart stuttering in his chest at the way Shiro’s head lolls sideways—the essence in him fading quickly. “Take us, Kosmo. Take us now.”
I cannot take him, Kosmo says, ears flattened to his head.
“Take us right now,” Keith shouts.
That is above even my abilities, Kosmo tells him, something sad in the words. Only you can save him.
“Stop saying that,” Keith sobs. “I can’t. I can barely take care of myself! How am I supposed to save him? I don’t know how to be a witch. I can’t do this.”
Yes you can, Kosmo tells him, his snout pressed into Keith’s side. You were born a witch. No one needs to teach you how to be one, it is who you are, Keith. Who you have always been. The magic is inside of you.
“I am afraid, Kosmo.”
Bravery does not require the absence of fear, only the determination to proceed in spite of it. Be brave, Keith.
“What do I do?” Keith asks, gently lowering Shiro back down to the bed. Again Shiro’s head lolls, slipping sideways off the pillow. Keith is quick to adjust it, his hands trembling as he smooths them down the side of Shiro’s neck.
Join your heartlines.
“Our what?” Keith asks, unable to tear his gaze away from Shiro’s face and praying this is not the last time he is able to lay eyes on it.
He needs more time. There is so much he doesn’t yet know about Shiro, so many firsts to experience and share.
He cannot lose his mate, he won’t.
Join your heartlines, Kosmo repeats. It is the source of your bond—the invisible string of fate that joins two mates. Were you just avian you could not connect to it, you could not save him. But you are not just avian, Keith, you are a witch. The magic within you is strong, powerful—healing.
Keith nods, allowing himself to feel the truth of those words through his bond with Kosmo.
“How do I do it?” Keith asks, breathing in time with the slow beat of Shiro’s pulse. He can feel him fading, knows he needs to act fast but uncertainty has him hesitating. He is afraid—afraid to fail.
You can only fail if you do not try, Kosmo interrupts. You must connect to the magic within you, Keith. Do not fight it. Stop overthinking and let go. Once you are able to connect with it the magic, it will seek out Shiro’s heartline. But I must warn you as your familiar I am a mere conduit for your power—a grounding source. Our bond will fade into the background while you are casting.
“What does that mean?” Keith asks, suspecting he knows, but needing to be certain.
We won’t be able to talk while you are healing him. You will be on your own.
“But how will I know what to do?” Keith asks, panic making his ears ring.
He can’t do this alone. He needs Kosmo to guide him step by step so he doesn’t mess up. He needs—
You need to trust yourself, Kosmo says, butting his snout against Keith’s side. The magic is in you. Feel it, then feel your bond with your mate. Connect to it. Your magic will do the rest.
“What if I can’t do it?”
You can.
“Okay,” Keith exhales, lowering Shiro’s hand down to the bed as he inhales slowly. He can do this. He will do this.
With measured movements Keith turns, both knees on the bed as he moves above Shiro.
“I’m right here, Shiro,” he tells him, unsure if Shiro can hear him or not. “I’m going to save you. I promise, and when I make a promise I never break it.”
There’s no reaction, but then, Keith isn’t expecting one.
With one final look at Shiro’s face, Keith allows his eyes to close and he tries to find the magic. He tries to search his mind, the emptiness nearly suffocating. Kosmo said he could do this but he can’t feel anything except the itch in his left wing and a growing sense of dread for what awaits him if he fails.
Stop thinking and feel.
Blowing all the air out of his lungs, Keith attempts to do what Kosmo has suggested. It’s easier said than done, especially when the nagging voice in the back of his mind keeps reminding him that the longer he takes the higher the chance he could lose his mate.
Still he tries to quiet his mind, tries his best to push the fear away. For long seconds there is nothing except emptiness, the bed swaying beneath him as the wind howls.
There’s nothing except the erratic thrumming of his heart and his own erratic breathing.
Then he feels it, just the hint of something fluttering in his chest. It’s there and gone but Keith doesn’t chase it, letting out a deep breath as he calms his mind.
Feel, Kosmo has said, so feel he does.
He feels the thud of his heart as it beats, feels the ache in his tired wings. He feels the fear and loneliness he works so hard to ignore, and beneath he feels something else, something he’s never felt before.
At first he’s not sure what it is, the sensation in his chest unlike anything he’s felt. It’s warm, like a fire down to it’s embers, and it takes Keith a second to realize exactly what it is—his magic. Tentatively he pushes at it with his mind, surprised at the way it pulses.
This must be what Kosmo meant by a heart witch, Keith thinks, surprised to feel the pulse of his magic beat in time with his own heart. He tries to separate the beats and finds that he can't. They are not separate, he realizes, but one.
He is the magic and the magic is him.
With every lub dub he feels the magic grow, feels the way it curls itself around him protectively in search of something. Not something, Keith realizes, but someone. His magic is looking for Shiro.
The warmth spreads as his magic explores, a shuddering gasping breath ripped from Keith’s throat as he falls forward—fingers spread wide across the breadth of Shiro’s chest as he seeks out his heartbeat.
His entire being is enveloped in heat as his magic flows through him into Shiro, seeking to connect their heartlines. At first there is nothing, his magic pushing and seeking in vain, then Keith feels it—can sense the moment his magic recognizes Shiro for what he is—Keith’s mate.
If he thought he was warm before, it’s nothing to way heat flares through him, the recognition of Shiro as his is like kindling thrown on the flames of his magic—a responding lub dub from Shiro’s heartline has his own skipping a beat, then racing as his magic twines itself around Shiro’s heartline.
The joining is slow—a tentative unfurling of his magic as it winds its way around Shiro’s heart. So slow Keith begins to fear it won’t work. He tries to do like Kosmo said and not think, only feel—to feel the beat of Shiro’s heart through the connection, so slow and weak. He feels the way Shiro, even unconscious, responds to Keith—his very being welcoming Keith’s magic home.
Home, Keith realizes, was never going to be a place for him. It is a person. Not just a person, his mate—his Shiro.
With the full awareness of what this joining signifies, Keith’s magic surges forward with purpose as his magic curls protectively around Shiro.
The way is blocked, not by Shiro’s resistance but by a weakness—by the toll the world has taken on this beautiful soul. Like a flash Keith understands what’s happened, understands the toll this journey took—understands that Shiro knew exactly how dangerous it would be for him to try and find Keith and yet he came.
He came for Keith because Keith matters, because Keith is wanted, because Keith is his mate.
He knows this isn’t the avian way for accepting a mate, he isn’t doing the Trhral, but Keith’s not just avian, he’s more. Has always been more, and that more is exactly what he needs to save Shiro.
“I accept,” Keith chokes out as their heartlines get closer.
“I accept,” Keith repeats, eyes flying open as the magic within him swirls and twists.
“I accept,” Keith cries, his wings spread wide as the magic within him burns.
It’s close, he can feel it, but there’s a fatigue in Shiro that terrifies him, a weakness around his heart that has Keith’s eyes watering as his fingers dig into the flesh of Shiro’s chest.
“You are mine,” he cries as he pushes more of the magic into Shiro desperate to save him. “And I am yours. I am yours. Please don’t leave me alone.”
Once the words are out, there’s no taking them back. There’s no pretending it isn’t the truth. Keith has been alone for so long but he doesn’t have to be anymore, he doesn’t want to be.
He wants Shiro.
Shiro, who isn’t moving, whose heart is slowing.
“Shiro,” Keith sobs, hand pressed so hard against Shiro’s chest he can feel the last lub dub of his heart against his palm.
For one agonizing second, Keith is sure he’s felt the life leave his mate, then Shiro’s back arches off the bed and Keith magic flares, flowing into his mate—the magic is powerful, coursing through Keith and into Shiro. He’s not sure what he expected joining their heartlines to feel like, abrasive maybe or even painful, not like this—rapturous.
A sob rips itself from Keith’s throat as his wings expand to their full glory. This is what he was born for. This magic is his birthright, and he gives it freely to his mate. He gives it.
He pushes his magic into Shiro, feeling the way it heals—fortifying the weaknesses it finds and healing wounds old and new. He pushes and he pushes, his arms shaking as he continues to give, the surge of magic as uncontrollable as a summer wildfire.
Keith doesn’t try to stop it—allowing the magic to run free, trusting the magic, trusting himself as the magic pulses through their bond in time with the beat of his heart, Shiro’s heartbeat speeding up to match it.
Keith hones in on the change, his own heart stuttering in his chest as he feels the moment their hearts begin to beat in time—the moment their hearts beat as one—relishing the way it feels to have his magic flowing freely through their bond, no longer any beginning or end to their heartlines but a continuous circle forged by their bond.
Just as soon as Keith senses it something shifts, his body swaying and he crashes down on top of Shiro’s chest and the world goes black.
Keith rouses slowly, his mind spinning as he blinks open his eyes and rises from the floor. It’s bright, painfully so—a warm breeze filtering in through an open window as Keith realizes he is anywhere but home.
Keith blinks away the spots in front of his eyes as he takes in the room he’s in—rounded and made of stone, heavy drapes pulled back to let in sun. In the open window an array of crystals hangs on string, casting rainbows across the stone floor. In between the crystals are bunches of herbs—feverfew and fumewort if Keith had to guess by the cloying scent that fills the room, near suffocating in its intensity.
Wherever Keith is, it’s certainly not his own treehouse.
The room is spacious, every space littered in books and toys. A child’s room he realizes, staring at the small stuffed okluk off the floor. The fabric is worn thin, some of the stuffing coming out of the face and the golden thread fraying. Keith spins, looking for whoever lives in the room when he notices a lump huddled in the bed.
Objectively he should probably be concerned about what is happening, but he finds he holds no fear. There is nothing but curiosity as he approaches the bed, peeking down at the figure hidden beneath the blankets. He reaches out, but his hands go through the heavy duvet as if he isn’t real. With a frown, he tries again, surprised at the sight of his hand shimmering.
Despite his inability to touch, the figure in the bed tosses as if Keith’s presence has disturbed them, small body thrashing as they kick off the covers to reveal shocking white wings and hair. The figure is smaller, two arms instead of one and no scar across the face, but the similarity is unmistakable—Shiro.
A smaller, much younger version of Shiro yes, but very clearly his mate.
Which can only mean one thing. This is Shiro’s room. Suddenly the books everywhere take on a whole new meaning as he recalls Shiro’s earlier words about books being his only friend, about being sickly a lot.
He’s not in Shiro’s room, he realizes. Not really. He is in Shiro’s memory.
On the bed Shiro tosses, his pale white hair plastered to his forehead as a whimper falls from his lips. THe juxtaposition to the Shiro laying on his bed leaves Keith’s heart in knots. How long has he suffered? How long has he been ill?
Aware of what will happen when he tries but still unable to resist, Keith reaches out to try and brush the hair off Shiro’s small face but Keith’s fingers make no contact. Instead they sweep across him like a hand drawn through smoke.
“Oh, Shiro,” he whispers, wishing more than anything he could heal whatever ails him now.
Shiro looks impossibly small in the huge bed, the lines of his face screwed up in pain. Just as Keith is about to try and soothe him again, he hears footsteps outside the door.
“He’s in here,” someone yells, and Keith finds himself jumping backwards just as two figures rush into the room. The first is a woman, beautiful and regal with perfectly groomed tawny wings and her dress covered in dainty roses. Her resemblance to Shiro is uncanny, the same strong jaw and bright eyes. She’s beautiful like he is.
As she hurries across the room she steps directly in front of Keith, their eyes locking. Yet while Keith holds his breath she stares at something behind him on the wall, looking right through him. It’s clear she cannot see him, but Keith finds his back drawn towards the wall to make himself as unnoticeable as possible just the same.
“How long has he been like this?” the second figure, a man, asks as he strides into the room behind Shiro’s mother. His dark brown wings flutter as he rushes towards Shiro’s bed, his golden robes immediately identifying him as a healer.
“Well you know how he is,” the woman sighs, twisting her hands in front of her. “He’s unwell so often but this seems different. He’s been doing so well these last few weeks. He even managed to celebrate his birthday with the family last week. And well when he asked we saw no harm in saying yes.”
“Asked what?” the healer queries, opening his bag to pull out something small and gold which he lays atop Shiro’s trembling chest.
“He so desperately wanted to play with the children in the village and we thought it would be alright. He was so happy after but he was tired. So tired. He went to bed without dinner and we thought the excitement just got to him, but when he woke up he was burning up and trembling. Is it…is it the same?” she whispers.
“The same as what?” Keith says before he remembers no one can hear him.
“I believe so,” the healer answers, resting his palm over Shiro’s forehead.
Shiro’s frown deepns at the contact, his tiny wings curling around his body.
“And there’s nothing that can be done?” she asks. “Surely something can be done?”
“I believe you should prepare for the worst,” the healer says, rising to stand.
“What are you doing?” Keith screams as Shiro’s mother begins to sob. “Help him!”
“You mean—”
“Yes,” the healer confirms, nodding his head. “We’ve never seen anything like it. It is a gift, but one that will eventually cost him his life. The best you can hope is to make him comfortable for a few years but once he hits puberty his abilities will manifest fully. He will not survive.”
“That’s not true,” Keith screams, hands balled into fists. “He will!”
Before Keith can rage anymore the memory fades, the world around him spinning. When his eyes regain their focus he’s in the same room but something has changed.
The stuffed okluk lays in the center of the bed, the drawings hung from the wall and the books still scattered everywhere. Heart in his throat, Keith steps forward to examine one of the photos, shocked to find a tree that bears a striking resemblance to his own.
A coincidence he’s sure, but one that momentarily takes his breath away.
Before he can examine it too closely the sound of foot echoing on stone hits his ears followed by the door flying open. It’s Shiro again, still small but older than before. He can’t be more than ten now, his knees knobby and his teeth too big for his mouth. He hasn’t grown into his ears yet and his hair sticks up much like his feathers. He looks wild, as if he just came in from—
“Flying, takashi!” his mother cries, following him into the room.
“Just a little, momma!” Shiro yells, scurrying to the other side of the bed as he licks his hand, trying to tamp down his mess of hair with it.
“You know what the healers said. You’re supposed to rest.”
“I’ll die of boredom if I stay in here a moment longer, momma.”
“You’ll di—you need rest,” she tells him, a look of utter pain crossing her features in a flash, there and gone before Shiro can see it. Keith sees it.
“I didn’t fly too far,” Shiro tries, his cheeks red as a freshly grown thimbleberry in spring as he smiles at her. “Just a little jaunt.”
“A little jaunt,” his mother repeats, looking at Shiro as if afraid he might disappear before her very eyes. “How far did you go, Takashi?”
“Not too far,” he repeats.
“Takashi.”
“Fine,” Shiro huffs, plopping down to the edge of his bed. “I flew to the top of the Eaknade mountains. All the way momma. I flew so high I could almost touch the clouds. Can you believe it, momma?”
“I believe it,” his mother’s nods, her lip trembling as she lowers herself down onto the bed.
“Don’t cry, momma. I’m okay. I won’t do it again, I promise. I just wanted to fly. Stinky old James told me I couldn’t do it because I was too sick. I had to show him I could. But I didn’t get hurt, see,” Shiro says, reaching for his mother’s hands and putting them on his cheek. “I’m fine momma. I’m fine.”
For some reason this makes her cry harder, but before Shiro can say anything else she’s grabbing hold of him and pulling him close.
Keith tries to get closer, to hear what she says but before he can the room spins around him.
Again he finds himself still in Shiro’s room though much has changed. Gone are the drawings of childhood on the wall, replaced by beautiful hand embroidered tapestries and maps. Maps of the islands and the mountains, maps of the forests and even maps of the sky.
The toys are gone as well, no more remnants of childhood remain instead replaced by more books crammed onto every table and shelf piled so high the walls have all but disappeared, leaving only his small window visible. The crystals that once cast rainbow light are gone, but the strings of herbs remain. There’s yaqrolla this time and uglow, and judging by the acidic scent some krukrot hidden in there. It’s an interesting combination, and as Keith tries to mull over the exact reasoning behind it the door swings open.
“I’ve got it this time,” Shiro mutters to himself, arm loaded down with scrolls. He can’t be more than sixteen now, his features sharpening and losing the softness of childhood. He’s so much younger than Keith’s Shiro, yet the resemblance is so close it has Keith staggering.
The same sharpness in his eyes, the same boyishness in his smile, and the same scar across the bridge of his nose.
“Takashi,” someone yells, heavy footfalls echoing before someone new enters the room.
This is a man Keith hasn’t yet seen, his large wings flapping behind him as he strides into the room. It’s immediately clear who he is—Shiro’s father. The resemblance is uncanny, from the shape of his nose to the crook in his lips when he finds Shiro bent over a desk.
“Takashi, we've been looking for you.”
“Well you found me,” Shiro chirps, grabbing a heavy paperweight off the corner of his desk and slamming it onto the edge of one of his scrolls before smoothing it open with his hand. He bends down, holding it open with his elbow as he drops another paperweight on the opposite corner of the scroll to keep it unrolled.
“You were gone all day,” his father says, hands clasped in front of him. There’s an air of nervousness about him as he reaches out to smooth Shiro’s hair back off his face.
Shiro startles, wide eyes looking up. “I lost track of time.”
“I see that,” his father says, nodding towards the scrolls. “What was it this time that had you so enamored?”
“It was nothing,” Shiro mumbles, rising up to block his scroll with his body.
Shiro’s father sighs, peering around him to look at his scroll, his eyes widening as he skims it. “The Dryggok forest, Takashi. Really?”
Shiro bristles. “It's research.”
“Everything you do is research.”
“That's all I’m allowed to do,” Shiro counters, the line of his jaw set as his wings flap, sending some of the scrolls of parchment scattering to the floor.
Shiro’s father sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We just want to protect you.”
Something in Shiro deflates at that, his shoulders sagging as his wings flutter open. “I just want to be like everyone else, papa. I want to fly. I want to have a mate. I want to be normal.”
“You have never been normal, Takashi.” his father says, brushing some of the pale hair out of his eyes. “You were born special.”
“I don’t want to be special,” Shiro whispers.
“We are not always given the life we want, son.”
“Then I’m going to take it,” Shiro says, such ferocity in his tone it gives Keith chills. “I’ll explore. I’ll do great things. And one day I’m going to find my mate.”
“So much talk of mates,” his father says, ruffling Shiro’s hair. “You are still so young.”
“Am not. I’m fifteen papa,” Shiro says, straightening his shoulders. Keith can’t help but smile at the sight, proud of himself for guessing his age and inordinately charmed by Shiro’s bravado. “I am almost a man.”
“Ah, my mistake,” his father smiles, “my boy is growing up. Almost a man indeed. And what did this almost a man do all day while his mother and father fretted?”
Shiro’s wings flap as he ducks his head. “I went to see the crystal gazer.”
“Takashi.”
“I know what you’re going to say, that it’s all lies, but this one was different!” Shiro cries.
“I was not going to say any such thing,” his father objects, leaning his side against Shiro’s desk. “I know better than anyone that you can tell the difference between a true seer and a charlatan.”
“She had real magic, papa. I could see it,” Shiro says, wings trembling.
Shiro’s father smiles, something sad in his eyes as he reaches out towards Shiro’s wings then pulls his hand back to rest it in his lap. “And what did she say?”
“She said I have a mate,” Shiro says almost shyly, his wings puffing out. “Me, papa. A mate.”
“And will they be good to you?” his father asks, looking dangerously close to tears. “Will they make you happy? Will they take care of you?”
“I will,” Keith cries, surprised to hear the tremble in his voice. He knows no one can hear him but it feels important to say again. “I will, I will. I promise I will.”
“I don’t know, papa,” Shiro says, pulling his wings tight when he catches himself displaying. “But he’s different…like me. She said he has wings as black as night.”
“Avians don’t have black wings,” his father says, eyebrows furrowed.
“This one will,” Shiro says, his eyes taking on a far away look.”With wings as dark as night, your mate will bring you light. That’s what she said. I saw the magic, papa. She wasn’t lying. He’s real.”
Keith swallows, his wings fluttering open of their own accord. Even before Shiro knew him he believed in him, and it does something funny to Keith to bear witness to that kind of faith.
“What is troubling you?” his father asks, reaching out to give Shiro’s shoulder a squeeze.
“What if I am not what is expected,” Shiro says, his eyes briefly darting to his missing arm.
“Then he would be a fool,” his father says, and Keith likes him more for the ice in his tone. It’s the kind of fierce devotion Shiro deserves and it's easy to see how Shiro came by his own ferocity.
“Loving me is not easy,” Shiro whispers, wings sagging as he averts his gaze. “I know how you and mother cry and worry. I hear you at night when you think I'm sleeping. Loving me can be a burden and—”
But Shiro’s father doesn’t let him finish, pulling Shiro against his chest as easily as if he were a child and cradling Shiro’s head in his hand. “Loving you is a privilege,” his father says, the raw emotion in his voice making Keith’s eyes water. “You are the greatest gift your mother and I ever received, and your mate will be so lucky to have you.”
Shiro says something unintelligible, the words too quiet for Keith to make out muffled into his father’s chest. It’s easy to guess what he might have said though when his father speaks.
“You will be loved, Takashi.”
The sight makes Keith’s heart ache, an overwhelming sense of grief for the fact that he never had this kind of love as a child, bellied by a deep sense of gratefulness that for all the hardships his Shiro has endured, he was at least loved the way he deserves.
Before he can linger in the moment, the world spins again, his vision blurring and the ground beneath him seems to spin. When his vision clears he’s not in Shiro’s room any longer, in fact he’s not in a room at all.
He’s in a forest.
A forest Keith has no memory of. The trees overgrown and the air thick with the scent of aching broadleaf. As unfamiliar as the foliage is, the smell is familiar, though Keith can’t place why as he steps into the shadows looking for any sign of Shiro.
What he finds instead is something that steals all of the air from his lungs.
A boy. There’s a boy in the forest. A boy that isn’t Shiro.
“It’s okay, we’re safe now,” the little boy whispers, hands cupped tightly to his chest as he races through the trees and crowds himself in between the roots of a giant Ihedil—unruffled by the way the tree bark scuffs up his wings.
“No,” Keith croaks, staggering sideways.
“They can’t hurt you now,” the little boy whispers to his cupped hands, opening them slowly. Cradled in his palms is a baby vergax. Similar to your common field mouse, well except for the fact that they were seen as bad luck. “I know they don’t like you, but they don’t like me either.”
The words are like a key, unlocking a memory long repressed. He can’t have been more than seven or eight here, though he looks so much smaller. He’d been hiding in the attic to avoid being bullied when he’d found the vergax. He tried to sneak it some bread and water from the kitchens, but one of the boys who always had it out for Keith had followed him. When he found out what Keith was doing he started shouting around the orphanage about how Keith was friends with a vergax.
Everything after that was a haze. He remembers one of the elders trying to kill it with a broom and several boys throwing rocks at it and screaming. A lot of screaming.
Keith didn’t understand what was so terrifying about something small enough to live in a teacup. He didn’t understand a lot of things.
When Keith looked at it’s beady little eyes and dark fur he’d been unable to stomach the idea of someone harming it. By some stroke of luck Keith was able to catch it, and make it out of the orphanage and into the forest to set it free. Or so he thought.
Keith wishes he could warn his younger self of what’s to come, that no one will ever trust him again after this. He wishes he could promise himself that the abandonment won’t always hurt as bad as it first does, that they won’t die of loneliness. That they survive.
Mostly, he wishes he could hug his smaller self the way he wishes he could be held right now.
He wishes—
“Keith.”
The name startles him, and he spins on his heels. There, coming through a break in the trees basked in a ray of sunlight, is Shiro.
Not a memory, or an illusion, but his Shiro.
He doesn’t understand the how, doesn’t understand the why, just feels his knees quake as Shiro moves towards him.
He shouldn’t be here, Keith thinks. He doesn’t want Shiro to see him like this, to bear witness to the moment everyone else realized Keith’s as unwanted as a feral vergax.
Keith wants to warn Shiro, to make excuses for what he knows is about to come, but he can do nothing more than watch in silence as Shiro’s attention is caught by the smaller version of him.
“We could be friends,” tiny Keith says excitedly, the small vergax’s nose peeking out of the hole in between Keith’s hand as it sniffs. It’s whiskers tickle Keith’s hand, he remembers because that’s why he opened them further, an act which allowed the vergax to easily slip out of his hands.
“Hey,” tiny Keith yells, knees dropping down into the mud. “No, come back!”
The vergax scurries quickly, disappearing beneath a pile of fallen leaves. Futile as it was, tiny Keith scurries forward, mudding his hands and knees as he swipes at the leaves desperate to find the vergax.
Keith remembers the devastation and confusion acutely, but even if he didn’t it’s written across his own face clear as day.
Shame floods Keith now as he turns to Shiro, expecting to see pity or something worse on his face. Instead there’s a single tear rolling down Shiro’s cheek as he reaches for Keith’s hand. Everything in Keith is screaming at him to run, to hide from the painful reality of being perceived at his most vulnerable.
Yet through it all something beckons him, something gives him the strength to reach out—to slide his fingers into Shiro’s larger hand.
“Please don’t leave me,” tiny Keith cries, the despair in his small voice like a knife in Keith’s heart.
There’s a sound of rustling leaves, one last peak at the vorgax before it sprints across the forest floor to find safety. Keith doesn’t blame the small animal for being terrified, for doing what it needed to survive. It’s exactly what Keith will spend the next fifteen years doing.
“Please come back,” tiny Keith wails, staring down at his empty, mud-covered hands as he begins to cry. “I don’t want to be alone. Will you come back if I promise not to be strange?”
As the sobs wrack his smaller body, Keith feels something in him crack.
He was a child.
He was just a child.
So focused on the memory of himself, it takes Keith a moment to realize what is happening.
“You are not alone,” Shiro whispers, his massive wings enveloping Keith in an embrace.
Keith sways, unprepared for the soft warmth as Shiro’s snow white feathers encircle them both, and Shiro’s arm slips down around Keith to pull his back flush against Shiro’s chest. He tries to recall the last time someone held him and he can’t.
He can’t.
As Shiro’s wings tighten around him, Keith mourns. He mourns for the child that never had this. He mourns for the teenager that will almost give up. He mourns for the years he spent sure that no one could love him.
And then, he lets it go.
He lets go of the knot of pain that has been wound so tightly around his chest. The knot he’d held onto since he was seven and thought that no one else could love him, even if they tried. Because he wouldn’t let them. He lets go of the walls that might keep Shiro out.
He lets go of the devastating fear of being perceived and leans against Shiro’s chest and lets himself cry, silent sobs that make his body shake. Through it all, Shiro holds him close as the world spins.
When Keith has blinked away tears, it’s to realize he is in a moment he hoped to never relive.
The day his molting stopped and his adult wings came in—the day he realized his wings were black.
He prepares himself for the worst, mentally stealing himself for what he knows he’s about to see. He steadies his nerves, watching as the younger version of him gets their first look at the dark wings, as he tries to rip them out, as he thrashes and screams and cries and it hurts.
It hurts so much Keith can barely stand it; he doesn’t want to relive his worst moments in front of the one person who is supposed to love him.
Shiro doesn’t need to see Keith’s shame, or the way he’d tried to hide his wings with the curtains he’d ripped off the wall. Shiro with his beautiful wings and beautiful heart, laying witness to the ugliness that hides inside of Keith, to the—
“Beautiful,” Shiro says, not a whisper but a decree.
“What?” Keith stutters, his heart rattling in his chest so fast and hard he can barely breathe.
“Beautiful,” Shiro repeats, voice so steady and sure. “You are beautiful and brave.”
Keith feels neither, doesn’t know how Shiro can look at the most broken version of Keith and say such things.
As the sounds of despair from his younger self get louder, Shiro’s wings flutter once more, expanding in their full glory before enveloping them entirely in the safety of his warm embrace.
Like a flash the prophecy, the towns cryer had shouted at him returns; A fallen angel will save your life.
Blinking away tears, Keith understands now.
The pain he felt in this moment cannot be erased, but it is nothing more than a memory. A memory Keith will no longer let cast a shadow over his heart.
“Keith,” Shiro whispers, “open your eyes.”
He does, opening his eyes slowly, surprised to realize they are no longer in the memory. They’re home.
They’re home, and Shiro is sitting beside Keith looking more beautiful than ever, beautiful and healed. Gone are the wounds that marked his body and so is the air of exhaustion that permeated him before.
“How?” Keith chokes out, reaching out to glide his hand over Shiro's hip, the blanket in his lap just barely concealing his modesty. He looks like he did in the memory, vibrant and healthy with a brightness in his eyes.
Your magic healed him, Kosmo supplies. In more ways than one. His body was shutting down because his heartline was fading. The toll of his gift was too great. His body was not born for magic but yours was. The magic in you has strengthened his heartline, strengthened him.
Keith blinks, the reality of how close he was to losing Shiro bellied only by the feeling of holding him in his arms.
“Our heartlines,” Keith whispers, overcome by the fact that the parts of him that made him different—the very thing that he was so sure made him unloveable—is the thing that saved his mate.
“It doesn’t hurt, Keith,” Shiro tells him as he spreads his wings as wide as the smile on his face. “Nothing hurts. I haven’t felt this good in…well, ever.”
As if to prove his point he flaps his wings, whatever injury ailed him before long gone, as the strength of his wings beating sends a gust of wind so fierce that the walls themselves rattle.
Keith exhales a shuddering breath as he reaches out to rest his hand on Shiro’s chest needing to feel the connection for himself. Beneath his palm Shiro’s heart thuds strong and fast, every beat pulsing in time with Keith’s.
It’s tangible proof that Keith was successful, that Shiro is okay. As if aware of Keith’s focus, Shiro moves his hand to cover Keith’s and gives it a gentle squeeze,
It takes Keith’s breath away to see his own hand dwarfed by Shiro’s larger one. Even more exhilarating is the warmth radiating off Shiro’s hand, his body no longer chilled to the bone but vibrating with life
“I can see it, you know,” Shiro says softly.
“See what?” Keith asks.
“The magic,” Shiro answers with unmistakable awe in his voice as his eyes track something only he can see. “There’s a golden thread that ties us together now. It’s beautiful, like you. Thank you.”
“You have nothing to thank me for,” Keith chokes out, unprepared for the onslaught of emotions he's currently experiencing.
For as long as Keith can recall, he’s associated intense emotions with negativity. Strong emotions were to be avoided at all costs because they were always bad—pain, sadness, loss and fear. Any semblance of happiness Keith experienced never compared in intensity, leaving him to assume that’s just how things were.
Turns out they’re not; which leaves him unprepared to deal with the euphoria that threatens to burst out of his chest. He didn’t know. He didn’t know one person could feel so much joy. He didn’t know that happiness could make your heart race, or make your breath quicken.
He didn’t know that love could make you cry.
Tears, he had always been certain, we’re about loss. Yet here he is with his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest, his eyes leaking as he looks at the most precious person alive and he is happy.
“Oh but I do, Shiro protests, swiping his thumb across the swell of Keith’s cheekbone to wipe away a single tear. “You saved me, Keith. You saved me.”
“I think,” Keith whispers, the steady lub dub of Shiro’s heart beating in time with his own, “we saved each other.”
“Oh, Keith.”
It’s just Keith’s name, but Shiro utters it with a tenderness unlike Keith has ever heard. It makes Keith’s heart beat faster to have Shiro looking at him the way he is now, to have him so close with his hand still resting upon Keith’s cheek.
This, he realizes, is what it feels like to be loved and oh how he wants to revel in it. Keith longs to have that big, warm hand somewhere else, to feel the soothing touch of his mate in far more intimate places.
He aches with it.
I believe that is my sign that it is time to depart. Kosmo barks, a startling reminder that Keith is not alone in his thoughts. Before he can try to pretend he was not just thinking exactly what he was thinking Kosmo snorts. I will return later.
“Oh he left,” Shiro blinks, attention momentarily diverted to the corner where Kosmo just popped out of existence.
“Yeah, he uh…” but Keith pauses, the lie he’s about to tell stuck on the tip of his tongue. It would be so easy to pretend Kosmo has gone hunting, in fact he probably has, which means what Keith was about to say isn’t even entirely a lie. It’s not the truth though either, and after everything they’ve just been through, Shiro deserves the truth even if it makes Keith’s heart thunder in his chest. “He can read my thoughts. I was thinking about you.”
“Oh,” Shiro breathes, his wings flattening. “Is my presence an imposition? I don’t wish to cause strife or—”
“No,” Keith yells, unsure how else to say it besides straightforward. “He believed we needed privacy.”
“Because you were thinking of me,” Shiro repeats, so close yet so far away from the point.
“Yes,” Keith confirms, licking his lips and waiting for Shiro to connect the dots.
He does, impressively fast now, the tips of his big ears turning red as his wings flutter open. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Keith coughs, somehow both embarrassed but incredibly pleased. He can hardly believe he’s just admitting something like that out loud. But considering the things Shiro saw in his memories, if he can handle that, surely he can handle Keith’s other thoughts too—intimate as they might be.
He can hardly believe that Shiro just saw the worst memories of Keith’s life and is still looking at him like he hung the moon. His instinct to assume this is too good to be true, or run away before he can get hurt nags at the back of his mind, but it’s silenced by the warmth of the bond that flows through them. It’s impossible to truly think those things when he can feel the strength of their bond pulsing through his veins.
“I didn’t know my magic could do this,” Keith whispers. “You probably have so many questions.”
“I bet you do too,” Shiro says, as if reading his mind.
“Can you?” Keith blurts.
“Can I what?” Shiro asks, his expression so utterly open and adoring.
“Read my mind?”
“Oh,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Not in the way you think. I can't read the actual thoughts inside of your head, but I’m good at reading people, there’s a lot you can tell from their body language and what they do and don’t say. And well the magic. Your magic is loud.”
“I’m sorry,” Keith apologies, thinking about the way Shiro had said other’s magic could be jarring.
“No, wait, I'm not saying this right. It’s not bad, if anything your magic is the most beautiful, soothing thing I’ve ever seen. I know I mentioned before that sometimes it was hard but that’s not the truth, hard doesn’t begin to explain the overstimulation and pain. It was so much more than hard. Sometimes the pain was so bad I could barely breathe, as if the world’s magic was screaming at me. Yours is louder—louder in a good way.”
Keith blinks, still not sure he’s following.
“It quiets everyone else,” Shiro clarifies, sliding his palm across Keith’s cheek. “I’m not sure if it is the bond, or just you, or perhaps it is both, but it quiets the world until all that’s left is you.”
“Is that good?” Keith asks, not entirely sure.
“It’s wonderful,” Shiro whispers as his thumb smooths across the rise of Keith’s cheekbone and his fingers slide into Keith’s hair. “Everything about your magic is comforting. It’s like being in the garden on a summer day, blanketed in the sun’s warmth as the wind rustles through the trees. Your magic is sweet like the first sip of mulled wine during yule. And it’s strong, as strong as the roots of the ancient trees from the forests of Khyv.”
“That sounds nice,” Keith exhales, eyes fluttering shut as Shiro’s fingers slide across his scalp.
“It’s so nice,” Shiro confirms. “Everyone always told me the way I saw the word was a gift, but it felt more like a curse. I understand now. This is the most precious gift I could have ever been given—to know you, to have the honor of feeling your magic.”
Keith shudders, unsure if it's the fingers gliding across his scalp or Shiro’s words that are causing him to tremble.
He’s never felt precious. He’s never felt like a gift, but Shiro makes him feel like he might be one.
“My precious, Keith,” Shiro croons, wings rustling as he tips himself forward. “Will you look at me?”
I would do anything for you, Keith thinks, letting his eyes open.
“You are a wonder,” Shiro exhales, forehead dropping against Keith’s. “I have spent my entire life searching for something that might make this big world make sense. And now I have you and I understand.”
“What do you understand?” Keith asks, embarrassed at the way his jaw quivers.
“I understand that everything in my life led me to this, to you, and it was worth it. You were worth it,” Shiro tells him, his hand slipping down to cradle the back of Keith’s neck as he lowers his mouth.
Everything exists in slow motion, the bond between them pulsating with anticipation as Shiro brings their lips together in a kiss so sweet Keith nearly sobs.
Neither of them speak, but the bond says more than words ever could. Keith can feel,/i> the way Shiro’s heart races at the contact, feel his excitement as Shiro deepens the kiss—feel the way he is wanted.
Eager to reciprocate, Keith leans into the kiss, unsure what he’s doing but hoping it’s the right thing and he lets his own desire flow freely through the bond. It must work because there’s a shudder that courses through Shiro and the fingers at the back of his neck tighten. Keith does it again, unprepared for the way Shiro’s wings unfurl as he slips his tongue into Keith’s mouth.
The pull to do the same is strong, and for once in his life Keith doesn’t hold back, but lets his own wings spread—stretching out so that their wings flutter together tip to tip.
Without warning Shiro pulls out of the kiss, breathless and wide eyed as he stares at Keith’s wings. There’s half a beat where insecurity wants to creep in—the memory of his own childhood raw and fresh. Before it can take over, Shiro is stretching his wings wide enough that his primary feathers skim the roof. He tips his head down, eyes upturned towards Keith.
It means something, Keith can feel it. He’s just not sure what. Shiro must read some of his confusion because his smile softens and he tips his body forward, wings still fully expanded.
“May I complete the Trhral?” Shiro asks sweetly. “May I preen your feathers?”
Unbidden, the image of Shiro at his back tenderly cleaning his wings comes to mind and Keith is helpless to control his reaction—his own wings making the walls shake with the force of his flap. It blows the hair off Shiro’s face and brings a smile to Shiro’s face.
“Is that a yes?” he grins.
“Yes,” Keith confirms. “But i don’t…that is to say…um—”
Keith pauses, unsure how to get the words out. How can he possibly explain that no one has ever preened him before, not even when he was a child. Even before his wings turned black at puberty, he’d been so difficult—uncooperative they said. With so many children in the home and so few elders, most of the time he’d been left to run around with unkempt wings.
As a child he’d watched parents preen their children after playing, and convinced himself it wasn’t something he would ever want or need from someone else.
He wants.
He needs.
He wants and he needs, and it's all so much he aches with it.
“I’ll be gentle,” Shiro whispers. “I promise.”
“Okay,” Keith croaks, trusting Shiro—trusting him more than he has ever trusted another person.
Shiro scrambles off the bed, the muscles in his bare legs flexing as he bends down to retrieve the small bag that Keith removed from his body when he rescued him. Shiro makes impressive work of the straps single handed, a frown marring his features when he opens the flap to peer inside.
“What’s wrong?” Keith asks.
“The oiI I brought. I wasn’t sure if it would be wanted, but I brought it just in case. For you. And it’s…broken,” he says, looking utterly devastated.
“Is that all?” Keith asks, moving off the bed to retrieve the small bottle of oil he’d purchased at the apothecary just this morning, grateful for his earlier impulse purchase. Or perhaps it wasn’t so much of an impulse, but his instincts guiding him. He squats down in front of Shiro, holding the glass vial in his outstretched hands. “I have some.”
Shiro looks at the vial in Keith’s hand with a sweet smile, his fingers warm as they skim Keith’s palm when he takes the vial in his own hand.
“Where do you prefer to sit when you preen?” Shiro asks, rising to stand in his full glory.
“Where do I sit?” Keith echoes, as if the words are undecipherable.
“Yes,” Shiro nods. “I want you to be comfortable. Do you have a favorite spot to do it? When I’m at home I like to sit by the window so the sunlight can warm my wings as I work. What do you like?”
It’s an innocent question but one that Keith cannot answer. He lets his gaze roam around his home trying to imagine what he might like. The couch is lumpy but it's nearest the stove so it would be warm, but the bed is larger and would allow them more room. There’s a chair nearest the window but it’s small and hard and there’s no sunlight to be found streaming in through the window now.
“Keith?” Shiro prompts when he is quiet for too long. His expression is open, unguarded
Keith drags his eyes away from the window to Shiro’s face, inhaling slowly. “I don’t.”
“Oh,” Shiro says, surprise evident. “I mean if you prefer to stand we can make that work. Your comfort is all I care about and—“
“No, I mean I don’t preen. I don’t,” he pauses, gathering his courage to be truthful with his mate, “I don’t bother. And no one else has ever touched them. Not since I presented.”
“No one?” Shiro asks.
Keith struggles not to squeeze his eyes shut, shame making his stomach churn. “When I presented, people didn’t like how my wings looked. And well—you were there in the memory. Who would want to preen them?”
“Me,” Shiro answers, not a breath of hesitation. “I want to. If you’ll let me.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Keith mumbles, embarrassed that at nearly twenty one years of age he doesn’t even know the most basic things about wing care.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Shiro says, speaking so slowly and softly as if he’s afraid he might spook Keith.
“Aren’t I supposed to do it to you too? I mean I want to, not because I’m being forced or anything but—“
“I would like it very much,” Shiro says, interrupting him with gentle words as he reaches out to let his fingers skim down the curve of Keith’s primary feathers. Keith’s not even sure when he opened his wings, but they spread wider under his mate’s gentle caress. “But right now I would like to make this about you.”
“Just me?” Keith gulps.
“Yes,” Shiro whispers, his gaze revenant as he lets his hand—no longer bruised or bandaged—skim down Keith’s feathers once more.
Unlike Shiro’s feathers which are impeccable and back to their full glory now that he’s been healed, Keith’s are still as mismanaged as ever. His wings don’t have the healthy shine Shiro’s have, and he can feel the itch where the oldest feathers that should be removed poke at his back. His own feathers are as neglected as he is, and letting Shiro purposely bear witness to his willful mistreatment of himself floods him with shame.
“Can I hug you?” Shiro asks, taking Keith by surprise with his question.
“Um, yes,” he says, standing very still as Shiro pulls Keith against his chest. His body is so warm, and Keith’s head slots under Shiro’s chin as easily as if the spot were made for him.
“Holding you is as nice as I dreamed it might be,” Shiro whispers, his long fingers spread wide as he moves his palm to Keith’s lower back, settling it just beneath the base of Keith’s wingbone.
Keith holds his breath, afraid to even breathe lest Shiro move. He cannot recall, in all his lifetime of memories, ever being held. Not like this. Not ever.
“You smell nice too,” Shiro murmurs, letting his cheek fall down to rest upon Keith’s head. If Keith isn’t mistaken he’d swear Shiro was smelling his hair.
In any other scenario, Keith is certain his insecurity would flare but he can feel Shiro’s pleasure through the bond and can feel nothing but surprise and pride that he is so pleasing to Shiro. The second time Shiro rubs his cheek against the top of Keith’s head, Shiro chirps out the smallest sound of pleasure and it is quite frankly, life ruining.
Finally convinced that Shiro is genuinely enjoying the embrace, awkward and stiff as Keith is, he allows himself to focus on how good it feels to be held. With every breath of air he exhales some of the tension in his shoulders lessens, his spine curving as he slumps forward. Keith is acutely aware of every breath Shiro takes—the rise and fall of their chests falling in time as Keith gives in to his urges and presses his face into the crook of Shiro’s neck.
His skin is so warm and soft against Keith’s nose, his embrace solid and safe in ways that are entirely disarming and end up with Keith giving in and letting his own arms twine around Shiro’s middle. He’s not sure if his hold is too loose or too tight, but Shiro is quick to assure him it’s just right.
“Oh that’s nice,” Shiro sighs, his pleasure thrumming through their bond.
It’s clear that Shiro has taken Keith’s touch as permission to increase the pressure at Keith’s lower back in order to pull him in tighter—every inch of his body pressed against Shiro’s. It’s more physical contact than Keith has had since, well—ever. Enough physical contact that Keith knows he will never again be able to pretend he doesn’t need this.
“So nice,” Shiro repeats, rubbing his cheek against the top of Keith’s head as his hand smooths small circles at the base of Keith’s spine.
Nice doesn’t begin to cover how Keith feels, his every nerve ending lit up with pleasure. Keith thought the only thing that could make his heart race was his body going into fight or flight, but turns out a hug does the same.
“I could hold you forever,” Shiro says, hand sliding up so that the tips of his fingers brush against Keith’s wings where feather meets flesh.
It’s such a vulnerable spot, a place no one has ever been near enough to touch, a place Keith would never let anyone else—no one but his mate. Unbidden Keith lets out a whimper, and Shiro’s fingers pause. Thankfully he doesn’t pull out of the embrace because Keith is not sure he could survive if Shiro did, he isn’t ready to let go.
“Is this alright?” Shiro asks.
“Yes,” Keith manages to say, words garbled against the side of Shiro’s neck.
He must understand though because he lets out a contented sigh as his fingers continue to move upward. He’s not preening Keith yet, merely touching. Touching for no other reason than he wants to, and Keith isn’t entirely sure what to do with that knowledge. Life has always been a scale for Keith—a precariously balanced scale with give and take. Keith has been careful never to take too much, lest the scale topple since no one gives anything for free.
Yet here is Shiro holding Keith, touching him, with no explicit purpose other than closeness.
“You give wonderful hugs,” Shiro says a moment later, ruining Keith entirely.
“I’ve never hugged anyone,” Keith says, surprised he gets the words out through his own embarrassment and shame. He waits for the pity or shock, but nothing of the sort comes. Instead their bond thrums with a surge of affection.
“I am quite lucky then, to be trusted, thank you.”
Keith huffs something unintelligible, shoving his face into Shiro’s neck so hard surely it must be uncomfortable for him. If it is, he says nothing, his fingers dancing their way up Keith’s spine until Shiro’s large hand rests in the center of his wings, unmoving. Not preening, not inspecting—just holding.
Time passes, though Keith has no idea how much. He knows nothing except the bliss of being held closely. It is as if time itself stands still, the air between them shared as Keith inhales and exhales in time with Shiro and the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest lulling him into an almost meditative state. Between that and the fingers at his back smoothing down his wings, Keith loses sense of everything except Shiro.
On some level Keith is aware things beside them exist, but nothing matters except his mate.
“Is it always like this?” Keith asks, feeling nearly drunk.
“You are my first, so I don’t know for sure but I think…no.”
“First what?” Keith asks, his own mental filters that might normally stop him from asking such a question entirely obliterated. Turns out, it doesn’t take a blade or a warrior to disarm Keith, but a gentle giant whose easy kindness has rendered Keith all but defenseless.
It should be terrifying. It’s not. If anything it’s the safest Keith has ever felt.
“First everything.” Shiro answers easily, dragging his pointer finger down the center of Keith’s wings. “But I’ve read things.”
“What kind of things?”
“I’ve read about mates, and this seems different. I think it’s your magic, I can feel what you feel. Not in the way I can usually sense others, it's more visceral. It’s…amazing. Like that, right now when I said that it pleased you.”
Heat floods Keith’s cheeks at the confirmation that Shiro can sense him so intimately.
“I can too. I can feel that,” Keith pauses, trying to slow the racing of his heart, “I can feel that I please you.”
‘Oh, you do,” Shiro says, dropping a kiss to the top of Keith’s head.
“Will we always feel this—feel each other?” he asks, the lub dub of his own heartbeat nearly indistinguishable from the beating of their bond.
“I don’t know,” Shiro answers, chin atop Keith’s head as he smooths his fingers up and down a single feather. “I hope so. It feels nice.”
“Yeah,” Keith echoes, breathing in the soothing scent of Shiro as his mate’s contentness thrums through the bond. “So nice.”
“You know what else would be nice?”
“Hmm?” Keith humms, feeling as if he was floating.
“Preening,” Shiro whispers, one finger smoothing down one of Keith’s feathers. “Your wings expanded to their full glory, spread open wide just for me.”
Keith’s inhale is sharp, and though he says nothing, he doesn’t need to. Not when he knows Shiro will be able to feel the way his words make Keith’s heart race.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long. I can’t wait to have you in front of me, to have the honor of touching your beautiful wings. Will you let me, Keith? Will you let me preen you?”
“Yes,” Keith whispers, using a great amount of personal fortitude to pull his face out of the crook of Shiro’s neck. It’s worth it to see the look on Shiro’s face—awed and adoring.
“I’ll be gentle,” Shiro tells him, hand now resting at Keith’s hip.
It’s easy to imagine he will. Despite his size, there’s something in his touch that is soothing and tender. Even just the little he touched Keith’s wing during their hug is enough for Keith to know he’s going to enjoy it. Perhaps too much.
“Will you share your troubles?” Shiro asks, raising his hand to the side of Keith’s face.
Despite knowing Shiro must be able to feel the worry in him, it still feels surprising. “I did say yes.”
“You did,” Shiro confirms. “And I can feel that you meant it. But I can feel something else too. But just because I can feel it doesn’t mean I understand it.”
Keith hangs his head between his shoulders, wings still half open. He’s going to have to say it.
“I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“No, yes. Kind of,” Keith mumbles, staring at Shiro’s impossibly large feet. Everything about him is big and Keith finds it hard to focus on his own nervousness when he’s so delighted by his mate, so soothed by him.
“I’m afraid I do not understand,” Shiro sighs. “I wish I did, so I could spare you having to explain, when I can feel the way it pains you to do so, but—”
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you but I’m just…embarrassed.”
“About what?” Shiro asks, his hand now on the back of Keith’s neck. His palm is so big, cradling Keith, and it makes it easier somehow to say his next words.
“That I’ll like it too much.”
Shiro doesn’t immediately respond, not in words, but his fingers twist around the long hair at the back of Keith’s neck as his thumb smooths down the side of Keith’s neck.
“Would it be so bad to like it?”
Keith stifens, fighting against the urge to shut down. This is Shiro, his mate. He can tell him.
“I’ve seen other birds get preened. They’re so demure.”
“Oh,” Shiro says, and his dawning realization has the shame returning. Before it can take hold, Shiro’s moving his hand to Keith’s chin, gently tilting it up so that Keith is looking in his eyes. “I don’t want anyone but you, do you understand? I don’t want the version of you that you think someone would want. I don’t want you to try to be something you're not.”
“I’m…noisy,” Keith croaks, the words making his face burn. He cannot believe he’s saying this out loud.
“Okay,” Shiro says, as if that is nothing.
“You don’t understand, I’m noisy. I’m wild. It’s…one of the reasons I don’t preen. I feel…out of control. My wings are so sensitive and—” he pauses, thinking back to when he was preened as a child. He’d been so fidgety, so unable to sit still. Every time the adults at the orphanage had tried to preen him they’d yell or chastise him before eventually giving up. Something about his wings being touched has always left Keith feeling like a bundle of raw nerve endings, and he has no idea how he will react to Shiro’s attention to his wings, but he knows he won’t be able to just sit still and be quiet the way ‘a good avian’ should.
“Do you trust me?” Shiro asks, lowering his hand so that his fingers skim across the hollow of Keith’s throat then over the curve of his collar bone. He continues until his palm settles it over Keith’s chest. Like kindling thrown to a flame, their bond thrums as Keith’s magic flares to life.
Standing there watching Shiro stare at his hand on Keith’s chest, clearly able to see the same magic that Keith can feel, Keith knows the answer.
He trusts Shiro. Not just because of the bond, though that makes what he feels impossible to ignore, but because of something deeper. His heart recognizes Shiro as his.
“I trust you,” Keith says.
Shiro lifts his gaze from where his hand rests over Keith’s heart, and the absolute joy that Keith’s words cause, becomes one of the defining moments of Keith’s life. Shiro’s joy is so pure, so unfiltered, and it leaves Keith aching for the love only Shiro can give.
Shiro must sense his nerves, because a sense of calm—warm and soothing—echoes through their bond.
“Did you do that?” Keith asks, swaying slightly.
“Do what?” Shiro asks.
“The bond felt…” but Keith stops speaking when he feels the rush again.
“Oh, you can feel it then?” Shiro says. “
“Yes,” Keith exhales, his limbs lax and his tension dissipating as Shiro guides him towards the bed.
“Good, I just want you to feel good.”
Keith doesn’t respond to that, because he’s not sure how someone responds to hearing those words for the first time in one’s life. He’s used to people requesting things from him, not giving.
“If you need me to stop, you can tell me,” Shiro says, the bed dipping as he crawls behind Keith.
“Sure” Keith gasps, though the prospect seems very unlikely when a shudder is already wracking his body just from Shiro’s bare thigh brushing against one of his wings as Shiro tries to get comfortable.
Keith holds his breath as Shiro continues to adjust himself, the bed rocking as Shiro inches closer and closer until his own wings brush against Shiro’s bare knees.
The second Shiro’s fingers skim over the tips of Keith’s primary feathers, the fidgeting starts. He swallows the urge to vocalize, tamps down the noises even as he struggles to keep his wings still. Shiro doesn’t uncap the oil at first, instead skimming his hand over Keith’s wings trying to fix the displaced feathers first but every time he gets close to one Keith finds himself tensing, flapping his wings so that Shiro can’t manage.
The contact is wanted and Keith hates himself for not being able to sit still and enjoy it.
Shiro is silent every time Keith twitches, and Keith waits for him to politely ask Keith to keep still. He does the opposite.
“You want to fluff them up?” he asks. “Really move them around.”
“What?” Keith grunts, taken completely off guard by the question.
“It’ll help rezip the feather barbules that have become disconnected which… I suspect, must be causing some discomfort. But it also just feels good to move them sometimes.”
“I thought you were supposed to keep still when you preen?” Keith says, unsure why his voice sounds so very small.
“Who told you that?” Shiro asks. His tone is gentle, curious, but it can’t stop the trigger reaction in Keith to feel ashamed.
”Stop moving, Keith.”
“Keep still, Keith.”
“For goodness sake, Keith, can’t you listen.”
“Look at you so messy, no one will ever be able to take care of these. Sit down and don’t move.”
“No one who matters,” Keith whispers, the overwhelming rush of shame and confusion making his head spin.
“I have an idea,” Shiro says, the bed dipping as he crawls sideways.
Disappointment wells up in Keith that Shiro has already given up on the preening, but he tamps it down. He probably is too difficult. If Keith can’t even deal with preening himself, how can he expect someone else to want to do it?
“Come here,” Shiro says, opening his arm in silent invitation.
He might be done with the preening but he isn’t rejecting Keith, which is more than Keith dared to hope for. Keith resists the urge to cry as he’s welcomed into Shiro’s embrace.
“I want to try something,” Shiro says, the words whispered into the top of Keith’s head.
Keith grunts, because answering is too hard. His wings are tingling, an itch beneath his feathers and the loss of Shiro’s touch is too raw. He can’t think straight, can only agree to whatever Shiro is saying. He’s not actually sure what Shiro’s saying because it’s hard to focus and all he knows is that one second Shiro is holding him and the next he’s pulling back.
But he’s smiling, something sweet on his face as he makes contact with Keith and moves off the bed so he’s standing as he spreads his wings wide. His wingspan is so big that at this angle they go wall to wall.
He’s so gorgeous, so comfortable in his skin even as he kneels on the mattress before Keith completely naked and begins to shake. For a horrible second Keith thinks he’s convulsing then he realizes what’s happening. Shiro isn’t just watching, or telling Keith what to do—he’s doing it with him
“Spread them wide,” Shiro says, fluffing up his own wings. “Feel them expand. Let it out.”
He’s shaking his wings, exaggeratedly so, in a way that is almost comical, but he’s moving so that Keith won’t be the only one. Keith is not just being tolerated, he is being accepted and it shatters the last of the walls around Keith’s heart in a blaze of glory as his own wings flare out.
“Yes!” Shiro cries, his pride filtering through the bond as thick and sweet as honey. “Move them, fluff them out. Shake them. Make noises. Scream.”
“I can’t scream,” Keith chokes out, though already he can feel the noise inside of him welling up.
How long has he held back? How much has he pushed down?
Never once did he dare to let it out. Not while he was alone, and certainly not with another.
“It feels good,” Shiro says, wings flapping so hard they make the windows rattle.
Tentatively Keith flaps his too, surprised at the rush of adrenaline that courses through him. It does feel good, so he does it again—hard enough half his bottles of herbs clatter to the ground, though thankfully none break.
“Wow,” Shiro says, eyes wide not with fear or shock, but awe. Keith can literally feel Shiro’s awe, can feel his pride and adoration pulsing through the bond and it makes something inside of him sing.
Somehow he is wanted—wild, messy and difficult, he is wanted exactly as he is. He lets the feeling wash over him as he moves his wings, giving in to the temptation like never before—flapping and fluffing and shaking them so hard the very walls of his home rattle.
Adrenaline floods his vein, his heart beating as hard and fast as his wings. It takes a second for Keith to realize it’s not fear, not the urge to fight or flee, but excitement that is making his pulse race.
It’s exhilarating.
“Let it out,” Shiro shouts, loud enough to be heard over the flapping of their wings as he reaches for Keith’s hand.
Keith meets him midair, their fingers brushing together as Keith throws his head back and lets out a vocalization he’s never made in the presence of another, not even Kosmo. It’s primal and raw and when Shiro’s fingers link with his own, he does it again.
It feels so good Keith nearly sobs, the itch under his skin and the tingle in his feathers lessensing. With every sound he makes, and every flap of his wings he feels the release—unexpected exhaustion overtaking him as he tips forward.
“Shh, I’m right here,” Shiro soothes, in front of Keith before he can fall. “That’s it, lean against me. We’re gonna try it like this.”
Before Keith can ask try what Shiro’s reaching around Keith’s shoulder to smooth his palm over Keith’s feathers and oh.
Preening. Shiro is going to preen him.
Even after all he’s just seen, he’s not put off or weirded out, he’s seeking more contact with Keith. Unlike the first time Shiro tried this, when he finds a dislodged feather, Keith doesn’t bite back a scream or fidget; he just grunts, shoving his face into Shiro’s chest.
“Just like that,” Shiro says, walking them backward.
Keith’s not sure why until Shiro’s hand disappears from his wings. He doesn’t have to wonder long though before a second later there’s the pop of the preening oil lid being uncorked and then Shiro’s fingers are back—smoothing the oil over the feathers.
Keith is sure this angle must be awkward for Shiro but he manages, albeit slowly, smoothing feathers back into place and distributing the oil over Keith’s neglected wings.
Words cannot even begin to describe the soul-deep comfort Keith feels having Shiro’s big, strong fingers so tenderly preening his feathers. He’s not doing it fast, or hurried, but meticulously tending to every single one of Keith’s feathers and the knowledge does something funny to Keith who finds his eyes watering as he rubs his face against Shiro’s soft pecs trying to wipe away the tears.
By the time he’s finished Keith’s absolutely boneless, the sweet scent of goldenglow from the oil clinging to the air as Keith breathes in slow and deep.
“Finished,” Shiro says, except he doesn’t immediately stop touching.
He’s finished but he doesn’t stop, his strokes softening further as he smooths over the curve of primary feathers from the base of his spine to the tips of his wings. His touch is reverant and exploratory, and Keith startles to realize the need he feels is not just his own—that the ache he feels for more,/i> is coming through through the bond, from Shiro.
“Shiro?” he whispers, pulling his face back to look in his mate’s eyes, the expression he finds confirming what he can feel through the bond.
“Yes, Keith?”
“Really?” he whispers. “Just…from touching me?”
“Yes,” Shiro nods, his eyes so earnest.
Keith’s heart, which had finally started to slow, absolutely races.
“I’ve never…not ever,” Keith stutters.
“Me either,” Shiro offers, his hand moving up to cup the side of Keith’s face. The scent of goldenglow clings to his fingers, intoxicating and sweet. “How could I want another when I knew you were out there somewhere?”
Inhaling a shuddering breath, Keith turns his face so that his lips make contact with Shiro's palm—the warmth of his skin against Keith’s lips is a balm.
Shiro shudders, a ripple of pleasure filtering through the bond.
It’s intoxicating to imagine the smallest touch from him could be so affecting, and yet here is Shiro, with his wings beginning to flutter when Keith kisses his hand again.
“Keith,” Shiro gasps.
“Yes?”
“May I please touch you?“
Keith’s eyes track the change in Shiro’s pupils, the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the rhythmic lub dub of their bond as he rubs his cheek against Shiro’s palm.
“You are touching me,” he grins.
“You are teasing me,” Shiro whispers, and this time the emotion he feels is harder to understand—something powerful thrumming through the bond.
“If I was?” He asks, giving the middle of Shiro’s palm another kiss.
“I would ask what it is you want of me,” Shiro says, his breathing slow and measured. “I don’t want to push, or overstep. I am…afraid.”
“Afraid,” Keith echoes, dawning realization about just what the fluttering emotion he feels through the bond must be—Shiro is scared.
Somehow the realization settles Keith’s racing heart. He is not alone in being excited or unsure. They are in this together, equally unsure what to do next, but clearly both wanting the same things. It’s settling somehow, to know this is one more thing they share.
“I am afraid of pushing you away. I have spent half my life waiting to meet you, reading every book I could get my hand on to understand, to be prepared to be the best mate I could be. But I’m not—I’m not prepared, Keith. Nothing could have prepared me for this.”
“For what?” Keith dares to ask.
“For how much I want you,” Shiro says, the bond pulsing.
“What do you want?” Keith asks, selfishly wanting Shiro to say it aloud.
“I want to know you the way I know the pages of my favorite book. I want to fall asleep with you in my wings and wake up with you there too. I want to find out what makes you happy, how I can make you happy. And—“ Shiro pauses, licking his lips as his gaze travels down Keith’s face to rest at his lips, “I want to touch you.”
“Like you’re touching me now?”
Shiro swallows audibly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he shakes his head—some of his pale hair falling across his eyes. “I want to touch you everywhere. I want to worship your body with my mouth, my hand, my wings. I want to bring you pleasure like no one else ever has. I want—I want to be one with you.”
The words envelop Keith, or perhaps it is the longing and desire that is dripping off Shiro and making their bond thrum. Whatever the source, desire unlike any Keith has ever known blankets Keith—reckless bravery overtaking him as he fluffs his wings.
“How would you do it?”
“Do what?” Shiro asks, eyes blown wide.
“How would you pleasure me?”
There is no answer. Instead a gust of wind blows the hair from Keith’s face as Shiro’s wings unfurl in their full glory before they curl around Keith surrounding him in their warmth.
There may be no words, but Shiro pulls him into a kiss that is anything but tentative, and he understands the answer. This is how Shiro will pleasure him. Not taking but giving—giving his all to Keith as he walks them towards the bed without ever breaking the kiss.
When the back of Keith’s knees hit the bed he gasps, the sound of his surprise quickly shifts to a moan when Shiro slips his tongue into Keith’s mouth. There’s an eagerness that filters through the bond, an abject nervousness that is a stark contrast to the confidence with which Shiro touches him.
It’s a reminder that in many ways Shiro is just as new to all of this as Keith is, just as eager and curious. It makes it all the easier to let his legs fall open as his back hits the mattress, or to lift his hips as Shiro helps guide his pants off so that he is as naked as Shiro.
“I don’t look like you,” Keith says, resisting the urge to shroud his body with his wings. Not because he doesn’t want Shiro to look, but because the reality of being seen so intimately is scarier than Keith expected.
“No you do not. You look like Keith,” Shiro says, the bed dipping under his weight as he crawls between the spread of Keith’s legs. “Like my precious Keith.
Keith has been many things to many people in his life.
A problem.
A curiosity.
A challenge.
Never precious.
“But you are,” Shiro says, as if he can read Keith’s mind.
Or perhaps Keith’s just projecting his insecurity through the bond too loud to be ignored.
“When I was a child my mother would comfort me with a saying from her village—The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all. That is you—the most beautiful of all. My beautiful Keith.”
Denial rises on Keith’s tongue but he bites it back, as a rush of hope flares through their bond—hope for the future but also the now—a deep and pure sense of hope that steals Keith’s breath away.
There has never been room for hope in Keith’s life. Hope was dangerous and unpredictable and likely to lead to pain or disappointment. Hope was a weakness. Keith doesn’t feel weak, he feels something else—something he’s not sure he has words for.
Shiro believes Keith is beautiful, precious—worthy.
“Keith.”
“Yes, Shiro?”
“Can I—”
“You can do anything,” Keith interrupts.
Color rises high on Shiro’s cheeks as Keith feels something harden near his thigh, drawing Keith’s attention down Shiro’s body to his impressive length. Keith’s spent most of the day trying to be a gentleman and not stare simply because Shiro was naked; but he can’t help but stare now—mouth falling open as he watches it lengthen.
“You are big,” he whispers.
“Perhaps a little,” Shiro says, but the flush of pink spreads down his neck and his wings spread—a spike of pleasure slamming into Keith.
Keith understands now that he’s not the only one who has worried about what his mate might think. That perhaps Shiro might like to know how much he pleases Keith too.
“You’re so handsome,” Keith says, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue. He’s not good with words like Shiro and yet the flare of pleasure his words invoke makes him feel bold. “Looking at you makes me…makes me—”
“What?” Shiro asks, the tip of his cock leaking onto Keith’s thigh. Keith isn’t the only eager one.
“Makes me want things. When I am alone I touch myself but I never thought I’d want anyone else to touch me. But you…” Keith pauses, his own cock just as hard. “You make me want.”
“What do you want?” Shiro asks breathlessly.
Unbidden an image comes to Keith’s mind of Shiro and his big hand laying worship to Keith, of touching him in ways no one else ever has, of sharing intimacies with Shiro that no one else ever will. He imagines Shiro above him with his wings spread wide as he touches Keith and he burns with desire—an avalanche of arousal threatening to suffocate him. This is too much too soon. This is—
“Oh please,” Shiro gasps, a shudder making his wings flap. “I can feel your desire but I can’t…I don’t know what it is you want. I’ve dreamed of making you feel good. You’re not the only one who touches themselves when they’re alone.”
“Shiro,” Keith gasps, his hands digging into Shireo’s thighs as Shiro shifts. It’s not even an intentional movement but the feeling of Shiro’s cock so heavy and warm brushing against his thigh makes Keith burn.
“Alone in my tower, I would touch myself and imagine it was my mate. If I lived long enough to meet you, I was going to be able to please you.”
“You are alive,” Keith chokes out, the staggering rush of emotion he feels that Shiro grew up waiting to die soothed only by the knowledge that his magic saved his mate, that he can feel Shiro’s lifeforce through their bond as vibrant and strong as Shiro himself.
“Yes, because of you,” Shiro says, using his hand to balance himself as he leans over Kith, once again dragging his cock over Keith’s upper thigh as he moves so that his body lays atop Keith from head to toe. His weight is heavy and comforting, and Keith is so acutely aware of every place their bodies are touching that he can hardly breathe.
“I have read books, and I practiced so much my parents began to worry about my excessive use of preen oil,” Shiro huffs.
“Wait, you can use that for…um, for—”
“Sex,” Shiro finishes, his boyish smile playful and excited. “But if you don’t use it, what do you use?”
Keith swallows audibly, his raging arousal at finding out his mate has spent years fantasizing about sex with him making this somehow easier to talk about.
“Um, my hand?”
Shiro’s thick eyebrows knit together. “Did that ever hurt?”
“I mean yeah, but everything hurts,” Keith shrugs, unprepared for the pitiful sound Shiro makes at his confession—a pang lancing through their bond. Not pity, but sadness.
Bewildered, Keith blinks as he tries to understand it, to understand Shiro’s emotions.
“It’s not like it was bad,” Keith tries. “I um, you know, it leaks like yours. Just sometimes it chafed a little but like, that’s normal right?”
Shiro shakes his head. “It’s supposed to feel good.”
For some reason this makes Keith’s ears burn. He’d just thought that most of the time touching himself wasn’t worth it. No one had ever told him you were supposed to use something to make it feel better.
Just one more thing to add to the long list of things no one ever bothered to tell Keith.
Shame overwhelms Keith. How could he possibly be a good mate? How can he ever make Shiro feel good when it turns out he doesn’t even know what it means to feel good?
Unable to stop himself, Keith finds his hands flying up to cover his face, unable to tolerate being seen.
He waits for the bond to ripple with pity, or confusion, but neither come. Instead a steady wave of affection thrums as warm lips are pressed to the back of his knuckles. Not once, not twice but ten times—one kiss pressed to each of Keith’s rough, scarred knuckles.
“Will you let me show you?” Shiro asks, another kiss pressed to the tip of Keith’s nose which is peeking out from between his hands.
“Show me what?” Keith croaks, heels of his hands shoved into his eyes so hard he sees white spots.
“How good it can feel,” Shiro answers, gentle fingers pushing the hair off his forehead. “Will you let me take care of you, Keith?”
A sob is ripped from Keith’s throat at the words. No one has ever taken care of Keith.
“Would you enjoy that?” Shiro asks, a feather light kiss pressed to his quivering chin.
There’s no way Shiro can’t feel the answer through the bond, but the fact that he is asking—giving Keith some semblance of control right now—means more than he can say.
When a second kiss is pressed to the side of his jaw, Keith manages the fortitude to move his hands off his eyes, blinking away the bright spots to see Shiro hovering above him cast in a spotted white glow. He is the single most beautiful thing Keith has ever seen and Keith can hardly believe Shiro is his.
“Look at you,” Shiro whispers, the flutter of wings making the bed shake as he positions himself over Keith so that he is safely encircled in the shelter of Shiro’s wings.
“Shiro,” he chokes out, overwhelmed completely despite the fact that Shiro hasn’t done anything.
“Yes, Keith,” Shiro says, the ghost of his breath warm across Keith’s jaw as Shiro’s fingers smooth over Keith’s neck.
“I want—” but he pauses, heart thundering in his chest. The words are right there but they don't come easy. Keith wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything so he’s not sure why it’s so hard to admit.
Undeterred by the silence, Shiro's gaze is patient and sweet as he waits for Keith to continue. Minutes tick by and Keith feels no closer to being able to say what he wants when Shiro reaches for his hand, pulling it up to his chest.
He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. What he’s doing says more than words ever could. Keith has never trusted words. People say what they want you to hear, but there’s no twisting this, no misinterpreting the way Shiro’s heart pounds because of Keith, for Keith.
The beat is powerful and strong, and Keith increases the pressure of his touch greedily, surprised at the spike of need he feels unsure if it's from him or Shiro.
“Do you want to listen?” Shiro asks, something almost bashful in his smile.
“Can I?”
“Of course you can,” Shiro says, moving his fingers to the back of Keith’s head which he guides to his chest. “I am yours.”
If feeling Shiro’s heartbeat was affecting it’s nothing compared to hearing it. Unlike before when he heard it while Shiro was still unconscious, there’s no confusion or shame as Keith listens, only an astounding sense of rightness as he realizes that every lub dub of Shiro’s heart is pulsing with magic, with their bond.
To Keith’s surprise, the longer his ear is pressed to Shiro’s chest the slower the beat goes, as if the act of listening just might be as soothing Shiro as well, giving rise to the possibility that perhaps this is not only for Keith. It seems impossible to believe, and yet as the fingers at the back of his hair twitch and Shiro inhales a shuddering breath, his suspicion grows.
“Shiro,” he whispers, needing to know.
“Yeah?” Shiro croaks.
“Do you like this?” Keith asks.
Again Shiro inhales sharply, chest shuddering with the force of it. “Very much.”
“Me too,” Keith hurries to offer, finding this confession easy. “I like the way you sound.”
Without warning Shiro’s wings fluff up, the bed shaking as Shiro lets out a soft little chirp of delight.
The sound does something to Keith, an awareness that everything Shrio is doing for him is not born out of a sense of obligation. Shiro is not offering these things to Keith because he thinks he should but because he wants to, because being connected to Keith makes Shiro feel as good as it does Keith.
“Does it make you feel good to know it brings me comfort?” Keith asks, shocked at his own boldness. “To know that the sound of your heart soothes me? To know that I can feel my magic pounding inside of you.”
The flutter in Shiro’s wings increases, the vibrations rattling in Keith’s chest as Shriro croaks out “Yes.”
Something about the confession makes it easier for Keith to say what he says next, pulling back so his words will be heard.
“Shiro, will you pleasure me?”
In answer Shiro’s wing’s flare, the tips of his primary feathers skimming the ceiling. It’s the most affirmative yes imaginable and Keith can only gape, overcome by the depth of desire coming from Shiro—desire to make Keith feel good.
“You…wow.”
Air floods Shiro’s lungs as he puffs up his chest, ruffling his feathers in an obvious display. It makes Keith’s heart skip a beat to realize the euphoria and pride he’s feeling through the bond is a direct result of his words.
“You’re so beautiful,” Keith tells him.
“Thank you,” Shiro says, a hum of pleasure pulsing through the bond. It’s the same sort of pleasure Keith felt when Keith was listening to his heartbeat and he files away the knowledge that his mate enjoys that kind of focused attention on him, eager to use this information in as many ways as possible.
Shiro pulls his wings closer to his body so that he can lay on his right side—resting his head on the pillow beside Keith. “Hi.”
This close, the bond sparks as his magic cries out for Shiro. The need to be as close as possible is staggering so Keith rolls onto his side so that they’re face to face, their knees pressed together and their chests nearly pressed together.
“Hi,” Keith croaks, suddenly nervous again.
With a sweet smile, Shiro reaches out to skim his fingers over the curve of Keith’s bare side—soft fingers dancing across his skin from the top of his hip down to his upper thigh. It’s just the ghost of a touch but it’s enough to have Keith’s mouth falling open, the quietest whimper falling from his lips.
“Oh,” Shiro breathes, doing it again. “You’re so responsive.”
“Sor—”
“No sorry,” Shiro interrupts, silencing Keith with a sweet kiss as he changes fingertips to palm, the entire expanse of his huge, warm hand smoothing over Keith’s side.
It’s good. It’s so good Keith can’t help the second whimper, this one louder than before. He tries to be quiet when Shiro rubs his side a third time, and he succeeds too. He succeeds until that big hand dips lower, curling around Keith’s back to heft him forward so all of their bare skin is pressed together. The sensation is so good, the bond flaring with pleasure as every inch of Keith touches his mate in some way.
The sound he wants to make is there, rumbling in his chest but he fights it off—choking on air as he tries to deepen the kiss.
“Shhh,” Shiro soothes, pulling out the kiss to bump his forehead against Keith’s. “Let it out. Be noisy for me.”
“You…you want to hear?” Keith stammers, feeling as if someone has wound his insides up too tight.
“Yes,” Shiro assures him, the fingers at his back skimming down to rest just above his ass. “Let me hear how good I make you feel, please. You don’t know…you don’t know, Keith. You can’t see what it does to me to hear those pretty sounds, to have the bond thrum with pleasure because I’m touching you?”
For some reason Keith didn’t think of it like that. “I might be loud.”
Shiro hums, his fingers dancing so that they skim over the swell of his ass. “Please.”
“Qux,” Keith curses, unsure if he wants to shove his body back into Shiro’s hand or arch forward for some friction.
“That’s it, get mouthy. Let it out,” Shiro prompts, the tip of one finger sliding down the swell of his ass.
For as long as Keith can remember, being quiet was a necessity. When he cried too much at the orphanage, he got yelled at. When he was too noisy in the woods after running away he risked discovery. No matter the occasion or reason, Keith learned that to be quiet was to survive, to stay safe. Yet here is his mate imploring him to let the noises he’s kept locked inside out.
“Make noise,” Shiro urges. “The storm is raging. No one can hear you but me.”
Keith inhales sharply. Shiro’s right. His home is so isolated no one would hear him anyway, but the wind howling outside offers a second buffer of protection that allows Keith to stop holding back, and a cry of longing is ripped from his chest.
“Yes, good,” Shiro praises, and something in Keith absolutely burns as he arches back desperate for more touch.
Every inch of contact, every place Shiro touches, makes Keith greedy for more. Everything about Shiro is impressive in size, but nothing feels as glorious as how large Shiro’s hand is as it skates over the swell of Keith’s ass, over his back, and all the way up his spine.
“I can’t believe how perfect you are,” Shiro murmurs, as if he isn’t the perfect one.
“Shiro,” Keith whimpers.
“Yes, Keith?”
“I need…I need,” but he stops, chest heaving as he struggles to breathe. He doesn’t even know what he needs, just knows this isn’t enough. “More, please.”
The answering kiss is gentle, as if Shiro is trying to soothe Keith’s soul with his lips. It works, because something tight in Keith’s chest ufurls as Shiro deepens the kiss, his fingers spread wide at Keith’s lower back.
Just when Keith has gotten used to the feeling, the hand at his lower back disappears as does Shiro’s mouth. It’s an absolute travesty, and though Keith doesn’t mean to whine out loud he does anyway, the loss of contact causing a visceral pain in his chest.
“It’s okay, I’m just getting the oil,” Shiro tells him, shifting onto his belly so he can reach the oil on the side table before repositioning himself next to Keith. “Can you help me with—yes, thank you” Shiro grins when Keith holds the bottle so that Shiro can get the top off.
Immediately the heady scent of goldenglow hits Keith’s nose, his entire body relaxing. Before today he would’ve said he was ambivalent to the scent of goldenglow. Yet all it took was one time being preened by Shiro and the scent already envelops Keith in a sense of complete comfort. He’s not sure he will ever be able to smell it again without thinking of the tender way Shiro preened him.
It’s a scent that Keith already associates with everything good in the world, with the comfort and love his mate provides, and now it’s got something else, something infintamely more erotic as the scent of arousal mixes with the thick floral scent of the goldenglow.
“Tip some in my hand,” Shiro instructs.
“How much?”
Shiro licks his lips, a pike of arousal rushing through the bond as he whispers, “A lot.”
Heart thudding in his chest, Keith tips the vial to coat Shiro’s hand in the oil before he corks the bottle and tosses it to the side, immediately dragging his attention back to Shiro's hand as he slowly moves down until his long, oil coated fingers are curling around Keith’s cock. It’s slick and warm, and all it takes is one stroke for Keith’s eyes to quite literally roll into the back of his head as pleasure unlike anything he’s ever known envelops him.
Pride rushes through the bond as Shiro strokes him again, nosing at Keith’s cheek as he whispers, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
The only answer Keith can give is a loud, guttural moan as he slams his eyes shut. Good doesn’t even come close to how it feels. Somehow, it’s as if every single one of Keith’s nerve endings are now in his cock, and every single one of those nerve endings is alight with pleasure as Shiro’s hand slides up and down in steady, firm strokes.
“I can’t believe I get to touch you,” Shiro says, murmuring the words against Keith’s skin as Shiro mouths at the side of his neck. And if that weren’t affecting enough Keith can feel the truth of the words through the bond—pleasure and gratitude.
Impossible as it is to believe since Keith’s the one having his cock worshiped, Shiro thinks he is the lucky one right now. It’s astounding and also the single most arousing moment of Keith’s life to know that his mate can get so much pleasure from just touching him—the absolute bliss radiating through the bond is enough to make Keith dizzy.
“My beautiful mate,” Shiro croons, his left wing fluttering open so that the tips of his primary feathers skim over Keith’s hip. It’s such a sharp contrast to the way Shiro’s touching his cock and the juxtaposition of firm strokes and feathers ghosting over his skin has Keith trembling.
Containing his sounds doesn’t even occur to Keith now as he moans so loud the walls of the treehouse seem to rattle.
“Yes,” Shiro cries, mouthing at Keith’s neck.
Keith moans again, louder this time. Loud enough he can feel the sound rumble out of his chest as Shiro latches his mouth onto the pulse point at the side of his neck.
Hyper aware of the beat of his own heart as Shiro sucks, Keith can do nothing more than moan and writhe as Shiro pulls sounds from Keith he didn’t even know it was possible to make.
“More,” Shiro gasps, rubbing his nose into the side of Keith’s neck as his strokes increase in speed.
Keith doesn’t need to ask what Shiro wants more of, because every time Keith’s made noises the bond spikes with Shiro’s arousal, making it impossible for Keith to be self conscious about how noisy he’s being when Shiro is so obvious about how much he enjoys it.
Once or twice in the privacy of his own mind, Keith had let himself imagine finding a mate—only when the depth of loneliness had been too much. They were moments Keith had buried deep, because longing for something he would never have felt more painful than never having it in the first place. Those fantasy’s had been nothing more than the fleeting hope someone might one day learn to tolerate Keith. Not even in the deepest, most private parts of his heart had he ever imagined this—finding a mate who might do more than tolerate him, let alone finding a mate who would love him.
Because that’s what this is, that’s what Keith can feel filtering through their bond.
Shiro is not merely tolerating Keith; he is reveling in him. Shiro’s pleasure spikes every time he touches Keith, spikes further with every noise Keith makes. Shiro’s absolute joy over Keith’s existence is life ruining in the best way possible, and Keith knows he will never be the same again.
Keith is not being tolerated, he is being worshiped.
He is loved.
It’s a realization that has Keith arching off the bed with pleasure. Every press of lips, every stroke, every caress from Shiro’s wings is Shiro’s way of saying I see you, I want you.
Keith wants him too, wants so much his entire body burns with it. He’s felt arousal before, usually only when he was pleasuring himself. It was always tinged with a fear of discovery, or the shadow of shame. But this arousal burns like the summer sun—warm and bright and soothing Keith to the very core.
Shiro’s affection isn’t tentative or careful, it’s steady and all encompassing and just when Keith is sure it’s not possible for anyone to feel more pleasure he does—Shiro’s wings brushing over his nipples while Shiro sucks at the hollow of his throat.
It’s clear Shiro can tell Keith likes it because suddenly his wings aren’t just brushing over Keith’s skin but focused on his nipples—the velvet soft tips of primary feathers fluttering over his nipples until they’re as erect and hard as his cock.
The sounds Keith makes are primal and needy, and though he wants to warn Shiro, no words will form. All he is capable of is grunting and moaning as he writhes on the bed and comes hard.
There’s a little flare of surprise from Shiro, but it’s immediately replaced by staggering pleasure as Shiro covers Keith’s mouth with his own and kisses Keith like a man dying and Keith is his salvation. Lips gliding together, breath mingled and tongues dancing as Shiro strokes Keith through his release, only stopping when Keith begins to shudder from overstimulation.
Even then he doesn’t stop touching Keith, gently releasing Keith’s soft cock in favor of smoothing his slicked up hand over Keith’s lower belly and thighs while they continue to kiss.
Through it all, Keith’s heart races—the bond pulsing in time with Keith’s heart.
“So perfect,” Shiro praises, dropping kisses across every bit of Keith’s face he can reach. “Beautiful, so beautiful.”
Keith grunts, unsure how one is supposed to act after having the greatest pleasure of their lives.
“How did you learn to do that,” Keith asks when he’s gathered enough of his wits about him that he feels capable of speech.
“Books,” Shiro grins, looking absolutely pleased with himself.
“Books,” Keith repeats.
“Yes, there are many books on pleasure. I’ve read them all, many times.”
It's easy to imagine Shiro in his tower, pouring over the books with the same single minded focus he’d shown Keith. It’s also easy to imagine Shiro touching himself, practicing the things he read, in the hopes of one day meeting his mate. It is so easy to imagine his beautiful, perfect Shiro patiently waiting.
The thought prompts another, that has Keith sitting up so fast he nearly knocks heads with Shiro.
“What?” Shiro asks, sitting up just as quickly.
“You didn’t…um…come.”
“Oh,” Shiro breathes, color rising on his cheeks. “Yes, I did.”
Blinking, Keith lets his gaze travel down Shiro’s body to where his mate’s cock rests soft against his thigh.
“Just from touching me?” Keith croaks, unsure why the idea makes his body flush with desire.
“Yes,” Shiro confirms, his wings fluffing up with unmistakable pride as he tips forward bringing their faces closer together. “I enjoy touching you.”
As if to further prove his point he reaches out, laying his big hand on Keith’s thigh and a spike of arousal pulses through the bond. Impossibly, Keith finds his own cock twitch with interest. It’s an interest Shiro notices, his eyes drawn from Keith’s face down to where his cock is thickening again, then back up to Keith’s eyes.
His expression is unreadable but the desire Keith can feel through the bond is anything but.
“I’ve read other things too…other ways to pleasure you.”
Mouth suddenly dry, Keith swallows. “Like what?”
“There’s a place inside of you,” Shiro whispers, all but crawling into Keith’s lap. “A place with so many nerve endings that when you find it, it'll make your toes curl and your eyes roll into the back of your head.”
The very idea makes Keith’s cock lengthen further, his mouth falling open on a whimper.
“Where?” he asks.
The answer doesn’t come immediately. Instead Shiro scoots forward, dragging his fingers down the center of Keith’s wings then down lower until his hand rests on Keith’s ass, fingers slowly inching towards the crack as he whispers, “Here.”
“I don't think I have that,” Keith chokes out. “I’ve put my fingers there, and it was not what you described.”
Undeterred by this answer, Shiro merely grins. “I have big fingers. I bet I could find it.”
The confidence in his words is arousing, the desire radiating off him even more so and heat floods Keith’s body as the image of Shiro with his thick fingers inside of Keith filters into his mind. It’s never been that satisfying when he did it himself, but Shiro has proven that a bit of preen oil and a gentle lover makes all the difference. He wonders if this would be like that?
“You uh…you sure you want to?” Keith asks, and though he can feel the answer through the bond, the selfish part of him needs to hear Shiro say it.
“You have no idea,” Shiro whispers, mouth just inches from Keith’s now.
“I don’t,” Keith croaks, “have any idea. Will you tell me?”
“You want to know about the ways I practiced? How many nights I lay awake watching the stars through my window while hoping you saw the same ones. The time I laid awake pressing my own fingers inside of myself, to learn what feels good, imagining it was you I was touching? Or maybe you want to know how many nights I muffled the sounds of my own pleasure into my pillow while dreaming of hearing the same sounds from my mate?”
“Shiro,” Keith gasps.
“Or perhaps you’d enjoy knowing how many nights I spent exploring my own body hoping I could one day explore yours?”
Keith lets out a pathetic whimper, unable to control his own physical reaction to Shiro’s words.
“Or maybe,: Shiro continues, his warm breath ghosting across Keith’s mouth, “you want to know what I’ll do to you now? Maybe you’d like to hear about the way I’ll coat my fingers in oil before I slowly open you up so that I can explore your body and bring you enough pleasure that you see your own stars.”
Keith’s brain absolutely stops working, desire clouding his brain as he moans again.
“Can I?” Shiro asks, “Can I bring you more pleasure?”
“You can do anything,” Keith groans.
Lips curling up in the corner, Shiro presses a chaste kiss to Keith’s lips. It’s innocent, and a sharp contrast to the absolute filth Shiro just offered.
While Keith sits immobilized with arousal, Shiro moves around him to grab the pillow which he deposits in the center of the bed. “To lift your hips,” he offers, moving his hand to Keith’s side to guide him down. “Lay on your belly and spread your legs for me.”
It's a simple sentence but it makes Keith moan again. He does what Shiro says, turning so that his cheek is pressed into the mattress giving him the freedom to watch Shiro.
“Little help,” Shiro says, passing Keith the bottle of oil which he holds steady while Shiro uncaps it. Before Keith can ask how much this time, Shiro is taking the bottle from him. He doesn’t pour the oil onto his hand, instead drizzling it down into the crack of Keith’s ass.
“Oh,” Keith gasps, wiggling his hips at the unexpected sensation.
“This okay?” Shiro asks, his immediate concern filtering through the bond.
“Yes,” Keith hurries to assure him. “Just unexpected, but not bad. Not at all.”
“Good, But if you don’t like it you can tell me,” Shiro tells him, drizzling more oil into his crack before leaning over him to deposit the nearly empty bottle onto the table.
“If you’re touching me I like it,” Keith says, flushing at his own honesty.
Shiro grins, his obvious pride at the words buffering Keith’s insecurity at being so free with his truths. “What a happy coincidence, because touching you is my new favorite thing.”
Whatever Keith means to say in response dies on his tongue as Shiro’s finger slides down the crack of his ass. It’s so slick his finger goes easily, sliding down to the furrowed skin at his entrance. Shiro repeats the motion several times, gathering the oil onto his fingers and massaging it against the delicate skin.
“Thought…thought it was inside,” Keith gasps, desperately trying to keep his body still.
“It is, but you have to be ready,” Shiro answers as he rubs oil over Keith’s hole with his thumb.
“How do you know when I’m ready?” Keith gasps.
“When your body is so turned on and relaxed my fingers can just slip inside,” Shiro answers, his ministrations gentle. “When you’re so turned on you become desperate for it. When the need inside of you is so big you spread your legs and open up for me.”
“Oh,” Keith gasps, finding his knees spreading widener as Shiro speaks.
“Just like that,” Shiro praises, switching to his pointer finger as he begins to rub again. “Can you feel the way it flutters, the way the muscles are relaxing? Can you feel the way your body wants to let me in?”
“Yes,” Keith cries, because he can. He can feel the way his body aches for Shiro, can feel the way every touch from Shiro has him sinking into the mattress, even as his arousal builds.
“I can feel it too,” Shiro says, and for the first time Shiro’s voice trembles. “I can feel how much you want me. How much you trust me.”
“Shiro,” Keith sobs. “Please.”
“I can feel you,” Shiro cries, the tip of his finger slipping past the tight ring of muscle. “I can feel you everywhere, Keith. I can feel your magic beating inside of me so hard it’s like I can barely breathe. I can feel you.”
Keith lets out a wild cry, back arching as Shiro’s finger slips in deeper. He’d been so focused on how the bond felt for him he hadn’t paused to think about what his magic might feel like for Shiro.
“I feel you everywhere,” Shiro shudders as his finger slips in deeper. “Everything is you, Keith. Your beauty, your strength, your magic. It’s everywhere. It’s so much, it’s so much more than I ever imagined.”
Unable to answer in words, Keith unfurls his wings in a flurry of need. The responding moan from Shiro vibrates in time with the spike of arousal in the bond, and Keith nearly screams. He didn’t know anything could feel like this.
“Look at you,” Shiro chokes out, and for the first time Keith can feel his control slip, can feel how utterly overwhelmed Shiro is through the bond.
“I feel you too,” Keith cries, wings fluttering as Shiro’s finger pulls out an inch or so then presses back in.
“What…what do you feel?” Shiro asks, slipping a second finger into Keith’s hole.
“Good,” Keith groans, clawing at the sheets when Shiro pumps two fingers in and out of him. “I’ve never felt like this. I didn’t know…I didn’t know anything could feel so—”
So what, he never finishes because Shiro chooses that moment to curl his fingers up so that they brush against something inside of Keith—something that has Keith quite literally screaming as he beats his wings so hard the walls once again tremble.
“Found it,” Shiro moans, rubbing over the spot again.
Along with the rush of pride that surges through the bond, is a wave of arousal so all encompassing it robs all the air from Keith’s lungs. It’s so strong it’s impossible to tell which one of them it’s coming from—an endless loop of arousal feeding into the bond which leads to more arousal. The very idea that Shiro is this turned on—moaning unabashedly just because he’s got his fingers inside of Keith—is the most sensual, earth shattering thing to ever happen to Keith.
Whatever Keith expected, this is better. It’s like all the pleasure he felt when Shiro was stroking him was a precursor to this—the most consuming pleasure of his life. The magic in him seems to sing as his body tingles from the tips of his toes to the tips of his wings—every inch of him consumed by Shiro’s touch.
“Keith, keith, keith,” Shiro chants, fingers rubbing at the nub of nerve endings over and over until Keith’s wings are flapping so hard he’s nearly rising off the bed.
It’s unlike anything Keith has ever experienced before—not merely physical, but something more—a pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. Except it’s not painful, merely the sharpest pleasure he’d ever experienced.
Just when Keith is sure it isn’t possible to feel more pleasure, Shiro does something that ruins him completely—bending down to press a kiss to the center of Keith’s wings before resting his cheek upon them. His breath is warm as it ghosts over Keith’s feathers, his cheek soft as it begins to rub against the feathers.
Completely undone, Keith begins to cry—wet, hot tears smeared upon the bed as he rubs his face into the mattress. It’s so much. It’s so much and Keith’s heart aches for the love he was denied, and the love he is being given.
“My Keith,” Shiro croons, and with every press of fingers inside of him Keith is reminded that he is not alone.
When he finally comes it’s with a sob, his hands fisted tightly in the blankets as he rocks his hips—the sounds of his cries muffled by the bed. He knows he shouldn’t hide from Shiro but the urge to do so is instinct, his wings fluttering as he presses his face into the bed and chokes on his sounds.
“Shhh.” Shiro soothes, his arm slipping around Keith’s middle as he lays himself over Keith’s back. “It’s okay, Keith. It’s okay.”
This only makes Keith cry harder, the release of tension and emotional pain damn near too much to bear. Through it all Shiro is gentle, humming softly as he presses kisses to the back of Keith’s neck and drapes himself over Keith’s back so that his chest is pressed up against Keith’s wings—his own wings unfurling to surround them in a bubble of safety and warmth.
Shiro doesn’t push, does offer false words or platitudes. Doesn’t ask questions Keith cannot answer, he simply lays there until Keith calms down enough to become aware of the steady lub dub of Shiro’s heart against his wings. Once he becomes aware of it, it's impossible to divert his attention anywhere else, and with every ragged breath Keith takes he feels the raw edges of his heart being soothed.
Lub dub beats Shiro’s heart, and it resonates in time with their bond. Lub dub goes his magic, pulsing through Shiro. Ther pulses are rhythmic and steady and Keith finds it hard to tell which is which. He finally lets his wings close, sinking into the mattress exhausted but more at peace than he has felt in a very long time.
“If I’m too heavy you can let me know,” Shiro offers a minute later, a little prickle worry filtering through the bond.
“No,” Keith grunts, “feels good.”
The flicker of pride through the bond is joined by the feeling of Shiro’s lips curling into a smile against the back of his neck.
Safe and content Keith closes his eyes, the weight of survival he normally feels somehow nowhere to be found. He might not know what tomorrow will bring, but he knows he is not alone. He and Kosmo have Shiro now, and it makes every difference in the world.
Before he knows it, just closing his eyes must turn into slumber because one second he’s blissed out beneath the comforting weight of Shiro’s body and the next there is a very cold, wet nose being pressed to his face.
“Argh, what the—”
The intimacies are over, so I have returned, Kosmo says, matter of factly.
“The…what? Yes, I mean,” but Keith’s brain sort of stops working when he turns his head to see Shiro’s face so close to his own. His large wing is still covering them both, which explains why Keith is so very warm. He’s also got his arm and leg thrown over Keith which is nice. So nice. Keith loves all his bare skin and—
Should I leave again?
Keith’s cheeks heat. “No.”
If you are sure. If this will be the normal thought process when your mate is near perhaps we can begin working on our bond filtering soon.
“The what?” Keith says, slightly self conscious about how Kosmo has found them but also entirely unwilling to move and find clothes because that would mean not being touched by Shiro.
The bond. Eventually you’ll be able to control what I can hear, but for now that is everything which, Kosmo chuffs, knowing eyes traveling towards Shiro, is quite a lot.
“Oh Qux,” Keith groans, dropping his head back on the pillow.
If it is not presumptuous of me to say so, you feel happy.
The words bring a lump to Keith’s throat. Is that what this feeling inside of him is? He tries to recall feeling this way before and can recall only the smallest moments of joy which were always quickly tampered down by reality. This feeling bubbling inside of him is warm and light and Keith never wants to let it go.
If this is the result of your bonding, then I enjoy your mate, Kosmo adds. As a familiar my magical ties would normally only be to you, but I can feel him through your magic—his strength, his goodness, and especially his feelings for you. He and I share a common bond.
“Yeah, and what’s that?” Keith asks, absentmindedly stroking his fingers over the underside of Shiro’s feathers, hoping not to disturb him but unable to stop touching them.
Loving you, of course, Kosmo answers. Before Keith can emotionally recover from such a powerful statement, Kosmo is continuing. I can feel other things from him too—bravery, resilience, loyalty. He is worthy of you, and as your familiar I pledge my life to protect his.
“Kosmo,” Keith croaks, entirely overcome.
The bond between a familiar and their witch is unbreakable, but so too is that with your mate.
“There’s so much I don’t understand,” Keith whispers.
You have so much to learn, and I will teach you. But for now, your mate stirs and I am tired.
“Okay,” Keith exhales, watching Kosmo move towards the stove where the last embers of fire are dying down.
“Okay what?” Shiro asks around a yawn, a little flutter fulfilling his wing as he inches closer—the arm around Keith’s middle giving a squeeze.
The bond vibrates, coming to life as Shiro wakes—sleepiness with a deep sense of contentment as Shiro presses his nose into Keith’s neck and lays a kiss there.
“Uh..was uh…talking to Kosmo,” Keith answers, surprised at how hard it is to make his brain function when Shiro’s lips are on his skin.
“Oh, Kosmo is back? Hi, Kosmo,” Shiro says, though he doesn't move his face from Keith’s neck.
A chuff of pleasure sounds from Kosmo and Keith can feel his satisfaction at being recognized. Hello, Shiro.
“He said hi,” Keith tells him, unsure if the strangeness of being the middleman for a conversation between his telepathetic wolf familiar and his mate will ever not feel so strange.
“That’s amazing,” Shiro breathes, rubbing his nose into the side of Keith’s neck.
“It is,” Keith agrees, unable to believe that just this morning he was alone in his thoughts and now he’s not only awoken his bond to his familiar, but bonded with his mate. It’s a little noisy in his head, but in the best way.
Some of the buzz of the bonds fades as Kosmo falls asleep, leaving Keith alone in his mind with Shiro who seems content to doze—the bond quiet but peaceful. After a while Keith manages to get his arm out, immediately using it to smooth Shiro’s feathers.
“Is this—” but before he can ask if it's okay the bond surges with pleasure. “Okay, yes. You like this.”
A soft laugh rumbles out of Shiro’s chest. “I do enjoy being touched, yes.”
“Me too,” Keith tells him, shocked at how easy it is to admit such a thing when twenty four hours prior not even the threat of death could’ve made Keith confess such a thing. The very idea of exposing something about himself that could be weaponized against him would’ve made Keith’s skin crawl, yet here he is telling Shiro freely.
“Perhaps…perhaps later I could—” but Keith stops, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Could what?” Shiro asks, pushing his wing up against Keith’s hand in a silent request for more stroking.
Keith breathes slowly, feeling the soft feathers beneath his fingers. It soothes the rush of insecurity he’s feeling.
“I thought perhaps I could preen you,” Keith finishes, unsure why this feels so hard to say. He knows logically Shiro won’t reject him, the bond has made that clear, but it still feels terrifying to allow himself to be so forward with things he desires, and oh how he desires to preen Shiro’s beautiful wings.
“I would like that very much,” Shiro says, and though he keeps his tone neutral and calm Keith can feel the way the idea sends Shiro’s heartbeat skyrocketing.
“I might be bad at it,” Keith says, “but if you don’t mind some fumbling then—”
“If you are touching me, then I will be happy,” Shiro tells him, using his arm to push himself up so that he hovers just above Keith.
“Okay,” Keith breathes.
“Speaking of things that would make me happy,” Shiro says, eyes alight with such adoration Keith can barely breathe.
“Shiro.”
Shiro lowers his face to press a kiss to Keith’s lips. “You are on that list of course, top of it.”
“That’s nice,” Keith mumbles, body warm with pleasure.
“You are nice,” Shiro grins, “but I also had an idea. Something I would like.”
“And what’s that?” Keith asks, smoothing his hand over the swell of Shiro’s soft chest.
“Come home with me,” Shiro blurts in a rush of excitement. “I’d like you to visit.”
Home.
The word renders Keith entirely speechless as images of Shiro’s childhood home flash through his mind, and Shiro’s parents. He’d been so preoccupied with their bond he’d forgotten outside of these four walls Shiro had a home to go back to.
Misunderstanding Keith’s feelings, Shiro continues.
“My parents are going to love you and I have a little house down the road from them and well, they’ll probably come visit a lot, but we’ll have privacy too. I even have my own garden back home with the sweetest smelling blooming nettle under the kitchen window. And I have so many books in my library to show you and…and—” Shiro pauses, something in him softening. “I just want to be with you. I can figure out how to move my things here if you’d prefer that, um if I’m not being presumptuous. I don’t care where I am as long as I’m with you. I know you have a life here, a life you’ve worked hard to build. I would never ask you to give that up for me.”
“You could ask me,” Keith whispers, heart thundering in his chest.
“You mean—”
“I would go with you,” Keith tells him. “You’re right that I did work hard here, and I survived. But something is missing, something has always been missing. This has never felt like a home.”
“Keith.”
“I don’t want to be alone anymore, Shiro. I want to be with you. That is, well…I mean if you’d have me. I just assumed you meant—”
“Yes,” Shiro interrupts. “I meant it. I have plenty of space for you. You can grow your herbs in the garden, and there’s lots of space for Kosmo to run through the woods. My cottage is nestled at the edge of the forest. With my magical sensitivities, we thought it best I wasn’t too close to town so my only neighbors are the flowers and the trees, and the forest animals that sometimes come to visit. I know that might not be ideal with no other people, but—”
“It’s perfect,” Keith exhales. “There’s just one thing.”
“Anything, what is it?” Shiro asks.
“Do you have shelves?” he whispers.
“Shelves,” Shiro repeats, clearly not understanding.
Keith nods. “I’ve always dreamed of having shelves. I know it’s silly but…but space is so tight here, so I’ve never had any for my herbs and potions. I always thought perhaps one day I might have my own shelf.”
“My library has many shelves,” Shiro tells him.
“I can't take away room for your books. You love them.”
“You can and you will,” Shiro says, the absolute determination he feels thrumming through the bond. “You matter more than any book ever could.”
Keith exhales slowly, fingers smoothing over Shiro’s chest feeling the magic pulse.
“You really mean it,” he says, and it's not a question. He can feel the truth, feel how much the idea of Keith in his home brings him happiness.
“I do,” Shiro confirms.
“Do you really think your parents will like me?” Keith whispers.
“I don’t think so, I know,” Shiro tells him. “They will love you the way I do.”
Oh.
Love.
“Shiro?”
“I love you, Keith,” he says, not a flicker of hesitation about what he’s confessed. “I loved you before I met you, and now I love you more because you aren’t a hope or a wish anymore, you are real and you are more than I ever dreamed. I am so lucky to call you mine.”
It occurs to Keith now that at nearly twenty years of age no one has ever said this to him before.
“Shiro,” Keith croaks. He feels sure that love is the feeling inside of him, that it’s the warmth and comfort he feels in Shiro’s presence and the affection too. Yet the words feel clumsy in his mouth, and he can’t find the ways to say them back.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Shiro soothes, covering Keith’s hand with his own.
“It’s not, you deserve the words back but I—”
“You think I can’t feel it?” Shiro asks. “You think I can’t see the way your magic glows when you touch me? The way your magic feels inside of me? I don’t need words, Keith. I can feel it, and if one day you feel comfortable to say them back, then I’ll wait as long as it takes. And if the words never come then that’s okay too, because I don’t need words to know.”
“When can we go home?"