Chapter Text
“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Takashi?
“I’ll be fine, baba,” Shiro assures her, bending down to kiss her forehead. “You know I’m only an hour drive away."
His grandmother sighs, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in the front of Shiro’s shirt. There are worry lines visible in her face and Shiro wishes he could smooth them away. She worries too much, always has. He supposes it's what comes of raising your grandson alone, especially when Shiro spent the majority of his life in and out of hospitals. He’s been fine for years now but sometimes she still looks at him like she’s afraid it’ll be the last time.
“I’ll come home and visit as often as I can.”
“No,” she says, standing just that little bit taller. Or as tall as one can stand when they’re barely five feet. “You will be too busy studying and becoming an astronaut to come visit your old grandma.”
“I’m studying to be an astrophysicist not an astronaut,” Shiro reminds her. “And I’ll never be too busy for you.”
Something in her eyes softens as she pats his chest. “Promise me you’ll study hard and have a good year.”
“I will, baba,” he promises, swallowing down a rush of nerves. It’s like this every year when he has to leave her for college and though this is his third year it hasn’t gotten any easier to say goodbye at the end of summer. Shiro’s lucky that he lives close enough to drive home and visit, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying that she gets lonely when he’s gone or isn’t taking care of herself.
When Shiro is home for the summer she cooks elaborate meals and sets the table every night, and they often play games together or go for walks in the evenings. But Shiro knows when he’s gone she sometimes doesn’t bother doing these things for herself.
“You won’t forget to take your meds right?” Shiro asks her. “And you’ll make sure you eat every day? And go to bingo on Thursdays with your friends, it’s important to maintain your social circle. And don’t skip out on your physical therapy appointments just because they keep scheduling the same time as your favorite program.”
His grandmother tuts. “My Taskashi doesn’t need to worry about these things.”
“I always worry about you, baba,” Shiro tells her, bending down to kiss the top of her head and inhaling the sweet scent of her favorite perfume. “I’ll study better knowing you’re taking care of yourself.”
“Fine, fine,” she says with an air of someone long suffering.
“Good. And you remember how to use the facetime video?” Shiro asks, pulling out his cell phone to remind her. They’d spent six hours last week setting up her new cell phone and though she had been adamant she didn’t want a new smartphone Shiro’s caught her playing solitaire and asking Siri random things all week which made him certain it was the right choice. Besides, he feels better going away to school this year knowing she can video call him if she needs him. Or vice versa, if Shiro is being honest. He might be twenty one and less than an hour from home but even a grown boy misses his grandma sometimes.
“How can I forget? You laminated illustrated instructions for me and taped them to the fridge.”
“Just in case,” Shiro says, thinking maybe he went a little overboard when he color coded it.
“You worry too much. You’re a young man. You need to go to college and have fun and stop thinking about your old grandma.”
“That’s not even possible, baba.”
“Fine, but at least promise me you’ll have fun. You work too hard. You need to have more fun.”
“Baba, are you telling me to study less?”
“Never,” she says, scandalized. “You need to study hard and get a good job so you’ll have security. But you can have fun too. Maybe you’ll meet a nice boy this year.”
“Baba.”
“What? I’m old, not senile. You’re so handsome, Takashi. I bet you could have any boy you wanted.”
“You’re biased.”
“No I’m not. All the ladies in my bingo group agree you’re the most handsome.”
Shiro’s ears heat as he imagines his grandma and all her friends talking about him. “Baba.”
“What, it's true?” She grins, looking younger with her smile so wide. “A boy as handsome, kind, and charming as you are is a catch. What about that boy you liked last year?”
“I don’t have a crush on Keith,” Shiro lies, acutely aware of the way his cheeks heat.
“Did I say Keith?” She asks, looking immeasurably smug.
Shiro groans. “Baba.”
“What? You said it all, not me. I had a feeling it was Keith anyway. You talked about him a lot this summer for just being roommates.”
“I don’t talk about Keith a lot,” Shiro balks.
“Oh no? Keith would love your dumplings, baba. Keith likes this movie. Keith loves popcorn. Keith doesn’t like the air conditioner, he prefers the windows open. Keith, Keith, Keith all summer.”
“Oh my god,” Shiro groans, covering his face. He might tower a foot over his grandma but he feels like he’s a child all over again.
“Now, now. Nothing to be embarrassed about,” she tells him, the thin skin on her hands soft as she rubs Shiro’s forearm. “I bet he feels the same. You should tell him.”
“Nope,” Shiro croaks from behind his hands. “No, no, no. Not gonna happen.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because he’s my best friend. I can’t mess that up,” he sighs, lowering his hands. Something about the way his grandma looks at him makes Shiro deflate. “Besides, I was uh…gonna tell him how I felt at the end of term. We were packing up the dorm for summer and I tried to tell him and he just…he pulled me into a hug and said I was like his brother. He doesn’t see me the same, which is fine.”
“You know, I bet—”
“Oh wow, look at the time I really gotta get going,” Shiro says, cutting her off before she can say more. “You know I gotta meet my RA and get the keys to the new apartment.”
“Of course,” his grandma says, unphased by Shiro’s not at all subtle attempt to change the topic of conversation. “Do you at least have time to give your grandma one last hug before you leave?”
“I always have time for hugs, baba,” he assures her, hunching his body down and pulling her into a gentle hug. When he pulls out of the embrace, some of his earlier anxiety has faded. His grandma has that effect.
“You’ll have a good year, Takashi,” she tells him, patting his cheek.
“Yes, baba,” he says, smiling.
Shiro has worked his ass off in every aspect of his college life to get where he is this year. Not only that, he and Keith had their roommate request approved and they were lucky enough to secure one of the on campus apartments for the first time, which means not only does Shiro get to live with his best friend again this year they get to do so in the privacy of their own apartment. Granted, it’s a small apartment and they’re still going to be sharing a bedroom but it’s got an actual kitchen and a living room and they no longer have to use the communal bathroom with twenty other guys who don’t know how to clean up after themselves.
Shiro can hardly believe that not only is he going to be living in his own apartment for the first time in his life he gets to do so with Keith.
Yeah, Shiro thinks, this is going to be a great year.
The drive back to campus is so familiar after three years that Shiro could drive it blindfolded. He doesn’t, because that would be unsafe and stupid, but he does let his mind drift as he rolls the windows down and blasts his music, allowing the warm summer breeze to whip through his hair as he sails down the freeway.
The closer he gets to campus the more excited Shiro gets, a giddy thrill of anticipation coursing through him at the prospect of living with Keith. Technically, he and Keith lived together last year, when his roomate assignment turned out to be the newest freshman on the soccer team. He’d been unsure what to make of Keith at first, aside from being awed by Keith’s talent on the field and flustered by how gorgeous he was. But the other boy had been quiet and closed off, often keeping his headphones in and averting his gaze, and Shiro had almost thought Keith hated him; unsure what to make of Keith refusing his every attempt to get to know him.
It was two days before classes started that they had a breakthrough. Shiro’d noticed Keith hadn’t eaten all day and while he hadn’t wanted to overstep, he had been concerned. Skipping meals was bad for anyone, but for someone in preseason training it was just impossible. Keith needed calories, but Shiro could only imagine how it would go if he tried to mention his concerns.
Instead of just broaching the subject, he made a quick trip to the twenty-four-hour Seven Eleven down the road and returned with his arms laden down with as many calorie dense snacks as he could carry. He got everything; premade sandwiches, the little microwave mac n cheese cups, shitty gas station nachos that were horrible for you but kind of tasted great, some beef jerky sticks, and lime and tajin peanuts in case Keith hated all the other stuff.
He was unsure how Keith would react, if Shiro said it was all for him, so he’d attempted to go for a bit of casual subterfuge. On principal Shiro didn’t like lying, but he also didn’t like one of his teammates struggling when he had power to help.
Wasting no time, Shiro set down his bags of food, pretending he couldn’t see Keith watching him from beneath the hoodie pulled over his eyes, while Shiro yanked the duvet off his bed and spread it on the floor between their beds.
“Midnight picnic,” he casually told Keith as he set out all the food. “There’s so much. You wanna help me out?”
Shiro held his breath as he watched Keith hover at the edge of his bed, his eyes darting between the picnic and Shiro. Then unexpectedly, Keith had started to cry. Turned out Keith wasn’t angry at all, he was scared. One second he was holding everything in, and the next he was word vomiting about his fears about being the only freshman on the team and not fitting in, that he was terrified of losing his soccer scholarship if he wasn’t academically perfect, and even confessing that it was his first time away from his parents and he was homesick.
What Keith needed was a lot more than food.
That night more than a few more tears had been shed, a lot of junk food was consumed and in the span of a few hours Keith had gone from being just Shiro’s teammate and roommate to his friend.
Once Keith let himself relax, and let Shiro and the rest of the team in, his personality really came out. While Keith was an absolute beast on the field, he was a complete sweetheart off it. He was considerate and funny and surprisingly humble despite being one of the most talented players on their team, and by far the most handsome.
So fucking handsome.
Of course it's not just that Keith is handsome or that he’s Shiro’s teammate or roommate. When Shiro was close to a panic attack during midterms, Keith was the one calming him down and helping Shiro reorganize his notes. When Shiro is sore after practices, Keith’s the one who generously offers to help stretch Shiro out. When Shiro is happy he wants to be with Keith. When he’s tired he wants to be with Keith. When Shiro wants to be alone, he still wants to be with Keith.
Keith is so much more than just a friend, he’s Shiro’s best friend, the best friend he’s ever had. Keith is special and Shiro’s favorite person in the entire world.
Which is exactly why Shiro isn’t going to tell him how he feels.
This year things are going to be perfect. He gets to spend another year living with Keith, playing on the team with him, and basically spending all of their free time together. He’s not going to do anything stupid to jeapordize the greatest friendship of his life, just because Shiro’s a gay disaster who is maybe a little bit in love with his best friend.
Or a lot, but who is keeping track. Definitely not Shiro.
Just thinking about Keith is enough to make Shiro’s heart beat faster, and he’s glad there’s no one around to see him blushing in his car, as he rolls up his windows and blasts the AC instead in a futile attempt to lessen the sudden heat in his face. He needs to work on getting a hold on his body's reactions or he’s going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble later when Keith gets back on campus.
Keith. If Shiro isn’t careful he’s gonna daydream about the other boy so hard he’s going to end up missing the interchange and get on the wrong freeway.
Not thinking about Keith, is a lot easier said than done. After playing on the same team and living together, he’d gotten used to being with Keith twenty-four-seven unless they were actually in class. Parting with Keith for the summer had been surprisingly hard, especially since Keith was flying home to Colorado for the summer.
To Shiro’s immense delight, they had rapidly shifted from being together twenty-four-seven to texting twenty-four-seven. At least for the first few weeks until Keith had gone off grid for a six week backpacking trip with his dad. It left Shiro to aimlessly scroll through old text messages and his camera roll when he missed Keith.
In hindsight, he supposes his grandmother might’ve been right about his incessant talking about Keith, but once he was out of contact there’d been a hole in Shiro’s heart. Apparently if he couldn’t talk to Keith all day, he’d turned to talking about him. Thankfully, that’s just between him and his grandma.
Shiro still hasn’t heard from Keith, but that’s not really surprising since Keith wasn’t supposed to be back from his trip until today, meaning he likely won’t have time to text Shiro before he gets on his flight back to school.
The more Shiro thinks about Keith the bigger the ache in his gut gets. He didn’t even know it was possible to miss someone so much but having no contact with Keith for six whole weeks was so much harder than Shiro expected. He’s dying to see Keith again, to hear all about his trip and just be with him—in their own apartment no less.
Their apartment.
It’s been weeks since he found out they got approved—just before Keith left for his backpacking trip—and the giddiness hasn’t worn off. He knows Keith is equally excited, or at least he seemed excited in their texts but knowing Keith’s happy and being able to see it with his own two eyes are entirely different.
The fact that in just a few hours he’s going to be moving in to his first apartment with his best friend who he hasn’t seen in two months hardly feels real. Technically it’s still on campus but it’s an apartment with Keith and not even the small square footage or the shared laundry facilities are going to dampen Shiro’s spirits as he cruises down the freeway at sixty five and sings at the top of his lungs. He’s so damn happy.
The traffic is surprisingly light this early in the day and Shiro manages to make it back to school in less than an hour, pulling into the parking lot and securing himself a prime parking spot close to their building. Of course, things won’t be this easy in two weeks when the entire campus is back for the start of the new semester, but for now only those on the Fall sports teams are back for preseason training.
Judging by how empty the lot currently is, Shiro's one of the first students back today, likely because most of his teammates have to fly in from out of state and won’t be here until later. As one of the few in-state students on the soccer team Shiro is lucky enough to be able to load up his car and drive.
As one of the many out of state students, Keith is one of those on the team who won’t be able to get back to campus until much later today. Or at least that was the plan the last time Shiro talked to him—six whole fucking weeks ago. According to Keith, his dad had not taken his only child going away to college easy, and had spent Keith’s entire first year away planning an epic summer backpacking trip for the two of them. Eager to make his dad happy, Keith had agreed to the long trip despite being worried about not getting back until the same day as his flight back to school.
Keith’s a good son, a good friend—a good everything.
He knows it wasn’t entirely for his dad’s benefit. Keith’s an outdoor kind of guy who loves climbing trees and getting grass on his knees, more at home in nature than the city. Even still, for all the fun Keith’s probably had backpacking this summer, he’s got to be exhausted too which is exactly why Shiro woke up at six am to start packing his car to get to campus by nine. He wants to handle all the mundane moving in bullshit so when Keith gets to campus all there is for him to do is spend time with Shiro. It’s a little bit of a selfish plan since Shiro misses Keith so much, but there’s also this little part of Shiro who loves to take care of Keith when he can.
As far as Shiro is concerned this is perfectly normal best friend behavior. Keith deserves everything and it’s Shiro’s duty as his best friend to make sure he gets it.
Dorm living made that damn near impossible but they have their own place with a living room and kitchen and a private bathroom now, and Shiro fully intends to spend the day cleaning and unpacking, and if he has enough time, run to the grocery store down the street and stock the fridge in case Keith is hungry after his flight.
Who is Shiro kidding? Keith is always hungry. For a guy so skinny, Shiro has seen Keith put away twice as much food as Shiro and that’s saying something since Shiro has to damn near double his calories during the training season. Then again Keith trains just as hard as Shiro if not more so, often running an extra couple miles every day on top of practice to keep himself in top shape for his position as defender.
Shiro lets himself daydream about Keith’s physique—his impossibly long legs and lithe build. He might not look it at first glance but Keith’s deceptively strong and wickedly fast. He’s also just the right size to fit into Shiro’s arms when they hug and—
“Earth to fucking Shiro,” someone yells, laying on the front of Shiro’s car and starlting him so much he jumps and ends up laying on the horn. “Holy shit, man, my ears.”
“Sorry,” Shiro apologizes, realizing it’s not some random weirdo attacking his car but his RA.
“Get out of the car, man!”
Shiro does, pocketing his car keys before opening the door. No sooner has he climbed out then Matt is pulling him into a bear hug. He’s pretty sure this isn’t the greeting most people get from their Ra, but he and Matt have been friends since freshman astronomy class so the normal rules don’t apply to them.
“I missed you, buddy.”
“Missed you too, Matt,” Shiro says, returning the hug with equal force and laughing when Matt pretends to choke.
“So,” Matt says, stepping out of the hug and fixing his eyes on Shiro, “you and Keith huh?”
“Uh,” Shiro stutters, feeling his cheeks heat already. “What about us?”
“Roommates again.”
“Yup, that’s us. Shiro and Keith. Roommates.”
“In one of the coveted campus apartments no less,” Matt says, lifting an eyebrow. “So much privacy in those.”
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to have more privacy and quiet for studying.”
“Studying,” Matt snorts. “That was not my first thought about what to do with all your new found privacy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shiro asks, hoping if he acts stupid Matt won’t say it.
He’s wrong.
“That you have the world’s biggest crush on Keith and it’s kind of painful at this point, so maybe if you two have your own apartment, you’ll finally do something about all those feelings in your new love nest.”
“I do not have a crush on Keith,” he lies.
“Man, your ears turn red when you lie. It’s like pinocchio but you know ears instead of a nose.”
Shiro slaps his hands over his ears. “They do not.”
“They do too, dude. Listen it’s sweet and I think Keith would—”
“Speaking of Keith, can I have his keys?” Shiro interrupts, unable to have this conversation without wanting the earth to swallow him whole. “We talked about it before he left and I promised to try and get his keys since he’s gonna get in late.”
“Technically I’m supposed to release keys to individual students.”
“Oh come on, Matt. Please.”
“Well since you asked so nicely,” Matt laughs, pulling the keys out of his pocket.
“Thanks,” Shiro says, only noticing that both keys are on the same keyring once Matt has dropped it into his upturned palm. “Hey, how did you know I’d ask for Keith’s key?”
“How did I know, he asks,” Matt repeats with a high pitched tone. “Let’s just say I’m a fucking fantastic RA and know exactly what all my residents need. Also you and Keith are like a package deal; everyone on campus knows.”
“He’s my best friend,” Shiro mumbles, pocketing the keys. “And my teammate.”
“Uh huh, and do you give neck rubs and intense eye stares to all your teammates? Do you keep their favorite candy in your backpack? Do you—”
“Wow, look at the time it’s getting so late,” Shiro interrupts, looking down at his apple watch. It’s barely nine thirty. “I should really get going.”
Unfazed by his abrupt interruption, Matt just grins. “I have some stuff to take care of today anyway. I’ll let you go get your love nest ready.”
Shiro splutters, unsure how to respond to that. Lucky for him Matt doesn’t seem to expect a reply, giving him a curt wave before striding away and leaving Shiro alone with his thoughts.
He knew Matt was aware of his little crush, but he didn’t think he was that obvious. Between his grandma and Matt he’s starting to wonder if everyone knows. Well, everyone but Keith. If Keith knew, he would definitely let Shiro down gently and since he hasn’t said anything about it, Shiro is at least doing enough to mask how deep his feelings go. He would never want to risk making Keith uncomfortable or their friendship.
With a sigh, Shiro scrubs his hands over his face before he pops his trunk. In a few weeks Shiro’s life is going to be nothing but stress—soccer practice and sixteen credits of classes. He’s going to be so busy, he won’t even have time to breathe. But that’s a problem for later Shiro.
Today the only thing on the agenda is moving into his first apartment and getting everything ready for Keith.
Despite Shiro’s excellent parking spot, it’s still a fair walk from the car to his apartment, especially since he’s moving everything alone. Granted everything is only what fits in the backseat and trunk of his subaru. He’s got all his clothes, a box with all his soccer shit, a particularly large box with dishes, pots and assorted kitchenware his grandma insisted on passing on to him and Keith, and another box filled with random household supplies he’d got at Target last week including cleaning supplies. Shiro’s not sure what it says about him that he’s excited about cleaning supplies, but the idea of having his own place had made buying a mop and dusters oddly exciting.
It takes Shiro several trips to get all the boxes up to their top floor apartment, and then he has to deal with all the random shit that didn’t fit in boxes, like the laundry baskets filled with hangers and his new wet dry mop.
An hour later Shiro has successfully emptied his car, his arms pleasantly sore as he drops into the passenger seat to chug a bottle of water and looks for his phone which he apparently lost at some point while moving in. He finds it eventually, wedged between the center console and the drivers seat. To his surprise he’s got a missed call and a voicemail from an unfamiliar phone number which he assumes is some kind of spam call, until he presses play and hears the sweetest voice in the entire universe.
“Hey Shiro, it’s uh…it’s Keith.”
The sound of his voice has Shiro’s heartbeat speeding up as he grips his phone tighter, unable to believe he missed the chance to talk to Keith.
“My phone is dead and we’ve got an hour hike back to the car then a two hour drive back home before I can charge it so I kind of, uh—pretended I had an emergency so I could borrow the phone at the ranger station.”
He laughs, and Shiro can practically see the mischievous smile on his face.
“Pop’s distracting the ranger by asking for directions even though I think he knows these mountains better than the ranger does. He said—well I won’t tell you what I said but he’s helping me so,” Keith trails off, breathing a puff of air into the phone.
“I miss you so much,” Shiro whispers, though he knows no one is on the other side of the phone to hear him. Maybe that’s why he says it.
“There was a beautiful sunrise this morning, Shiro. You would’ve liked it. There was—
“Everything okay?” someone interrupts, presumably the ranger from the unfamiliar voice.
“Yup, it’s fine,” Keith answers, a little hitch in his breath. It makes Shiro wonder if he’s tired—if he’s eaten enough, if he needs to hydrate.
“I’ve gotta go but I just wanted you to know that I’m okay. I know I was mia for a while, but don’t give up on me just yet. I’ll be back soon, I promise. I hope you’ve been practicing while I was gone because I’m gonna score a goal on you when I get back.”
“Like hell you will,” Shiro laughs, sobering when he realizes how close he is to seeing Keith again.
The phone goes quiet, and Shiro very nearly hangs up—assuming Keith has already done the same, when static crackles followed by the sound of quiet breathing.
“I missed you, Shiro.”
“Keith, I—” but Shiro stops, cut off by the sound of the phone going dead and reminding him Keith isn’t on the other side of the phone.
With a heavy exhale Shiro thunks his head back against the headrest as his phone falls into his lap. “I miss you too, Keith.”
It’s a few minutes before Shiro regathers his wits and gets his ass out of his car, hurrying back to the apartment. Something about Keith’s voice did him in, and Shiro feels a little bit like a man possessed as he begins to unpack, more determined than ever to have everything perfect for Keith when he returns.
He’d sounded happy, but tired, and Shiro wants nothing more than for Keith to be able to come back to their apartment and feel like it's his home. Shiro knows how painfully homesick Keith was last year, the way he’d ached for the wide open mountains where he grew up and the taste of his dad’s homemade chili.
Maybe Shiro can’t take away all of Keith’s homesickness this year, but he sure can try.
The apartment is sparsely furnished with a generic brown couch with a coffee table and a side table and one lamp that looks older than the one his grandma keeps in her sitting room. The kitchen is much the same with its simple brown cabinets and a small table in the kitchen meant to serve as their sole eating area since the apartment is too small for an actual dining room.
Everything about the apartment is small, basic and designed for functionality and while Shiro is grateful, it’s also ugly as shit. What this apartment needs is a little bit of life.
Ignoring the fact that it would probably be more responsible of Shiro to unpack the necessities like cleaning supplies or kitchen stuff first, he goes directly for the box labeled home decor in his grandmother’s familiar cursive.
He rips the packing tape off the box and there on the top is the package from amazon, still in its original wrapping. Shiro opens the package, shaking out the tapestry and smiling to himself as he hangs it on the wall behind the couch. Granted it’s not art of Colorado specifically, and it's wrinkled as hell from the way it was packaged, but it’s as close as Shiro could get on a broke college student budget—a mountain scape in hues of warm oranges and browns. The tapestry had reminded Shiro of the photo Keith had of him and his dad in their dorm room last year. As soon as he saw this tapestry on amazon, he’d known this was the one he wanted to buy.
From there adding touches to the apartment is easy; a candle on the coffee table that smells like pine trees that Shiro only burned it once when he wanted to be sure it was a smellKeith would like.There were a few throw pillows his grandma had given them, and a heavy blanket with bright stripes of rainbow yarn that his grandma had spent all summer crocheting for their new place.
It’s been years since Shiro came out as gay and his grandma still thinks everything she makes for him needs to be rainbow colored. He’s never had the heart to tell her he’s more of a black or white kind of guy, but he cherishes every overly colorful thing she makes him, knowing it's her way of assuring Shiro everything about him is accepted. It’s not something Shiro takes for granted and the idea of seeing Keith on their couch, covered up in this blanket makes his chest ache with longing.
Forcing himself not to get distracted by thoughts of Keith lest he lose focus, he continues to unpack adding a set of cheap cork coasters to the coffee table then tacking up a string of white Christmas lights above the tapestry.
At the bottom of the box he finds a stack of photos from last year, most of him and Keith and a handful from their team. He hangs them all on the wall opposite the tapestry with mounting putty, pausing long enough to send a photo of his progress to the group chat.
His phone blows up immediately with texts from half the team teasing him for showing off and the other half demanding he and Keith let the guys come over to study and hang out. There are enough juniors and seniors on the team that Shiro and Keith aren’t the only ones who got an apartment but Shiro knows they got into the nicest building on campus, and are also the only ones with less than three people in their apartment.
Shiro shoots off another text to assure them that they’ll be allowed before pocketing his phone and resuming unpacking.
Things are less exciting after that—filling the bathroom with towels and soaps, then giving the bathroom a quick once over to freshen it up, since Shiro’s not entirely sure when the last time it was actually cleaned. It takes him forty five minutes but when he’s done there’s a faint citrus scent coming from the bathroom, and no more questionable stains in the shower or on the toilet which makes Shiro beam with pride. He’s been helping his grandma clean since he was a kid and there’s no stain too tough for Shiro.
Once the bathroom is done he moves on to the kitchen. This takes considerably longer, not because they have so much stuff, but because Shiro stops twice to re-empty the cabinets when he changes his mind about cupboard organization.
There’s an unexpected thrill in putting mismatched dishes and coffee cups in the cupboard, knowing these are things he and Keith will use together. He unpacks the pots and pans next, fingering the handle on the soup pot his grandma insisted he take reminding him of her making him soup for breakfast for years growing up in this same pot. It didn’t matter that Shiro told her he wasn’t sure how much time they’d have for cooking, his grandma had refused to let Shiro come to campus without the right pots and pans and her rice cooker.
With every item he unpacks, something settles in Shiro’s chest. Once he’s got the kettle unpacked, crocheted rainbow tea cozy covering it, he takes a picture and texts his grandma waiting for the phone call he knows will come.
Sure enough, less than a minute later his phone rings.
“Hi, baba.”
“There was a little picture on my phone, and now it’s gone.”
“I texted you a picture.”
“I don’t like texts,” she grumbles.
“You just need to unlock the phone, baba. Then if you click on messages you can see it again and,”
“Too complicated,” she interrupts. “I like real pictures. You take one with your camera and mail it to me like a normal person.”
Shiro doesn’t bother pointing out that taking a polaroid of his tea kettle and sending it by actual mail with a a stamp is not considered normal anymore.
“Of course, baba. I’ll put in the mail tomorrow.”
“You’re a good boy, Takashi. Did you eat yet?”
“I ate before I left,” he reminds her, something she knows because she’s the one who made Shiro a huge goodbye breakfast with all his favorite foods.
“That was hours ago,” she tuts. “You need to eat again. You’re in training.”
“Training starts tomorrow, but if you’re really worried I’ll have some nuts.”
His grandmother makes a wounded noise. “Nuts, Takashi. Nuts are not food. You’ll make soup.”
“I don’t have stuff to make soup yet,” he points out.
“Let me call the DoorDash.”
Shiro tries not to laugh. No matter how many times he tries to explain that DoorDash is a service and not a single entity, she doesn’t seem to understand. Shiro door dashed them food a few times over the summer, and ever since she’s been convinced it’s just some magical person who will secure Shiro food if he needs it.
“You don’t need to order me food. I’ll go to 99 Ranch later and get—”
“You’ll go now. Make sure and get vegetables. You can’t live on frozen mac and cheese.”
“I’m not gonna live on frozen mac n cheese,” Shiro objects, because it’s not a lie. He also plans to eat the boxed kind and the microwave kind even if his stomach revolts because of all the cheese after.
“You’ll go and buy vegetables and make soup. Does Keith like soup?”
“Keith likes all food,” Shiro laughs.
“Then you should make him soup.”
“Oh,” Shiro says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “You’re right, he’ll be hungry when he gets here. They don’t give food on the planes anymore.”
“Yes, exactly. Keith will be so hungry,” she tells him. “You’ll make him Butajiru.”
The second she proposes the idea, Shiro imagines himself chopping the vegetables—the savory scent of his favorite soup filling their kitchen. He imagines Keith coming home to something Shiro cooked, and it leaves a funny fluttering feeling in his chest.
Living in the dorms the last few years made cooking impossible, but Shiro grew up in the kitchen learning his grandma’s recipes by heart before he could even read. It was the thing about having their own apartment that had him most excited even if he knew realistically that with soccer practice and classes he wouldn’t be able to cook as much as he wanted. The fact is the kitchen would be here when he wanted, is enough; and he wants.
Shiro wants Keith to walk into their apartment and feel at home.
Shiro wants to cook for Keith.
“I should go grocery shopping,” Shiro says, as much to his grandma as himself.
Even through the phone his grandma’s pleasure is evident. “Yes, go grocery shopping. Make soup for your Keith.”
“Not my Keith, baba.”
“Not yet. Wait until you make him soup. I made your grandpa soup and we were married for fifty years.”
“Baba,” Shiro croaks.
“I’m just saying, the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach. I’ve got to go now my program is gonna be on, don't forget to mail me the text.”
Shiro does not bother correcting her, he never does. “Okay, I’ll mail it to you Monday.”
“Good boy. Don’t forget, soup and—oh no the commercial is over, bye.”
Before Shiro can tell her goodbye she’s hanging up, having left Shiro with a lot to think about. Most particularly how Keith might react to a bowl of Shiro’s Butajiru. It’s a nice thought, and Shiro’s own stomach grumbles in interest. He’s definitely making Keith soup. First though, he needs to finish unpacking.
He’s got one last box of miscellaneous stuff including charging cords which he plugs into all the outlets, and extra hangers which he adds to Keith’s closet since he knows he will need some. The last thing in the box is all of Shiro’s school stuff which takes considerably longer than it should to unpack because he would because Shiro's kind of particular about his studying stuff.
Once all of that is unpacked, all that’s left is the bedroom which Shiro saved for last.
If possible the bedroom is even smaller than their dorm room last year, which means Shiro and Keith’s beds are even closer together. So close Shiro’s going to be able to see every rise and fall of Keith’s chest as he slumbers, or the lines of his long legs when he inevitably kicks all his blankets off because he runs hot and always kicks his covers off halfway through the night.
Thinking about Keith’s legs makes Shiro think about the end of the semester when the AC had broke for three days. It’d gotten so hot in the dorms Keith had taken to sleeping in boxers instead of pajamas and Shiro had barely passed his finals because his mind was constantly flooded with the mental image of Keith stretched out in his bed—impossibly long legs, calves sculpted from soccer and dark hair covering his strong thighs.
That wasn’t the only place Keith had hair, something Shiro learned in detail those three days as he witnessed all of Keith’s exposed skin including his thick treasure trail, chest hair and underarms. Before that moment Shiro’s not even sure he had that much of an opinion on body hair but Keith’s had made him feel short of breath and tingly in places he was unused to.
Being roommates and teammates meant Shiro had seen Keith in all stages of undress the entire year but somehow the sight of Keith sprawled out in his tiny red bed in boxers that left nothing to the imagination was entirely different to seeing him change in the morning or after practice.
Or maybe, it wasn’t that different. Maybe it was Shiro who was different. Maybe it was Shiro who realized that after months of being with his best friend, somewhere along the lines his feelings had changed without him realizing and the fluttery feeling he constantly had when he looked at Keith was not simply best friend affection or teammate camaraderie. It was that Shiro had feelings for Keith.
In hindsight Shiro’s certain this was obvious, but for Shiro whose dating experience was almost non existent, and who normally cared more about soccer than sex, it was a strange realization to one day discover when he closed his eyes and touched himself in the shower it was Keith he thought of.
After this discovery it was a damn miracle Shiro managed to finish the semester without failing all of his classes, but manage he did.
Thankfully he’s had two full months of summer to practice getting his stupid brain and body under control and he’s positive he’s got things in a place where he can handle them now. Right now for example, he needs to stop thinking about Keith’s legs so he simply shifts his focus to making his bed. At this point in Shiro’s life he’s basically an expert at not thinking about things he doesn’t want to deal with which he’s pretty sure will make ignoring his crush easy.
Once Shiro’s finished making his bed, he grabs the box labeled bedroom from the living room and proceeds to unpack all of his personal belongings. Including another string of Christmas lights which he hangs above his bed, a white noise machine because Shiro can’t sleep in silence and his pride flags which he carefully hangs on the wall next to his bed—his rainbow pride flag first and his demisexual pride flag next to it.
Smoothing his fingers over the material, he thinks back to Keith’s curiosity when Shiro had hung these up in their dorm last year. For a few seconds Shiro had panicked that Keith might not be comfortable with it, but a few weeks into their friendship Keith had confessed to being queer himself.
According to Keith he wasn’t entirely sure what label he liked, or if he wanted one at all. While labels made Shiro feel affirmed and safe, they didn’t offer the same validation to Keith who expressed being unsure what he was aside from knowing he wasn’t straight. Shiro had been quick to assure Keith that finding or wanting a label didn’t make him more queer or more valid, and though it had seemed like such an obvious thing to say there’d be an undeniable shift in the way Keith breathed after that—as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
A few weeks before the end of the spring semester Keith off handedly told Shiro over milkshakes and french fries that he thought he might be bisexual, but still wasn’t sure he wanted a label. In response Shiro had told him that was cool and offered him an onion ring which Keith had proceeded to dip in his strawberry milkshake at which point their conversation rapidly delved into what a gremlin of an eater Keith was.
Thinking about Keith’s bashful smile as he’d shoved a milkshake covered onion ring into his mouth makes Shiro’s chest ache.
He misses Keith so fucking much.
Dropping down onto the edge of his bed, Shiro spends a good five minutes staring at Keith’s empty side of the room, unable to explain why it makes his chest feel funny to see it so empty when he gets a wonderful idea.
All of Keith’s stuff is in boxes in the living room, or at least everything besides Keith’s clothes. He and Keith had known that even if they didn't get approved for an apartment they’d room together in the dorms, so Shiro had offered to store all of Keith’s things so he didn’t have to mail it back home.
This means Shiro has everything he needs to make Keith’s half of the room look more lived in. Keith is far less particular about his shit than Shiro, and after living together last year Shiro is confident in his ability to set things up in a way Keith would like. Besides, if he unpacks all of Keith’s stuff now then Keith won’t have to later and if he doesn’t have to waste time unpacking then he can spend time with Shiro.
The prospect is appealing in every way.
Preseason starts tomorrow which means he and Keith are basically going to be too exhausted to do anything but collapse in bed or the sofa as they try to readjust to intense training. By the time they adjust to practices, classes will start in two weeks at which point they’re both going to metaphorically die. Shiro’s taking several extra units this semester and as a kinesiology major Keith’s set to take his anatomy and physiology class and lab this fall, two classes he knows Keith’s is exceptionally nervous about. Keith’s smart enough to handle them, and he’s got the accommodations he needs to help ensure his success, but it’s going to be a tough semester for both of them.
Tonight is their last night of freedom and Shiro wants to spend every moment of it enjoying Keith’s company without responsibilities.
Decision made, Shiro makes his way to the living room to get Keith’s boxes and bring them to the bedroom. As soon as Shiro has ripped the packing tape off the top of the box it becomes apparent that unpacking and setting up Keith’s things might take a little bit longer than originally anticipated.
Unlike Shiro who had painstakingly sorted his belongings before packing everything up at the end of the semester, Keith’s is a doom box of unorganized chaos. There’s charging cords tangled with loose highlights and markers, his white board shoved in with old notebooks from last semester, a shower caddy filled pens and lanyards—so many fucking lanyards. Shiro’s not sure what it is about them Keith loves but he’s got at least ten different ones and Shiro’s pretty sure he never saw Keith without a colored lanyard hanging out of his pocket or dangling around his neck.
It’s basically a hodgepodge of things he knows Keith likes and will actually both want and need this semester and a handful of stuff he probably should’ve thrown away at the end of last year.
He can imagine the executive dysfunction that would hit Keith if he was the one looking in this box, and it makes sorting it all the easier. If there’s one thing Shiro enjoys it’s being able to do things that make Keith’s life easier. And organizing. He really likes organizing.
After pondering over exactly where to start he ends up tipping the box to dump the contents out onto the floor, frowning when he realizes there’s even more loose shit than he originally thought.
He begins by sorting things into piles based on how the stuff will get used—room stuff, studying and school stuff, personal belongings and random shit Shiro’s not sure what to do with. Anything he thinks Keith doesn’t actually need he puts back into the box, not wanting to get rid of anything without permission but hoping if he sorts the stuff that Keith can likely part with first it’ll make it easier for him to get rid of it.
An hour later Shiro’s hung up Keith’s sharpie covered daily task board to help him remember his meds and homework above his desk, along with a perfectly straight row of push pins he uses to create a lanyard hanging system so they don’t turn into a hot mess in Keith’s drawers. He uses one of his own leftover drawer organizers to sort Keith’s school supplies, filling the drawer with highlighters, pens and post it before stacking Keith’s remaining notebooks and binder into the corner of his desk.
Once he gets those items sorted, he starts adding Keith’s personal belongings to the room. There’s not much. Keith is an interesting dichotomy of overfilled dresser and desk drawers because he’s the least organized person Shiro has ever met, while also having a slightly minimalist style. It’s a stark contrast to Shiro’s eclectic side of the room with his brightly colored pride flags and twinkling Christmas lights to his desk covered in neatly organized supplies and an assortment of tiny fake plants (he definitely doesn’t trust himself to keep a real one alive after last year) on the top half of the bookshelf along with his textbooks which he ordered online early to get a discount. There’s also his collection of star wars funko pops that line the top shelf above his desk, and the top of his dresser has a cool geometric printed tray he found at Ikea to help contain his array of colognes and lotions and hair products. Not to mention the dozen photos he has of him and Keith or the rest of the team taped up between his desk and the closet.
The more Shiro looks at his side the more he realizes he’s a little bit of a hoarder. In a really organized, neat kind of way. A maximalist maybe. Shiro heard that term on TikTok and he likes it a lot more.
Not long after he and Keith became roommates and he realized that Keith wasn’t slow to unpack but had simply brought almost nothing to college, he asked Keith if his side of the room bothered him, worried that his own personal style might be distracting. Keith had chewed on the end of his pencil for a good minute before whispering it suits you, I like it and going back to his homework.
Shiro doesn’t have any desire to change Keith’s personal style, but he does want Keith’s side of the room to feel cozy and like home. He tries to think about what Keith likes and keeps getting flashes of how often Keith had sat on Shiro’s bed, remarking about his Christmas lights. He’d also complimented Shiro’s plant once, at least before it died.
What Keith needs, he decides, is more stuff.
Not as much stuff as Shiro because that’s not Keith’s style and Shiro has no desire to change anything about Keith but maybe a few more things to make it cozy, to make him feel at home.
It’s a thought that takes hold and won’t let go, burrowing itself into Shiro’s mind as he retrieves the box of Keith’s bedding from the living room and unpacks that as well. The thought is momentarily pushed to the wayside when he readies everything to make Keith’s bed and decides that no, he can’t do this with sheets that have been in a box for two months. He lifts them and frowns. They smell like stale cardboard and Shiro absolutely will not put these musty sheets on Keith’s bed.
Lucky for Shiro it’s early enough in the day he has time for an unplanned trip to the laundry room. He piles all of Keith’s sheets and his blanket into the laundry basket before retrieving the laundry soap and fabric softener from the hall closet then making his way downstairs.
The upside to moving in earlier than almost everyone else on campus is that Shiro is the only one in the laundry room, so there’s no wait time for a machine. He measures out his caps of soap and softener and fills one machine with sheets and another with Keith’s massive blanket before hopping up onto one of the spare machines to wait.
As the machines whir and wash, Shiro opens his notes app and begins to make a shopping list of everything he needs for the soup, and some basics. Once Keith is back they can do a bigger trip to see if there’s anything special Keith likes but to start off with Shiro wants to have some staples they both enjoy like milk, eggs, juice and Gatorade. A lot of Gatorade.
It doesn’t take long for Shiro to realize he won’t be able to get everything he needs at the market, meaning he’s definitely going to need to stop at Target first for non-perishables.
By the time the wash cycle finishes Shiro’s got two separate lists going and he’s glad he spent his entire summer working double shifts because this much stuff is definitely gonna put a dent in his savings. Luckily a lot of the basics are things that will last a while.
When the machines stop whirring he hops off his own machine to load the laundry into two separate dryers, popping in quarters and starting the dry cycles.
With his lists made and nothing to keep his mind from wandering, Shiro’s thoughts inevitably drift back to Keith. It’s not long before the thoughts shift from how sweet Keith’s voice is and how nice he looks when he smiles to the way he looks post match, his chest heaving and his tummy on display when he lifts his jersey to wipe sweat from his face.
Sweaty, post game Keith is definitely not a safe train of thought. Determined to distract himself, Shiro spends the last twenty five minutes of the dry cycle running up and down ten flights of stairs in their building. This turns out to be a perfect distraction and by the time Shiro’s got his wandering thoughts under control his legs are burning with a satisfying post exercise tingle and the laundry is done. He leaves it in the machines only long enough to stretch out his legs before piling everything into the laundry basket and heading back upstairs where he proceeds to make Keith’s bed, finish clearing the bedroom. He flattens all the cardboard boxes and runs them down to the recycling downstairs before returning to their apartment.
It’s only when everything is put away and clean that Shiro can breathe enough to realize that maybe he’s a little bit starving now. Unfortunately the only food Shiro has now is the rest of his summer snacks from his grandma’s house—several packs of dried seaweed, half a tub of salted mixed nuts, a half eaten bag of dried jackfruit and a couple of the little plastic single serve mixed fruit cocktail which his grandma definitely snuck into the box when he wasn’t looking.
Ravenous, he rips the top off a fruit cup, drinking the juice before dumping the entire plastic cup into his mouth. While he chews the fruit he fills his palm with mixed nuts, aware he’s gonna be sorry later when he has to get salt out of the joints of his prosthetic but he's too hungry to care at the moment. For now all he cares about is getting some calories in, throwing back a few handfuls of nuts before filling a cup with tap water and chugging that too.
It’s definitely not a meal, but it's enough to satiate Shiro so he can make his trip out to Target and the market.
Before he leaves he makes sure to wipe the nut crumbs off the counter, put his snacks away and get as much of the salt out of his joints as he can before he heads back downstairs. He almost takes the elevator but decides on the stairs again, eager to get himself back into peak physical shape for his team. Not that Shiro is out of shape. When he wasn’t working, chauffeuring his grandma to appointments or joining her friends for bingo, he was at the gym. With no classes to occupy his mind and no Keith to have fun with, he’d settled for working out because when he was simply laying around the house his mind wandered too much.
In hindsight Shiro might have a problem constantly needing to be busy, which definitely won’t be a problem once the semester starts.
The nearest Target is only a fifteen minute drive even with traffic, and the parking lot is full of mostly families probably doing their back to school shopping, judging by the mass amount of parents leaving the store with kids weaving around new backpacks and lunchboxes.
There isn’t a single thing Shiro needs from the school section and he resolves himself to not head to the back of the store to browse. This works until he’s getting a cart and notices someone walking out of the self checkout with translucent post it notes in their hand.
It won’t hurt just to look he thinks.
This decision comes into question when Shiro gets to the back of the store and feels like he stopped into a Chuck E Cheese, every aisle overrun with parents and kids—half excitedly buying things off their school shopping list and the other half looking near tears as they inform their parents they hate school. Unable to actually browse with so many people, Shiro ends up leaving his cart near the garden section so he can look for the post it notes. On his way to find them he somehow ends up with an extra set of highlighters, some tracing paper for reasons he can’t explain, and a set of plant magnets from the locker decor section for his and Keith’s fridge.
Their fridge he thinks, barely repressing a grin.
He finds the translucent post it notes on an end cap and ends up buying two packs, both for Keith. He saw a cool tiktok recently where someone traced out the human heart and added it to their notes using these and Shiro can’t help but think this might help Keith in his anatomy class. Anything that might help Keith is a win in Shiro’s book, and if he doesn’t like them Shiro can always find a use for post it notes.
Somehow before he makes his way back to his cart he ends up with another pack of rainbow pens which Shiro justifies because he didn’t know they sold Staedtler pens here. He might not need them yet but he will definitely use up the ink in his current set at home in the next few weeks. Besides they’re on sale which means he’s saving money buying them now. That and this is a forty count pack which means there are shades of blue and green Shiro doesn’t already own which will come in handy when he picks up tutoring jobs for extra money throughout the year.
Content with his purchases Shiro dumps everything into his cart before making his way over to the lighting department, thinking about how happy it might make Keith to have his own. Harsh lighting is deregulating for Keith. He needs these lights—he deserves them.
If Shiro thinks grabbing a box of string lights will be quick he’s sorely mistaken, slightly overwhelmed by the choices. Despite his best intentions to hurry he takes a slightly ridiculous amount of time picking out the lights for Keith’s side of the room wanting to make sure they’re perfect. In the end he goes with the most basic set, pretty sure anything more colorful or eclectic wouldn’t be Keith’s style.
On his way across the store to the food department to finally get the stuff on his list he gets distracted by multiple endcaps on clearance and ends up adding a colorful bath mat for in front of the sink so their feet don’t get cold in the morning, and a small houseplant for Keith’s desk which he absolutely will not be telling Keith he purchased solely because the little spouted leaves remind him of the piece of hair at the back of Keith’s head that always stands up.
It’s only when he catches himself about to buy a candle they definitely don’t need that he talks some sense into himself and puts the candle back, finally making his way to the food department when he refuses to buy anything that is not on his list.
The resolve lasts until he notices some limited edition birthday cake Oreos which he tosses into the cart with absolutely no remorse. Oreos are always the exception.
Twenty minutes later Shiro’s cart is full, his wallet is about to be empty, and he’s making his way to the checkout when he passes the toiletries and gets another idea.
Keith won’t be allowed to bring his own body wash or shampoo on the plane which means he’s going to need to buy some when he gets here. Except Keith hates shopping which means it’ll just be one more errand he doesn’t need to run, especially while trying to resettle himself into campus life and dealing with the intensity of preseason training.
But Shiro is here already, and he knows exactly what products Keith uses. Living with someone for a year means Shiro memorized what products Keith kept in his shower caddy, which is something he refuses to examine too closely. Anyone who lived with someone would notice these things. Maybe.
Regardless of whether Shiro’s observations of Keith are bordering on a little pathetic, the fact is Shiro is already at the store. It just makes sense for him to buy all the things Keith will need so that Keith won’t have to waste time shopping.
With a swift one eighty he turns his cart and heads down the shampoo aisle in search of the shampoo Keith likes. It only takes him a minute to locate the right scent—dove brand fresh and clean which Shiro uncaps and smells, just to be sure it’s the right scent and not because he misses the way Keith smells.
The first whiff of the familiar shampoo has Shiro’s throat tightening as he closes his eyes, thinking about the way he always gets a whiff of this same smell when Keith throws himself on Shiro for bear hugs after they win their matches. It’s probably the thing Shiro loves most about winning games—the euphoric pride on Keith’s face as he sprints across the grass and slams into Shiro enough to dissipate any exhaustion or stiffness from the game.
Keith’s happiness is always a thing of beauty, and whenever Keith comes in for an extra exuberant post game hug Shiro meets him with open arms, shamelessly burying his face in Keith’s hair and letting the familiar scent of Keith’s shampoo envelop him.
Eventually, the other guys on the team join in on the hug, usually trying to pile onto Shiro to see how many of them he can hold up before falling over, but the memory of Keith always being the first one to barrel into Shiro regardless of his position on the pitch when the game ends is something Shiro can never forget. He knows it’s just because he’s the goalie, that it became team tradition to dog pile Shiro after a team win. He also knows that Keith is by far the fastest guy on the team, and that’s the reason he’s always first to hug Shiro, but sometimes he lets himself imagine Keith sprints for that hug for other reasons.
It’s not true of course, but it doesn’t hurt to imagine. Well, he supposes it does hurt but the only one hurting is Shiro, and he’s never been afraid of pain.
Allowing himself one final sniff, Shiro closes the lid on the shampoo and his feelings.
Once that’s in the cart he mentally catalogs all the other things Keith might need. The first few weeks back are always brutal but Shiro’s got plenty of bandages and athletic wrap in his first aid kit Keith can share. He’s also stocked their medicine cabinet with electrolyte packets, acetaminophen and a five pound bag of Epsom salt under the sink to soak sore feet.
There are definitely some other things Keith will need that he can’t share with Shiro—his preferred extra strength deodorant, a new loofah, probably a new toothbrush in case he forgets like last year and toothpaste. The loofah is first since they’re in the same aisle he’s already in, and he grabs the deodorant one aisle over. From there it's just a quick walk a few aisle back to dental care where he tosses in some of the nicer dental floss since the cheap stuff isn’t sensory friendly for Keith. Then he grabs an extra soft toothbrush before seeking out some toothpaste for him which requires him to move another aisle over to the kids oral care section. There isn’t much Keith dislikes flavor wise, but at the top of his hated list is anything and everything mint which means Keith’s relegated to using children’s toothpaste for the non mint flavors.
Once he’s in the correct aisle it only takes him a minute to find Keith’s favorite brand of strawberry flavored toothpaste. The smallest tube is on sale but Shiro opts for the bigger stand up tube with spaceships on it, partly because it’ll last Keith longer and partly because the idea of Keith having spaceship toothpaste is too cute for Shiro to resist. He tosses it into the cart with the rest of their stuff before finally making his way to the register.
Unfortunately for Shiro, the lines are ridiculously long and while Shiro is a patient man, and well aware the cashiers are working as fast as they can, lines this long leave Shiro with way too much time to stare at all the stuff for sale by the register. By the time it’s his turn to pay he’s added several single serve baggies of trail mix to his cart, along with a pack of gum, a container of sour mints for Keith and a kinder egg because Shiro might be a grown man but one is never too old for kinder eggs.
Once he’s got his stuff paid for and bagged, he hurries to the car realizing his wandering and unplanned shopping cost him an extra hour. Technically Keith’s flight isn’t set to land for a while still and he’s got travel time from the airport to campus but that still doesn’t give Shiro that much time to get to the market, shop, unload everything, put it all away and cook.
With far more focus, and less things to get distracted by, Shiro makes quick work of his shopping list at the market, filling his cart with fresh produce before getting the meat and adding in a few packs of mochi and his favorite ramune as a treat while he cooks.
The lines are far less long here and Shiro manages to get out of the store without adding any extras to his cart. From there it’s just a short drive across town and two trips from the car up to the apartment because despite Shiro’s strength, there are limits to even how much he can hold. Once he’s got everything upstairs he wastes no time unpacking everything, getting the lights hung in Keith’s room, depositing the little plant on Keith’s desk and putting away groceries and toiletries, trying to ignore the little giddy feeling he gets when he puts Keith’s toothpaste next to his in the medicine cabinet.
When everything is unpacked and put away he returns to the kitchen. As he pulls out a large cutting board and his sharpest knife, it really hits him that he’s making his first meal in his first apartment and its for Keith.
Sure, Shiro’s cooked this soup more times than he can count with or for his grandmother, but it almost feels like making it for the first time. It just feels different. The other thing that is different is that it’s quiet, too quiet. Back home his grandma always has the television blasting and when he lived with Keith there was always music playing since Keith hates quiet and studies best with music on, which never bothered Shiro. At some point he must’ve got used to the noise because the silence feels oppressive and in between slicing pork and heating the pan he pulls his phone out and opens Spotify, hitting random play and turning the volume up before returning to cooking.
No sooner is music blasting through his kitchen then the little bit of tension Shiro’s been holding fades as he falls into the rhythm of cooking, the pork sizzling as he slices the whites of his green onion and daikon radish, making little piles of chopped veggies around the edge of his cutting board until he’s got everything.
Once the pork is done he removes it from the pan and adds his sesame oil and veggies, the aromatic scent reminding him so much of his grandmother cooking for him as a child. How many times did he stand at her side, small hand fisted in her dress as he waited for the onions to turn translucent and the miso to be added, knowing that was one step closer to his tummy being filled with his favorite soup.
At this point Shiro could make Butajiru with his eyes closed, the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring almost meditative for Shiro. He adds the dashi then waits until the veggies are perfectly done before adding the pork back in and the aburaage. The last step is adding the miso and mirin.
With pride Shiro stirs the pot, delighting in the sight of rich broth swirling around perfectly cooked veggies, pork and aburaage. On sight alone it looks perfect, but just to be sure Shiro grabs a spoon to taste the broth adding in a little salt and a dash more mirin until he’s satisfied that the soup is good enough for Keith.
Hungry as Shiro might be he doesn’t want to eat without Keith so he turns the burner down as low as it can go, allowing the soup to simmer while he sets about cleaning up his cooking mess. He dumps all the dirty dishes in the sink, cleaning the counters first before returning to the sink. Before he starts the dishes he turns the music up louder so he can hear it over the water, humming to himself as he pulls on his gloves and begins to wash the dishes.
Between the loud music and his focus on making sure everything is scrubbed clean he’s so distracted he doesn’t even realize anyone is at the door until he hears someone shouting his name. Someone whose voice he would know anywhere, even over too loud music.
Keith is home.
Shiro is so excited he moves without thinking, leaving the water running in the sink and his dish gloves on as he runs to the front door—soapy water dripping off his gloves and onto the floor and Shiro’s socks as he yanks open the front door.
“Keith, you’re—” but the rest of the sentence dies on the tip of Shiro’s tongue as he takes in the sight before him. It’s Keith alright, but not the same freshly shaved face he remembers saying goodbye to two months ago.
Keith looks different, his skin tan from six weeks outdoors and an unfamiliar smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes like a constellation. His hair is longer than Shiro remembers, the longest part in the back pulled up into a little pony tail that leaves stray bits to frame his face while random fly aways stick up adorably in every direction.
Most noticeable of all isn’t his freckles or the tan or even his hair.
It’s the beard.
Keith has a beard—dark facial hair highlighting the sharpness of his jaw and the curve of his pretty lips. It’s unexpectedly rugged and attractive in ways that make Shiro lightheaded.
“Hey, Shiro,” Keith smiles and Shiro forgets how to breathe.
“You…you—” but Shiro can’t make words, can’t do anything but stare as he realizes the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen has become the world’s most beautiful man.
“I know I’m disgusting,” Keith laughs, mistaking Shiro’s stuttering. “Pop’s truck had a flat and by the time we got home I barely had time to shove all my shit in my suitcase and haul ass to the airport. I haven’t had a real shower in six weeks I probably stink and—”
But Shiro doesn’t let him finish, crossing the threshold to pull Keith into a hug before he can really think about what he’s doing. All he knows is yeah maybe Keith looks different but this is still his Keith—his best friend in the entire world—and Shiro missed him so damn much.
“Oh,” Keith exhales, dropping his backpack to the floor as he falls into the embrace—strong arms wrapping around Shiro’s middle.
The hug should be familiar, but the way Keith fits into his arms is anything but. If he didn’t know better he’d swear Keith got an inch or two taller, his head bent so that his face folds into Shiro’s neck and the scruff of his facial hair tickling Shiro’s throat.
Keith smells unfamiliar too, like stale airplane air and dirt and something like juniper in his hair. It’s not bad but it’s different in ways that leave Shiro unsettled.
“I missed you,” Keith whispers, and oh that raspy tone is familiar.
It’s the same tone Shiro hears when their game has overtime and Keith tries not to let Shiro see how tired he is, or how his voice catches when he tries to pull an all-nighter and Shiro has to coax him to bed instead of letting him drink too much Red Bull instead of sleeping which makes him jittery and anxious.
Keith is tired.
Regardless of how different Keith’s appearance might be right now, beneath that he is still Shiro’s Keith; fresh off six weeks backpacking, and a very long day of travel. Judging by the way he holds onto Shiro just a little tighter than usual and the rasp in his voice, he is exhausted and probably overstimulated from the flight. If Shiro knows Keith—which he definitely does—he’s probably starving too.
What Keith needs is a long, hot shower, some clean clothes and a full belly.
What Keith needs, is to be taken care of.
In the face of so much change, this is something familiar. He and Keith spent all last year watching out for each other on and off the field. While Keith rebuffs too much attention or vulnerability with other people, even the guys on the team, he always lets Shiro in. It’s a privilege to know Keith trusts him so much, and another reason Shiro is so determined to keep his stupid feelings hidden.
He can’t do anything to risk their friendship, or hurt Keith.
“I missed you too, Keith,” Shiro tells him, letting his cheek rest on top of Keith’s head.
Keith must be even more tired than Shiro thought because he slumps into Shiro, his breath coming out in warm little puffs against Shiro’s neck.
A lump forms in Shiro’s throat as he tightens the embrace to keep Keith upright, marveling at how easily Keith fits in his arms. For a few minutes they don’t move, they don’t talk, they just stand in the doorway hugging until Keith’s breathing steadies and the racing of his heart subsides.
Pride fills Shiro that Keith can relax with him, can let go of his exhaustion and masks to simply recharge. When Keith does eventually pull out of the hug, Shiro lets him go despite everything in his body aching to pull him back in. Keith gives him so much already, Shiro won’t be selfish and ask for more.
Looking at Keith he suddenly feels tongue tied, an experience he’s never had in front of him before. He wants to ask how his summer went, what the mountains were like, and how his flight was. He wants to know every single detail about Keith’s summer, wants to hear Keith talk until his voice goes hoarse. He wants to know everything.
“You’re dripping,” Keith grins, pointing to Shiro’s hands which are in fact getting the floor covered in soap.
“Shit,” Shiro curses, embarrassed and flustered.
“How do we have dishes already? Haven’t you only been moved in a few hours?”
“I made you soup,” Shiro answers, then panics that it might sound too forward. “Us. I made us soup. For…for eating.”
“Soup for eating, huh?” Keith grins, and god his smile seems more pronounced with all that scruff on his face.
“Uh huh,” Shiro says, panicking. He needs to get himself under control before he does something really fucking stupid.
Sobering, Keith shoves his hands into his pockets as he stares at Shiro. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing,” Shiro insists, desperately trying to downplay it as his grandmother’s words filter into his mind. Make him soup and he will be yours.
“Shit, why are we still in the hallway?” Shiro says. “Come in.”
Keith nods, grabbing his discarded backpack off the floor then his suitcase, dragging them both into the apartment. He barely gets three steps in before he stops dead in his tracks, eyes on the tapestry behind the couch.
“That’s new,” he says, tone unreadable.
I saw it and thought of you feels like too much to say out loud right now, but so does, I want this to be your home.
“Do you like it?” is what Shiro ends up asking.
“Yeah,” Keith answers softly. “It looks like home.”
“I can give you the full tour,” Shiro offers, nervously rubbing his thumb over his prosthetic like a worry stone, the metal smooth and soothing. “Or maybe you wanna eat first? Or shower?”
“Um,” Keith hums, looking unsure.
Its not hard for Shiro to guess its too many choices for Keith. At first Shiro had been worried about being too overbearing or pushy but it hadn’t taken him long to realize that for all Keith often rebuked structure because of his ADHD, he also did his best when there were clear expectations and someone telling him what to do. Or at least Shiro.
The first time it happened last year had been kind of an accident. Keith had been struggling with one of his classes, stressing out too much before a big exam and drinking too much coffee and energy drinks and not sleeping. As his teammate Shiro could see he wasn’t in the best mental or physical space for their game for the following week but more than that, as his friend Shiro had been worried.
Without really thinking about what he was doing, Shiro had plucked a can of Red Bull out of Keith’s hand before he could open it, gave Keith’s shoulder a firm squeeze and him it was time for him to go to bed.
Keith had frozen, leading Shiro to panic that he might be upset with Shiro telling him what to do. Before Shiro could apologize or give the energy drink back, Keith had let out a full body sigh and nodded, quietly thanking Shiro before crawling into bed. He’d been asleep before Shiro could even turn on the white noise machine.
Since then Shiro’s unofficially taken up the mantle of what he calls Keith duty. Not that its actually a duty. It’s a privilege really, to be trusted so much.
When Keith is pushing himself too hard at practice, in danger of hurting himself, it’s not the athletic advisor or the coach who can talk him down but Shiro. When Keith gets himself in a stress spiral and starts trying to organize all his doom piles or restructure his entire binder of notes it’s only Shiro who is able to help soothe him out of it. And times like this, when executive dysfunction renders Keith anxious and unable to make a decision, it’s Shiro who tells him what to do so Keith doesn’t have to decide.
“The soup is pretty hot. You should take a shower.” Shiro smiles, watching as the tension in Keith slowly fades.
Bingo.
“While you’re in the shower I’ll get the soup. Then after you can poke around the apartment. I’ll give you the grand five hundred square foot tour. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds good,” Keith answers, his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, leaving Shiro to try not to notice the way his facial hair continues down part of Keith’s throat.
“Good,” Shiro echoes, eyes riveted to the way Keith’s tongue looks when it darts out.
It doesn’t seem possible but somehow Keith has managed to become even more attractive. Or maybe it’s just that Shiro spent two months daydreaming about him and the real thing is so much better.
“There’s stuff in the shower and towels on the shelf,” Shiro tells him, trying to focus on the task at hand—getting Keith clean.
“Thanks, Shiro.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Shiro says, reaching out to give Keith’s shoulder a squeeze.
The last of the tension seeps out of Keith and Shiro once again as to resist reading too much into things. Of course Keith enjoys his touch, they’re best friends.
With a curt nod Keith drops his backpack by his suitcase and walks towards the small hallway.
“Left door is the bathroom, the right is the bedroom,” Shiro announces.
Keith gives him a thumbs up before disappearing into the bathroom. It’s not until the door is shut that Shiro allows himself to fully process what just happened. It’s just a beard, just a little bit of facial hair. It’s not that different, he reasons with himself. Which is actually kind of the problem.
Even if he hadn’t come home sunkissed with new freckles and a beard Shiro would probably have been a little bit of a disaster seeing Keith after so many weeks apart. Scruffy, bearded Keith is still Keith and every version of him is perfect.
He knew he missed Keith, but it wasn’t until he had him in his arms again that Shiro’s brain could really process it all. The way Keith fell into Shiro’s arms, how easily his face fit in the crook of Shiro’s neck, and the way it felt to have Keith’s strong arms squeezing him around the middle are all a little bit life ruining, and Shiro is realizing that maybe he doesn’t have his feelings under the tight lid he thought.
The sound of the water coming on in the bathroom filters through the tiny apartment, alerting Shiro to the fact that just a few feet away on the other side of the closer door Keith is naked. This apartment is so small that Shiro can hear the splash of water and the sound of the shampoo bottle being uncapped and try as he might to not think about it, it’s like his brain has lost the ability to focus on anything except how naked Keith is in the other room.
Naked and wet.
If naked Keith is distracting it’s nothing compared to the fantasy of him wet too. There’s probably water clinging to the dark hair on his thighs or his cute tummy. Or his beard. God, that beard.
It’s so easy to imagine the way Keith might tip his head back so water soaks his hair, running down his face and clinging to the scruff around his mouth of his delicate throat. It’s enough to have Shiro’s heart skipping a beat. It’s also enough for Shiro’s dick to twitch with interest, thickening in his jeans.
Closing his eyes Shiro counts to ten and tries to think of the most boring things he can—running errands, sitting through Slav’s lectures, anything mundane enough that his brain isn’t thinking about water pooling between Keith’s thighs.
Thighs.
Keith has such nice thighs, so strong and hairy and fuck, fuck, fuck.
Shiro is so screwed.
With a barely repressed groan Shiro shuffles into the kitchen. Maybe if he focuses on getting them dinner he can calm his stupid heart and dick down.
It works, mostly. Thoughts of Keith are still filtering into Shiro’s mind but the rhythm of getting dinner together is enough of a distraction for Shiro to get himself back under control. He pulls down the ceramic soup bowls his grandma sent, a funny warmth filling his chest as he rubs his thumb over the smooth side. He remembers eating soup out of this with his grandparents back when his feet didn’t touch the floor. He remembers helping make his first pot of soup by himself, that probably tasted horrible but the way his grandparents had looked eating out of these same bowls, praising him for working so hard, stood out. He remembers watching his grandma feed his grandpa soup for the last time from these bowls, and the way she’d kissed his forehead as she held the soup spoon to his mouth.
When she’d first offered the bowls to Shiro’s he’d protested, unable to imagine taking them.
”The heart of every home is the kitchen, Takashi,” she’d told him, her winkled hands trembling as she’d wrapped each bowl in an old dish towel to keep them from breaking before putting them in Shiro’s moving box.
Holding the bowl in his hand, he’s glad she’s more stubborn than he is; having such a familiar piece of his own home is centering Shiro as he ladles soup into each bowl—the rich broth swirling with the meat and vegetables. Steam warms Shiro’s face as he carries the bowls to the table, unable to contain the little spike of euphoria as he grabs napkins and spoons.
He and Keith have shared countless meals and snacks together—in their dorm, in the cafeteria, even a fast food place—but this is the first meal they’ll share in their own apartment and while it’s really a small difference, something about it feels huge to Shiro.
The little rush of excitement is enough to distract Shiro as he gets drinks and finishes setting the table, withdrawing two soup spoons from the silverware drawer when he hears the bathroom door open.
He spins on his heal, spoons clutched in his hand as he stares at Keith emerging from the bathroom with nothing but a towel slung low around his tiny waist.
“Forgot my clothes,” Keith laughs, bare feet padding across the carpet.
Because of the open layout of the apartment, the living room and kitchen are basically one room, meaning Shiro has a perfect view of Keith half running across the living room—water from his still damp hair running down his back and the curve of his spine to pool at the center of his back as he squats down to unzip his suitcase.
He’s still a little damp, stray water droplets clinging to his dark nipples and the little bit of dark hair on his chest.
Nearly naked, it’s easy to see that Keith’s face isn’t the only place the sun gave him new freckles, his shoulders dotted in them. Keith’s not a huge fan of shirts, often going without them when they’re in their dorm room so it's easy to imagine he did the same while hiking which means his entire chest is covered in smatterings of freckles that rain down over the hollow of his collar bones and in between his chest. There are even a few at his hips, just above where the towel sits precariously around his waist.
When Keith squats to unzip his suitcase, his towel slips low enough that the swell of his ass and the very top of the crack is visible. It’s not shocking. Being roommates means privacy is an illusion and Shiro’s definitely seen Keith naked before. It’s just that Shiro is woefully out of practice pretending it's not affecting.
“Where the fuck are my sweats?” Keith mutters to himself, dropping to his knees as he rummages in his suitcase—the towel slipping all the way off to pool at the back of his thighs and leaving his entire ass on display. The juxtaposition of his tan torso and his pale white ass is kind of adorable, and Shiro finds his mind drifting to thoughts of licking across the tan line.
Shit. No. Bad Shiro, he thinks. Keith is getting dressed and Shiro’s being a horny asshole. He should look away. He should turn around and give Keith some privacy. He should—
“There it is,” Keith says, grabbing his black and red university sweats and standing up, completely unbothered by his own nakedness as he slips one foot into the pants then the next, draping them up his strong calves and hairy thighs to settle them so low on his waist that his tan line is still on full display.
He turns around, grinning at Shiro, who forgets how to breathe—his watch buzzing as he stares at Keith.
“You okay?” Keith asks, eyebrows furrowed with obvious worry.
“Fine,” Shiro croaks.
“Okay,” Keith says, taking him at face value.
Shiro waits until Keith turns back around to haphazardly shove his clothing back into his suitcase to check his watch, already knowing what he’s going to see. Sure enough the little heart on his watch is lit up, his watching signaling him to a high heart rate alert. Not that Shiro needed his watch to let him know his stupid gay heart is trying to beat out of his chest. He can feel it all on his own, thank you very much.
“You know what, fuck it,” Keith mutters, tipping the lid on his suitcase closed. “I’m too hungry to care about this.”
It’s only when he’s upright and staring at Shiro that it occurs to him that he’s still standing in the same spot stupidly holding the spoons and gawking at Keith.
“The soups ready,” he says, hoping he sounds more normal than he feels.
“I still can’t believe you made soup,” Keith says, walking towards Shiro.
“It’s easy,” Shiro shrugs, trying to settle his overactive heart as he sets Keith’s napkin beside his bowl.
“I feel like we have different definitions of easy. The closest I can come to cooking is adding hot water to the dry camping rations to reconstitute them,” Keith laughs, pulling out his chair. “What kind of soup is it?”
“Butajiro,” Shiro tells him, taking a seat. “It’s pork with root vegetables in a miso broth. It’s uh…it’s my favorite.”
I made it especially for you he thinks, biting back the words as Keith drags his spoon through the bowl to scoop up meat and vegetables. When Keith lifts the spoon Shiro is hit by an unexpected wave of nervousness. Keith’s not a picky eater by a longshot, so he has no doubt he will eat it, but will he like it?
For some reason the answer matters, and Shiro’s watch buzzes at him with another stupid high heart rate alert as he stares at the pretty o shape of Keith’s mouth as he lifts the spoon to blow away the steam. He doesn’t bother looking at his watch as he silences it, trying and failing not to stare as Keith lifts the soup to his mouth.
In all things Keith is an open book, his joy and displeasure always at the surface. It’s one of the things Shiro admires most about Keith. When he loves something he wears that joy with pride, and when he dislikes things he isn’t ashamed to let it be known.
Keith’s emotions are as bold and full of life as Keith himself and he wears them like a badge of honor. For a guy like Shiro who has spent longer than he wants to admit tempering his own emotions based on the people around him so that his own needs never become a burden, it’s inspiring to see how openly Keith wears his heart on his sleeve.
Inspiring and bittersweet, because it's a harsh reminder that if his feelings were returned surely he would know.
You’re like my brother Keith had whispered during their last hug before he’d flown home for the summer. It’d been one of the most meaningful yet painful sentences he’d ever heard and Shiro had clung to Keith just a little tighter, waiting until Keith was on the plane home to let his own tears fall.
He’s had two months to come to terms with that sentence, but less than thirty minutes with Keith back on campus with him and Shiro is realizing he doesn’t have his feelings quite as under control as he thought.
Even if the nature of Keith’s affection isn’t the same as Shiro’s, it’s a privilege to be loved by Keith, so Shiro does what he always does with his own too big or messy emotions—ignores them.
“I really missed you, you know,” Keith tells him, dragging his spoon through his bowl.
The clank of metal on ceramic is familiar, and Shiro focuses on that rather than the way his throat suddenly feels too small.
“I missed you too, Keith,” he tells him. This at least, he can admit.
“Don’t get me wrong, backpacking was incredible. Me and pop had a great time but,” Keith pauses, filling his cheeks with air then blowing it out. He doesn’t finish immediately, going in for a bite of soup.
More than used to this kind of mid thought cut off Shiro waits, knowing if he prompts for more information Keith won’t ever finish but if he waits eventually Keith will tell him what else is on his mind.
Sure enough a minute later he talks again.
“I told pop.”
“What did you tell him?” Shiro asks before taking his first bite, the rich broth and perfectly cooked vegetables soothing something in Shiro.
Maybe he’s just hungry. Maybe after he eats he won’t feel so off center.
“About not being straight,” Keith finishes, hunching himself over his bowl in an all too familiar way. Keith’s body language is so easy to read. “I did a lot of thinking while we were out there, not much else to do you know? I tried to explain it to him without the labels. I kept thinking if you were there you would’ve been able to explain it so much better than me.”
“I’m sure you did just fine, Keith.”
His shoulders slump as he drops the spoon, the metal handle clinking against the side of the bowl. “Yeah…maybe. I still think I might be bi but I wasn’t ready to use that label so I just told pop I liked more than girls. Is that weird?”
“It’s not weird,” Shiro assures him.
Keith nods. “Thanks, Shiro.”
“Nothing to thank me for. But for what it's worth I’m proud of you.”
Keith ducks his face, hair nearly falling into his soup bowl and the faintest hint of his smile still visible.
“How did your dad react?” Shiro asks.
“Pop was great,” Keith tells him. “I knew he would be, so I don’t know why I was so nervous.”
“I felt the same way when I came out to my grandma. I knew she'd still love me no matter what, that it would be okay, but I still threw up before I told her.”
“I didn’t know that,” Keith says, lifting his eyes to Shiro.
“Yeah,” Shiro says, shrugging.
“You know after I told pop, all I wanted to do was call you.”
“You did?” Shiro asks, heart skipping a beat.
“Of course. You’re my best friend in the whole world,” Keith tells him, in that same easy way of his. As if telling Shiro how important he is comes naturally. “I wanted to call you everyday. I wanted to tell you about the orange sky at sunrise, about the way my coffee tasted sitting on the side of a mountain, about how cold the river water was and what it felt like to watch the stars at night and wonder if you saw the same ones.”
“Keith.”
“That’s silly I know, but—”
“It’s not silly,” Shiro assures him. “I uh…I felt the same. Although I don’t think my weekly trips to bingo with Baba or having someone spill their beer on me at the county club would have been nearly as exciting as your things.”
“I like all your things,” Keith tells him, a stubborn clench to his jaw.
“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro says, fighting back a smile. “There is uh…one thing that happened this summer. Kind of a big thing I guess.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Keith asks.
“You know with Regris graduating last year we needed a new team captain,” Shiro says, feeling ridiculous for how nervous he suddenly is.
Keith’s eyes widen. “Wait…Shiro, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Heart racing, Shiro nods. “You’re looking at the new team captain.”
It happens so fast Shiro has no time to prepare, one second Keith’s sitting across from him and the next his chair is clattering to the floor as he pushes away from the table and all but tackles Shiro. They both end up on the ground in a tangle of arms and legs as they hug.
For just a moment it doesn’t matter what the feelings are, or the nature of the affection, all that matters is that Shiro loves this loud, beautiful boy with all his heart and he knows Keith loves him too.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me on the phone,” Keith says, playfully hitting Shiro’s chest as he pulls back, using Shiro’s stomach as a chair. His weight is heavy and familiar and though it’s impossible not to notice how devastatingly handsome he looks, beneath it is a sense of comfort at having his best friend back with him.
“I dunno,” Shiro answers, embarrassed to admit he’d wanted to tell Keith in person to soak up every ounce of joy he knew Keith would display for him. It feels ridiculous and selfish and more attention seeking than Shiro likes to be, but he’d known how happy Keith would be for him, how proud, and he’d shamelessly needed to see that in person.
“Captain,” Keith says, poking Shiro’s chest. “This mean I have to call you, sir?”
“I fucking hope not,” Shiro laughs, pretty sure he’d simply drop dead on the spot if Keith ever called him sir, and not from embarrassment.
“Okay,” Keith grins, smile widening until it nearly splits his face in too.
“You could uh, call me captain though,” Shiro says, almost shyly.
“Congratulations, captain.”
Though he just prompted it, shocked by the way it feels to hear that name falling from Keith’s lips. The coach and the athletic director had called him that, and the guys on the team had blown up Shiro’s phone with messages of congratulations, but none of that can compare to hearing it from Keith.
“I’m so proud of you, Shiro. You deserve this.”
The words go straight to Shiro’s heart, flooding him with warmth. For all Shiro is attracted to Keith, every ounce of that affection started because of their deep friendship, because Keith is the best friend Shiro has ever had.
All he needs to do is ignore his attraction and things can stay exactly the same as they’ve always been.
He can do this.
Shiro can’t do this.
There is sweat dripping down Keith’s face, droplets clinging to his beard and glistening in the mid afternoon sun. His jersey is clinging to his body, the line of sweat down his back making the material cling to every curve and muscle as he runs drills and Shiro literally cannot concentrate on anything except Keith.
Seven days.
It’s only been seven days since Keith came back, but Shiro is already losing his mind, and the tenuous grip he has on his own self control.
In hindsight, he probably should’ve realized how fucked he was the moment Keith walked through that door. Or maybe the morning after.
That first morning, Shiro had awoken before their alarm at the unfortunate hour of five am. It was still dark in their room but Keith had left his string lights on, which meant his entire body was cast in a soft, warm glow. His face was turned towards Shiro, mouth hanging open and dark lashes resting on his cheeks. His hand was on his belly, fingers shoved partly down the front of his sweats and because Keith never slept in shirts his entire chest was visible. The image was somehow both painfully sweet, a little patch of drool forming on his pillow and his face so relaxed, while also being devastatingly erotic because it was Keith.
For all of ten seconds Shiro thought he could be chill, then he’d realized he was hard as a rock and watching his best friend sleep. He’d rolled over onto his belly to hide his face in his pillow but that little bit of friction on his dick was enough for Shiro to ache.
Never in Shiro's life had he wanted anyone the way he wanted Keith. There’d been a few years in high school where Shiro thought maybe he was a little broken, where he didn’t understand why he wasn’t a raging horndog like every other guy he knew. Realizing he was demi had explained a lot, but it hadn’t prepared Shiro for the depth of his own sexual desires when they were directed at someone he was so emotionally attached to.
Unable to stop, he’d let his own hand slip down into his sweats, but no sooner had his fingers curled around the shaft than Keith grunted in his sleep and Shiro came back to himself with such painful clarity he’d nearly started to cry.
What kind of fucking asshole touches themselves while their best friend slept, especially while thinking about their best friend.
Barely breathing, Shiro lifted his face to see that Keith was still asleep, hand splayed over his belly and one leg hanging off the side of his bed. Aware that their alarm would blare in ten minute alerting them to the need to wake up for their pre-training run, Shiro had rolled out of bed and hurried into the shower, stifling his own choked off cries as he jerked off and wished the shower would wash away his shame.
Things had only gone downhill from there.
When Keith got dressed that morning, so blissfully unaware of what Shiro had just done, he’d smiled at Shiro with that beautiful sunshine smile of his, pulling his jersey on and making his ridiculous bedhead even worse, Shiro nearly walked into the wall.
On their morning runs when Shiro ran harder, his lungs burning as his heart pounded in his ears, Keith silently matched him mile for mile with an easy smile and a silence that said more than words ever could. Keith might not have known why Shiro was pushing himself past the point of comfort, but the fact that he joined him in the grueling pace just so Shiro wasn’t alone meant the ache in Shiro’s lungs when they finally finished, dulled in comparison to the ache in his heart.
At home, every laugh and smile he sent Shiro’s way made Shiro want to cry because it was everything he’d ever wanted—and he selfishly wanted more.
Preseason practice was grueling, but it gave Shiro something to focus on. At least until even that became difficult—until the sight of Keith bent in half stretching himself out made Shiro’s mind wander, until the way sweat looked dripping off his beard made Shiro feel feral, until every single thing Keith did made Shiro want, want, want.
For as long as Shiro could recall he’d been praised for his compliance. As a child he’d never gotten in trouble, ever. He followed the rules and he understood what was expected from him. He’d learned to temper his desires with self restraint and moderation, aiming his goals high but always making sure his goals weren’t selfish or unrealistic.
He’d been eager to make his grandparents proud, and also maybe a little bit of a perfectionist with a fear of failure who was also a little bit of a people pleaser.
Whatever the motivation, the end result was the same—Shiro is always in control.
He doesn’t feel in control now.
Shiro feels like he’s on a roller coaster that he can't get off; worse he’s not sure he wants to. If pressed, he wouldn’t give this up, wouldn’t change anything about how he feels about Keith because for all Shiro has always done what everyone else wanted, his relationship with Keith is the most selfish he’s ever been.
Keith is his.
His best friend. His favorite person. His everything.
Well, he reasons, not everything. Which is exactly why Shiro needs to get his god damn heart and dick under control before he does something cosmically stupid and ruins everything.
“Shirogane, focus!” the coach yells when a ball comes speeding past Shiro’s head and straight into the net behind him.
It’s a simple command, one the coach has been yelling at the rest of the team all morning. But he has never had to remind Shiro to focus and the shame makes Shiro’s ears burn. Other people can lose focus, can miss a pass or a goal, not Shiro.
Across the field, Keith’s head swivels mid sprint to seek out Shiro, because of course he noticed the coach reprimanding Shiro, of course he did.
The rest of the team is too focused on their own drills and training but Keith never misses anything and a fresh wave of embarrassment courses through Shiro as he ignores the bile rising in the back of his throat. He’s ashamed and embarrassed about his inability to focus. Worse, Keith is watching Shiro lose control and it makes him feel like the ground is moving beneath him.
He’s the team captain. The Captain. Shiro is supposed to be a pillar of responsibility and hard work. He is supposed to set an example for his team, and right now he is failing miserably. Granted no one else but Keith and the coach seem to have noticed, but that’s two people too many in Shiro’s book.
Shiro needs to get himself under control and fast. Maybe, he thinks, if he just works even harder, pushes himself as hard as possible, then he can stop being such a mess.
With a plan, Shiro throws himself into his own training with single minded focus. Every time Shiro finds his mind wandering, he pushes himself all the harder until his body aches in ways that make him too tired to be turned on.
That night when Keith throws himself onto the couch beside Shiro with an exhausted groan it’s so easy to throw his arm around him and pull him into a hug without thinking about more. They’re both tired and if Keith needs a little comfort, then Shiro is going to give it to him without reading too much into the way Keith curls into the embrace and ends up settling himself on Shiro’s chest.
When Shiro goes to bed a few hours later, he’s too exhausted and sore to even think about anything except sleep.
Of course the next morning when Shiro awakens, refreshed from a good night's sleep his mind easily wanders to the sight of Keith stumbling into the kitchen in nothing but his threadbare pajama bottoms, barefoot and sleepy. His mind wanders further as Keith yawns, scratching his fingers against his belly and inadvertently pushing the waistband of his pajamas down to reveal the thick, dark curls above Keith’s dick. Shiro nearly chokes on his oatmeal and ends up going for a five mile run, ignoring Keith’s spluttering that it's a rest day.
By the time he gets back from his run he’s sweaty and pleasantly sore and his mind is blissfully empty, at least until he walks through the front door of their apartment to find Keith on the floor bent in half stretching—his impressive flexibility on display along with his perfect ass.
It’s all Shiro can do to hold himself together long enough to make it to the shower where he proceeds to jerk off hard and fast, forehead shoved against the tile wall as he bites on his bottom lip and thinks about Keith bent in half beneath him. Later he’s going to be very sorry he didn’t stretch before getting in the shower, but for now all Shiro cares about is finding some release.
If Shiro thinks the shower will help he’s sorely mistaken because no sooner has he dried off, gotten dressed and made his way to the kitchen then he finds Keith leaning against the counter with his lips stretched wide around a popsicle, red staining his lips and dripping onto his beard as he watches Shiro quite literally walk into a chair.
“You okay?” Keith asks, pulling the popsicle from his mouth. It further highlights how cheery stained his lips are and Shiro has never been less fine in his entire life.
“I’m good,” Shiro lies in the first of what will become the many lies he begins to tell.
When the coach asks Shiro if he’s adjusting to being captain alright, Shiro says yes.
When Keith quietly asks Shiro the next day if something is wrong, Shiro says no.
When the athletic trainer seeks out Shiro after a particularly nasty save and asks if his shoulder hurts, the truth is on the tip of Shiro’s tongue and all that comes out is a lie. Objectively Shiro is completely aware of the dangers of lying to the athletic trainer, and were any one of his teammates doing it he’d give them a lecture about protecting their body. Shiro’s greatest flaw has always been his inability to apply the same care and consideration he affords others to himself.
It doesn’t help that Shiro already needs more PT and work ups with the athletic director than anyone else on the team—both contingencies from the NCAA about his ability to play D2 sports with such a high tech prosthetic. Of course Shiro’s prosthetic doesn’t grant them any advantages, but it doesn’t stop opposing teams from accusing him of such when Shiro’s team wins. It also didn’t stop the full investigation he had to endure as a freshman including grueling physicals and training to prove it before the NCAA ruled he was allowed to compete with it.
Shiro fought so hard to be where he is that sometimes he forgets he doesn’t always need to fight.
Objectively Shiro knows what he’s doing is bad. Lying about his emotions is one thing, lying about his body something else. It’s just with every lie Shiro tells, the truth feels harder to see.
When classes start in a few days, Shiro will have lectures and homework and tutoring to distract him, leaving him no time to double his training. Then he can give his body a little bit of a rest. For now all he’s got is this—pushing his body just past the point of comfort in the hopes of distracting himself from his own mind.
It works.
Until it doesn’t.
Exhausted doesn’t even begin to explain how Shiro feels.
There’s an ache in his legs and a soreness in his shoulders that is definitely past the point of comfort, but he grits his teeth and puts on a smile as his team surrounds him on the pitch. Shiro’s not the only one exhausted after a grueling practice.
“That was a great practice today. You guys worked hard and I’m proud of you,” Shiro tells his team. Now get to the shower and rest. We've got our first scrimmage game next week and it’s against our rivals. We want to be prepared but rested. Go back to your rooms and take a much needed rest, guys.”
There’s a smattering of exhausted agreement, several of the guys giving Shiro a slap on the back as they pass him on their way to the lock rooms.
The only one who doesn’t move is Keith, feet planted in the grass as he stares at Shiro.
Everything about Keith is intense, and the way he is looking at Shiro right now is no exception. He’s watching him, though what he’s looking for Shiro has no idea.
With no one else around, it’s impossible not to stare at the way Keith’s jersey clings to his sweat soaked chest. The shirt is too dark to be see through, but it doesn’t need to be with the way it hugs the flat of Keith’s belly and clings his chest—so thin each of his pert nipples is visible.
Flustered and embarrassed by his inability to not stare, Shiro resolves to do an extra set of laps once Keith heads to the showers. Maybe even an extra set of his squat and press jumps. He’s pretty spent, but a little extra training won’t hurt. Just to be sure he’s in the best possible shape for his team and their game next week. They’ve all been working so hard, Shiro doesn’t want to let them down.
“You should go shower and rest,” Shiro tells him, mouth suddenly dry.
“You too,” Keith challenges, one eyebrow raised in a challenge.
“I’m just gonna grab these loose balls,” he says, scooping up the one closest to him. “I’ll be in eventually.”
“Shiro.”
“What’s up, Keith?” he asks.
“It’s just…,” but Keith pauses, filling his cheeks with air then blowing it out slowly.
“Are you okay?” Shiro asks.
“Am I okay,” Keith repeats. “Yes, Shiro. I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“You don’t need to worry about me, Keith.”
“I always worry about you.”
Throat tight, Shiro opens his mouth to tell Keith he doesn’t want him to worry about him, but the words won’t come out. For all the lying Shiro has been doing lately this is apparently one step too far because the selfish, needy part of Shiro that he does his best to ignore, secretly wants Keith to worry—to pay attention to him.
“I could help you clean up,” Keith offers, tongue peeking out from between his lips.
When Keith drags his tongue over his chapped bottom lip, the tip of it drags over the facial hair under his lip and Shiro grips the soccer ball in his hand with a frankly painful grip with his metal hand—images of his tongue flooding his mind.
He desperately wants to know how it feels to drag his tongue over Keith’s beard, to find out what the scratch might feel like against his own lips if Keith kissed him. That thought spirals into more as Shiro images Keith dragging his scruffy cheek against the hollow of Shiro’s throat before pressing him down into the sun warmed grass right now and taking care of him.
“Shit,” Keith curses, racing forward.
It takes Shiro’s brain a few seconds to catch up to what is happening, but when he does a swell of embarrassment unlike anything he’s ever experienced assaults him as he stares at the deflating soccer ball in his hand. He gripped it so hard he shoved a metal finger into it.
In his palm the ball wheezes air, deflating into a pathetic shell, much like Shiro himself. He loosens his grip, trying to quell the sudden racing of his heart but it doesn’t stop the air from leaving the ball.
“What happened?” Keith asks, no judgment in his tone as he pries the half flat ball out of Shiro’s hand.
“I, um—” Shiro starts but his brain doesn’t seem to be working, incapable of focusing on anything except the way Keith’s fingers feel when they skim over his metal palm. The sensory input is so much less in the prosthetic than his flesh hand and all Shiro can think about is the fact that if he is this hyper aware of being touched against his prosthetic palm then he can only imagine how it would feel to have Keith’s fingers on his bare skin.
Thinking about Keith touching him sends him down a spiral, and everything in Shiro’s mind tunnels as he stares at Keith standing before him, disheveled and sweaty with his flushed cheeks and wind chapped lips looking like sex on legs while staring at Shiro with the softest, almost worried expression.
Keith is so beautiful, his body as strong and graceful as the rest of him.
“Shiro.”
Something about the concern in Keith’s tone brings Shiro back from his spiral, and the reality crash is painful.
The ruined ball is being held between Keith’s delicate fingers and Shiro isn’t sure if he wants to scream or cry.
He ruined that ball and if he’s not careful he’s going to ruin things with Keith.
“I have to go,” Shiro blurts.
“What?” Keith blinks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
“Little extra endurance training,” Shiro mumbles, taking a step backwards and stumbling, nearly falling onto his ass. He catches himself before he falls, but just barely. “Just gonna go for a run.
Before Keith can try to stop him Shiro is taking off at a sprint, legs hitting the ground with excess force as his heart pounds in his chest. Peripherally he’s aware of Keith calling his name but Shiro doesn’t turn around, afraid if he looks at Keith for a second more he might say something that will ruin everything.
Chapter Text
Thoughts jumble as he recounts what he just did, recounts the way he’d held Keith a little too long in their morning hug, remembers the way his gaze lingered when Keith was freshly out of the shower yesterday. He wonders how obvious he’s been, if perhaps it's already too late.
Once the thoughts start it's hard to stop.
Air fills Shiro’s lungs as he runs but he hardly feels the oxygen, breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the exercise. It’s a clear sign from his body to slow, or stop, but Shiro ignores it.
The harder Shiro runs, the easier it becomes to stop thinking.
He runs further, faster, until his legs nearly give out and he’s breathless—only stopping when he runs face first into the chain link fence that surrounds the orange grove at the edge of campus. Without even realizing it, Shiro ran so far past their apartment he would cry but he’s too tired—too tired to even laugh at himself—too tired to do anything but gasp for breath.
Defeated, embarrassed and exhausted Shiro turns around and trudges back towards their apartment, the muscle in the front of his right thigh twinges uncomfortably. He’s not sure if he pulled something in practice or on this impulsive run, but by the time he gets home it feels like someone tightened the muscle with a screwdriver.
Preoccupied by the ache in his shoulder and the pain in his leg, he opens the front door with his guard down, entirely unprepared to find Keith sitting on the couch clearly waiting for him, a worried expression on his face as he turns towards Shiro.
There’s a book on the couch but it’s shut, and though Keith’s laptop is open to Netflix on the coffee table it’s on pause, almost as if Keith has been trying to find something to do and couldn’t. Almost as if he’s been sitting here waiting for Shiro.
The only thing worse than his own discomfort, is the rise of guilt. He hates the idea that he’s worried Keith.
Before Shiro can stutter out an apology for being such a rude weirdo earlier, Keith’s rising off the couch and stalking towards Shiro. He’s got the same serious look on his face that he gets right before a game—determined.
“Keith, I—”
“I know what’s going on,” Keith interrupts, stopping in front of Shiro.
Shiro deflates like the soccer ball.
“I’m so sorry, Keith.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?” Keith asks.
He doesn’t sound horrified or angry, just disappointed, and Shiro’s not sure if that’s better or worse.
“I thought it would be easier,” Shiro whispers, finding it hard to focus with the twinge in his leg and the throbbing in his shoulder. He deserves the ache. He deserves everything that’s coming to him right now. He was supposed to be stronger, to keep it in, to make sure he put Keith first.
“Easier for who?” Keith challenges.
“Um,” Shiro swallows, blinking away the sweat dripping into his eyes.
He’s so tired.
“Shiro,” Keith says, taking one step closer to Shiro.
Nothing makes sense, and everything hurts—his heart worst of all.
“I’m sorry, Keith.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” Keith asks, reaching out to wipe the sweat from Shiro’s brow with the palm of his hand. Even now, when Shiro’s messed everything up Keith is being so kind, kinder than Shiro deserves.
“Because I—” but Shiro can’t get the rest of the words out, shame makes his throat close off.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Keith says, pushing the sweaty hair off Shiro’s forehead. “I knew it. I should’ve said something when I first noticed.”
“Wait, what?” Shiro croaks.
“You think I didn’t notice?” Keith says, jabbing a bony finger into the center of Shiro’s chest. “The extra early morning runs. Pushing yourself harder than anyone else at practice. Cleaning up and letting the guys shower while you take on what should be all of our jobs. It’s too much, Shiro.”
Shiro swallows, trying to decide how to reply. On some level he knew Keith was watching, but hearing it out loud is confusing. The urge to lie, to insist he’s fine is there along with a shameful relief that someone has noticed he’s not okay.
There’s relief there too, that Keith apparently didn’t mean what Shiro thought he did, though its tempered by an unexpected disappointment. Horrible as the letdown was going to be, there was a relief in imagining he didn’t have to hide anyone.
This is for the best.
Probably.
“I just…” but Shiro trails off, unsure what he is.
“You worked so hard to get this position. You deserve to be our captain. You don’t need to prove anything to the coach, or the guys and sure as fuck not to me.”
“I couldn’t focus,” Shiro whispers, feeling something inside of him crack.
“Big fucking deal,” Keith scoffs. “As if the rest of us haven’t been chewed out by the coach a million times. You’re human, Shiro. You can have an off day. But this…pushing yourself this hard it’s not okay. You wouldn’t let any of the team treat themselves like this, so why are you?”
Because I deserve it.
Because I don’t know how to rest.
Because I need to earn people’s respect and love, especially yours.
Because I want to make you proud.
“Shiro,” Keith says, reaching out to give his shoulder a squeeze.
It’s a gentle touch really, meant to be soothing, but the ache in his shoulder from wearing the athletic harness too long is nearly unbearable and before Shiro can stop it a pathetic cry falls from his lips. He snaps them shut as soon as the sound is out, biting back the worst of his discomfort but the damage is done.
“That hurts?” Keith asks, dropping his hand.
“I’ll be okay,” Shiro says, because it’s the truth. He will be. Eventually.
“I didn’t ask if you’d be okay,” Keith grumbles, clearly unsatisfied with Shiro’s assurances. “I asked if it hurts.”
Shiro clears his throat, unable to avoid such a direct question a second time.
It shouldn’t be hard to admit, but it's one of the hardest things he’s ever said out loud. He wants so much to make his team proud, to make Keith proud—to be the captain they deserve. To be the friend Keith deserves.
For someone who has always been high achieving Shiro feels dangerously close to failure.
“Yes,” he admits quietly, “it hurts.”
“Did you do something during practice?” Keith questions, his touch infinitely lighter than before as he drags fingers over Shiro’s clothed shoulder.
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“The athletic harness for my prosthetic,” Shiro offers, proud of himself for keeping his voice even. “It’s designed to be tight, to ensure no matter how much impact the prosthetic takes it won’t come off. Which, you know, is important during a game.”
Keith’s face pinches. “Does it always hurt?”
“I mean not always. It’s a little uncomfortable but manageable. Strictly speaking I’m not supposed to wear it for so long. I put it on early today for extra drills before practice, and then we had training and then you know I ran and um…you know.”
The pinch between Keith’s eyebrows deepens. “Why?”
“Why what?” Shiro asks, holding his breath when Keith’s hand stops in the center of his chest. He wonders if Keith can feel his heart racing there, if he has any idea it's beating for him.
“Why do you push yourself so hard?” Keith asks, and this time he doesn’t lower his hand—fingers spread wide over Shiro’s chest as he locks eyes with Shiro.
“I have to,” Shiro whispers.
“Why?”
“Because,” Shiro croaks, suddenly feeling as if he’s standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Because why?” Keith pushes, in a way only Keith would dare.
For his entire life people have let Shiro get away with hiding, with pretending he’s fine when he’s not. It feels inevitable that Keith would be the one to finally call his bluff.
“I—” Shiro starts, struggling to find the right way to put it into words.
The fingers on his chest smooth sideways, until Keith’s palm rests directly over his heart. There’s no way Keith can’t feel every thud of Shiro’s heartbeat now and the knowledge has the last of Shiro’s fight dissolving.
This is just Keith. If he can’t be honest with his best friend, then who can he be honest with?
“I need to be strong—to take care of my team. My grandma. Everyone.”
Keith’s fingers seem to press into Shiro’s chest. “Who takes care of you?”
“Uh…me,” Shiro answers, unsure if it's a statement or a question. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to placate Keith.
“Can I see?” he asks, eyes on Shiro’s shoulder.
“It’s probably not that bad,” Shiro tries, already reaching for the back of his shirt behind his neck, tugging it off in one smooth go. Or at least as smooth as possible when he’s so sweaty his shirt is stuck to him and his shoulder aches when he lifts his arm over his head.
Try as he might to contain his wince the sound still comes out. When his face is no longer obstructed by the shirt Keith’s concern is palpable but he says nothing as his fingers seek out the thick straps of Shiro’s harness. Keith’s touch is gentle and warm as his fingertips ghost over the edges of the thick straps.
It’s proof of how uncomfortable Shiro is that his brain isn’t latching on to how close Keith is, how nice he smells, or the way his fingers feel against Shiro’s aching flesh. The only thing he can focus on is trying not to wince out loud because of how raw the skin beneath his harness feels, not wanting Keith to worry too much and afraid of having the touch taken away.
“Is it always this bad?” Keith asks.
“No,” Shiro answers, tipping his face down to study the play of emotions on Keith’s face. “It’s my own fault. I’ve been wearing it too much. I forgot the chafing gel today too which turns out is a big deal.”
Shiro tries to smile but Keith doesn’t mirror the expression and it becomes clear Shiro’s not going to be able to get away with downplaying the severity of things or charming his way out of this one.
“If the roles were reversed, would you let me do this?” Keith asks.
Shiro won’t lie. Not about this.
“No,” he answers, voice quiet but firm.
Keith’s jaw tenses as he nods, taking a step back and for a heart stopping second Shiro thinks he’s walking away. With the next step Keith takes it’s clear he’s not, and without a word Keith steps around to Shiro’s backside—fingers skimming over the holster at his upper shoulder and down to where it crisscrosses between his shoulder blades.
Being roommates in a tiny dorm means absolutely no privacy. He and Keith have seen each other in all stages of undress, but Shiro has never felt exposed the way he does now.
Though Keith isn’t touching him, his gaze is heavy. When his fingers do return, it’s enough that Shiro sucks in a shuddering breath, barely able to maintain his composure.
“Is this okay?” Keith asks, intention clear as he thumbs over the clip in the back keeping it in place.
Most of the time it’s a bit of a struggle to get the harness on and off but after the first few times where the PT had done it for Shiro, he’d stopped asking for help, stopped letting himself want help. Through a lot of practice, and complete stubbornness, he learned how to get the straps done by himself, even if it occasionally means it’s just a little tighter than it needs to be. Tighter is always safer than too loose, something Shiro learned first hand during a scrimmage game when he’d stopped a goal one handed and nearly had his prosthetic come off from the force.
A few times last year when he was stressed out or just a little extra tired than usual he entertained the thought of asking Keith for help. He knew the answer would be yes, always, but for reasons Shiro doesn’t like examining too closely he never managed to get the question out. Except Shiro’s not asking, Keith is, and that makes it so much easier to accept.
“Yes, Keith.”
“Okay,” Keith responds, no hesitation in him as he reaches for the clip—blunter, chewed off fingernails scraping over Shiro’s sensitive flesh as his fingers curl around the clip to pop it open.
No sooner has the harness loosened than Shiro groans in relief, unable to feel embarrassed about the sound he makes as his shoulders sag in relief.
“You’re not gonna do this again,” Keith tells him, in that same stubborn tone Shiro knows well.
Shiro breathes in deeply through his nose.
“You’re not gonna do this again,” Keith repeats, tone firm but his touch infinitely more gentle as he peels the harness off Shiro and rests his hand on the side of Shiro’s face to protect his cheek as he guides it over Shiro’s head.
“Okay, Keith.”
“Stupid fucking coach should’ve noticed,” Keith grumbles.
“It’s not the coach's fault,” Shiro protests, refusing to let anyone else shoulder the blame for his own stupidity. “I didn’t…I made sure no one noticed.”
Keith’s displeasure is evident from the way he clicks his tongue, dragging his fingers over Shiro’s back. Shiro doesn’t need a mirror to know the skin is chafed raw, that the harness has left indents in his flesh that will take an hour to leave. He’s seen it before, but he’s been so careful to make sure no one else ever has, always waiting for the rest of the team to shower before him or making sure to get dressed when Keith was in the shower when it got like this. Then again it’s never been this bad before.
“I’m sorry, Keith.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Keith asks, smoothing his palm up Shiro’s shoulder.
When he gives a squeeze Shiro nearly sobs, the muscles so sore his knees nearly give out. Shiro’s long toed the line of pushing himself too far, but he’s always been careful to pull back before it got this bad—not to protect himself but to avoid needing help. He’s clearly missed the mark this time and the shame is nearly as great as the pain.
“I’m sure it’s hard to see,” Shiro mumbles, hanging his head. As a kinesiology major; Keith’s passion is sports medicine, and Shiro’s sure seeing an athlete do this to himself is distressing.
“Yeah,” Keith replies, “I mean I don’t want anyone to hurt like this, but it's worse because it's you. You must know that.”
Shiro makes a pathetic noise as Keith lays a hand between his shoulder blades.
“Do you know that, Shiro?” He asks quietly.
“Yes,” Shiro whispers, laid bare by the admission.
The silence isn’t awkward—it never is with Keith—but it stretches for so long that Shiro begins to notice other things; the heaviness in his breathing, the uncomfortable itch from his prosthetic sock being too sweaty and most especially the way Keith’s thumb traces a circle in the center of his back.
“You need to shower.”
Shiro tries not to let his disappointment show. Whatever is happening is clearly over and really it’s for the best. Keith’s right he does need to shower, then maybe try and spread some cream on his shoulder and try to stretch out his leg.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Keith says, moving around to Shiro’s front before he can escape to the bathroom and hide in the shower.
“You’re gonna clean up. While you’re showering I’m gonna get you a snack and some Gatorade which you will finish then we’re gonna deal with the other stuff.”
We.
Such a simple word, although the effect is anything but.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” Keith says, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his most stubborn gaze on Shiro.
“I wasn’t going to say no,” Shiro whispers, cracking a smile.
Back when they first became friends, long before he’d realized how deep his feelings went, Shiro had simply wanted to encourage Keith. To show the other boy how capable and fierce he was. It’d never occurred to him, that the tenacity would be redirected towards himself.
“Oh, well—good,” Keith mutters, dropping his arms. There’s the faintest flush on his cheeks as he cocks his head and fixes his piercing gaze on Shiro. Sometimes it blows Shiro’s mind that every person who meets Keith doesn’t fall in love with him. “Do you need help?”
“Do I need—no,” Shiro stutters, realizing Keith means in the shower. He’s absolutely certain if Keith got anywhere near him naked or wet Shiro would simply drop dead. Besides, uncomfortable as he is, he's definitely capable of showering by himself.
“Oh, okay. Just…if you did. I’d help,” Keith tells him, voice dripping with sincerity.
Shiro exhales a shuddery breath, unsure how to express how much it means.
“Thank you, Keith.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” Keith mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his beard.
It’s adorable the way Keith can’t handle praise or a compliment, and Shiro really needs to get his ass in the shower before his brain latches onto the idea of Keith blushing for other reasons. He might be exhausted and emotionally compromised but even he has limits and the sight of a bit of pink rising on Keith’s cheeks as he scratches his beard is too much even for him.
“I’m gonna shower now,” Shiro says.
“Bring the kit when you come back,” Keith tells him.
“Okay, yeah,” Shiro agrees, hurrying to the bathroom before he embarrassed himself.
It’s only when he’s safely hidden in the bathroom with the door shut that Shiro fully lets out the breath he’s been holding, an unexpected wetness prickling at his eyes. Out there with Keith it’d been easier to stay in control. Not easy, but easier. In here with only his thoughts and his pathetic reflection staring back at him in the mirror, Shiro feels off center.
The man staring back at him in the mirror looks exhausted. He supposes maybe his poor sleeping habits since returning to school and the excessive training has caught up with him. That’s not even touching on the angry red lines that crisscross his right shoulder and chest from where the athletic harness chafed his skin or the faint bruise on his abdomen from where he’d taken a ball to the stomach on their first day back for preseason training.
All in all Shiro looks, well—not good.
Embarrassing as it is to admit, Shiro’s always been a little vain. It’s not that Shiro is conceited exactly, or he certainly hopes not. He doesn’t think his appearance makes him better than anyone else or anything. It’s just that looking put together—his clothing ironed, his hair always done and his undercut freshly buzzed every few weeks—are things that make Shiro feel in control.
Between the training regimen required for competitive sports and his prosthetic, there’s always been things about his body that were outside of his control—other people deciding how big or strong he needed to be. But this, how clothes or his hair look, are the parts of his appearance he is allowed to choose.
It makes Shiro feel good to look in the mirror and like what he sees. Right now he doesn’t like it. His hair is sweaty and limp, hanging across his forehead unattractively, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t had a decent night sleep in weeks, which technically he hasn’t, and the chafed skin rash on his chest is the opposite of pretty. He doesn’t even want to try and look at his back, assuming it’ll be the same.
Shiro looks how he feels and it makes Shiro deeply uncomfortable to be this exposed.
It’s no wonder Keith was so worried when he walked through the front door.
There’s no changing what’s done now, so Shiro sets about powering down his prosthetic and unlocking the upper bicep lock. As soon as the suction in the lock releases, Shiro sags—slumping against the bathroom counter, grabbing the wrist of his prosthetic before it falls.
The weight of such a durable, high tech prosthetic is great but that weight is more noticeable than ever right now. He’s spent countless hours over the last few years training his body to handle it but even as used to it as Shiro now is there are still times like now where its weight seems greater.
Sometimes Shiro’s body doesn’t feel like his own. Between the hospital stays and the surgeries and the physical therapy Shiro’s body had reached a point where it wanted to give up on him but Shiro hadn’t been ready to give up on himself. His grandparents, in a last ditch effort to give Shiro autonomy, caved to his request to play soccer for the summer and Shiro’s life had never been the same.
The grass beneath his cleats, a team who needed him, and finding reasons to move his body that weren’t dictated by doctors and physical therapists had been the lifeline Shiro needed. Yet as much as Shiro loves it, and loves what his body allows him, he still exists in a body that other people observe. He exists in a body that has to be a certain weight and physicality both for his specific prosthetic and his position on the team.
Staring at his reflection in the mirror as he put his prosthetic on the shelf, he has the uncomfortable realization that perhaps he’s reached a point of no return. Maybe this is it. Maybe Shiro can no longer handle his responsibilities. Maybe he’s a failure.
Maybe—maybe Shiro is panicking.
Of course recognizing he’s probably spiraling, and being able to stop the onslaught of fear and inadequacy these thoughts bring on are two entirely different things. Being able to handle things is something Shiro has always prided himself on, but he doesn’t feel capable of handling anything right now and it terrifies him a little bit.
With shaking fingers Shiro removes the compression sleeve off the stump, frowning when he realizes how sweaty the material is. That’s not uncommon given Shiro’s level of training for sports, but he’s usually much more careful to immediately remove the soiled compression sleeves and shower to ensure the skin stays infection free. This too is somewhere Shiro has no leeway to slack off; he strips the rest of his clothing off in a hurry, leaving it in a pile as he steps into the shower without waiting for the water to warm.
The spray is cold as ice on Shiro’s head and though he shivers at the shock of it, it’s a relief to feel something besides his own growing anxiety.
Taking comfort in the cold, he turns the knob to the left so the water stays cold as he grabs his soap and squirts some onto his loofa, using the long handled brush to wash even the toughest to reach parts of his body left handed, making sure to carefully wash his residual limb. He’s not sure if it’s his anxiety talking or the area is mildly swollen, but he probably needs to apply some of his prescription cream when he gets out and leave the prosthetic off until the next training.
Midway to a new panic about the prospect of being unable to compete in their first scrimmage game next week if he doesn’t take better care of himself, a knock sounds on the bathroom door.
“You doing okay in there?” Keith calls.
Shiro nearly drops his shampoo bottle, inadvertently squirting the shampoo onto his forehead instead of his hair.
“Yup,” Shiro yells back. “I’m good.”
It’s true, sort of. Or at least it is in a I’m-not-dead kind of way and Shiro only has the most fleeting guilt about lying right now. The last thing he needs is for Keith to realize what a hot mess he is at the moment and offer help. Something that Shiro might be too weak to refuse a second time.
“Okay,” Keith yells back.
With the echo of water on tile, Shiro can’t hear receding footsteps but since Keith doesn’t say anything else he can only assume he’s left. Still he stands frozen to the spot for long seconds before he comes back to his senses and hurries to scrub his hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut tight to keep the shampoo out of them before tipping his face back beneath the spray of water.
The water is cold, but soothing in a weird way too and Shiro isn’t sure how long he stands beneath the spray of water, no longer sure what exactly he’s trying to wash away.
Eventually the ache in his left thigh and the hole in the pit of his stomach from his raging hunger are too great to ignore and Shiro turns off the water and exits the shower.
Most of the time Shiro has a strict post-shower routine involving his leave in conditioner, body oil, cream for his limb and his facial care. Today, Shiro is too exhausted for any of it and the most he can manage is scrubbing himself dry and giving the long bit of his hair at the front a few sprays of a detangler before wrapping the towel around his waist before moving to the door then abruptly stopping—fingers loosely curled around the handle.
Keith’s seen him post shower plenty of times, but this feels different because it is different. Anytime things were rough, and this is admittedly the worst they've ever been, Shiro’s been careful to disguise his own fatigue or aches. He can’t do that now.
Swallowing around a sudden tightness in his throat, Shiro closes his eyes and pictures Keith’s face—the kindness in his eyes and the curve to his lips when he smiles. Were it anyone else, Shiro’s not sure he would have the courage to come out, but this is just Keith—his best friend—and if there is anyone in the world that Shiro is not afraid to be the ugliest version of himself with, it is him.
Opening the door isn’t easy, but knowing it’s Keith on the other side makes it easier.
No sooner has he stepped out of the bathroom than Keith’s peeking his head from around the living room wall from the kitchen.
“Are you hungry? You’re hungry right?”
Shiro nods, hyper aware of every bruise and ache that riddles his body right now. “I could eat.”
“Good. Yes. I’ll cook that frozen Stouffer's mac and cheese you love and there’s leftover grilled chicken from yesterday for extra protein. We can eat after, okay?”
After. After Keith helps Shiro deal with the repercussions of his own negligence and stupidity.
“Okay,” Shiro answers, hating how wobbly he feels.
“Great,” Keith says, his smile enough to keep some of Shiro’s dread at bay. It’s hard to be miserable when Keith’s looking at him like that.
“I’ll throw it in the oven while you get dressed. Don’t forget the first aid kit.”
“Okay, Keith.”
Keith gives him a ridiculous thumbs up before his head disappears, leaving Shiro to stare after him before he comes to his senses and drags himself to their bedroom. He grabs some clean boxers, sitting on the edge of his bed to pull them on one-handed before rifling through his drawer to find his rattiest, most worn pair of Star Wars pajama bottoms he’s had since he was eighteen. There’s a hole in the knee and his grandma has sewn reinforced fabric patches on the thighs where the material wore thin twice, but they’re Shiro’s favorite and a little more of the anxiety leaves him as he pulls on the worn cotton.
Without thinking he grabs a t-shirt, halfway to trying to pull it over his head before he realizes there’s no point because he’ll just have to take it off again for Keith to help apply the creams. He tosses it back into the drawer unfolded before shuffling his way back to the kitchen.
He hears Keith before he sees him, the familiar timber of Keith’s voice as he hums to himself bringing a smile to Shiro’s face as he detours to the bathroom for the first aid kit under the sink before making his way back to the kitchen where Keith’s just sliding the tray with the mac and cheese into the oven.
“It’ll take longer this way, but I know you like the way it tastes baked more,” Keith tells him.
Shiro is pretty sure he only told Keith about his preference once last year and the fact that he remembered does something funny to Shiro’s already fragile heart.
“Thank you, Keith.”
“It’s just frozen mac n cheese,” he shrugs, shutting the oven door with his hip as he turns and gives Shiro another smile. The worry from earlier is still there, only barely concealed by Keith’s boyish grin.
“You know you don’t have to do this, I can probably manage,” Shiro tells him, setting the first aid kit on the kitchen table.
This makes Keith’s smile fall. “You’re so stubborn.”
“Sorry,” Shiro apologizes.
“No apologizing,” Keith tells him, crossing the room and pulling out a chair. “Sit.”
“Okay,” Shiro says, dropping into the chair with a groan.
“How bad is it?” Keith asks, opening the latch on the massive first aid kit.
“It’s…manageable.”
“Your version of manageable cannot be trusted,” Keith grumbles, picking up different tubes of cream in search of the right one.
“The prescription cream is on the left side,” Shiro tells him. “And the anti-inflammatory one for the limb is...yeah that one.”
“Got ‘em,” Keith says, laying both creams on the table before fixing his gaze on Shiro again. “So on a scale of one to ten how bad is it?”
It’s so like Keith to not let it go and if Shiro weren’t so frayed he would laugh.
“Oh, uh…you know…like a five?” Shiro tries.
“So halfway to the most discomfort you’ve ever felt,” Keith challenges.
Shiro opens and shuts his mouth, unsure how to counter such an accurate assessment of his current state.
“It sounds worse when you say it like that,” Shiro eventually says, watching Keith’s nimble fingers uncap the tube on his prescription cream.
“It sounds exactly as serious as it actually is,“ Keith tells him, tone gentle but firm.
Something in Shiro’s chest loosens. It should be the opposite, and yet all Shiro can feel is staggering relief that he doesn’t have to pretend.
“I’m going to put the cream on now.”
“Okay,” Shiro whispers.
At the first touch of Keith’s fingers against his chest, Shiro sucks in a breath, the glide of cool cream and warm fingers over tender flesh is enough to have Shiro fighting back tears.
“Does it hurt?” Keith asks, holding his fingers still.
It does, but not in the way Keith means.
“I—” but Shiro stops, the lie he wants to tell stuck at the end of his tongue. He feels clumsy and inarticulate with Keith’s hands on him, like a boy again.
Clearly unsure what to make of Shiro’s reaction, Keith keeps his fingers still at the center of Shiro’s chest. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Please don’t,” Shiro manages to get out.
“Then I won’t,” Keith assures him, rubbing the thick cream into Shiro’s raw skin.
He’s gentle, but not shy with his touch—smoothing the creaming across the angry red marks that cross his chest in efficient and soothing strokes. He pauses twice to apply more, the medicinal scent filling Shiro’s nose as his eyes fall shut.
The relief is almost immediate, whether from the topical properties of his prescription or simply because it’s Keith applying it he isn’t sure. Usually, when Shiro needs to use this cream he has to apply it one handed, chastising himself from not having better preventive care as he uses two mirrors and an application wand to get hard to reach places. He could ask for help, and more than once he’s thought he should, but he never does. When Shiro first lost his arm, he’d felt so helpless. He doesn’t feel that way now, even when his prosthetic is off, but the habits he formed trying to claw his way back to his own autonomy are hard to shake.
Left to his own devices, Shiro’s not sure what he would’ve done today, too exhausted and sore to have done this himself. Luckily for him he’s not on his own, not anymore.
“I need to do your back now.”
“Mhmm,” Shiro hums, struggling to articulate anything through his own haze of exhaustion and shame.
For all he knows this is okay, that Keith doesn’t think less of him for seeing him like this, the voice in the back of his mind won’t shut up. His biggest fear has always been not being able to take care of himself, to the point he’s never let anyone else even try to help him.
With measured breaths, Shiro waits for Keith to move behind him, but he doesn't. Instead, Keith moves further into the spread of Shiro’s legs so that Shiro’s face rests against Keith’s tummy as Keith stretches his arm to apply the cream to his shoulder, leaving Shiro shocked.
This would be easier if Keith moved, and Shiro has no idea why he’s doing it this way, but he’s also not sure he cares because Keith’s skin is warm and when he reaches down between Shiro’s shoulder blades Shiro’s face smashes into the soft skin of Keith’s belly and it’s so fucking nice Shiro almost cries.
“You good?” Keith asks, long fingers spread wide at the center of Shiro’s back.
Shiro makes a sound which he hopes serves as an answer. It must work because Keith’s finger smooth sideways, getting the cream rubbed into every tender bit of skin.
“Relax,” Keith instructs, pausing his ministrations to bring his other hand around to the back of Shiro’s head.
The second Keith gets his long, delicate fingers at the base of Shiro’s skull something in Shiro crumbles and he relaxes his tense shoulders and stops holding his breath, letting Keith guide his cheek against Keith’s tummy.
“You’re doing so good, Shiro.”
It’s a good thing he can’t see Shiro’s face, because his physical reaction to that kind of praise from Keith is enough to have Shiro’s face betraying him. He’s not doing anything deserving of the praise, but it feels so good to hear he can’t care if it’s deserved.
“That’s it, relax. Breathe a few times with me, yeah? Feel the way I inhale and exhale and copy me, okay?”
“Okay,” Shiro whispers, the words garbled against Keith’s tummy.
“In…and out,” Keith instructs, belly expanding with each deep breath.
It’s oddly soothing to feel the movement against his cheek and Shiro finds his own breathing evening out, matching Keith’s.
“You always were good at following instructions,” Keith observes, the tips of his fingers stroking over the buzzed hair behind Shiro’s ear.
“It’s easy when you know what people want from you,” Shiro whispers.
“What if I want you to relax? Could you do that for me?”
“Oh,” Shiro exhales, unsure what to make of the strange buzzing that suddenly fills his ears or the way his heart quite literally skips a beat.
“If I told you to let go of the last of the tension in your body and just let me handle everything else, would you do that for me?”
“Yes,” Shiro answers.
I would do anything for you Shiro doesn’t add, wondering if Keith can feel the way his jaw trembles against his belly. If he does, he doesn’t mention it, something which Shiro is grateful for. In fact, for several minutes Keith says nothing, uncharacteristically quiet as he scratches his nails over Shiro’s buzz then slides his fingers into Shiro’s hair at the top, twisting the longest bits of hair at the front around his fingers before releasing it and starting over.
“You work so hard,” Keith tells him, fingers massaging Shiro’s scalp.
It’s not a question, but a statement, and Shiro isn’t sure how to respond. He does work hard. So hard. Yet for all he wishes people would see that, there’s a part of him that rebels against the recognition too.
“It’s nothing,” Shiro tries.
“No,” Keith challenges. “It’s everything.”
“Oh.”
“You work so hard,” Keith repeats, and this time Shiro doesn’t refute. “You work so hard, Shiro. I see it. The coach sees it. The team sees it. You make us proud. You’re a good captain.”
Overcome by emotion, Shiro turns his face into Keith’s belly, forehead shoved into Keith’s belly button as he fists his hands in Keith’s sweats.
It’s everything Shiro’s ever wanted to hear, and everything he would never dare ask for. All he wants is to make people proud of him, to support his team, to support Keith. Everything he does, every drop of blood and sweat and tears are worth it if it helps even one person.
“I’m going to use the other cream now. Just stay like you are, okay?”
“M’kay,” Shiro mumbles, pretty sure he couldn’t move if he tried.
Even knowing what is coming next, Shiro’s surprised when Keith’s fingers drop down onto his shoulder, massaging the anti-inflammatory cream into Shiro’s upper bicep. He doesn’t stop there, applying more cream to his fingers and massaging it into the aching muscle, and then lower to the gnarled flesh of his stump massaging it with a level of gentleness that leaves moisture pooling at the corners of Shiro’s eyes.
“It’s okay, Shiro,” Keith whispers. “I’ve got you.”
It’s not too much, because nothing with Keith ever is, but it’s a lot.
Every swipe of cream, every inch of skin Keith massages, has Shiro’s entire body trembling.
He’s sure Keith must feel the wetness against his stomach but he doesn’t stop touching, doesn’t ask questions, just quietly cares for Shiro in a way that leaves no room for Shiro to refuse the care.
“Lift it a little,” Keith instructs, smoothing both hands along the underside of his shoulder, not shying away from the thick scar that runs along the underside or the spot where his arm ends.
The more gently Keith touches him, the more Shiro can feel himself falling apart.
There’s nothing tentative in the touches, nothing superficial. Keith’s going above and beyond and it’s all Shiro can do not to openly sob.
It’s painfully easy to hold things in when no one challenges you, but Keith is challenging him and it hurts. It hurts so good.
It’s not long before Keith’s applied the cream everywhere it needs to be, and Shiro mentally prepares himself for the loss of the touch.
“Thank you,” Shiro murmurs.
“You don’t need to thank me. Besides I’m not done yet,” Keith says matter of factly.
Before Shiro can question this, Keith’s got his gloriously skilled hands back on Shiro’s shoulder. He has to take a step back to get the angle he wants and though Shiro mourns the loss of Keith wedged between his legs, it’s short lived because then Keith’s capable hands are digging into the sore muscles and manipulating the shoulder joint in small circles just like the physical therapist does when Shiro is in pain.
“How?” Shiro chokes out, unable to articulate the rest of the question. It doesn’t matter because Keith seems to understand what he means.
Keith always understands Shiro.
“I pay attention,” Keith answers without missing a beat.
Somehow, its that more than anything else that ruins Shiro. Keith never stops moving, sometimes has trouble following directions, and because of it people constantly assume he isn’t paying attention which couldn’t be further from the truth. Keith’s mind is incredible, it just works differently than his neurotypical peers and the fact that he’s used his keen observation skills and incredible visual learning abilities to figure out how to ease Shiro’s pain by watching other people work with Shiro is something his brain can barely process.
“The muscles are overworked,” Keith observes, testing his range of motion. “Probably from excessive training combined with the weight of the prosthetic causing a frozen shoulder.”
Shame floods Shiro that he let it get this bad. He should know better. He does know better. Before he can spiral, Keith is continuing.
“But that’s not a problem, we can work it out to relieve the pain and restore your range of movement.”
We. Again with the we.
No, you did this to yourself. No you need to stretch and fix it. Keith’s putting himself there alongside Shiro, buffering the self blame Shiro might otherwise wallow in.
The relief is almost more than Shiro can handle.
It’s more than emotional relief too, the physical relief is unlike anything Shiro’s felt in weeks and he settles in as Keith manipulates the joints, applying pressure to specific points in the tissue until the tightness loosens before moving on to Shiro’s neck. He goes so far as to work his fingers down Shiro’s spine until the tightness is gone and mobility has returned.
Shiro is still sore, but the pain that had him near tears and had been buzzing in his brain all day is gone. It’s incredible.
Keith is incredible.
He knows that Keith still isn’t one hundred percent sure what he wants to do after graduation and is still wavering between pursuing something directly sports related like a sports consultant or a strength and conditioning coach or working as a physical therapist.
Whatever he decides, Shiro knows he’s going to excel, and he can’t resist the urge to tell him as much.
“You’re good at this you know,” Shiro tells him, surprised at how shaky his voice sounds.
“This is hardly the most difficult of treatments,” Keith counters, in the same way he downplays everything about himself. Keith’s modesty borders on self depreciation and insecurity at times and Shiro cannot tolerate the idea that Keith ever doubts how singularly spectacular he truly is.
“You’re amazing, Keith.”
The fingers at his neck pause, Keith’s thumbs pressed into his trapezius as he breathes slowly.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Shiro challenges, and this at least is easy to say. “You’re the most incredible person I know.”
“I think maybe this is enough for here,” Keith says, pulling his hands back as he takes a step away from between Shiro’s legs.
Disappointment surges in Shiro, along with a prickle of worry he’s been too effusive again.
“Keith, I—” but before he can finish, Keith’s holding his hand out towards Shiro—palm upturned and inviting as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. It highlights the uneven ridges and the way Keith’s canine looks almost fanged. Another thing he knows Keith is a little insecure about but which Shiro finds incredibly endearing, though he’s so far managed to keep that information to himself.
Something of his confusion must show on his face because Keith moves his hand closer to Shiro’s, brushing his fingertips over Shiro’s knuckles. “I need you laying down for the next part.”
White noise floods Shiro’s brain as he twists his hand palm side up, watching Keith’s long fingers slip between Shiro’s much thicker fingers. Shiro’s brain short circuits over how easily Keith’s hand fits in his own, how much smaller it looks against his own broad palm and much thicker fingers.
Like the rest of Keith, his hands are delicate in appearance giving no indication of the strength that truly lies there—the calloused palm and rough knuckles leaving Shiro in no doubt that for as delicate as Keith’s physique might look, everything about him is strong, tough—unbreakable.
For all the questions Shiro has, he can’t seem to give voice to a single one of them, so he lets Keith lead him to their bedroom.
It’s easy to let Keith take the lead; to not ask questions as Keith pushes Shiro down on top of Keith’s bed rather than Shiro's, to stop over thinking and simply focus on the sight of Keith’s pretty eyes and boyish smile as he grins at Shiro and lifts his leg.
Lifts his leg to stretch.
Okay, yeah, this makes a lot more sense than all the fantastical places Shiro’s mind was about to travel. Of course this is what Keith is doing, because he is a decent percent who cares about Shiro’s physical health and he’s such a good friend.
It’s not Keith’s fault Shiro’s feeling emotionally fraught and vulnerable and let himself entertain Keith wanting him in his bed for other reasons. It’s not Keith’s fault at all and Shiro needs to keep his stupid fragile heart in check before he does something stupid.
“This okay?” Keith asks, turning his face to the side.
It would be more okay if Keith’s beard wasn’t resting against the inside of Shiro’s clothed knee, leading him to wonder what that might feel like to have that scruff pressed up against his bare skin.
It would be more okay if Shiro’s leg wasn’t on fire and this stretch wasn’t the best and worst thing to happen to him in two weeks.
It would be more okay if Shiro weren’t so painfully, desperately in love with Keith that he can feel himself falling apart with every second that Keith looks into his eyes.
“Yes,” Shiro answers, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. “This is okay.”
He keeps the tears at bay, barely—jaw quivering and the corners of his eyes pooling with moisture as Keith lowers the leg and lays his elbow into the knot of muscles, rolling his body back and forth and offering Shiro relief so swift and effective he can barely breathe.
“Still good?” Keith asks, one elbow kneading into Shiro’s thigh and the other braced on Shiro’s knee as he hovers over Shiro.
“Yes,” Shiro croaks, sounding far less sure this time.
The skin between Keith’s eyebrows pinches but he stays quiet, his gaze focused as he continues working at the tight muscle until suddenly it’s not so tight anymore.
“It’s okay now,” Shiro whispers, unsure why Keith is still leaning over him if he doesn’t have to.
Keith swallows audibly as he brings his knee onto the edge of bed, hovering there for several seconds before lifting his body up and swinging his other knee over Shiro’s leg. He’s not lying on top of Shiro, in fact he’s not even touching him, but Shiro is acutely aware of every place their bodies don’t touch as Keith lowers his hands to either side of Shiro’s head.
Unable to restrain himself, Shiro’s hungry gaze roams over the lines of Keith’s body from the dark hair on his forearms up to his muscled biceps and strong chest then down to his narrow hips. Keith is so attractive it’s hard to breathe, and whatever self control Shiro’s been holding onto is apparently gone because Shiro can’t stop himself from looking—eyes exploring boldly as they travel up the line of Keith’s throat watching his Adam's apple bob beneath the scruff on his throat. His eyes travel further up, tracking the sharp curve of Keith’s jawline, the pretty swell of his full lips and the way his new beard seems to highlight both features.
Most of the time, Shiro tries not to stare at Keith for too long, afraid of what might happen if he ever let himself look at Keith like this.
He’s looking now and he can’t stop. Keith’s going to notice.
“Shiro.”
Keith has noticed.
“Yeah, Keith?” he asks, trying to keep his racing heart under control.
“Is this…is this what I think it is?”
“I—” but Shiro cuts himself off, the words stuck in his throat.
He wants to lie, to protect his friendship with Keith, to protect his own heart which feels like it might break if Keith walked away right now. For all Shiro wants these things, what he wants more is to be honest with Keith, to not lie in his face like this anymore. Keith deserves better even if it might destroy Shiro.
“I’m sorry, Keith.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m so sorry,” Shiro repeats, ashamed at the way he still can’t look away.
“I’m confused,” Keith says, cocking his head to the side. It’s adorable really, some of his hair falling into his eyes with his lips pursed the way he always does when there’s something he can’t quite figure out.
“I like you.”
“Yeah,” Keith says, nose wrinkling up. “And?”
“I like you,” Shiro repeats, because he’s clearly not being explicit enough. “As in more than friends.”
“Then why are you apologizing?” Keith asks, lowering himself down onto his elbows so that his face is only a few inches from Shiro’s.
His proximity is devastating.
“Because you don’t feel the same way,” Shiro answers softly.
“Says who?” Keith asks, the tip of his thumb brushing over the shell of Shiro’s ear.
“Wait, what?” Shiro gasps.
“Who says I don’t like you back?” Keith repeats.
“Um…oh,” Shiro exhales. “I thought…that is…you never said.”
“Neither did you,” Keith points out. He doesn’t look confused anymore. He looks happy.
“I…yeah, fair,” Shiro huffs.
“You know, you could ask me now,” Keith tells him, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Somehow, even with all the arrows pointing towards yes, it’s surprisingly hard to get his next few words out. Nothing about this situation feels real and Shiro would swear he was dreaming except Shiro’s imagination has never been this good.
“Keith, do you uh…do you have a crush on me?” Shiro asks, shocked at the way the question makes his own heart skip a beat.
“Obviously,” Keith laughs, and his delight is so bright and warm that Shiro can’t feel anything but equally joyful. “I thought it was obvious.”
“What?” Shiro blinks, and this time it's his turn to be confused.
“I mean…wasn’t it?” Keith whispers, his usual confidence faltering.
“Not to me,” Shiro answers.
“Oh,” Keith exhales, blowing some of the hair from his eyes. “But all the touching…and the…the cuddling. I thought um…you weren’t giving me signals?”
“Giving you signals,” Shiro croaks, pretty sure his face is on fire.
“I mean…you were so obvious. I thought, shit.”
“You thought what?” Shiro asks, needing to know.
“I thought you were just being patient. I know…I know it took me a while to make a move but I thought…I thought you were waiting for me.”
“Oh my god,” Shiro groans, covering his face with hands as he imagines Keith knowing Shiro was staring all those times. “You knew?”
“Was I not supposed to?” Keith asks, lowering himself so that he’s sitting over Shiro’s thighs.
“No,” Shiro answers, the euphoria of Keith’s confession being crushed by Shiro’s crippling embarrassment.
Did Keith know he woke up with a hard on because of him? Did Keith know he is the reason why Shiro jerked off in the shower so much these last two weeks? Did he know how turned on Shiro was by the beard? It’s all too much for Shiro’s pathetic gay heart to even try to comprehend.
All this time Shiro thought he was doing a damn good job of hiding things, but it turns out he wasn’t.
“Oh,” Keith mumbles, something unnaturally small about his voice. “I thought, but maybe…maybe I was wrong.”
It’s not until he feels Keith trying to crawl off the side of the bed that Shiro comes to his senses, his eyes flying open as he flings his hand out to wrap it around Keith’s wrist—grip tight enough to feel the erratic racing of Keith’s pulse against the pad of his forefinger.
“You’re not wrong.”
“I’m not?” Keith asks, and the uncertainty in his voice is enough to wash away all of Shiro’s insecurity. Whatever nervousness he feels pales in comparison to the need to reassure Keith he is wanted.
“I like you,” Shiro assures him. “I like you so much.”
“You didn’t seem too happy about me knowing before,” Keith says, the uncertainty in his tone making Shiro think twice about his next few works. Keith’s not angry, because of course he’s not, he’s too good for that. But he sounds unsure. Shiro can’t blame him.
“I thought I was doing a good job of hiding how I felt,” Shiro admits, willing to suffer through this embarrassment if it can pressure Keith.
“You’re joking,” Keith says, sobering. “Oh, you’re not joking.”
“No,” Shiro says quietly.
“But…you always touch me. You don’t touch the other guys, and you…you um, you cuddle me on the couch or last year on the bed when we studied or watched Netflix. I thought that was um…I thought it was special.”
“It is special,” Shiro blurts. “You’re special. I’m a mess.”
“You’re sweet,” Keith says, moving his hands to Shiro’s belly. They’re warm, exploratory as his fingers spread wide and softly stroke up his belly towards his chest. “You really thought I couldn’t tell?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“You got a hard on when I came back from backpacking.”
“You noticed that,” Shiro croaks, his voice as high pitched as if he’d sucked a full balloon worth of helium.
“I mean you’re kinda big,” Keith smirks. “Hard not to notice.”
“I mean I’m…more than average,” Shiro says, embarrassed but not too much to appeal to Keith’s obvious interest in his dick. He might be a hot mess, but he’s a twenty one year old hot mess virgin whose sexy soccer player best friend is sitting in his lap shirtless so really the fact that Shiro is stringing complete sentences together is really incredible right now.
“Nothing about you is average,” Keith grins, giving Shiro’s chest a playful squeeze.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always,” Keith answers.
“If you, you know…you knew how I felt. For a while,” Shiro says, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Oh that,” Keith exhales, smoothing his hands back down to Shiro’s waist—fingers digging into Shiro’s hips. “This is all…new for me. You know that. I’ve dated girls, but never a guy. And it’s stupid. I know that it shouldn’t be different but it felt different.”
“However you feel isn’t stupid,” Shiro assures him.
“See, you’re always like this. You’re so confident and sure in who you are and you’re so fucking nice all the time, and you’re smart and you’re handsome and fuck,” Keith groans. “Do you have any idea how terrifying it was to realize that not only did I have a crush on the hottest guy on campus he was also my best friend. You deserved more than someone still trying to figure out their sexual orientation.”
“You know you don’t need a label to be valid.”
“I know that,” Keith says, thumbing over Shiro’s belly button. “I do. And I agree with you. Label can be cool but they’re also not what makes someone who they are. Someone really smart told me that.”
Shiro can’t help but smile, surprised his words had such an impact.
“That wasn’t all of it though.”
“No?” Shiro asks, giving into temptation and sliding his hand up to rest at Keith’s lower back. The effect is instant and Keith leans into the touch like a cat, his eyes falling shut when Shiro’s palm glides up his spine.
“I don’t know if I can talk while you’re touching me,” Keith confesses.
“Sorry,” Shiro says, dropping his hand.
“No apologizing, and definitely do that again when I’m done. Just…it’s distracting and if I’m distracted I won’t get this out,” Keith says, adopting his most serious expression.
“Okay,” Shiro says.
It takes Keith a second to speak, his lungs filling with air several times before he finally starts talking. “You were the first Demi person I’ve ever met. Or the only out one anyway.”
“I didn’t know that,” Shiro says, though he’s not that surprised. In high school he was the only demi person he knew, and while he’s certain there are more at college there aren’t a lot.
“I don’t want you to think badly of me.”
“I would never, Keith.”
“I just…I didn’t really know? It’s not like there’s much rep for aces, especially demi. It was…an honor that you trusted me to tell me about yourself. But you said something last year, that you needed connection and commitment to want things…to want sex. Not that you have to want sex with me. Um, fuck. Sorry I’m fucking this up.”
“You’re doing fine, Keith.”
Keith nods, licking his lips. “I know it’s more than sex, but that it’s part of it too, for you. You said that to me.”
“I did,” Shiro agrees, recalling many of their most candid conversations about sexuality and identity, usually held in the middle of the night over bags of peach rings and Keith’s favorite spicy takis. Most of these conversations happened long before Shiro realized he was falling for Keith, and his own candor about dreaming of finding someone he trusted enough to want all those other things with, might not have been quite so soul-baring had Shiro realized at the time that the person he wanted was Keith. He’s glad for it now, glad that he and Keith got to know each other as nothing more than friends first, their connection based on more than mutual attraction. It’s reassuring for Shiro to know that he won’t have to explain himself, won’t face failed first dates that end in someone misunderstanding his demisexuality or trying to see if they can be the exception and make Shiro want sex on the first date if they make it good for him.
“So that’s why,” Keith says.
Shiro waits for more explanation, but none comes.
“I’m not sure I'm following,” Shiro confesses.
“Ugh. You're so much better at explaining things than me,” Keith says, visibly frustrated.
“I think you do amazing,” Shiro tells him, sliding his palm back up to Keith’s lower back. Unlike before he doesn’t move it, just lets it sit there resting at the base of Keith’s spine and relishing in the way Keith’s entire body noticeably relaxes at the contact.
“I needed to be sure I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
Of all the things Shiro expects to hear, this isn’t one of them. “Keith, you’d never hurt me.”
“Not on purpose,” Keith croaks, sounding pained at the very prospect. “But I could. I could hurt you by accident and I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I could see the way you looked at me and I knew that if I wasn’t careful and didn’t figure out my own shit first that I could break your heart.”
“How do I look at you?” Shiro dares to ask.
Beneath his palm Keith’s spine expands as he takes a deep breath. “You look at me like I’m the most important person in the world, Shiro.”
Chills run down Shiro’s arm as he blinks at Keith. It’s certainly not what he expected.
“I guess I don’t have as good of a poker face as I thought,” Shiro tries.
Keith huffs out a laugh. “Shiro, you don’t have any fucking poker face.”
“Oh,” Shiro blushes.
“It’s sweet,” Keith assures, giving Shiro’s tummy an affirming squeeze. “But it’s also why it took me a while. And I just…need you to understand that it wasn’t because I didn’t like you back. Fuck, if anything liking you was what took so long.”
“That’s a little confusing,” Shiro admits.
“You’re telling me,” Keith snorts, an adorably boyish smile on his face. “I just…feelings are really fucking hard. All I knew for sure was that this was important and I couldn’t fuck it up. You deserved way more than some fumbling as I figured out my stuff.”
“I would’ve taken your fumbling,” Shiro mumbles.
“I know you would’ve,” Keith tells him. “Because…because you’re you and that’s exactly who you are. You help people and you buffer things so other people won’t hurt or suffer but someone needed to protect you in all this. I needed to protect you.”
Shiro opens and closes his mouth several times, but nothing comes out. Keith is right, Shiro would’ve broken his own heart a million times over if it meant helping Keith figure his stuff out. He just didn’t know Keith knew that.
“You deserve more than me figuring things out at your expense. You deserve everything,” Keith tells him, both hands sliding up Shiro’s chest as Keith lowers himself so that they’re chest to chest, their faces just inches apart now. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I wasn’t going to risk anything, risk hurting you until I understood what my feelings meant. Until I knew exactly what I wanted.”
“Does this mean you know what you want now?” Shiro asks, hyper aware of the way his heart starts racing. Even more aware of the way Keith’s heart thuds against his chest.
“You,” Keith answers, the warmth of his breath against Shiro’s lips enough to have Shiro nearly whimpering. “I want you.”
“Oh,” Shiro exhales.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time if I’m being honest, but I was…scared, and confused. But this summer gave me a lot of time to think…about myself and the world, and you.”
“You thought about me?” Shiro asks, amazed he hasn’t imploded from sheer joy.
“Are you kidding?” Keith huffs, stretching his long legs out so that his bare toes brush against the top of Shiro’s feet. “You’re practically all I thought about. I um…actually…I…this is too hard to say, let me just show you,” Keith mumbles, offering Shiro no warning before he rolls off Shiro and onto the floor, springing up with cat-like reflexes.
“What are you doing?” Shiro asks, leaning on his elbow as he watches Keith disappear halfway beneath the bed, pulling out shoes and a box of random stuff he’s managed to accumulate in just two weeks, before he returns from under the bed with his suitcase.
“You’ll see,” Keith says, almost cryptically as he unzips the suitcase. It looks empty to Shiro but he watches as Keith slips his hand into the flat pocket and pulls it back out, something clutched between his closed fist.
Curious, Shiro lowers himself back down onto the pillow while Keith kicks all his stuff back under the bed before climbing back on top of Shiro. It’s not until Keith’s weight is settled atop him that Shiro realizes he was holding his breath. He lets it out now, comforted by the way Keith so easily makes himself comfortable again—bony toes poking Shiro’s ankles and a warm tummy pressed against his own as Keith rests his elbows on Shiro’s chest, mystery item still hidden in his closed fist.
“You might think it’s silly.”
“I won’t.”
“If you do though, you can tell me.”
He absolutely will not, but he doesn’t tell Keith that, curious to find out what has him so uncharacteristically nervous.
“The thing is, I kind of picked up a new hobby while Pop and I were backpacking. I couldn’t bring much in my pack because it was already so full of supplies but I knew I’d get twitchy if I didn’t have something to do at night around the fire, so I uh, I got a new hobby. Went to the craft store the night before we left and bought some stuff and um you know…that is…here,” Keith mumbles, shoving his hand into Shiro’s face. Slowly he uncurls his fingers to reveal a string bracelet in the center of his palm.
“Is this for me?” Shiro asks.
“Yes,” Keith confirms, expression unreadable as Shiro takes the bracelet from Keith’s hand, holding it between his fingers.
“The first couple I made were pretty ugly. I threw them in the fire. But eventually the braiding started to look less like a toddler and more like an actual bracelet.”
“It’s beautiful, Keith,” Shiro says, turning it over and marveling at the way Keith’s managed to make the black and white strings look almost like waves. The detail is incredible, and it’s so easy to picture Keith sitting cross legged next to a fire, his delicate fingers making this. “You’re beautiful.”
Keith’s mouth falls open as his cheeks flush pink. “Shiro.”
“It’s true. You’re so beautiful, Keith.”
“Oh my god,” Keith groans.
“Should I not say that?”
“No you can say it,” Keith mumbles, the red on his cheeks deepening as he pokes a finger at Shiro’s wrist. “Do you uh, really like the bracelet though?”
“I don’t like it, I love it,” Shiro assures him. “Thank you.”
“I know friendship bracelets are kind of a little kiddish but I thought of you, every night. I’d watch the stars and think about your smile and coming home to you while I made this.”
It’s Shiro’s turn to blush. “Keith.”
“You must know,” Keith whispers, pulling the bracelet from Shiro’s palm to pull it down around his wrist.
“Know what?”
“How much you mean to me,” Keith tells him, tying the strings at Shiro’s wrist so the bracelet won’t fall off. “Do you know?”
“I’m starting to,” Shiro whispers.
“I want to kiss you,” Keith blurts.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Shiro nods. “I really, really want to kiss you too.”
“So just to clarify, we both like each other and we both want to kiss.”
“Yes,” Shiro laughs, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.
“I’ve never kissed a boy,” Keith announces, sounding both nervous and excited.
“I’ve never kissed a girl so I don’t know if it’s different, but it seems like it’s not so much about the gender and more just about how you feel about the person.”
“That is such a you thing to say,” Keith says.
“Is it?” Shiro blinks.
“Yeah,” Keith nods. “I like it.”
“Oh…good,” Shiro breathes, tracing his fingers down Keith’s spine to rest at his waistband. Its’ hard to believe he’s actually touching Keith like this, his fingers allowed to roam over Keith’s bare back as Keith lays on his chest.
Keith shivers. “Do you like kissing Shiro?”
The question catches him off guard. For all it feels like they’ve shared everything there is so much they haven’t shared, especially about things like this.
“I think so. Maybe? It’s been a hot minute. Guys are stupid…I mean not you but some guys.”
“Do I need to beat anyone up?” Keith asks seriously.
“No,” Shiro assures him. “It doesn’t matter. Let's just say it’s been a while since there was anyone I trusted enough to kiss.”
“But you trust me,” Keith says, and though it's not a question Shiro answers anyway.
“More than anyone.”
“I’ll be worth it,” Keith says, a fire blazing in his eyes. “I wanna be good for you.”
“You already are,” Shiro tells him, flattening his palm at Keith’s lower back.
Keith’s inhale is sharp, his chest filling with air as his eyes widen.
“I could make you feel good,” Keith whispers. “If you…if you want.”
Unbidden, the image of Keith naked and flushed beneath him flashes through Shiro’s mind as he pictures all the ways Keith might be good for him. The way Keith’s back might arch if Shiro sucked on his hip or how his cock might harden if Shiro touched him. Would he spread his legs? Would he beg?
Or maybe Keith would want to be on top, strong arms bracketing Shiro in as he fucked him. Shiro’s never had sex, never been sure he’d want it with anyone. He wants it with Keith.
He wants everything with Keith.
Just thinking about Keith and sex has Shiro’s ears ringing and his cock hardening as he imagines Keith’s gloriously long fingers on his body, imagines Keith’s beard rubbing against his neck or the insides of his thighs.
For all Keith is reactionary and bold, he’s other things too—thoughtful, gentle. He’d be gentle with Shiro, he’s sure of it. As gentle as he was earlier, tending to Shiro’s needs with hyper focus.
Keith’s so intense, especially when he’s focused on something. It’s heady to be the thing he focuses on, the thing he wants.
Suddenly the reality of what’s happening hits Shiro and he can barely breathe.
“Shiro.”
“Yeah?” Shiro croaks.
“Is this too much?” Keith asks, his concern evident as he pushes the hair back off Shiro’s forehead.
Shiro shakes his head, pretty sure he might die if Keith stopped.
“Well we definitely can’t have you dying, big guy.”
“Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” Shiro grumbles, face heating up with embarrassment, and more than a little arousal at the nickname.
“You can you know, say things out loud,” Keith tells him. “Or tell me what you want. What you like.”
“I like you.”
“I did gather that much,” Keith grins, wiggling his hips like an excited cat. “I like you too. Just so we’re absolutely clear and on the same page.”
“That’s good,” Shiro exhales, struggling to put words together with Keith’s solid weight atop him. If Keith wiggles down even an inch or two more, he’s going to realize how hard Shiro is and they haven't even kissed yet.
The prospect is surprisingly thrilling.
It occurs to Shiro that rather than wanting to hide his reactions he wants to share them, and wants Keith to know how desperately he wants him. He has no desire to pretend any longer, not with Keith, but actually saying what he wants feels insurmountable.
“Do you know what I want?” Keith asks.
“What?”
“To kiss you.”
“Please,” Shiro gasps.
Keith’s responding smile is a precious thing; as warm and steady as Keith himself.
It’s hard to say who moves first, or maybe a more accurate observation is that they move together—Shiro’s head raises off the pillow to meet Keith as he lowers himself. It’s steadying to meet in the middle, both of them equally eager, as Keith presses his lips to Shiro with the same feisty enthusiasm he plays soccer with.
Keith’s lips are softer than they look, and warmer too. It’s everything Shiro imagined kissing was supposed to be when it was someone you cared about, and it’s all Shiro can do to keep himself from falling apart as Keith’s lips slide against his own.
He’s doing a damn good job of controlling himself, at least until Keith’s tongue slips into Shiro’s mouth and Shiro can taste the faintest hint of peach rings on his tongue.
Peach rings. Keith’s favorite candy. He must’ve been eating some just before Shiro got home, and now Keith’s pretty mouth tastes like peaches. Shiro is never going to be able to watch Keith eat them again without thinking about this moment—without thinking about the weight of Keith above him and the way Keith tastes.
It’s arousing and intoxicating, and Shiro’s body reacts without his permission, his watch buzzing against Keith’s back.
Shiro doesn’t need to look at the stupid watch to know what’s happening, and he only hopes Keith won’t notice.
Observant as ever, Keith immediately does, pulling out of the kiss with wide eyes and swollen lips. “Is that your heart rate alert?”
“Yes,” Shiro answers, ears burning. Having lived and trained with Shiro all last year, Keith’s been witness to Shiro’s watch going off on more than a few occasions, but that was always after an intense workout.
“Are you uh…excited or nervous?” Keith asks, studying Shiro’s face intently. Before Shiro can answer Keith shifts, just enough that his ass is now directly on top of Shiro’s rock hard dick. “Oh, wow. Okay, that answers that question.”
“I’ll just die now,” Shiro mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut as the buzzing at his wrist continues.
“Hey now, didn’t we talk about this already? No dying on my watch.”
“What are you going to do, fight death?” Shiro snorts, eyes still firmly shut.
“If I have to. Or your brain. I’ll fight anyone and anything I need to in order to protect you.”
“Keith,” Shiro huffs, opening his eyes for that.
“It’s true,” Keith says, tone serious. “I’ll protect you.”
“I can protect myself,” Shiro says quietly.
“Coarse you can,” Keith says, in a way that buffers any unease Shiro might otherwise feel.
Growing up a sickly kid he got used to people fusing, taking his autonomy away in a desperate attempt to protect him. As a disabled man playing D2 sports, he’s faced similar challenges more often than he wants to admit, his own body often the subject of other people’s theoretical discussions, stupid NCAA court rulings, or even pity.
Keith doesn’t pity Shiro though, and doesn't want him to stop living. He saw the marks and bruises on Shiro's body from training and didn’t ask Shiro to quit or hold himself back, he said we will handle this together and that makes all the difference.
“Is it so bad…if I know?” Keith asks softly, a sudden tightness in the way he holds himself.
“No, Keith,” Shiro whispers, gliding his fingers up Keith’s spine so his hand lays at the back of Keith’s neck. “It’s not bad.”
Whatever tension is in Keith’s body leaves the moment Shiro’s fingers stroke over the back of his neck, brushing aside the long hair there to give it a gentle squeeze.
“It’s not bad,” Shiro repeats, needing to be sure Keith knows. “I’m just a little embarrassed.”
“Why?” Keith asks, in a way only he would. Keith’s so self assured, so comfortable in his skin, and Shiro loves that about him but it’s hard to relate to someone who doesn’t get embarrassed about anything.
“I feel…exposed,” Shiro answers.
“And that’s bad?” Keith asks.
“It’s scary,” Shiro admits, at a loss to explain that it’s so hard to let go, even though Shiro trusts Keith more than anything.
“What’s scary about it?” Keith questions.
“I don’t know,” Shiro answers automatically.
“Okay,” Keith says, accepting the answer without argument. Keith’s ability to recognize when he can push Shiro and when to let things go never fails to amaze Shiro. He’s not pushing now, but that makes Shiro want to open up all the more. Keith isn’t demanding anything and that makes Shiro want to give.
“I’m scared of not being perfect,” Shiro hedges, fighting off the wave of shame he feels saying this out loud. “I know that sounds stupid because i don’t even think I’m perfect. I don’t think I’m better than anyone or anything, but at the same time i’m just—”
“Scared,” Keith finishes, no judgment in his tone.
“Yeah,” Shiro swallows.
“Are you scared of me, Shiro?” he asks, lowering his face so his lips almost touch Shiro’s.
“Yes. No. A little maybe,” Shiro confesses, trying to clarify his swirling thoughts. “Not of you, but of fucking things up. I don’t know what I'm doing right now and that kind of terrifies me. How can I make sure I don’t fail if I don’t know what to do?”
“You don’t always need a plan. Sometimes you can just wing things.”
“Not this,” Shiro protests, smoothing the flat of his hand up the curve of Keith’s spine. “You’re too important.”
“Oh,” Keith exhales.
“I can’t mess this up,” Shiro tells him. “I can’t lose you.”
“You’re not gonna lose me, Shiro.”
“You don’t know that,” Shiro whispers, embarrassed at the way his jaw trembles.
Saying the words out loud unlocks a flood gate. This, he knows, is the crux of why he can’t relax.
His sports career won’t last past college, the intensity of D2 sports already taking a toll on his body that he won’t be able to sustain for more than a few years. It’s why he works so hard academically, so that he can have a career to fall back on when his body eventually fails him. It helps that Shiro genuinely loves his major, but it doesn’t completely change the fact that the pressure he puts on himself to perform perfectly in academics is born out of the knowledge that his body will eventually be unable to sustain the sport he loves as much as breathing.
For as long as he can remember, Shiro’s been acutely aware of his own physical limitations and abilities, and has a pragmatic ability to recognize his own limitations. It’s a skillset that helped him develop plans, and back up plans.
But this? This is so outside the realm of things Shiro can plan.
Being with Keith is everything Shiro has ever wanted, and that’s exactly why it terrifies him. He doesn’t know if he will be good at it, and the prospect of failing—of hurting Keith or losing him one day—makes Shiro’s throat tight.
“I’m sorry,” Shiro whispers, breathing so deeply through his nose he gets light headed.
“Hey, it’s just me,” Keith soothes, nudging his nose into Shiro’s cheek. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Because this isn’t the reaction you wanted.”
“Last time I checked you can’t read minds,” Keith chides, kissing the corner of Shiro’s mouth. “I know this is hard for you to believe, but I didn’t have some mental image of how this would go. I didn’t plan how this might go.”
“That’s because you don’t plan anything,” Shiro points out.
“Exactly,” Keith grins, and Shiro can feel the curve of his smile against his cheek. “I don’t plan. And I’m not disappointed or upset or whatever else worst case scenario that sexy big brain of yours is imagining.”
“You think my brain is sexy?” Shiro asks, latching on to the last part.
“Are you kidding me?” Keith pulls back to look in Shiro’s eyes. “I don’t understand half the shit you’re studying but it’s sexy as fuck that you do. My big brained astrophysicist best friend.”
Heat floods Shiro’s cheeks. “Keith.”
“What? It’s true. Big brain, big everything,” he says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes it impossible for Shiro to do anything but laugh. “Shit, I like your laugh.”
This sobers Shiro up, his breath catching in his throat as Keith lowers his mouth to Shiro’s once more.
“I like everything about you. And for the record I’m scared too.”
“You’re never scared,” Shiro whispers.
“First time for everything,” Keith whispers, bottom lip brushing over Shiro’s. “I’m not good at plans like you, or knowing the future. But I know one thing.”
“What’s that?” Shiro asks, mouth falling open in anticipation.
“I want to be with you.”
“Me too,” Shiro whispers, chasing the taste of peach rings as he slips his fingers into Keith’s hair and guides his head down—the first press of lips sending his heart rate skyrocketing.
This time when his watch buzzes, Keith doesn’t break the kiss, he deepens it, the drag of his beard against Shiro’s cheeks and lips enough to have Shiro's erection which had started to subside returning full force.
“Like you,” Keith pants, punctuating the words with more kisses. “Like your smile and your voice. Like your brain and your ass. Fuck I love your ass.”
“You have a uh, very nice ass yourself,” Shiro blushes.
“Yeah, you stare at it,” Keith smirks.
“What?”
“You stare,” Keith repeats, kissing the side of Shiro’s mouth then the tip of his nose. “During practice. After practice. When I stretch. When I cook.”
“Oh my god, just let the ground swallow me up right now,” Shiro groans, closing his eyes.
“I like when you look at me,” Keith says, tone softening. “It’s…nice.”
“You knew I was staring,” Shiro wails. “Do the guys know?”
Keith clears his throat which is all the confirmation he needs.
“Goodbye, Shiro is leaving earth now,” Shiro grumbles, snatching the pillow from under his head and covering his face.
“Shiro.”
“Shiro’s not here anymore,” Shiro yells from beneath the pillow.
He’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to go to practice in two days knowing every one of his teammates knew he’d been staring at Keith’s ass for a year. Before today Shiro didn’t think it was possible to drop dead from embarrassment, but he’s pretty sure now it's within the realm of possibility.
“It's not that bad,” Keith tries.
“If I die you can be captain,” Shiro tells him.
“Dramatic fucker,” Keith snorts, gently tugging the pillow away from Shiro’s face.
In response Shiro slams his eyes shut.
“Come on Captain, open those pretty eyes.”
“Nu uh,” Shiro says, replaying every single interaction over and over in his mind. Just last week he’d wondered if Kinkade saw him watching Keith stretch out but he’d deceived himself into thinking he was being stealthy. Apparently he was not.
Apparently his entire fucking team and Keith has known how Shiro felt all along.
“You have a lot of skills, but subtlety is not one of them,” Keith says, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Think it’s funny, do you?” Shiro grumbles good-naturedly, finding it hard to be too upset when Keith’s lovely fingers are stroking over his collarbones and shoulders in such a soothing manner. With Keith still on top of him, it's hard to think about anything that isn’t Keith for longer than a few seconds.
“Not funny in a bad way,” Keith tries, amusement evident. “You’re just cute as shit. Besides it’s not like the guys have a secret group chat where they talk about it or anything it’s just…we’re a family. Family notices things. A few of them gave me a stern talking to before summer actually.”
This gets Shiro’s attention.
“Wait, what?” he asks, eyes flying open.
“They just care about you,” Keith tells him, patting Shiro’s chest.
“Did anyone make you uncomfortable? I’ll talk to them if they did.”
“Slow down, Mr. Protective,” Keith grins, patting Shiro’s chest. “It was nothing bad. More like…a group talk.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means the guys pointed out that I was going to end up hurting you if I didn’t figure my shit out soon, and they were right. It wasn’t fair to you.”
“Keith, you don’t owe me anything.”
“I know that,” Keith assures him. “It’s exactly why you deserve everything. Because you didn’t demand anything of me, or expect things just because we were friends. You cared about me even when you thought I didn’t like you back.”
“Of course I did. You’re my best friend.”
Keith breathes in deeply, cheeks puffing up with air. “You’re mine too.”
“I’m glad,” Shiro tells him, drawing his hand back down Keith’s back to rest at his hip which he gives a firm but gentle squeeze.
“I wasn’t…confused. Not in the way you might think.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Keith.”
“I want to,” Keith says, gaze softening the long he looks down at Shiro.
It’s strange, after spending so long being sure his feelings were one sided to see such open affection directed his way; and stranger still to realize it’s not so different from the way Keith always looks at him, he just understands what it means now.
“You were the first person I ever told I was queer.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you,” Keith points out, shifting his hips so he can lay down on Shiro’s chest again, arms folding over Shiro’s pecs. “I met you and…you were safe. It felt safe to say who I was, even when I didn't understand what it meant.”
“Thank you for trusting me.”
“You’re easy to trust,” Keith says, pressing a kiss to the center of Shiro’s chest. “Easy to like too. Looking back, I think…I think I liked you right away. But for all I knew I wasn’t straight I didn’t know how to be anything else. I kept telling myself the way I admired you was because you were such an incredible teammate and friend. When I looked at your body I told myself I wanted to know how you trained, from a sports point of view. When I watched you with the trainers to make sure you were okay I told myself I only cared as a friend. When I wanted you to touch me, to…to hold me…I told myself it was because you were my best friend. And the thing is none of those were lies. I did care because you were my friend, and admire you because you’re incredible. But the fact that none of it was a lie, made it harder to realize that beneath all the friendship stuff was feelings I’d never had for a boy.”
Shiro is quiet, holding back any questions so he doesn’t interrupt Keith’s train of thought when he pauses.
“It’s one thing to know I wasn’t straight, to know that I was attracted to more than just women, and another thing to try and pick apart what that attraction might look like. Shit it’s not like I had much experience with women either. Some shitty dates in high school and a girlfriend that lasted a few months in sophomore year, is not a lot. I got really confused in senior year when I realized. For a few months, I um…the thing is…don’t judge me too harshly.”
“I would never judge you, Keith.”
“I messed around a lot. I made sure they knew I didn’t want anything serious, I didn’t break their hearts or anything,” he says, as if horrified by the idea, “but I think I thought if I had a lot of sex with women I could convince my brain that it was all I wanted. Which is fucked up because I know there’s nothing wrong with being not straight. Pop would always love me and I knew it wasn’t wrong but I was…scared.”
“Of being queer?”
“Of change,” Keith says. “I’d spent my entire life thinking I was one thing and I was scared of what else might change if I let myself be something different. I grew up in this small town where everyone knew me, everyone knew Pop, and everyone had known my grandad too. It was like everyone knew who I’d be before I was even born. And it’s not like there was anyone else like me there, or if there was I didn’t know.”
Keith pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “The summer after I graduated I tried so hard to pretend all these feelings weren’t there. The closest I’d come to being queer was watching some porn online with my right hand and my imagination. It didn’t count. Turns out no matter how hard you try to ignore some things they don’t go away.”
The candor is staggering, and Shiro wants to wrap his arm around Keith and never let go. He wants to tell him he’s proud of him and that he's perfect exactly as he is. He does neither, afraid to derailKeith’s train of thought. Instead he bites his tongue and settles for rubbing his hand up and down Keith’s back in what he hopes is a soothing manner, trying to convey even one tenth of his feelings for Keith without words. Some of this must register because Keith’s next exhale is heavy as he lowers his cheek onto Shiro’s chest, his weight settling fully.
“I couldn’t believe it when I got you as a roommate; you were just there with your pride flags and your smile. You were so sure of who you were and I was so fucking jealous.”
Some of this isn’t new information. Keith told Shiro bits and pieces about struggling to understand his sexuality, but he never knew all of this. Curious as he was, Shiro never pushed, aware if Keith ever wanted Shiro to know he’d tell him. He’s telling him now and that level of trust isn’t lost on Shiro.
Breathing slowly, Shiro drags his hand up Keith’s back to give the back of his neck a firm squeeze, relishing in the way Keith melts at the touch.
“I think I almost threw up when I told you I wasn’t straight. I’d never said those words out loud. Not even to myself. But you were so cool about it and… and it made it feel like maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal. Suddenly, I realized no one knew me here and I could be anyone. I could be me. Just me.”
“I like just you.”
“You make me like just me too,” Keith whispers.
“Keith.”
“You do,” Keith says, kissing the swell of Shiro’s pec before turning his face to look at Shiro again. The expression on his face is one Shiro knows will be burned into his memory for as long as he lives, the utter adoration on Keith’s face is enough to leave him breathless. “You were the best friend I’d ever had. You are the best friend I’ve ever had. I’d never liked anyone the way I liked you, not even a girl. It was…a lot.”
Keith licks his lips, scooting up Shiro’s body so their faces are closer, close enough the swell of his bottom lip touches Shiro’s when he whispers, “You made me feel things.”
“What kind of things?” Shiro asks, embarrassed at the way his mouth falls open in anticipation.
“This kind of thing,” Keith murmurs, seconds before he kisses Shiro.
It’s the filthiest kiss of Shiro’s life as Keith’s tongue licks into his mouth, devouring him as Keith rolls his hips down and moans into Shiro’s mouth when their dicks rub together.
The taste of peach rings lingers on Keith’s tongue as it presses into Shiro’s mouth. Keith’s demanding, eager, and it makes Shiro’s head spin when Keith’s fingers curl into Shiro’s hair. He moans unabashedly, as if it doesn’t even occur to him to keep the sounds in.
“Fuck,” Keith pants, pulling back.
“Yeah, fuck,” Shiro agrees, blinking up at Keith with wide eyed wonder. He’s been kissed before but never like this. Or maybe, he realizes it’s not that no one ever tried to kiss him like this, it's that the men kissing him weren’t Keith.
“I’m nervous,” Keith blurts.
“That’s okay, we can go slow,” Shiro assures him. “We don’t even have to kiss more if you’re not ready.”
“Oh fuck that, I want to kiss you forever.”
“Oh,” Shiro blushes, wondering if Keith can feel the way his heart races at the confession.
“I’m nervous if we keep kissing I’m gonna come in my pants.”
“Oh. Oh,” Shiro blushes.
“I don’t wanna um…you know, make you uncomfortable.”
“If you came in your pants from kissing me it would be the hottest thing that ever happened to me and also I would probably come in my pants.”
“Fuck,” Keith groans, giving Shiro’s hair a little pull. “I promised myself I’d be patient.”
“You? Patient?”
“Hey, it could happen,” Keith laughs, the sound turning into more of a moan when he wiggles his hips and rubs their dicks together.
“I was supposed to be gentle with you. Ask you on a date. Do this the proper way.”
“You wanna take me on a date?” Shiro asks.
“I…yes, Shiro,” Keith blinks. “I thought that was obvious.”
“Um, well, I mean you know, I hoped.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Keith says, crashing his lips against Shiro’s. “Fuck I like you.”
“That’s…good,” Shiro breathes, arching up into the kiss.
“Shit, slow. I’m supposed to be going slow.”
“Why?”
“Because…you know,” Keith mumbles.
“Because I’m demi?”
“Yeah,” Keith nods. “I want to respect you.”
“You can respect me and also keep moving your hips like that.”
“If I keep rubbing against you I’m one hundred percent going to come. Probably embarrassingly fast because your dick is really big and hard and it feels really fucking good.”
“That’s definitely okay with me,” Shiro tells him. “In fact you could um…that is, oh shit.”
“What, baby?”
“What?” Shiro croaks.
Keith blinks, opening and shutting his mouth several times. “Um, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Unless you liked it, then I did. And if you didn’t like it, can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“I liked it,” Shiro tells him.
“Yeah?”
Shiro swallows, arching his neck when Keith drags his nails over Shiro’s scalp. “You wanna be my baby?”
Shiro doesn’t mean to whimper, really he doesn't, but between Keith sitting on his dick and the nickname and the fingers in his hair Shiro’s basically a live wire of pleasure and it’s a miracle he hasn’t combusted.
“I want—” but Shiro bites the words off, struggling to get the rest out.
“What do you want, baby?”
“Fucking shit,” Shiro curses.
“Wow, two curse words,” Keith teases.
“Shut up,” Shiro laughs, unsure how you can want to laugh and moan at the same time. Maybe that’s just what it’s always like when your best friend is the reason you’re hard.
“Seriously,” Keith says, the sweet pitch of his voice soothing away the fluttering of insecurity trying to rise in Shiro. “You can tell me, yeah?”
“I want you to keep doing that thing you were doing with your hips.”
“This?” Keith asks, rocking his hips so that his clothed dick drags over Shiro’s.
It feels good, so damn good.
“Yes that and…and um…one more thing.”
“Anything,” Keith says with such fierce determination that Shiro has the most inane thought that he could ask for the fucking moon and Keith might try to give it to him.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
“I can almost guarantee I’ll want to.”
“You don’t even know what it is,” Shiro snorts.
“It involves you, so I’m already like one hundred and ten percent in.”
“A hundred and ten percent, huh?”
“Fuck yeah. I’m all in, Captain.”
Happiness unlike anything Shiro has ever known floods him. He’d dreamed about things like this before, about what it might be like to be intimate with someone he actually trusted, about how it might feel to be with his best friend. None of his fantasies came close to touching on the joy, on the euphoria of knowing your favorite person in the entire world likes you back.
Sex had always felt like an abstract concept to Shiro. Something he’d studied, read about, practiced on his own yet might never ever experience fully with another person.
He’s experiencing it now and it’s so much more than he even imagined.
“I was hoping we could maybe be naked when you rub your dick on me,” Shiro says, proud of himself for getting the entire thing out without stuttering.
“Holy fuck, yes. Ten out of ten great fucking idea,” Keith says, nearly falling off the bed in his haste to kick his sweats off.
Shiro can’t help but laugh.
“You won’t be laughing long, baby.”
“No?” Shiro queries, lifting his hips as he tries to shove his own sweats off.
“Let me help,” Keith grins, climbing back onto the bed gloriously naked, his erection bobbing as he crouches above Shiro to undress him before straddling his thighs again.
“You’re staring at me like you haven’t seen me naked a million times.”
“That was different. That was as a roommate, or after a game. This is…for me,” Shiro whispers.
A faint, red blush rises on Keith’s cheeks as he opens his mouth then closes it.
“I’ve never seen you lost for words,” Shiro observes, dragging his palm over Keith’s thigh and delighting in the softness of the dark hair under his fingertips. Keith has so much more body hair than Shiro and it’s incredibly arousing.
“Well I’ve never been naked with my best friend. There’s a first time for everything.”
“Me either,” Shiro confesses, surprised at how not nervous he is.
This is sex, yes—for the first time—but it’s sex with best friend. It’s sex with Keith.
“I don’t wanna disappoint you,” Keith confesses. “I’ve had sex but I’ve never…this is new. And I don’t wanna be bad at it.”
“Can I be honest?” Shiro asks.
“Always,” Keith assures him.
“This is basically the best thing to ever happen to me. You could just sit there and I’d be happy. I’m also um...you know, really, really close. I don’t think you’re gonna need to do much before I come.”
“Are you?” Keith asks, widening his knees as he looks down between their bodies. “You’re really hard.”
Little lines form on Keith’s forehead, the same thing that happens when he’s concentrating, as he braces his weight on his left arm and reaches between their bodies to curl his fingers around the shaft of Shiro’s dick. His fingers are so long they easily curl all the way around, but they’re smaller than Shiro’s and the difference in how it looks, in how it feels is remarkable.
“Your dick is so big.”
“Nnggh,” Shiro grunts, entirely incapable of forming words with Keith’s fingers on his dick.
“You like that, baby?” Keith asks, turning his gaze on Shiro.
“Yes. So much.”
“You like this?” Keith asks, giving a firm stroke.
Shiro keens, arching into the touch with such force he nearly knocks Keith over.
“Wow,” Keith marvels, doing it again. “That was hot.”
“You’re…hot,” Shiro manages to get out.
“You think I’m hot?” Keith grins, giving his dick another stroke.
“You know you are,” Shiro groans.
“I know you’ve been staring more since I got home. You like my beard don’t you?” Keith asks.
It’s statistically impossible to lie with your dick in someone’s hand and Shiro nods, resisting the urge to close his eyes as he says, “It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Keith’s chest puffs up with air, and though his grip loosens and the strokes get sloppy, it doesn’t matter because it’s still Keith’s hand on his dick.
“We need the lube from your dresser.”
“How do you know I have lube in my dresser?” Shiro blinks.
“Because you always get it out before you shower.”
Before Shiro can be properly embarrassed that Keith noticed his recent change in masturbation habits, Keith is leaning back so he can use his free hand to trace the side of Shiro’s face. “It’s so hot knowing you were in the shower touching yourself. I’ve been losing my mind trying to figure out how to tell you I liked you.”
“Keith.”
“What? It’s true,” Keith says, as if letting Shiro know how important he is to him is simple. “Did you think of me? When you touched yourself?”
“You know I did,” Shiro mumbles, body on fire at the confession.
“I only know what you tell me, baby,” Keith says, letting go of Shiro’s dick so he can lean over and rummage through Shiro’s nightstand—the bedroom is so small he can reach Shiro's drawer from his own bed.
He finds the lube in no time, laying it on the sheets beside them.
“It’s been you for so long.”
“I’m sorry it took me a while to catch up.”
“I’m not,” Shiro says.
“No?” Keith queries, head cocked to the side.
“How can I be sorry about anything when it ended with this?”
“Shit, you’re gonna always be like this aren’t you?”
“Like what?” Shiro asks.
“Like...like you. Romantic. Sweet. Perfect.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Yes, you are,” Keith challenges, dropping his hands down onto the pillow on either side of Shiro’s head. “My perfect Shiro.”
The effect those words have on Shiro is instant, his mouth falling open and his dick leaking. There’s no mistaking that Keith notices too, his eyes widening as he lowers his mouth, rubbing the scruff of his chin over Shiro’s mouth. “Baby.”
This time Shiro whines, the sensation of Keith’s beard dragging over his lips as Keith’s dick brushes against his own is so much and not enough and Shiro is so hard he aches.
“Can I use the lube on your dick?” Keith asks, mouthing at the corner of Shiro’s lips.
“You can literally do anything you want to me,” Shiro gasps.
“What I’m gonna do,” Keith tells him, mouthing across the side of Shiro’s face until his lips are brushing against Shiro’s ear, “is make you feel good. Treat you right.”
“Already are,” Shiro gasps, arousal making his head spin when Keith’s beard brushes over the delicate lobe of his ear.
“You haven’t seen anything yet, sweetheart.”
The nickname is the nail in the coffin for Shiro who abandons all pretense of being a functioning person and whimpers, arching up into Keith in a desperate attempt for more friction.
“Fuck its hot when you’re needy,” Keith says, adding fuel to the flames of Shiro’s desire.
“Want you,” Shiro says, digging his fingers into Keith’s thigh, as his walls crumble and every ounce of longing and desire he’s been holding in for a year crashes down. This is Keith, his best friend, the boy he’s been in love with for months and yeah maybe they haven’t talked about that part yet, but whatever is happening between them it's clear Keith likes him back. Shiro doesn’t need to hold back or hide anymore. He can have this.
Keith wants him and letting himself acknowledge that is almost too much to handle.
“You have me,” Keith soothes, nuzzling into Shiro’s cheek. “You have me.”
“Shit, I need….I need—” Shiro pants.
“What, baby? What do you need?”
“More,” Shiro gets out, burning with desire.
Shiro is absolutely sure he’s never been as turned on as he is right now. It’s a miracle he hasn’t simply dropped dead from being horny.
“I don’t think you can die from that,” Keith chuckles.
It’s proof of how far gone he is that he can’t even be embarrassed about having said that last bit out loud.
“You don’t know that,” Shiro says, trying and failing not to wiggle his hips.
“You gonna die of a hard dick, baby?”
“I might if you don't…move…soon,” Shiro says, surprised at his ability to finish that sentence with all the blood in his body currently in the wrong head.
“I can definitely move,” Keith says in the most self satisfied tone, kissing Shiro’s cheek before pulling back to sit on Shiro’s thighs.
“That wasn’t exactly the kind of moving I had in mind,” Shiro pouts, disappointed at how far away Keith’s mouth suddenly is. On the plus side, Keith sitting back on his thighs gives him a perfect view of Keith’s flushed face, heaving chest, and beautiful dick.
“You’re staring,” Keith points out, uncapping the lube and squirting a generous amount into his palm. “Enjoying the view?”
“Very much,” Shiro confirms, unable to look away even as he feels his ears turning red.
“I’m gonna lube us both up,” Keith tells him, and though Shiro got the gist from Keith’s movements he appreciates the narration. That and something about Keith telling Shiro what he’s gonna do before he does it is incredibly hot. He knows Keith’s not doing it for that reason, that Keith is just direct like this, but that makes it all the hotter for Shiro to realize that Keith is just being Keith even naked. There’s comfort in knowing that despite things changing between them, not everything will change.
“Okay,” Shiro whispers.
“When you touch yourself, do you like a little friction or do you like it slick?” Keith asks, tongue darting out from between his pursed lips as he gives his own dick a single perfunctory stroke to get some lube on it.
The sight of Keith’s dick, so long and hard slipping through the circle of his fingers, is so erotic that Shiro’s brain completely stops working. At least until those same delicate fingers are curling around his own dick.
“Slick,” Shiro gasps.
“You like it a little messy, sweetheart?” Keith asks, shoulders hunched as he leans forward and glides his palm up and down Shiro’s shaft to coat the entire thing in lube.
“I—yes,” Shiro groans, toes curling with pleasure as Keith’s hand moves up and down his shaft in slow, twisting strokes. He pauses, adding a bit more lube so that his hand slips, the tip of Shiro’s dick getting an unexpected squeeze that has Shiro arching off the bed.
“Is the tip more sensitive?” Keith asks, thumbing over the slit.
“Isn’t yours?” Shiro blinks.
“I guess,” Keith shrugs. “I like pressure at the base more though and—oh fuck,” Keith curses, clearly unprepared for Shiro to wrap his hand around Keith’s dick to give him what he likes.
“Is this ok?” Shiro asks, giving the base a firm squeeze.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Keith stutters.
The angle is awkward, and Shiro’s never actually touched anyone’s dick but his own, but he figures it can’t be that different—trying to focus the pressure of his strokes towards the base of Keith’s shaft. Keith’s dick is almost as long as Shiro’s but thinner, and Shiro marvels at how much he likes watching it slip between the curl of his fingers, likes feeling Keith shudder above him and whine, and likes the way precome leaks out of the tip. The idea that its because of Shiro, that touching Keith has him that excited, nearly makes Shiro come.
“Holy fucking fuck if you don’t stop right now I’m gonna come,” Keith grunts.
“Sorry,” Shiro apologizes, dropping his hand.
“Don’t apologize for being fucking perfect,” Keith tells him, releasing his grip on Shiro’s dick to drop his hands on either side of Shiro’s head while he resitutates himself so that their dicks are pressed together.
“You’re gonna get your bed sticky,” Shiro says, immediately regretting the words. What a stupid thing to point out in the middle of sex. What a—
“Don’t you dare ever change,” Keith says, interrupting Shiro’s mental spiral by lowering his mouth to Shiro’s in a kiss so sweet Shiro forgets to be embarrassed. Kissing Keith is so nice Shiro forgets everything except for the sweet taste of peach rings and the warmth of his chapped lips and the delightful way Keith’s breath puffs into his mouth and feels his lungs—their shared breath making Shiro’s heart skip a beat.
Everything is Keith—the feeling of his body as he begins to rut, the sensory heaven of their lubed dicks rubbing together, and the pleasure of being touched. Just when Shiro thinks things can’t get better, Keith shifts his knees so that every roll of his hips is more exaggerated, the pressure against his dick firmer.
Nothing in the world has ever felt this good.
“That’s some high praise,” Keith chuckles, “and a little bit of a challenge.”
Too turned on to care that he’s spoken out loud again, Shiro settles for touching every inch of Keith he can reach—skimming a hand over the hair up his upper thigh, squeezing his hip, and finally reaching around to get a fist full of Keith’s pert ass. He’s just curling his fingers into Keith’s ass cheek when Keith lowers his mouth to Shiro’s neck, rubbing his beard into the sensitive hollow of Shiro’s throat and rendering Shiro a complete fucking mess of desire.
“I’m gonna…I’m gonna come,” Shiro wails, digging his fingers into Keith’s ass.
“Then come,” Keith tells him, rubbing his scruff against Shiro’s throat before sucking at the pulse point. “Come for me.”
Being given permission to let go flips a switch in Shiro and though a part of him screams to hold back, to try and make things last longer, he finds that he doesn’t want to hold back. He doesn’t want to keep it in, to be controlled. Keith wants him to come and Shiro wants to come too, wants to let go with the person he trusts most in the world.
“Come,” Keith whispers, mouth against his neck. The way he’s going he must be able to feel the flutter of Shiro’s pulse against his tongue, must know that every beat is for him.
“Keith.”
“Say it again,” Keith begs, appearing in Shiro’s line of vision with flushed cheeks and his eyes blown wide with pleasure. “Say my name.”
“Keith,” Shiro moans, arching.
“Say my name when you come,” Keith begs. “Please.”
When Shiro comes, the pleasure he feels in his dick is not so different from the pleasure he feels touching himself, but the pleasure in his heart—oh how different that is.
“Beautiful,” Keith praises, smoothing the sweaty hair off Shiro’s forehead with his clean hand before he rocks his hips again once, twice, three times. Then Keith’s coming too, making a mess of them both, or a bigger mess really.
It’s strange, to have someone else’s come on his belly, to be naked with someone else and have them see you at your most intimate and exposed. Strange and wonderful in ways Shiro never let himself imagine. He thought about the physical pleasure, but he feels blindsided by the emotional contentment he’s experiencing.
Kneeling above Shiro, face earnest and hopeful, Keith looks every bit as nervous and excited as Shiro feels. It’s not scary like Shiro was once afraid sex would be, or impersonal. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to another person, to Keith, and Shiro can’t imagine ever letting anyone else see him like this.
“Keith, I—” but the rest of the words die on his tongue.
He’s not sure telling your best friend you’re in love with them in the middle of sex when you only confessed your crushes less than hour ago is appropriate.
There’s probably a timeline Shiro should be following. Especially, since Shiro’s not even sure if Keith is technically his boyfriend. What they did seems like boyfriend stuff, at least to Shiro. He’s pretty sure Keith would think the same too, but he didn’t think to ask. He was just so excited that Keith returned his feelings that defining what those feelings meant hadn’t been a priority.
“Fuck.” Keith curses, pressing his nose into Shiro’s cheeks and nuzzling into him like an overgrown puppy. “S’good.”
“Yeah,” Shiro sighs, trying to quiet his brain.
“We’re sticky,” Keith mumbles, his voice taking on a familiar pitch that lets Shiro know he’s tired.
Before Shiro can make a suggestion, Keith’s pressing another kiss to the side of Shiro’s face then leaning over to rummage around in his own drawer, looking victorious when he pulls several baby wipes out. He’s adorable—lips pursed in concentration as he wipes them clean. Or a more accurate observation would be half heartedly swiping himself clean before tenderly stroking the wipes over Shiro’s quivering belly and upper thighs to ensure he is cleaned up.
It’s one more reminder of how well Keith knows him, and knows how much Shiro hates being dirty, his tongue peeking out as he nudges Shiro’s legs apart to drag a wipe lower near his ass. It should be strange or awkward to have Keith wiping a bit of stray come from behind his balls and instead it’s one of the easiest things in the world, and Shiro’s normally overactive anxious mind quiets.
There are so many things he wants to say to Keith, to ask him—the three little words from earlier echoing in his head as he imagines inviting Keith to Baba’s for gyoza, daydreams about going on their first date and holding hands in the back of the movie theater, or inviting Keith to his bed just to fall asleep to the sweet cadence of his slowing heartbeat.
Grand declarations and questions swirl in his head until Keith gives him a look—an almost shy smile when he catches Shiro staring, and everything in Shiro quiets.
Keith’s smile grows as he reaches for Shiro’s hand, tangling their fingers together as he leans down for a kiss—the shape of his joy pressed into Shiro’s mouth—and Shiro exhales a shuddery breath. Maybe, just for now, Shiro’s said enough. Maybe their kisses, their touches, can communicate what words can’t yet. Maybe this is one part of his life where it isn’t about the goal. Maybe they’re already where he never dared to dream they’d go.
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