Work Text:
[…] I am
in love. I shout with the rough calculus
of walking. Just let me find my way back,
let me move like a tide come in
— The moon rose over the bay. I had a lot of feelings, Donika Kelly
+++
Keith’s always loved Shiro, but he realizes he’s in love with him like this:
They’ve been in space for a few months now; Keith finishes a training session and puts on a clean shirt without bothering to shower, because he’s tired and not even hungry but he promised to meet Shiro for dinner.
What Shiro actually said: “Don’t train for too long. I need someone to rescue me from Coran’s archival reports.” He was joking, but Keith takes the mission seriously. Shiro’s been up all hours trying to find something that will help Voltron — make a dent in the war they’re fighting
So Keith walks to where Shiro’s sitting near one of the castleship portals with the stack of data pads and a flat, slightly murderous piece of metal he’s turned into a lap desk, because one of Shiro’s quirks is that he needs to be uncomfortable in order to concentrate.
Keith’s realization, then, is a misstep: staring at the way Shiro’s face scrunches in concentration, Keith sways too close as he approaches and nearly bashes his hip on the corner of the desk. Only nearly — because Shiro must hear him coming, must recognize the way Keith shifts his weight across that section of the floor. He cups his hand over the protruding edge of his desk so Keith brushes against Shiro’s knuckles instead. Keith feels the press of it like it’s a caress even though it’s really not; his heart skips a beat.
Oh, Keith thinks. That’s what this is.
“Watch yourself,” Shiro says without looking up. His voice has a deep rasp to it, like he hasn’t been sleeping at all, let alone enough, and this close — Keith can see wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that don’t smooth out the way they used to. “You made it this far, it’d be a shame if a table got you in the end.”
“Yeah,” Keith croaks. “Of course. I’ll be careful.”
Shiro glances up, the vertical line between his brows plowing deeper in concern. “Keith. You all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Keith says. He wishes, briefly, that he could become invisible. He needs a minute with this feeling, to learn it, to cherish it, to contain its edges. “I just remembered something, I need to go — we were getting dinner. I lost track of time.”
“Were,” Shiro agrees. “I bet the kitchen’s closed by now, though. That might be a mercy. Do your thing, but try to eat something. I’ll catch up later. This report might finally make sense.”
“Goodnight,” Keith says. “Shiro. Thanks.”
“Any time, Keith,” Shiro says. He’s already turned back to the screen.
+++
Keith likes being touched. He likes it so much he doesn’t know how to handle it — that’s why he freezes up half the time when someone does touch him, because Keith is trying his best to keep them from letting go. Shiro’s the only person who seems to pick up on it. He’s always laying hands on Keith and keeping them there, pressed against Keith’s skin like Shiro can tell that if Keith doesn’t have some kind of pressure, some kind of grounding, he’ll vibrate out of his own body.
It’s a weird want. To wish that someone would just pin Keith down, lay on top of him and smother the fear out of him. Keith thinks that Shiro is the opposite — that after his time in captivity, he wants as much space around himself as possible. Keith tries to respect Shiro’s invisible boundary. After that dawn outside the house — Keith tries not to touch Shiro without an invitation. Shiro finally calls him on it after they’ve been in the castleship for — some interminable amount of time, Keith hasn’t bothered keeping track of the units of measurement Coran handed out like candy at the start. It’s a while after Keith notices he’s in love.
“You avoiding me?” Shiro uses his whole body to shunt Keith into an alcove outside the training room. His body is big and warm and imposing — Keith can feel power radiating off Shiro, he’s so close. Shiro’s mechanical arm hums prettily, like it’s playing an instrumental soundtrack to go along with every leader-ly move Shiro makes.
“I can’t avoid you, there’s nowhere to go that isn’t here,” Keith retorts.
“Convincing.” Shiro plants his forearm against the wall above Keith’s head and leans in, close enough that their noses almost touch. “C’mon, Keith. Use your words. I can’t fix it if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
Keith’s not so sure of that. He’s used to losing things: his father, his future, his self-respect. He’s even lost Shiro before. The way Shiro touches Keith is a thing that comes and goes. It doesn’t have the same needy weight as breathing and eating and keeping his knife close, but Keith thinks it’s a similar thing.
He doesn’t say this. Part of it is that Keith does not now, and will not for may years, have the words in his vocabulary: I’m lonely. Please touch me.
“It’s dark in space,” Keith manages.
Shiro, bless him, doesn’t answer right away; instead he seems to ponder Keith’s answer. It’s toothy, all right, and maybe Shiro is just as desperate as Keith is to chew on something.
Finally, Shiro says,
“You got that right, buddy.” He drops his arm down, uncaging the space around Keith’s shoulder. At least he pats Keith’s arm as he pulls away. “But you sure can see the stars.”
That’s almost as good as being touched: sometimes Shiro sighs and lets Keith catch a glimpse of the everything weighing down on him, and it makes Keith feel seen in return. There’s value in vulnerability, in knowing that Shiro, too, is ground down by their bleak and uncertain quest. When Keith is feeling particularly morose, or insightful, or both, he thinks about how Shiro has been dealing with this longer than any of them. Even Coran and the princess had the luxury of sleep. Shiro met the war head on: like a flightpath.
Keith doesn’t think Shiro sleeps much, any more.
+++
“Have you ever been in love?” Keith asks, regretting the words as they leave his mouth. But Regris doesn’t seem to think it’s a weird question — either that or he’s considering this repayment for Keith saving his life. He slaps his tail against the floor in thought, not hard, but enough that Keith has to wrestle down a flinch. The sound is uncanny, unpleasant; besides, the longer he spends training with the Blades, the keener his hearing has become. Regris’ tail-slaps have a whole vibration thing going on that Keith can’t parse, but that he knows is thrumming underneath the obvious meaning.
“With a person?” Regris asks. “No. I had a great lay at a space-mall interchange once, but that was more heat of the moment. If you mean with an ideal, though, then you’re in the right place.”
Good point. Hopeless romantics are well-represented in the Blades, even if they aren’t obvious about it. Keith’s grateful he didn’t ask the question of Kolivan (who radiates having been in love, in the chivalric kind of way that Keith only knows from a Garrison elective on heroic narratives in literature).
When Regris dies, and when Keith realizes — but does not accept — that Shiro has died, he thinks about this conversation. He wonders: were we talking about the same thing? Being in love with Shiro, loving Shiro, is a comfort. Dedicating himself to the Blade’s ideals, Keith thinks, is not comfortable in the slightest. It’s more about collecting bruises than it is about avoiding them.
Keith misses being touched, though; this feels like something.
This is how Keith stumbles into leadership. He thinks to himself, Shiro wanted this for me, until the thought isn’t painful, and it isn’t a burden. Talking to Krolia helps. The time on the whale — it helps even more. Keith didn’t realize that so much of love was tied up with the passage of time. Eventually, it stops feeling like something he’s lost and becomes something that sustains him.
+++
Keith is surprisingly good at secrets. Not because he wants to keep them, but because people never think to ask him anything. Loving Shiro: it’s a secret, in that he doesn’t say anything about it, but it’s as obvious as any other bruise. When Keith finally speaks the words, it’s hardly shocking because he’s carried them for so long.
In the dark, with a night-light turned on, after Shiro comes back to life and Keith twines next to him in the makeshift bed he’s got stashed in Black’s hull, after Keith slips one leg between Shiro’s and shoves the rest of his body into the empty space where Shiro’s arm used to be: Keith isn’t frightened or guilty: he’s just grateful. Grateful, and a little tired.
“I forgot about this part,” Shiro murmurs. Keith thinks he means: the part where when you have a body and someone touches you, you feel things. They’re both half-hard, a leftover of the adrenaline and relief of the day; neither of them bother to act on it. For Keith: it just feels good to experience the low thrum of arousal in close proximity to another person, to Shiro specifically.
“Which part?”
“You’ve been practicing,” Shiro changes the subject. “With the sword. I’m proud of you.”
“For cutting off your arm?” Keith nuzzles against the bandaged wreckage of Shiro’s shoulder, carefully; his own face feels raw and sore, and the metal edges are at risk of cutting through the medical tape. “Any time, Shiro.”
“Of course, my limbs are in short supply at the moment, so maybe just hit me over the head next time. If you have to.”
Keith’s confession doesn’t change much, because there’s too much change going on for it to register. But it happens.
+++
It’s years later when Keith finally spits out the truth in a moment where Shiro is actually paying attention to the meaning behind the words — I’m in love with you. You deserve to know. Spitting isn’t the right verb. Keith offers the information, even if the offer is graceless. It’s still wholehearted.
Of course he’s afraid when he puts the words out there, because Keith is as acquainted with disappointment as he is with the concept of Shiro dying. But. Shiro has made a career out of exceeding expectations, and he has never been unkind about Keith’s feelings.
“Thank you,” Shiro says.
There’s a pause, and Keith doesn’t mind the wait. It reminds him of being on the whale, suspended in time, breathing through one future in order to get to the next. Shiro hasn’t pulled away, his posture hasn’t changed, he still looks — disheveled. The two of them don’t sleep well these days, and Hunk’s been nagging them to follow a sleep hygiene protocol, which is why they’re both awake in the skeleton shift room. Atlas has been quiet for most of the night-cycle, but Shiro still tinkers with how extensive his mind-meld with her is; Keith practices meditation. The lighting is deep green, almost lush, like the illumination is filtering down through a tree canopy; Shiro has been watching nature documentaries again. Just because they live on the Atlas doesn’t mean they’re going anywhere; you can take the man out of the expedition, but he’s still going to yearn for it.
“I love you too,” Shiro adds, after a dozen heartbeats. “I’m just going over the logistics. At least you’re not in my chain of command now, that would be a hassle.”
“I’d never do that to you,” Keith protests. “Shiro, you know me.”
“I know you’d never give the higher-ups the satisfaction of nosing around in your private life,” Shiro says. He crooks a smile. Shiro’s smiles have evolved over time, with the addition of scar tissue and the abrupt retreat of baby fat. Before the mission to Kerberos, it was stunning: his jaw hadn’t been so sleek and deadly yet, and his cheeks used to round with delight when he grinned. Shiro’s face is leaner now, with stress and trauma and appallingly attractive genetics. The essence of the expression is consistent, though; Keith dreams of Shiro’s younger days sometimes, sure, but the years they’ve lived alongside each other always layer themselves on top of the image.
“Lance says I’m petty,” Keith grumbles.
“Lance would know,” Shiro says. He huffs, not a laugh and not a sigh, and then bats his palm against the screen he’s still got up. It dims and scuttles off the workstation at the same time one of the walls collapses into a hallway. “Hm. Not quite what I was going for, but it’ll do. Let’s take this conversation somewhere else.”
Keith would prefer a rooftop, or a cliff, somewhere high up enough to give him perspective. He follows Shiro down the hall and contents himself with the way Shiro talks aloud to Atlas, chiding her about physics and probability and rerouting elevators; it’s like listening to a person talking to a cat. The object of the conversation hears and understands, probably, but they have their own ideas.
They end up in the little star-viewing chamber Shiro added on to his quarters once he realized how much time he was going to spend onboard the ship. The room has a domed ceiling and low, comfortable chairs that are easy to slump into and leap out of; it’s perfect for reviewing star maps (which is the excuse Shiro gave when he put in the requisition for the cushions), and even better for pondering. Shiro spends more time in this room than he does in his actual quarters — almost as much time as he spends on the bridge. The stars are more private.
They settle down side by side. Shiro offers what he calls his good hand — the one that’s still skin and bone, the left hand, the hand that is vulnerable to hangnails and chapped skin and whatnot — and Keith puts his own palm against it. Shiro weaves their fingers together. Shiro’s other hand is good, too, but Keith doesn’t see the need to challenge Shiro about the turn of phrase. After all: it’s Shiro’s body, and hasn’t he been challenged enough? Keith is happy to be in the same room, to share the same space. Shiro is Shiro, no more and no less.
“If I didn’t love you,” Shiro says, several minutes later, “I would have brought it up sooner. But I was trying to figure out the two-body problem.” He’s been watching Jane Austen adaptations with Allura again; Keith thinks Allura likes them because the social dynamics are excruciatingly similar to Lance’s extended family.
“Was I obvious?” Keith wants to know; it’s a question asked with curiosity, not with embarrassment. Shiro has known him for a long time and sometimes it feels like they communicate without speaking. Something about what they’ve been through has stripped shame out of the equation and left them with a kind of bare-bones gentleness. It’s difficult to explain, but easy to live with.
“Hard to say,” Shiro answers. “The way you love me — it’s just how you are. I can hardly remember what you were like before I noticed. You know how when you get a really good firmware upgrade on a hoverbike, how it moves better? How it responds to your weight, how it goes faster because you asked it to do something it’s already capable of. Nothing you couldn’t do before the update, nothing beyond the realm of possibility, but an improvement.”
Of course Keith knows. It’s a good feeling, one that has its own high — different from diving off a cliff, different from navigating an asteroid field, different even than surviving a firefight he has no business surviving. Shiro means: a small change can be significant. Playing a video game during a recruitment visit can change your life.
“It makes sense,” Shiro continues. “The way you love me, I mean. Once I figured out that you didn’t want me to be different from who I already am.”
“You’re my leader,” Keith says. No matter who he answers to in the chain of command — Shiro leads Keith in a way that gives Keith more agency than he might have had on his own. “Shiro, why would I ask you to be someone else?”
“That’s the thing,” Shiro says. He fumbles his grip on Keith’s hand for a minute, until Keith reads the movement and slides awkwardly across the seat. It’s a motion that resolves with Keith in Shiro’s lap. He can’t see the star-screen like this, with his knees spread wide across Shiro’s waist, but it’s a worthwhile tradeoff for the look in Shiro’s eyes: he’s determined and pleased, maybe a touch bitter. Keith’s not developed many Galra characteristics yet (maybe when he’s older, Mom says), but he thinks he can almost taste what Shiro’s thinking. Self-recrimination, the Blades like to say, tastes dreadful.
“I asked you to change from the moment I met you,” Shiro says.
“I didn’t mind. Well. I don’t mind now, even if I thought you were crazy back then.”
Shiro pats Keith’s shoulder in acknowledgement; it feels like reward, the way his hand shapes itself against Keith’s bones and then slips warmly down his shoulder blade, coming to rest on his hip. It’s a motion that has a purpose, though Keith would still revel in it if it was just a way of saying hello, I’m here. Shiro used the hand on his ass to heft Keith into a more comfortable position, first rearranging his thigh and then cupping his ass to keep him in place. “Takes one to know one.”
Based on his limited knowledge gleaned from the romance shows Lance and the Blades liked to watch during the war, it’s an anticlimactic time for a kiss. Still, it feels like Shiro’s description of flying: something new has slotted into place, just enough to tweak the functionality. Even though Keith has never kissed another person in his life, it feels right to lean forward and put his mouth against Shiro’s now, to press up soft and sweet.
“There’s an idea,” Shiro says. He kneads gently against Keith’s ass until some lingering rigidity oozes out of his spine and Keith flops down against him, chest to chest; then Shiro cups his free hand at the back of Keith’s neck and draws him closer still. “I like it this way.”
It’s a funny feeling, Keith thinks dreamily, pressing his lips against another person’s lips. He can’t decide between tiny, repetitive little butterfly kisses or slipping away from Shiro’s mouth to kiss his stunning cheekbone, his sandpapery jaw. Split the difference: Keith alternates between the two until his lips feel plush and dry and he needs to lick them smooth. Shiro nips encouragingly and licks Keith’s mouth open, not all the way, just a hint, enough that Shiro can delve inside and lick Keith’s teeth. Not fangs, not yet.
Kissing like this invokes nearly the same feelings Keith has whenever Shiro performs some small and unnecessarily kind act. Protecting Keith from hitting his hip on a table, yes, but also: the first time they met. The way Shiro looked over and saw that Keith had been excluded, and decided to make a place for him.
“I don’t want to lose this,” Shiro mumbles. Keith nearly doesn’t hear it — he’s nearly overstimulated, his whole body warm and shivering and already addicted to how Shiro is laying hands on him, as much touch as Keith has ever wanted — but he’s had a lifetime of listening to Shiro, so the words make it through the sweet fog of lust that’s clouding his brain.
“How could you?”
“I think I’ve gotten death out of my system,” Shiro sighs. He tips Keith back a bit, so they’re looking more and kissing less; it doesn’t feel like a loss at all. “But you: you keep going out to stars unknown and I never know when you’re coming back.”
“I always come back,” Keith points out. It’s his trademark, even if the time dilation is mildly unorthodox.
“You do,” Shiro agrees. He strokes the side of Keith’s face and tucks a stray bit of hair behind his ear; Keith leans into his palm and closes his eyes to better concentrate on the feeling of metal and polymer and buzzing warmth. “I’d offer to write letters, but you know how that would go.”
“You’d never write,” Keith says. It’s true. Shiro only manages to turn in his reports for the Coalition because Hunk and Pidge built him a little text-to-speech robot that follows him around and bites at his ankles like an irate rabbit when he’s on deadline. Shiro was an admirable student, but he has always preferred doing things. Asking him to fulfill an administrative task is the opposite of loving him.
By contrast: Keith writes excellent letters. His reports read more like concept maps than a narrative, but they get the job done; he knows that Krolia’s made copies of some of his briefs about the whale and shared them with the Blades who were deep undercover during the war, to give insight into what the rebellion was like. His writing has texture. Keith would write Shiro letters every day, if Shiro wanted; but after a while, it could feel like another assignment.
“What if we quit our jobs and ran away?” Keith asks, eyes still closed. “I’ve seen the future, Shiro. It doesn’t get any better or worse. And the stars aren’t getting any younger.”
Shiro is quiet for a long time after that, so long Keith opens his eyes to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep. Keith wouldn’t be offended if he had; the kissing has made Keith feel more relaxed than he’s felt in ages, and neither of them get enough rest. But Shiro’s still awake, studying Keith and realizing that, like always, Keith is not joking.
“I have my own ship,” Keith offers. He means it. Anything Keith has, everything Keith is — it’s all for Shiro.
“Let’s sleep on it,” Shiro says. He gathers Keith close again and relaxes back, as if to do so right here and now. Keith kisses the curve of Shiro’s neck in protest.
“You have a bed, I know you do,” Keith says. He makes sure to say it as breathily as possible — it’s never pleasant when someone speaks directly in his ear, so he assumes it will be just as annoying for Shiro. But Shiro shivers and groans like it’s hot and rolls heavily onto his side so he can struggle to his feet. He’s still clinging tight to Keith’s ass.
“If you insist,” Shiro growls. The ceiling flickers darker and the false stars flash. Atlas is applauding. Keith forgot that she was in the audience. “I can take you to bed. If I need sleep, you must be exhausted.”
“I’m part-Gala,” Keith says loftily. “Descended from warriors. I’m a Blade. You can sleep; I’ll keep watch.”
“And as much as you resemble your mother, I don’t think you normally have purple smudges under your eyes.”
Shiro hauls Keith into the sleeping area and tips onto the bed, not bothering to pull back the covers. It’s the lousiest turndown serviced Keith’s ever had in his life, and he adores it.
“Take off your clothes,” Shiro orders, stripping out of his own uniform. “I’m breaking all the rules tonight. I’m not getting out of bed again until we’re both well-rested, it doesn’t matter how many times the command deck pages me.”
During the war — and still, a force of habit and inertia — neither Keith nor Shiro ever undressed for bed. When an alarm sounded, there wasn’t time to throw on clothes or shoes; Shiro never seemed to remember that he owned civilian clothes, and Keith was already an expert in knowing when to run. Shedding their clothes now, leaving them in an untidy puddle at the foot of Shiro’s standard-issue sleeping platform, is salacious and decadent. Even though the blanket is slippery standard grey, made from recycled fiber and woefully inadequate at providing warmth and weight, Keith feels like he’s reclining on a cloud. (Not on a cloud, the literal part of his brain thinks, even as Shiro’s body comes into tantalizing view. Clouds are cold, and damp, and nothing like going to bed in the slightest.)
As far as beds go: no one ever goes into Shiro’s room (including, often, Shiro himself), so the mattress is uncomfortable and a little too narrow for two people. Keith has slept in nicer tents, but he’s not picky — especially when Shiro pounces atop Keith. The mattress dips beneath his weight and enthusiasm. While Keith is normally slightly unsettled when faced with nudity, Shiro’s is so casual and unthreatening and arousing that Keith just shimmies closer and tangles their legs together. Shiro is warm and slightly furry, his leg hair setting off little static charges from the friction of Keith’s body hair, of the cheap blanket rucking uncomfortably in the small of Keith’s back.
“Are we sleeping?” Keith asks. He doesn’t want to, and he’s exhausted. The emotional toll of saying I love you out loud is weighing on him, and is outweighed by the delicious pressure of Shiro firm against Keith’s front.
“We can. Stretch out,” Shiro pleads. “Let me see you. I want to dream good dreams.”
After Keith is finally naked, Shiro kisses the jut of Keith’s hip. He bites at the skin, sucks a mark; Keith thinks about falling in love, how Shiro kept Keith safe from bumping his hip, how he saved Keith from a silly bruise and now is giving him one that’s even sillier.
“That’s how I knew, you know,” Keith manages when Shiro comes up for air. “You don’t remember. You kept me from walking into something and I realized I was in love with you.”
“I saved you,” Shiro grins. It looks like the same grin he used to get when he was teasing Keith about flying off of a cliff — there’s a thought. Shiro will be competitive about loving Keith, now that he’s set on the course.
“You saved me all right. From a bruised hip,” Keith scoffs. It might as well have been the world.
Shiro lowers his head again. It’s not prurient: they’re naked, sure, and skin-to-skin is a delicious sensation, the pressure of his big hands on each of Keith’s thighs beguiling. But Shiro is pinning Keith down to the bed, and some tension Keith keeps deep within his heart uncoils. He makes his body go limp, accepts the way Shiro is crowding down against him; believes that Shiro isn’t letting go.
Shiro rests his face against Keith’s belly. The full weight of Shiro’s head against Keith’s stomach pushes the last deeply-held breath of anxiety out of him.
“We’ll run away together in the morning,” Keith decides.
“We’re sleeping on it.”
“If we both sleep through the night, that’s a sign we’re doing the right thing.”
Shiro blows a sloppy raspberry against Keith’s navel, but he doesn’t say no.