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Keith wasn’t sure how long he’d been sleeping. Time didn’t mean much when decades could pass in the blink of an eye, and so he didn’t really bother to measure it, except by the seasons. It was the first thing he noticed as he stretched out and shook off the grime of a long sleep: the sharp, green scent of summer, of sunshine and dry earth, and life at its peak. He could feel the heat of it even in the shelter of the den he called home, a warm breeze carrying a taste of the season and banishing the stale air of hibernation.
The forest around Keith’s home looked older when he stepped out, but not so different from when he’d last seen it. The sun still found a way through the foliage to dapple him with light, the trees still sighed in the wind, and the birds still trilled as merrily as he remembered.
It took him a long moment to suss out what had woken him, too distracted by the buzz of life around him, but then he sensed it--an offering for him, at the shrine that had been neglected for so long. Keith darted forward, joy bubbling up like hot water in an onsen--someone had finally remembered him!
A new scent hit his nose sharply as he wove through the underbrush, causing him to slow and move more cautiously.
Spilled blood .
The iron tang of it was unmistakable, fresh and wet, sticking sickly to the back of Keith’s throat, tinged with pain and the shadow of death. He hunkered down and crept forward, peering through leaves to see what kind of macabre sacrifice had been left for him.
It was a man, sprawled at the foot of his shrine.
His breath was harsh with pain and exertion, face drawn with it, but the light in his eyes was still bright, and that drew Keith forward a little further, curiosity outweighing caution. The man’s yukata was torn and dappled dark with blood, and Keith could see the edges of a crude bandage where his right sleeve was missing completely--a slow death, to lose a limb, he mused. His tails whipped in revulsion, offended that someone would think he would want a messy death as tribute.
He would save the man out of spite for whoever had left him there, Keith decided, resolve giving his steps confidence. Healing mortals wasn’t beyond him, would barely tax him, and then the man would be grateful, would see that his shrine was tended to properly .
The man’s eyes widened and narrowed the moment he caught sight of Keith. He grit his teeth, struggling to get to his feet with a stubborn tenacity that instantly endeared him to Keith. A fighter, a survivor, like him; Keith bared his own teeth in a smile.
The man grunted and flung something at him, and Keith dodged easily. “I won’t --” the man cut himself off with a gasp, staggering.
Taking a human shape was easier than Keith expected, cotton yukata replacing fur, and he caught the man under the elbow, easing him to the ground. Speech was a little more difficult, but he managed it, voice coarse with disuse-- “It’s not polite to throw things. Stupid to throw things at a fox. He might keep them.” Keith flicked his free hand, producing the sharp knife the man had thrown at him, smudged with red. He tucked it away with his tails, out of sight and out of reach.
The man glared at him and tried to struggle out of Keith’s grip, defiant despite the mix of fear and wonder flickering in his eyes, and Keith tsked. “I don’t want you dead, you know.” That didn’t seem to convince the man, who still struggled. Keith frowned and grappled with him until he was pinned in a bed of violet flowers-- harebells , and Keith had to laugh a little at the way the flowers were crushed under his quarry. They represented submission, and Keith had a feeling that the man under him would never submit. Even gravely injured, he hadn’t gone down easy.
That was perfectly fine. Keith wasn’t asking him to.
“Shh.” Keith sent soothing magic out with his voice, urging the man to calm, to trust. It was a glamour, meant to trick and deceive, but it was only a means to an end. Keith loosened his hold, instead letting his hands wander to gently catalog the man’s hurts. “Who are you? How did this happen?” One of Keith’s hands lingered over the poorly-wrapped bandage on the man’s arm.
“They call me Champion,” the man grunted, his bitter laugh breaking down into a cough. “This is my reward.”
Keith pursed his lips. The games of mortals--they were worse even than a youkai’s. But this was his mortal now. “Tell me your name.”
The Champion looked at Keith for a long moment, the only sound his labored breathing. Finally, he murmured, “Shiro.”
Shiro . The name settled brightly in the corner of Keith’s mind. He hummed and shifted to Shiro’s side, already conjuring a soothing fire to clean the mess of Shiro’s arm. He willed it to stop the bleeding and heal, and the magic pooled in his hands, cool violet glowing against his skin until he pressed it into the wound. The fire licked away the bandage, shimmered and consumed the gore, until all that remained was shiny pink skin, fragile and thin, but it was enough that the bleeding had stopped. The rest of Shiro’s wounds were superficial, in comparison, but Keith still swept his hands over the worst of them, violet trailing in his wake. Shiro watched him wordlessly, face pale and drawn, only closing his eyes when Keith swept a thumb over the gash across his nose. The healing didn’t come without cost, and Keith fingered the shock of white hair that appeared in the wake of the fire.
It didn’t detract from his appearance, though. Keith couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone so beautiful, and so strong. Maybe never.
Keith rocked back onto his heels, giving Shiro space. “Can you walk?”
Shiro rolled to his side slowly, bracing on his hand and knees, and hauled himself upright. Keith straightened to stand next to him, and when Shiro’s knees buckled, Keith caught him. “Guess that’s a no,” Shiro panted.
Keith let out a noise of amusement and pulled Shiro’s arm around his shoulders. Shiro was big, bigger than Keith remembered mortals being, and that, more than his weight, made it difficult for Keith to maneuver him to his den, but he managed it without faltering.
His den wasn’t meant to house something quite so large, but Shiro fit, filling up the space with his presence in a way that was almost daunting, even with Keith in a human form. Almost, but Keith practically preened when Shiro collapsed there, accepting his hospitality, and he scurried to pillow Shiro’s head with handfuls of leaves. Shiro watched him warily, eyes hazy and unfocused, but Keith was certain he would recover from his hurts.
“Rest,” he murmured, smoothing a hand over Shiro’s uninjured shoulder. He glanced over the ruin of Shiro’s clothes, frowning, and with a wave of a hand they were replaced with fresh cotton—soft and black with an intricate embroidery of peonies. For bravery , Keith thought, smiling.
.o.
Keith had forgotten how slowly mortals healed.
Time slowed down, days creeping by as Shiro recovered. Keith’s healing abilities were limited, enough to close wounds but not enough to heal the deeper hurts, and certainly not enough to speed the recovery from blood loss.
Not enough to mend his missing arm, or any of the trauma he had survived.
He was quiet during the day. Shiro followed Keith, eyes cataloguing everything the forest had to offer, from the fruits Keith gathered to the rabbit-holes and hidden trails Keith showed him. The shrine he eyed warily, but not so warily as the half-overgrown road that passed nearby.
“No one travels here anymore,” Keith murmured. It was meant to reassure Shiro, but he couldn’t help the tinge of melancholy in his voice. He let his fingers trail over the weathered stone of his shrine, heart twinging with loneliness. Whatever his intentions had been when he’d saved Shiro, there was nothing he could really do to keep him here, once he was recovered. Offerings had to be given freely, or else there was no point.
It was fine. Keith could return to slumber when Shiro left.
Night was a different story. Shiro slept in fits and spurts, the darkness of Keith’s den filled with his shouts of terror as he clawed his way up from some nightmare, his eyes wild and frightened. Sometimes he would sob quietly, as if Keith couldn’t hear, and other times he would lash out blindly, fighting some unseen spectre.
It was the kind of pain that no magic could ease, so Keith soothed him with gentle touches and quiet murmurs that had no language.
At least a full cycle of the moon passed before Shiro smelled healthy and whole. He didn’t move so slowly when he followed Keith, and he disappeared on his own for long stretches of time, returning by twilight with wild berries and sometimes rabbits. The rabbits he skinned, though it took him several attempts before he could do so cleanly, cursing whenever he ruined a pelt, and Keith could see his struggle--but it was Shiro’s to overcome, and so Keith watched over him quietly as Shiro relearned how to use his body.
He spoke, finally, torrents of words about growing up in his grandfather’s care, about learning to fight honorably and follow a code. Of learning to live off the land and honor the spirits that watched over it--and Keith didn’t miss the way his stormy eyes slid to him as he described making offerings at a shrine close to his home.
He never spoke about how he came to be called Champion or how he’d been left for dead at Keith’s shrine. Keith didn’t ask him to; he was satisfied to just listen to whatever Shiro wanted to tell him.
Sometimes Shiro slept under the stars. Keith didn’t like it--it wasn’t safe, out in the open--but Shiro seemed to sleep better without the walls of the den around him, so Keith watched over him, shedding his human form so he could dart through the forest and keep any danger at bay.
Yellow acacias bloomed near Keith’s shrine, and he wondered if Shiro had seen them, if he knew what it meant. If he saw the love Keith was beginning to foster in the dark corners of his heart.
“Tell me your name.” Shiro’s voice was low and melodious, and Keith liked hearing it, but the words startled him. He wasn’t used to being addressed so directly--mostly they kept quiet company, or Shiro spoke and Keith listened.
This was new.
“Keith.” His name came to his lips surprisingly easy, a gift to the man he had secretly claimed as his own, had resolved to protect.
Shiro tested the name, “Keith,” and it sounded different in his voice. Reverent, maybe. “I’ve never thanked you for saving my life.”
Keith smiled, soft and small. “I’d do it again.”
Shiro nodded, a smile of his own lighting up his face, and it sent a shiver through Keith. “Thank you.”
Keith practically preened, skin tingling with energy--it had been so long since someone had thanked him directly. He’d been content with just Shiro’s company, but this, this fed his power, buoying him up until he felt giddy with it.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, “come on.” Keith pressed a hand against Shiro’s back, urging him to follow, and then darted off. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Shiro was following. When he saw that Shiro kept pace easily, he moved faster, faster, delighting when Shiro broke into a run. Keith called back, “Can you keep up? Can you catch me?”
Shiro’s face was bright with his smile as he took up the challenge, chasing Keith with surprising grace, feet swift on the forest floor.
Keith shot away, then scurried under cover and waited for Shiro to get closer to jump out and surprise him, laughing and baring his teeth when Shiro lunged after him. He twisted out of Shiro’s reach at the last second and took off again, slower but not so slow that Shiro could quite catch him. He was breathless and carefree and couldn’t remember ever getting to share this kind of exhilaration with anyone, and he didn’t mind letting Shiro close enough to circle his hand around Keith’s wrist, chest heaving and eyes sparkling.
Keith beamed at Shiro for a moment and then glanced around, putting a finger to his lips. He turned his wrist in Shiro’s grip until their hands were clasped and he could tug Shiro along with him, encouraging him to stoop into the underbrush of the forest. Keith snagged a leaf in his free hand and poured magic into it until it took the shape of an eagle, large and bright and angry looking—it took to the air with a flick of his wrist and he watched Shiro’s eyes follow it with wonder until it was out of sight. It was hardly more than a simple trick, meant to be flashy and catch the eye, and Keith waited until he heard a tell-tale screech to pull Shiro along behind him, as swift as his mortal feet could go.
They topped a hill, and from there they could see a harried little youkai, waving its many arms as it tried to shoo away Keith’s eagle, and Keith grinned. “Stay here.”
Keith watched Shiro kneel with a nod, his eyebrows high and curious, before slipping his human skin for the small, quick form of the fox, tails bouncing merrily behind him. He could smell his quarry, sweet and heady and hidden in the coolness of the earth. He had to dig to get to it, but the youkai it belonged to was still distracted by his illusion, and Keith freed the clay flask easily.
He was halfway up the hill with it clenched between his jaws when the illusion gave way.
He shoved the flask into Shiro’s hand before he transformed back, grinning wide and herding Shiro before him, hissing “Go, go!” Keith spun on his heel long enough to gather up a handful of leaves and scatter them, each one a replica of himself and dashing in random directions.
And Shiro was smart, weaving through the trees but not back in the direction of their den, because a direct trail would lead their pursuer right to them.
Keith pulled Shiro down into the shelter of a hollowed tree trunk once they’d put some distance between them and the youkai, flushed and breathless.
“What was that all about?” Shiro was laughing, and it was the most beautiful sound Keith had ever heard. “What’s this?”
Keith snatched the flask from Shiro, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Sake!” He uncorked it and held it near Shiro’s nose so he could smell it, cloying and sweet and sharp. “There’s a secret ingredient in this one, I heard that youkai bragging about it this morning.” Keith smirked and flicked his wrist, producing a small bowl. He poured the liquid into it and shifted closer to Shiro, moving to hold it to Shiro’s lips. He’d done the same when Shiro had been recovering, helping him drink water when he was too weak, but this...this was different— intimate —and Keith could feel the blush heating his skin.
Shiro’s eyebrow quirked, and he leaned forward, eyes bright and piercing as he steadied Keith’s hand with fingers around his wrist, accepting the offered drink. He hummed in appreciation, releasing Keith’s hand, and Keith felt the loss immediately. “It’s good. Do you know what it’s made with?”
Keith fought the urge to bite his lip. “Tuberose. It’s exotic .”
Shiro coaxed the flask out of Keith’s hand, and paused, eyeing the sake bowl. Instead of attempting to juggle the two dishes, he let Keith hold the bowl steady while he poured. He watched Keith drink with a smile. “Did you really have to steal it?”
Shiro’s mouth was tilted with a sly grin, but Keith still huffed and pushed his shoulder at the tease. “It wouldn’t have been fun, otherwise.”
Shiro passed the flask back, expression softening. “You’re not wrong.” He leaned to the edge of their shelter and poked his head out; Keith hauled him back with a hiss. “What, don’t you think we’ve lost her?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But if we drink this up before she finds us…”
Shiro chuckled. “I see.”
Keith nodded enthusiastically.
They passed the sake back and forth until it was gone, laughing in the shelter of the wood about everything and nothing, huddled close, and Keith wanted it to never end.
He was warm and tipsy when he pulled Shiro back towards the den, fireflies flickering through the trees to light their way. Shiro laughed as Keith stumbled, and reached out to steady him—and kept his arm around Keith’s waist the rest of the way. It was a hot night, the kind that made Keith want to shuck even his light yukata, but he still burrowed into the contact, humming happily.
They collapsed together in Shiro’s favorite sleeping spot, a clearing under the night sky, sitting closer than they had in the hollowed tree, and the buzz of alcohol made Keith bold enough to crane his neck and brush a kiss over Shiro’s jaw. Shiro’s eyes fluttered closed and he sighed at the touch, and then he was leaning down, brushing his nose against Keith’s. His eyes were as dark and warm as the night, his hand even hotter when he brushed Keith’s wild hair back from his face, and Keith felt his breath catch.
“Am I under a spell?”
Keith turned into his touch, a small furrow between his eyebrows. “A spell?”
“I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone quite so badly before.” Shiro’s voice was low, quiet, but Keith was close enough to hear—close enough to feel the way their breaths mingled between them—
But not close enough .
Keith nuzzled Shiro’s cheek, breathing him in, wanting, but this was something that was more fun to win rather than steal;a different kind of game, with different rules. “Then kiss me.”
Shiro hummed and leaned away a fraction; Keith made a noise of disappointment. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the sake.”
Keith dragged his nose just under Shiro’s jaw, loving the pulse that ran fast and strong just under the surface. “Maybe we should steal sake more often, then.” Shiro chuckled, a warm vibration in his throat that Keith wanted to taste and so he did, tongue darting out, quick and greedy—
And then Shiro’s hand was guiding him up, firm and demanding, but Keith was eager, giving in easily, and Shiro’s mouth was wet and sweet from the sake when they kissed. It was uncoordinated and sloppy, alcohol still thrumming in their blood, but it was perfect . Keith tilted his head to deepen the kiss and threaded his fingers through Shiro’s hair to draw him closer, until Shiro was opening up to him, tongue sliding against Keith’s own.
This was better than any offering at Keith’s shrine, and Keith wondered if he could be sustained on Shiro’s attention alone.
Keith pulled Shiro’s bottom lip between his teeth, playful and affectionate, delighting in the small sound Shiro made, and then he did the same along Shiro’s jaw—little nips that let him taste the sunshine and sweat on Shiro’s skin and made him clutch the fabric of Keith’s yukata—before Shiro was pressing his hand against Keith’s shoulder and pushing him to the ground. Keith found he didn’t mind the position at all, despite how vulnerable it left him, because Shiro was already ducking down to drag his teeth against Keith’s bared throat, and the sensation made Keith’s toes curl.
Time was slow, like this, a small slice of the night that seemed to stretch on without limit as they indulged in kissing each other, and even when they settled in the grass together, curled around each other, it meandered by to let them savor it.
The days began to grow shorter, but Keith and Shiro filled them with harmless pranks, and sometimes Keith would take Shiro to his favorite places in the forest—remote houses that nature had reclaimed—or on whatever other adventures struck their fancy.
Shiro still watched the road with sharp eyes. He still woke from nightmares, eyes wild, and it was the only thing Keith couldn’t protect him from—but he was there to soothe Shiro back to sleep, or to keep him company when sleep was a lost cause.
The air began to cool, and the leaves to change colors—reds and oranges and yellows dappled against a blue sky.
“This is a good harvest season. Grandfather would be pleased to be so busy.”
They were gathering wild vegetables on the edge of the forest, and Keith had been absently wondering what a human would need to pass the winter. Shiro couldn’t hibernate, and he couldn’t simply exist like Keith did. Humans were adept at preserving food for winter, though, and Shiro had learned how from his grandfather.
Keith didn’t like the faraway look Shiro got when he talked about his grandfather. It made him anxious, and he couldn’t quite say why.
“Grandfather told me, ‘ Takashi-kun, always offer the first basket of the harvest to the spirits. They watch over the land for us.’” Shiro smiled, and it was tinged with melancholy.
Keith wasn’t sure how to soothe that kind of hurt, and it made his chest ache. Instead, he honed in on, “‘Takashi-kun?’”
Shiro’s smile widened and he ducked his head. “My full name is Takashi Shirogane. I prefer Shiro.” He pursed his lips, and when he spoke again, his voice was pitched low and intimate. “You can call me Takashi, if you like.”
Keith’s heart stuttered, and he ducked in to press kisses along Shiro’s jaw. “ Takashi .” Shiro set aside the basket he’d been filling, eyes dark, and they tumbled together on the ground, all eager hands and mouths.
Later, Keith found Shiro sitting at the foot of his shrine, watching the road with a faraway look in his eyes. Next to him, he’d left an offering of the food they’d gathered earlier in the day, meticulously arranged—Keith had felt the crackle of energy at a distance, but it still sent a thrill through him to know Shiro had tended to his shrine.
It was less pleasing to see the distant expression on Shiro’s face once more. It was a look of longing, Keith realized.
A look of someone who was somewhere else, and Keith felt the knowledge bubble up as a lump in his throat. Shiro wouldn’t stay . The offering at his shrine was a goodbye, it had to be—why else would Shiro suddenly decide to leave a gift at Keith’s shrine, when he never had before?
Keith was no stranger to being left behind. He’d endured it already—his mother and then his father, and then the steady trickle of travelers who paid him tribute—but Shiro...he wanted Shiro to stay. Shiro made his days bright and interesting, and maybe Keith would keep going after he was gone, but it would hurt , it would leave an emptiness in him that Keith wasn’t sure he would be able to fill.
Keith decided he wasn’t going to let that happen. He didn’t want to force Shiro to stay...but he could trick him. He could trick him so that Shiro wouldn’t leave him, and it would be fine .
.o.
The knife Shiro had thrown at Keith when he’d first found him still had Shiro’s blood on it.
It would take only a flash of fire to clean the blade, would be easy enough to return it to Shiro, but Keith had kept it. A memento, he supposed, something tangible, though there was really no need for one so long as Shiro stayed with him. And there was still the matter of tricking him into doing so...
Keith coaxed a winter cherry tree into bloom and sat under the rain of white petals to think, turning Shiro’s knife over and over in his hands. There was no shortage of ideas, but Shiro was smart, and Keith liked the game of it, in any case, so it had to be just right. There were some plans that he discarded as soon as they came to him, and then others that he meticulously plotted, full of twists and turns—only to toss them aside as well. Nothing satisfied him, and it was unsettling, making him anxious, because Shiro could leave at any moment, and Keith would be alone again.
He understood it, finally, while he was watching Shiro sleep. He was peaceful, but that peace had only come after Keith had soothed him out of one of his nightmares.
He could not deceive Shiro.
Keith couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t keep Shiro from his family, couldn’t do anything that would hurt Shiro.
And Shiro didn’t belong here with Keith. He was a mortal, meant to live a brief life among his own. It would be better for him, Keith realized, to go back to that.
It would be better to let Shiro go. If Keith cared for him, he would let him leave.
Shiro’s smiles were still bittersweet as the days wore on, and Keith wondered if Shiro knew he could leave. He didn’t know how far Shiro would have to travel to find his home, but the seasons sometimes changed in the blink of an eye, and even someone as strong as Shiro would struggle in the winter.
Shiro slept in the den again just before the first frost, curled up with Keith for warmth—and Keith’s tails twitched in anxiety.
In the morning, while Shiro was still sleeping, Keith bundled all their food up along with the rabbit furs Shiro had collected, and tucked it into a bag. He could only think of Shiro, trudging through the snow if he didn’t leave sooner—he ignored the ache in his chest because if he didn’t, it would be unbearable.
“Keith? What’s this?” Shiro’s voice was quiet behind Keith.
Keith’s fingers paused over the knot that would secure a water skin to the bag he’d packed, but he didn’t turn. He swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “Provisions. If you leave any later—i-it’ll be winter soon.” Keith clenched a fist, angry at himself for faltering.
Shiro was quiet for a long moment. “If I leave?”
“You—you don’t have to stay here.” Keith schooled his face as well as he could before twisting to face Shiro. “You can go back to your grandfather.”
Shiro’s brow was furrowed with an expression Keith didn’t recognize. “No, I—you think I don’t want to stay here?” His eyes were still sad, Keith noted, heart clenching.
“You’ve been unhappy. I can tell. You should go back.” Keith let his gaze drop to the ground, too afraid of Shiro confirming it.
“Keith…” Shiro drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I’m...it’s not what you think. My grandfather, he passed. Years ago.” Keith glanced up, surprised. Shiro looked so tranquil, somehow, and Keith didn’t know what to do with that. “It was his time. It was just after harvest, so I always think about him when the leaves change. It’s part of life. I miss him, but it hasn’t made me unhappy in a long time.” Shiro pursed his lips, his hand curling into a fist. “I almost died, Keith. I could die at any time.”
Keith narrowed his eyes. “No! You’re strong—“
Shiro shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “I may be strong, but I’m still human. Thinking of Grandfather reminded me that I’m not like you. That makes me unhappy. Because I can’t think of a way to stay with you forever.”
Keith tried to process the words, and felt all of his strength leave him in a wave of relief when he realized what Shiro was saying. “You...don’t want to leave, then?” He hated how small his voice sounded.
Shiro shuffled forward, eyes bright. “Never.” His hand was as gentle as ever against the side of Keith’s face, and Keith melted into the kiss, heart swelling with happiness.
Keith pulled back after a long, sweet moment. “I think I know a way.”
.o.
The harebells were blooming around Keith’s shrine still, a splash of violet amidst the green. They were out of season, now, too close to the frost, but Keith liked them, and so he coaxed them to linger just a bit longer.
They were appropriate, given what he was about to do.
Keith sat with Shiro, at the foot of his shrine—where Shiro had been left as an offering not so long ago. Now it was Keith’s turn to make an offering.
Keith reached into his sleeve and drew out a gem the size of a pearl. It glowed, bright and merry like a star in the night sky—like the stars that Shiro liked to sleep under. It was his most precious possession, his hoshi no tama, and held a portion of the magic that anchored him to the world. Keith cupped it in his hands and focused on pouring power and purpose into it, along with all the hope he could muster. There were things more precious even than power, after all.
Keith offered it all to Shiro. “For you.” The light of the gem reflected in Shiro’s eyes as he accepted it graciously. “It is yours to keep, if you will have it.”
Shiro held the gem up, studying it. “This is beautiful.” He closed his hand around it and turned his attention back to Keith. “I have nothing comparable to offer you.” His brow furrowed, and his gaze fell...and landed on the harebells swaying in a light breeze. He carefully tucked Keith’s gem into his yukata and then bent, plucking a spray of harebells. Keith sucked in a breath. “I offer this to you. If you will have it.”
Keith brushed a finger against the violet petals. “I would never ask for your submission, Takashi.”
Shiro’s eyes fluttered shut. “It is yours, anyway.”
Keith hummed. “What about this?” He produced Shiro’s small throwing knife with an embarrassed smile. “I kept it without your permission, but—“
Shiro chuckled, a low sound that Keith would never tire of. “Typical kitsune,” he chided, though it was all fondness. “I think you were meant to keep it from the start.” He set the spray of harebells at the foot of the shrine and turned back to Keith, folding his fingers over the blade. “It is given freely.”
Keith bit his lip. “Then…so is this.” He pressed his palm to Shiro’s chest, over his heart, and cut the magic of his hoshi no tama loose.
Keith half-expected it to hurt. It was a piece of himself, after all, but then, so was Shiro. It only felt like coming home, the transfer of power, and it was beautiful, watching the white light expand until it enveloped Shiro. A wind kicked up, swirling around them and tangling their hair, and Keith watched with wide eyes as the light coalesced on Shiro’s right side, in the form of an arm, and in his hair until it ran white.
Stillness settled around them, and Shiro held out his new limb with wonder, flexing his hand to test it. It was silvery, and didn’t look quite solid, but it felt solid enough when Shiro cupped Keith’s face in both hands. “Keith…” He leaned down and brushed Keith’s lips with a kiss.
Keith placed his own hands over both of Shiro’s. The change in him was subtle, aside from the physical ones—just a low-level thrum of energy, and a spark in his eyes, but it was so much more than just that. Keith drew Shiro’s hands away and peppered kisses over his knuckles. He pulled away with a grin. “Come on. Catch me. ”
Keith slipped his human skin, bounding into the forest with a gleeful yip. He heard Shiro shout from behind him, and an instant later there was a silvery fox running next to him. Beautiful , was all Keith could think, and then he was surging forward without restraint, Shiro at his heels.
It had worked . There was a bond now that couldn’t be broken, not even by death, because Shiro and Keith were the same .
Shiro pounced on him and they rolled in a flurry of fur, black and white, before they shook loose again.
They stole some sake off an unsuspecting youkai, laughing as they ran away, and once they lost it, Keith led Shiro to an onsen, steam rising up from the pool invitingly. They sank into the waters as humans, letting the water chase away the chill of the late fall air, and Shiro opened the sake flask.
“It’s so strange,” Shiro murmured. He poured the sake easily with the aid of his new hand, and held the bowl to Keith’s lips. “I feel so different. I’m like you.”
Keith sipped slowly, savoring the taste, and then smiled. “You’re like me.”
“Isn’t this a bit like a wedding?” Shiro took his turn accepting the sake from Keith. Keith looked up at him through his hair, and Shiro raised a placating hand. “It’s not a complaint. I’ve already pledged myself to you.”
Keith laughed. “Yeah. It’s like a wedding.” He leaned in and pecked Shiro on the lips. “Pour some more sake, Takashi. We’re celebrating.”
