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The stars in space don’t look anything like the stars from Earth. Seen through atmosphere, a star is just a tiny point of light, a torch shining through a pinhole. But a star in space is an explosion, a bonfire tossing rainbow sparks into the void like glitter. Thousands upon thousands of burning embers against a black and midnight sky.
I’ve always been able to see pretty well in the dark, but on the castleship, out here in space, the starlight lights my way like a full moon.
I think that might be why it’s hard to fall asleep sometimes. It’s never dark enough for my eyes, never truly feels like night.
But at the same time, it always feels like night.
I’ve always had a pretty fucked up circadian rhythm, but this endless in between of never night and never day has me waking up constantly in the middle of a sleep cycle. My nervous system on a fucking hair trigger from the constant threat of attack alarms makes it even worse.
It’s something you and I have in common, the insomnia, and it never takes us more than thirty minutes - dobashes, gotta get used to that - to find each other, even on this massive ship. We both know where the other likes to hide.
So it’s not a surprise when I hear the low tread of your boots down the hall. I know it’s you, just like I always knew it was you any time I’d go hide at the Garrison. Because you’re the only person that’s ever bothered to come looking for me.
That part of you, of us, is the same as it’s always been, but so much else isn’t. You’re quiet now, in a way you weren’t before. You’ve changed a lot in the year you were away. And so have I.
I turn to meet you in the doorway, and it’s like this every single time now. Because that void that opened up in my chest when you disappeared hasn’t closed, even now that I’ve found you again. You’re back but you still feel oceans away from me, and it hurts to look at you even as my heart soars.
It feels impossible that I will ever get over the loss of you. I think that I’ll just have to live like this forever, joy and agony warring in my chest every time I see you, because my body can’t forget what it felt like to have you gone, even though you’re right here. But you’ve always been able to calm my pain, even if just a little, and that’s something that hasn’t changed no matter how far you’ve gone.
“Out for a starlit promenade?” you say, and my mouth twitches. We both sleep like shit these days, and we both know it, but it’s always been your way to find levity in the muck.
You’re not okay. I know you’re not. But I’m so fucking glad you can still find it in yourself to smile. You deserve it and I’ll always play along.
“I’m not fancy enough for a promenade,” I say, toeing the floor with my boot. “Let’s call it a midnight stroll.”
“A midnight stroll it is,” you say, moving into my space and squeezing my shoulder.
It embarrasses me, how much I like it. How much I like you touching me. I think you know, but you never make me feel weird or wrong for how much I need it.
Sometimes, I even wonder if it’s the same for you. If the reason why you touch me is the same reason why I lean into it. Is it possible that you need me just as much as I need you?
“You’re always the best company out here,” you say quietly, your hand still resting on my shoulder, and I have to duck my head and look away. I’ve always blushed so fucking easily, and it feels like it’s gotten even worse since you’ve been back. I can hardly look at you without feeling like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin for want of touching you. Of holding you. Of protecting you.
I feel wild with it, how I want to hide you away from everything. Put you somewhere safe where no one can ever hurt you again.
And I hate that. That I want it. I hate it because I know you would. You weren’t made for clipped wings and a cage. You were made to fly.
And I want that for you. So why is it that every part of me is screaming with the need to tuck you away and keep you safe? It feels so wrong. It feels so right.
“So are you, Shiro,” I whisper. I still can’t meet your eyes, but I think you must be smiling.
“Keith,” you say, strangely hesitant, and I peer up at you through my bangs. You’re not smiling. You look unsure, and it floors me, because I so rarely see you like this.
Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you, Shiro. Just ask me.
“I, um,” you break off, unable to say whatever it is that you want. But it’s okay, Shiro. I can be patient. You taught me that.
I raise my head, meet your eyes before reaching out to squeeze your hand. It’s your prosthetic, which I’ve noticed you’re hesitant to touch me with. You must notice too, because you blink before gazing down to where I hold you.
When you squeeze back, I can’t help but smile even as I stay quiet, giving you space to talk. Eventually, you do.
“I’m still not used to looking in the mirror,” you say, hedging like you always do when you need something.
But I think I understand. You are undeniably different, and after a year of not seeing your own reflection, it must be shocking. The white bangs and the scar on your face make it impossible not to remember where you’ve been, and I know that you desperately want to forget. I squeeze your hand again, silently giving you permission to talk.
You flex your jaw, because you really don’t want to ask. Don’t want to need.
But you do. Need.
You need it badly enough that you came out here to find me. To ask me. So I wait, because, damn you, you always find a way to coax it out of me just by waiting, so I’m going to do the same fucking thing.
I’m not patient, Shiro, but I’d wait for you forever.
And it pays off, because finally, you say what you mean.
“My hair’s getting long. Do you think you can buzz it for me, Keith?”
Your voice is tight and even, and you’re looking slightly away from me. Close enough to my eyes to fool most people, but I’m not most people.
You’re scared, I think. That you’ll see something in my eyes you don’t want to see. And it’s crazy that I could even think that. That I could think you afraid of anything. Because you weren’t, before.
You weren’t even afraid of dying.
No, the only thing that ever scared you back then was never getting off the ground.
But you’re different now. Not in a bad way. You’ve always been like the sun, and that part of you hasn’t changed. You’re just darker, like you’re fighting through cloud cover every time you make a joke or smile.
It’s fucking brave, that you could go through what you did and not give up on your own soul. That you still choose to fight to be as close to the person you used to be as you can find.
But I can see that you’re struggling, in a way I don’t think the others notice, and I know you hate asking for help.
You don’t often need help, not really. And I know everything you ever asked me to help you with in the past was more for me than it was for you. To make me feel like you needed me, as absurd as that sounds.
You’re so used to doing everything yourself, and the fact that you’re asking me now, really asking me, has pride buzzing in my chest like champagne fizz.
“Of course, Shiro,” I say, squeezing your hand again.
A muscle in your cheek twitches before your eyes flicker and then you really look at me, gaze tentative. “Yeah, Keith?”
I nod. “Yeah, Shiro. I bet this machine is a little different from your old one, but I’ve watched you do it enough that I’m sure I can figure it out.”
You smile then and I can’t help but grin in return as you say, “I’m not so sure your confidence is warranted considering you cut your hair with a knife-“
I slug you and you laugh, shoving at me before continuing. “But you’re the only one I trust to do it for me.”
I love that you’re like this. Fun and funny and earnest and kind. Even after everything they put you through, you’re still Shiro, and you’re so goddamn strong for that.
“Don’t worry, old man,” I smirk. “I’m a fast learner and I’m good with my hands.”
You roll your eyes into a grin as I shove your shoulder again. “Lead the way.”
And you do.
It’s a quick walk to your quarters, and you fill the silence with compliments about my training progress. It’s so characteristically you, to praise me instead of talking about what’s really going on. It’s sort of funny that you’ve lived in the spotlight for so long and still don’t like people paying attention to you.
I can’t really help you there, because you always have mine.
When we get to your quarters, the door swings open to reveal a room as tiny as my own. It’ll definitely be cramped in the bathroom but we’ll make it work. We always do.
As for the black out setting on your mirror, I don’t mention it. You don’t owe me any more explanation than you’ve given me, and I like to think I’ve gotten pretty good at reading between your lines over the years.
“Not a lot of seating options here at Keith’s Humble Barber Shop. We’ve got the toilet, the floor, and the bed, take your pick,” I say, gesturing as I go.
You shake your head, smiling a little, and say, “The floor. Wouldn’t want this in the bed, and I’d hate for you to see what I look like on the toilet.”
I laugh outright at that. “Guess that means you’re going to see what I look like on the toilet seeing as there’ll be no place for me to stand with you sitting on the floor.” I motion with the razor in my hand. “Go on fly boy, I’ll sit behind you.”
You stare at me, a little bit skeptical and a lot amused. “Don’t you want me to teach you how to use it?”
“Hell no,” I say. “The only person you have to demonstrate on is me, and I’m not letting you give me a regulation haircut.”
You laugh again, but not the little huffs from earlier. This time it’s a deep belly laugh, stretching your smile wide enough that your dimple pops out. It’s one of the only asymmetrical things about you, that you have one instead of two, and I can admit I’m kind of obsessed with it. I like you a little messy.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of shaving your head and ruining your rebel persona Keith,” you say, teasing, and I roll my eyes. “Besides, you’ve got nice hair. I’d miss it.”
That makes me grit my teeth because fuck you and my stupid red cheeks.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, shoving your shoulder. “Now sit down already.”
You smirk at me, your eyes so warm as you utter two words before turning around.
“Yes, sir.”
My face fucking flames, and the only reason I don’t punch you is that you had enough mercy not to look at me after you said it. I thought your eyes were warm? I should have said wicked.
“Dickhead,” I mutter, but there’s no heat to it, and you snort before saying, “That’s me.”
Sometimes I think you play a game to see just how far you can go before I turn into a goddamn tomato. But I like you too much to hate you for it.
I am a little jealous, though. I wonder how far I’d have to go to have you blushing too.
Thankfully for me, you seem done with your teasing for now, and obediently sit down criss cross in front of the toilet, and it only takes me a second to scramble up behind you.
And then a few more for me to take in our positions and realize your head is between my legs. You’re facing away from me, but it doesn’t matter. My brain goes from zero to panicked horny in 0.5 seconds.
God damn. I’ve already jerked off twice today and clearly I’m going to be doing it again later.
I’m only eighteen so I guess this is probably normal? Maybe? But sometimes I get so horny, all fucking day, no matter how many times I come, that I think it can’t possibly be normal.
And I should absolutely not be thinking about jerking off while you’re sitting right in front of me. My dick better stay exactly where it is, or I’m going to shoot myself out the airlock, because I’d never be able to look you in the eyes ever again if I popped a boner against the back of your head. Death is much preferable to that.
I clear my throat, afraid that if I talk before doing it, my voice will come out even raspier than it usually is, and I mean yeah, you probably already know I think you’re gorgeous and kind and so fucking incredible, but you really don’t need to know what my thirsting for you sounds like.
“So is it um already set to the setting you like?” Great job, Keith. That sounded almost normal.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice quiet but not upset, so I don’t ask. I’d hate to hear that you feel awkward sitting between my thighs like this.
“Well,” I say, “Guess I’ll test it on your neck first. If I mess up, that won’t really change the shape.”
“You won’t mess up,” you say, and your confidence in me feels like a balloon rising in my chest.
“What happened to all that, ‘big words for someone who cuts his hair with a knife?’”
You shrug, laughing a little through your nose. “Like you said, you’re good with your hands.”
I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to say that. I don’t know what the fuck possesses me now to keep up with it, but I say, “Damn right I am. I’ll show you just how much. Let me hold your head? That way you stay in one place.”
You don’t speak for a second, and I think I massively fucked up by flirting with you, I have lost my fucking mind, but then you lean your head back, white bangs falling into your grey iron eyes, and you’re looking at me expectantly and, oh yeah, shit, I asked if I could hold your head.
It feels like a dream almost, to reach out my hand, to card my fingers through your bangs and brush them back against your skull so that I can trim off the longest bits later. To then place my palm on your forehead. To hold your gaze for what feels like a fucking eternity before you lower your head back down and lean into my hand.
“Okay,” I choke out, and damn it I forgot to clear my throat and, “Here goes.”
I turn on the machine and a soft buzzing fills the small space. And as your shoulders tighten I realize this might be an uncomfortable sound for you when you can’t see where it’s coming from, so I start to narrate what I’m doing.
“Touching down on your neck in three…two…one,” and the soft hair flakes away.
I can hear the smile in your voice when you say, “Don’t be too quippy about it or I’ll laugh and you’ll shave a stripe up the back of my head.”
I smile. “Bold of you to assume I can’t abort a failed landing in time,” and use the distraction to take another swipe at your neck.
It goes on like that. Us just talking about stupid shit the way we used to. When you ask me how it’s looking, and I tell you pretty straight, you say, “No actually, I’m gay.”
That makes me laugh, and then I have to tell you to fuck off making me laugh or I really will make a botched landing. But it’s fine. Right here, right now, we’re fine, and when I finish shaving off the last long bits of your bangs and shut the razor off, you lean your head back against my thigh and beam at me and fuck you’re so handsome.
“Feels perfect, Keith,” you say, and yeah, your head on my thigh does feel fucking perfect.
I’m honestly proud of sounding like a semi-normal human when I say, “It does look perfect if I do say so myself. But I guess you’ll find out for real from Lance tomorrow. For all you know, you’re bald.”
Your shoulders shake against my thighs with your laughter. “I’m definitely not bald considering I can still feel my bangs. But if Lance does say something, I’ll be sure to tell him it’s your fault.”
You sit up then, taking the warmth with you as you run a hand through your bangs, floofing them up over your forehead like you like, and I prod your shoulder with my boot until you look back at me with a half smile.
I smirk. “And if he compliments you, you’ll be sure to tell him it was my perfect handiwork.”
That half smile becomes a full grin as you say, “I’ll compliment you every varga if I have to.”
You stand then and help me to my feet, reaching out with your prosthetic this time, and I feel so wildly happy that you’re feeling uninhibited enough and maybe even accepted enough not to have forced yourself to use your left. It’s a good night.
And since we’re both wide awake by this point, we end up in the lounge watching Bii-Boh-Bii.
Until eventually you fall asleep, and by some fucking miracle, you don’t wake up when you tip sideways and your head lands in my lap.
I freeze, having almost dozed off myself, and I’m so glad I didn’t because I’d have missed this. Missed seeing you with peace on your face, no clouds over your sunshine, even for just this moment before the nightmares come for you later.
Right now, with me in this moment, you’re safe, and I’m so happy about having this night with you that feels so much like how we used to hang out before, that I don’t even stop to consider that I shouldn’t or what I’ll say if you wake up.
I just reach out. And run my fingers through your bangs.
The white hair looks good on you, even if I hate how it got there. It looks good when you’re awake too, your dark grey eyes brightened by the paleness in your bangs. But it looks best when those eyes are smiling at me, because honestly, you kind of look like an angel with that shock of white hair.
I don’t often let myself…think stuff like this. But I selfishly want to see what you’d look like if all your hair was white.
I desperately want to see you grow old. And I hate that even with all my efforts, I might never get to see it.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it. I hate that you might never grow old. Especially with this war. I feel like tearing my fucking heart out, but I can’t do that. I won’t.
I’ll stay here with you. I’ll be here. I’m here, Shiro, and I’ll give you every second I can.
I know all you want is to protect the world.
Protect the world, Shiro. I’ll protect you, so that you can.