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The problem is that Keith is the sun.
The problem is that Keith is the sun, and Shiro only ever eclipses him, casts him into an overbearing shadow of dependency and martyrdom, blocks out Keith’s light again and again until he fears one day there will be none left.
But suns are eternal, and eclipses can be avoided. So Shiro knocks himself out of orbit, and tells himself that is for the best. He tells himself this first in the cracked mirror in Keith’s house in the middle of the desert after he crashes on Earth after a year as the Champion and learns Keith lost everything because of him. And he tells himself this again, and again, and again, until he has forged it into a kind of vow, one that burns and tightens in his chest whenever Keith risks a little more of himself to keep Shiro safe.
Shiro believes in the law of diminishing returns, and so he does not give Keith half as much as what Keith gives him. He knows it is cruel, but it is the only way. Because eventually, Keith will leave. Eventually, if Shiro pushes him away enough, Keith will finally be free of him.
So when Voltron is over, and Earth is saved, Shiro avoids him. Shiro keeps his words calm verging on cool, and never allows his expression to cross into the earnest affection that is all too often on display on Keith’s face. And when he receives word a year later, not from Keith but from a third party, that Keith has left with the Blades for deep space, he expects to feel relief, because it has finally worked.
But all he feels is empty. What is a moon without its sun? A cold, lifeless thing, floating aimlessly through the night, never waxing, never waning, never aglow with stolen daylight.
The problem is, Keith is the sun, and everyone knows what happens when you stare too long at the sun. Keith blinded him long ago, and Shiro has grown used to the darkness.
*
“Hey, old timer. You’re new here, huh?”
Shiro sits down at the bar with a shrug, accepting the whiskey with his cybernetic hand and tapping the white metal fingers slowly against the glass. “Sure. New enough.”
The bartender peers at him, and snorts. “Yeah, you are. Let me guess: back in your glory days, you were out flyin’ ships and savin’ folks, and then they retired you to some kinda corporate office position, and you just couldn’t take it anymore?”
Shiro shakes his head in grudging admiration and knocks back the glass. “Guess you get a lot of ‘old timers’ passing through here, huh?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” The bartender goes back to polishing glasses, gaze sweeping over the crowded, smoky room in a proprietary sort of way. “We get all kinds of folks here. Some of the downtrodden, miserable bastards like yourself – no offense – and some of the Universe’s craziest jackasses this side of the Kepler Belt.”
Shiro raises an eyebrow. “My curiosity is piqued, though I wouldn’t say I’m miserable, per se…”
“I would.” The bartender grins. His teeth are filled with diamonds, or maybe quartz. “We get the usual gangs; they got their turf but they know to keep this place well enough alone. A few bounty hunters, few renegade-types...don’t work for nobody but themselves. Suspect none of ‘em would abide by your moral code, hmm?”
“And what moral code is that?” Shiro asks mildly.
“A good one!” the bartender chortles, and slaps his thighs. “You stink of it, old timer. Good to the bone, I bet.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” Shiro sighs into his glass, “but I’m flattered?”
“You shouldn’t be,” the bartender warns. “Good gets you killed, out here. Gotta be willing to break a few bones, slit a few throats.”
Shiro’s eyes widen. “Excuse me – ?!”
“Some folks come here good, but they never leave the same way.” His voice lowers. “Ever heard of the Kestrel? Story goes, he was a war hero. Now? A butcher, more like. I’d bet money you end up like him – playin’ judge, jury, and executioner, in the name of doin’ what’s right, but really, it’s all just vengeance and blood money.”
The door bangs open and the rowdy room hushes as if smothered.
“Speak of the Devil himself,” the bartender whispers, and turns around. “Keep your head down, boy, ‘less you wanna lose it. The Kestrel ain’t fond of mercy.”
Shiro, despite his better judgment, turns his head enough to see the newcomer.
It takes a moment, but when he recognizes Keith, his throat constricts.
He stands in the doorway with the cold imperium of a young king, or perhaps heir presumptive, surveying the bar with cold golden eyes slitted in a way Shiro has only ever seen when Keith’s emotions are at their most combustive.
His clothes are all black and shining, not the Blade uniform but sleek and tight in the same way, outlining every curve and flex when he moves, lithe and nearly feline. His hair has grown out past his shoulders, and is tied back in messy, useless braids here and there, falling into his face in a way more artless than unkempt. He is alone, and there is a gleaming blade at his hip, and when his eyes lock on Shiro, his mouth twists with a kind of violence.
Shiro knows he will leave before he turns on his heel and does so, so he is already halfway to the door when Keith slams the bar door shut. Shiro follows him like a starving hound, out into the rain-swept street and then across it, chasing him with a shame that claws its fiery way into his throat and dry mouth.
“Keith!” he calls, and Keith goes still on the sidewalk, head swiveling slow and deadly to the side, just enough for Shiro to see his gritted teeth and sharp jaw. Too sharp, he thinks distantly.
“Don’t,” Keith says when he’s close enough to hear, and Shiro slows to a cautious walk. “Why are you here?”
His voice is cold, colder than the rain as it seeps through Shiro’s shirt. “Wanted a drink. You?”
Keith scoffs, and shakes his head. “Forget it.” He’s going to leave again.
Shiro grabs his wrist and Keith recoils, whirling around to face him, a wild look in his wild eyes. “Don’t!” Keith says again, and this time there’s something high and young and frightened in it, and Shiro lets go, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. “Don’t,” Keith says, again, and swallows. He looks away and his brows draw together. His left eyebrow is sliced clean through, healed in a thin white scar where the hair will never grow back.
“Too late to apologize?” Shiro tries, and Keith closes his eyes.
“It’s been ten years, Shiro,” he breathes. “Ten years, and not a word from you. Not a word. And now you think you can chase me down in a shithole like this and say sorry and make it all better?”
“No,” Shiro says, exhaling hard. “No, I don’t think that. You deserve better than that, from me.”
Keith glances up, humorless. “Fuck you, Takashi Shirogane.”
Shiro takes a step back. “Oh,” he says.
Keith is crying, or maybe it’s just the rain, but the way his lower lip shakes suggests otherwise.
“Fuck you,” Keith repeats, with more venom, and Shiro’s seen that look in his eyes before, and takes another step back but it’s no use, Keith lunges, unsheathes his blade in a cold slice of silver and violet and Shiro’s back hits the brick wall hard, and Shiro doesn’t stop it. Keith’s blade presses to his throat and Keith glares at him, white serrated teeth bared inches from his parted lips.
“I could do it,” Keith tells him, and Shiro stares into his glowing eyes and tries to imagine rows and rows of the same, glaring down at him, cheering as blood spills across the sand, but he can’t. Keith may look more like the Galra than he ever has, but all Shiro can see in him is Keith.
“Do you want to kill me?” Shiro asks, and the blade slides with alarming firmness across his neck. Shiro gulps, feeling the thin rivulet of heat drip down and pool over his collarbones.
“I wanted to,” Keith admits, tilting his head with eerie consideration. “Yeah, I wanted that. Maybe it was after the third year of radio silence from you, or maybe the fifth. Or maybe it was before that. Maybe it was after we saved the goddamn Universe together, and you ghosted me to the point where I had to relay messages to you through Lance. Lance. What the fuck, Shiro.”
“I’m not ghosting you now,” Shiro whispers, and Keith’s eyes narrow.
“Not yet,” Keith growls. “What were you hoping for, some small talk? Thought I’d come crawling back to you even after everything?” He sneers. “I made a place for myself here, a name. I don’t need you anymore, Takashi.”
Shiro’s gut twists. “No,” he whispers, “no, Keith, that was the – that was the point. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you to – to keep…”
Something like recognition flickers in Keith’s eyes, but the anger does not fade from his face. “To keep what?” he snarls.
“Me,” Shiro breathes. “To keep me, Keith. You didn’t...I wasn’t good for…”
Keith takes a sudden step back, eyes huge. “You’re not serious.”
“How many times did you get hurt because of me, Keith?” Shiro asks, letting his nicked throat bleed. “How many times did you almost die because you should have let me die?”
Keith stares at him. “Should have? Says who? You? You think I should have let you die? Jesus, Shiro.”
“Yes, I think that; I know that,” Shiro insists quietly. “If you hadn’t met me, you would never have been expelled from the Garrison –”
Keith’s jaw works. “If not for you I never would have been in the goddamn Garrison –”
“You don’t know that! Maybe someone else would have recruited you, someone better –”
“Better than you? Better than the fucking Golden Boy himself?” Keith shakes his head. “Like hell.”
“Someone who didn’t hurt you like I did,” Shiro explains, struggling to keep his tone even. “Someone who only ever cared about helping you, someone less selfish.”
Now it’s Keith’s turn to take a step back. “Selfish? What – I – you’re not fucking selfish, Shiro, what the fuck –”
“Like a brother, you said.” Shiro looks up at him. Keith is ashen, wet hair slicked to his skull and hanging into his face in long dark tendrils like a creeping oil spill. “I don’t love you like a brother, Keith. I never have.”
Keith makes a choked sound. Shiro looks away again. “Do you see, now? I know what I did, what I felt, was wrong, Keith. I know that now, and I’m sorry for it, and for the pain I caused you, but I thought it would have been better than for you to keep risking your life for someone who –”
“Someone who what, Shiro.” Keith’s gaze burns. Shiro can feel it without even looking.
“Someone who wants you,” Shiro sighs. “I love you, but not the way you loved me.”
“No,” Keith blurts, and Shiro blinks. Keith’s brow is furrowed. “I didn’t love you like that.”
“Like a –”
“No.”
The word is harsh, grating. Shiro swallows. “You don’t…?”
“I never wanted you to be my brother, Shiro,” Keith says, and steps closer.
“Then what did you want?” Shiro is barely breathing.
“You never asked,” Keith says. His fingers are warm and wet on Shiro’s cheek.
“Sorry.” It’s all he can say.
Keith shakes his head. “I wanted to kill you,” he murmurs, and smiles a little, not at all friendly. “Maybe I should want that, still. Maybe I will, later. But right now? Right now, I want to kiss you.”
“Kiss me, then,” Shiro whispers, and Keith does, shoving him against the bricks and forcing a thigh between his legs, knee nudging at his crotch without preamble. Shiro groans, clutches at him and thinks this is wrong; this is all wrong. He imagined their first kiss under a warm sunset in the warmer desert, or on a soft bed with Keith in his arms – not here in a back alley on a swap moon station with blood dripping down his chest and Keith’s mouth bruising over his, demanding and taking and giving him no quarter.
“Shit,” Keith gasps in a stolen breath, fisting a hand into Shiro’s hair and tugging until Shiro’s head thuds with dull pain into the wall. “You were married, Shiro. Or did you forget that, too?”
“Didn’t work out,” Shiro wheezes, staring at the faint blur of the distant stars.
Keith grimaces. “Why not? Spent too much time whoring yourself out with strangers?”
Shiro flinches. “You’re not a stranger, Keith –”
Keith glares. “Ten years. You think you know me?” He snorts. “Maybe once, but not anymore.”
Shiro closes his eyes. “He deserved better.”
Keith pulls back, and Shiro misses his weight immediately. “What?”
“I couldn’t be what he wanted,” Shiro says. “We got a divorce two years after.”
Keith whistles. “Yeah? ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’ Pretty pathetic excuse, Shiro.”
“I know.”
Keith frowns. “You dated him for six months. Why the hell did you even marry him in the first place?” His tone isn’t accusing, but it isn’t kind, either. “I told you it wasn’t going to work out. Of course you didn’t listen. You wouldn’t talk to me, much less listen.”
“I don’t want to talk about my ex-husband, Keith,” Shiro says.
Keith folds his arms. “Yeah, well, I do. Answer the question.”
Shiro stares at him dully. His lips are smarting. “Or what? You’ll slit my throat?”
“I’ll leave,” Keith says, and Shiro’s heart stumbles. “I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I thought it was,” Shiro whispers. “I think I was wrong.”
“You think,” Keith starts, and scoffs. “If you didn’t want me around, you could have just said so. Let me down gently, at least.”
Shiro swallows. “I didn’t...I couldn’t do that.”
“Yeah? Because you loved me?” Keith’s eyes are unforgiving. “Bullshit. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have abandoned me.”
Shiro pauses. “Abandon? Wait, that wasn’t –”
“Yes,” Keith says. “It was. Again, and again, and again. How many times did I save you?”
“As many times as it takes,” Shiro says, and Keith’s kissing him again before he can even finish the sentence.
"And you saved me once," Keith pants, breaking the kiss.
Shiro jolts away. "That isn't true -" He stops, falters, heart in his throat as he thinks of every time he saved Keith as the Black Lion, trapped within the astral plane, every fiber of his being fighting to keep the bright light of its new paladin alive. He had nothing else to anchor him. Nothing but Keith. And that, too, terrified him, because if Keith had been lost to the darkness, then Shiro would have been, too. But Keith doesn't know about all those times, because Shiro's never told him, never wanted to mire them both deeper. Shiro swallows. "That isn't true," he repeats. "Keith. Please."
Keith growls, leans in and bites at his lips and drags his hips in until they clash and grind and then Keith’s riding his thigh, panting in his ear and sweating against him, snarling, “You never said it back. You never even tried. That isn’t love, Shiro.”
Shiro pushes him away, breathing unevenly, cock aching, anger stirring in his chest. “And yours was?” he snaps. “Throwing yourself in danger’s path to protect me even when I was fighting you to the death and Lotor was about to destroy Voltron? That isn’t love, Keith. That’s blind loyalty, and that gets you, and innocent others, killed.”
“Blind?” Keith spits. “You think I was blind to want to save your life?”
“Over saving the Universe? Yes!” Shiro shakes his head, sending raindrops arcing through the air. “I’m not worth that, Keith! Nobody should be worth that much!”
Keith stares at him, chest rising and falling unevenly. “Was I ever worth that to you?” His voice is hollow.
Shiro hesitates. Keith is missing the point. Keith is his sun, moon, and stars. That's exactly the problem. Nobody should be worth that much. It's dangerous, to care that much. But he does. He always has. And maybe it was useless to ever try to run from it. “Keith…”
Keith’s face crumples and it feels like a punch to the gut. “No, don’t tell me,” he says. “I know the answer. You told me the answer with every day that passed that I didn’t hear from you.” Keith’s shoulders slump. “What if I had died, Shiro? Would you have even cared?”
Shiro reaches out. “Of course I –”
Keith brushes him off. “There is no ‘of course,’ Shiro. I thought, of course, you would keep in touch. I thought, of course, you would acknowledge my existence after Atlas and Voltron saved the Universe together. I thought, of course, even if you didn’t feel the same way I did, we could still be friends. But you wouldn’t even give me that.”
Shiro knows he can’t give Keith any more excuses. He bows his head in chagrined silence and whispers, “I wanted to give you so much more than that. But I didn’t think...didn’t dare to hope…”
“Shut up.” Keith’s claws slice into his jaw in a tender sort of wickedness. “I spent the last decade trying to forget about you,” Keith admits.
Shiro shivers. “Did it work?”
Keith sighs, and Shiro hears the defeat, feels it echoed in himself. “No,” Keith says. “How could I ever forget about you?”
Shiro searches his gaze. “Are you married?” he asks after a long silence.
Keith laughs in his face. “Idiot,” he says, and grabs Shiro’s right hand. He drags him out of the rain and down the alley, not towards the street but towards a ramshackle doorway at the end, and Shiro contemplates whether or not he would be mad if Keith murdered him, after all.
“That’s not really an answer,” Shiro tries, and gets pushed through the open doorway for his efforts.
Keith slams the door shut behind them, and the heady scent of what could be incense floods Shiro’s lungs, verging on stifling, made more intense by the dim lights. The space is cordoned off by some kind of folding partitions, so that what was once a large room is now a tangled maze of small, dark chambers. Lanterns hang and sputter from the ceiling, casting the pale walls in warm gold, and making their shadows stretch behind them like long, creeping creatures.
Shiro stands uncertainly amidst it all, and Keith’s claws dig into his hip. His hand slips under Shiro’s shirt, freezing cold. Shiro refuses to shiver.
“Do you see a ring?” Keith asks, holding up his left hand in front of Shiro’s face, clawed fingers curling under Shiro’s scrutiny.
Shiro shakes his head, suddenly unable to speak.
Keith leans in closer. His eyes glow like a cat’s, and yet not at all – they’re alien, too bright and too dangerous. Shiro wishes Keith would kiss him instead of just staring at him like that, like Shiro is nothing but an insect to be studied and crushed underfoot as soon as he’s satisfied his curiosity.
“I’m not married,” Keith says. “Did you think I would be?”
Shiro exhales. “I...I hoped you were happy,” he offers. Keith’s eyes narrow. “I hoped you found someone who...who made you happy.”
Keith doesn’t answer; his face is a grim mask when he pushes Shiro down, and at first Shiro thinks he’s being attacked again, thinks Keith plans to gut him on the ground and leave him to bleed out, but instead Shiro topples into shocking softness, cushions and blankets piled over each other to create a makeshift bed, and Keith lands atop him with light grace, straddling his hips like they’re his throne.
“There’s nobody else here,” Keith says, crouching low over him, shifting just so over Shiro, enough that his weight makes Shiro want to grab him and yank him down where Shiro wants him, sink a hand into his hair and force Keith backwards –
But Shiro doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare to. If he moves, Keith might leave. So he stays still, even when Keith kisses him again, and this seems to infuriate Keith more.
“Now you’re just gonna lie there?” Keith snaps, tearing away from his mouth, trailing spit which hangs from his red lower lip like a tiny, shiny stalactite. “What’s wrong? Forgot how this works?”
Shiro is conscious of every breath. “What do you want me to do?” he asks. This is all wrong, but this, at least, he has to get right. If nothing else.
Keith’s lip curls. “Shirt, off.”
Shiro nods, fumbling with the hem of his shirt, easing it up and off with minor difficulty once it snags on his right shoulder socket. He spends a humiliating several seconds struggling, pinned under Keith as he is, and unwilling to literally disarm himself, before Keith hisses and does it for him, ripping the fabric in the process. Shiro shrinks back when Keith sits back on his heels, gaze raking down his torso. Shiro waits. He stares at the ceiling, and counts the smoke stains there.
“You have more scars,” Keith says, and Shiro glances up at him, startled. Keith remembers how he looked, before?
“Yeah,” Shiro mumbles. “Just a few…”
Keith’s palm covers one of them, a three-inch-long cut over his right hip bone. “Why?” Keith demands. “Earth is at peace.”
Shiro shakes his head. “There were a few Galra still holed up around the planet; we had to drive them out and they put up a hell of a fight – oh.”
Keith discards his own shirt and slides down to kiss the aforementioned scar in one sinuous movement that leaves Shiro breathless. Keith is lean and beautiful and devastating. “I should have been there.” Keith’s breath feathers hot and harsh over his stomach, then lower, lower. “If I was there, I wouldn’t have let them do this to you.”
“If you were there, maybe it would have been you they hurt,” Shiro argues, and Keith’s gaze snaps up.
“And what if they had?” Keith’s fingertips curl into the waistband of his pants, claws scratching through coarse hair. His tone is almost longing.
“I’m glad it wasn’t,” Shiro says. “I’m glad you didn’t –”
“New rule.” Keith has a finger over his lips. “No more talking.”
Shiro nods, jerky, and bites back a moan when Keith unzips his pants and draws Shiro's cock out, stroking with casual insouciance, watching Shiro’s face all the while. When Keith moves so that the light falls upon their bodies, he tilts his head, getting a good look at Shiro’s cock and humming in what might be approval, or more likely, contempt. Keith is good with his hands, and knows how to rub and tease at the flushed tip and thick foreskin with perfect pressure and rhythm, and with bitter jealousy Shiro wonders how many times he’s done this before, and with whom.
“You’re thinking too much,” Keith murmurs, twisting his wrist and nudging forward so that black denim drags over Shiro’s balls and inner thighs. Keith shifts Shiro’s pants further down, exposing as much of him as he’s able to bear.
“Thought you said no talking,” Shiro says, and Keith smacks his thigh in retaliation. Shiro shuts up, thigh stinging, cock twitching, because time has made them all a little sicker.
“I can talk,” Keith corrects, “you can’t. Do you know how many letters I sent you?”
Shiro’s heart hurts. He shakes his head. 523.
“Did you read any of them?” Keith presses, lips pinching together.
Shiro doesn’t want to lie to him, anymore. He nods.
But maybe it really is too late, because Keith says, “Bullshit. You didn’t even look at them, I bet. Took me awhile to catch the hint, but, you know, I finally got there.”
Shiro wants to cry, a little. He opens his mouth, but Keith glares, and kisses him before he can say a word, swallows up the apologies and wrenches them from Shiro’s throat, working Shiro’s cock in his hand with increasing roughness; almost desperate, almost angry, almost painful. Shiro squirms away under him, making a protesting sound against his lips when the friction is too much, and Keith pulls away and clambers off. Shiro blinks, stunned in his absence, only to gape when Keith strips his pants off, briefs following like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the first time either of them have seen each other like this.
Keith doesn’t spare a glance for him, even though he must notice the way Shiro stares at the shape of him dark and thick between his toned thighs, shrouded in a trail of black hair, stomach taut as he inhales, spine arching as he bends down over the nightstand and rummages in the drawers. The light catches and clings on the curve of his ass.
Shiro reaches down and palms his cock, watching; thinking at this rate, he can’t get any worse, so he might as well enjoy himself. He touches himself in lazy pulls, and Keith does falter when he sees that, his grip around the small bottle tightening to the point of ivory knuckles. Red dusts his cheeks. He turns away, jaw set, uncaps the bottle, and reaches behind himself, turning then to face Shiro fully, eyes burning.
“How many times,” Keith growls, advancing with measured steps, “did you get off to me?”
Shiro sucks in a sharp breath, then puts a finger over his almost-smiling lips. Quiet.
Keith growls louder, not a word, just a sound, and swings a leg back over Shiro’s hips after tugging his pants and briefs off the rest of the way. “Answer the question, Takashi.”
It’s too much, suddenly – both of them bare, Keith above him, opening himself up with two fingers and sheer will, ordering Shiro to say just how awful he truly is for Keith. Shiro shakes his head. Keith growls again. “Too many,” Shiro whispers, halting, ashamed.
“How long?” It isn’t a question, because Shiro knows, or thinks he knows, that if he doesn’t answer it, Keith will leave like he threatened to.
So Shiro licks his lips and whispers, “Since before Kerberos.”
Keith goes still, slitted pupils dilating until the black nearly engulfs the gold. “You –”
“After Adam, I.” Shiro swallows. “You were there, you were always there, and you were so…” He shakes his head. “But you were too young and already too attached. It wouldn’t have been right –”
“I was seventeen.” Keith’s expression is murderous.
Shiro flinches. “Do – do you see what I mean, now? Why I pushed you away, because when all you wanted from me was a friend, I wanted more than you could or should have ever given and then you just kept trying to give and give and give and you didn’t know how I felt –”
“As if I haven’t been in love with you since the fucking start,” Keith says, and Shiro’s already fragile world implodes on itself. It doesn’t help that Keith’s fucking himself on his fingers on top of him. “As if I wouldn’t have done anything you asked of me and loved every second of it.”
“Keith.” Shiro wishes he sounded more horrified. He is horrified. He is.
“How did you not figure it out?” Keith sounds more sad than angry. “Since the start, Shiro.”
Shiro shakes his head. “Keith, no –”
Keith glares down at him. “I’m thirty-two now, asshole,” he says. “Or do you wanna wait ‘til seventy?”
Shiro flinches. “Keith, please, you know that’s not…”
“No, I don’t know, because you never fucking told me.” Keith cups his cheek with his free hand. “Were you ever going to?”
“No,” Shiro whispers.
Keith’s brows draw together. He doesn’t look angry. He looks hurt, and that’s worse. “Never?”
Shiro's breath hitches. "I - I don't know."
Keith purses his lips, only for them to fall open in a soft ‘o’ and when he lifts up Shiro can see three fingers moving slickly in and out of him, with what looks like no effort at all. “So, what,” Keith pants, “I was your dirty little secret?”
Shiro stares up at him, helpless. “Keith, you were my best friend,” he says.
Keith makes a broken sound, smooth control crumpling from his face, body slumping over Shiro until Shiro works up the courage to cradle his thighs and hold him, to pull him closer the way he has always wanted to, to guide Keith’s wrist until Keith twists away and lines himself up above Shiro, taking his cock in hand again, more careful this time.
“I would have been happy,” Keith whispers, hair hanging into his face, still damp, still dripping, mixing with the blood drying on Shiro’s collarbones, “if we had just stayed best friends for the rest of our lives. But you wouldn’t even let me have that.”
Shiro squeezes his slim waist with the huge metal hand, traces the knobs of his spine one by one with the other. “We couldn’t,” he murmurs. “Friends don’t do what we did. Not even best friends.”
Keith shakes his head, but there is something soft in his eyes, softer than before. “Do brothers?”
Shiro snorts, and tucks Keith’s hair behind his ears. “God, I hope not.”
“I never should’ve said that,” Keith sighs, shuffling above him, hesitating. “I was just...afraid.”
Shiro’s brow creases. “Of me?”
“Well, yeah,” Keith chuckles darkly, “you did have a goddamn lightsaber to my throat and slashed my face open, so.”
Shiro inhales, struggling not to look at the scar he left on Keith’s cheek. “Right,” he whispers. “Um. We never did talk about that, did we –”
“And we’re not gonna talk about it now,” Keith interrupts, expression deadly again. “Right now, I’m gonna sit on your cock.”
“Hhh,” is all Shiro manages to say before Keith makes good on his word.
Shiro thinks he blacks out briefly, and when he comes to, it’s to Keith tight and hot around his cock, rocking down in sharp, shallow rolls of his hips, bracing himself on Shiro’s chest and throwing his head back so that Shiro can only see the pink gape of his mouth, the pale wash of his neck and jaw, dark with stubble on the edges like a crisp vignette. Keith makes breathy, punched-out sounds, cock bobbing against his flexing belly as he moves, sliding through Shiro’s happy trail on every downstroke.
Keith’s nails have turned claw again, kneading and grasping at Shiro’s chest in stinging points of fire as he rides Shiro’s cock, and the longer it goes on, the more torturous it becomes. Keith never lets Shiro bottom out, never lets Shiro move with him, holds him down and grinds Shiro’s dick against his prostate and no further, until his cock is leaking and Shiro’s hips are stuttering desperately upwards, with no relief, no mercy. Keith isn’t even looking at him – he only looks to glare, once, when Shiro manages to thrust up, and then Keith stills completely, and digs in his claws until they bleed.
His message is clear: he’s taking what he wants, and Shiro will get only what Keith gives him.
Shiro can play games like that, but this isn’t a game, this is revenge; payback, pure and simple, and it’s cruel, and Keith isn’t cruel, or at least he wasn’t; maybe Shiro made him this way, maybe he broke Keith and twisted him into something worse, something selfish and bitter, something more like himself.
But Shiro refuses to believe that, and as the minutes drag on, Keith’s excruciating grind driving him to the edge of patience and courtesy, he resolves that even if it would have been wrong for him to fuck Keith, they’re doing it now, and Shiro’s gonna do it right, the way he always wanted to.
Shiro prefers to play fair, though, so he offers a warning.
“Keith,” he groans, arching up off the pillows as Keith’s legs tighten around his hips in a python squeeze, “c’mon, let me –”
Keith glowers down at him and shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice trembling as he slides down, only halfway, and sneers, madness shining in the feverish glow of his face and eyes. “I don’t know what I expected from someone who was too much of a coward to even say goodbye – ah!”
Shiro grabs Keith’s hip with his prosthetic and flips them hard, shoving Keith off of him and slamming him facedown into the pillows with gratifying ease. Keith snarls and bucks under him, claws shredding the pillows open, eyes flying wide when Shiro wrenches his kicking legs apart and presses two metal fingers into the winking slickness of Keith’s ass. He holds Keith down with the flat of his palm over Keith’s trembling shoulder blades, leans close to his pricked ears, and whispers, “Now you shut up, baby.”
Keith bites his lip furiously, blood running down his chin like wine. “Fu – uck you,” he gasps, rocking back into Shiro’s curling fingers even as he spits curses at him. “I’m not your – not your fucking baby, shit, ah, fuck, yes, there, nn –”
Shiro’s done with teasing. Keith opens beautifully around his fingers, and doesn’t fight it when Shiro drags his hips back into Shiro’s lap, kneeling behind him and pressing the head of his cock to Keith’s stretched rim. Keith shivers and wiggles his ass, then cries out when Shiro smacks him where the tender flesh is roundest, whimpering as Shiro rubs the residual red stain thoughtfully. “You sure about that?” Shiro asks, and Keith makes an awful sound, of low humiliation and defeat, and Shiro fucks into him in a single thrust, yanking Keith’s legs back, forcing his cock as deep as it will go.
“Shiro!” Keith howls, clawing at the cushions and writhing when Shiro doesn’t wait for him to adjust; Keith’s been prepping himself on Shiro’s cock for the past fifteen minutes, and sure enough he takes it with shocking ease, bouncing in Shiro’s lap as Shiro fucks him as hard as he likes, cock slapping against his stomach and back thrown into regal definition. Shiro gives into the temptation to lick the lines of Keith’s flexing shoulders, brush thick black hair away to kiss the sweating nape of his neck, and Keith moans like a broken record, face hidden in fabric, heaving body trapped under Shiro’s single minded determination.
Keith has more scars, too; too many, Shiro thinks, laving his tongue over every scar he can reach, and then some, teasing at the newer ones with teeth until Keith twists and shakes and pleads like Shiro is killing him. I’m sorry, Shiro thinks, squeezing bruises into Keith’s waist, I wasn’t there, and I should have been. I would have saved you again, and again, and again. You just never let me, and somewhere along the way, I stopped trying. I know you wanted to save me, but it goes both ways - it should have gone both ways. You’re worth that to me, Keith. You’re worth anything, everything.
Keith comes with a cry, untouched, and Shiro thinks, between gritted teeth and a soft litany of Keith’s name, that maybe he said all of that aloud.
He uses Keith’s pliant body to chase his finish and Keith lets him, shuddering beneath him when Shiro grinds against his clenching insides and comes in twitching jerks, spasmodic and inelegant. When he’s done, Keith’s limbs splay, and as Shiro’s eyes adjust to the light the marks he’s left manifest in purpling, ugly mottles of bruising and bitemarks and smudges of Shiro’s own drying blood. Keith’s still shuddering, and when Shiro pulls out, cum drips down between Keith’s thighs and Keith curls away, making quiet, muffled sounds, sobs, he’s…crying.
Shiro reaches out, strokes the wet shine of Keith’s cheek, barely visible. His face is mashed into the pillow like he wants to smother himself. The thought is alarming, and Shiro nudges harder, a cold apprehension washing over him. “Keith,” he whispers. “Keith, hey. Hey. I’m sorry, I – are you okay? Did I hurt you? Please, just...please look at me.”
Keith shakes his head, but glances up, eyes bloodshot. His face is human, utterly human, and his fingers grasp desperately at the torn pillows with dull human nails. He looks as lost as Shiro feels.
Shiro lies down next to him in the messy bed and says, “Five hundred and twenty-three.”
Keith’s brow creases, and he rubs his nose, snot and tears smearing across the back of his hand. “Huh?”
“You sent me five hundred and twenty-three letters,” Shiro tells him, and Keith inhales, sharp and startled. “I read them all, Keith.” He hesitates, and cups Keith’s damp face, smoothing his left thumb over the decade-old scar there. Keith gazes at him uncertain and wary. “You’re a good writer,” Shiro adds, and clears his throat. “I’m pretty shit, myself.”
Keith’s face closes off and he starts to pull away. “You sayin’ you never wrote back because you suck at writing? Goddamn it, Shiro –”
“No, I never wrote back because you’re right, I was a coward,” Shiro says. Keith stops moving away and settles down again, cautious, a creature on the verge of flight, weighing whether or not there’s a threat worth fleeing from.
“Say it again,” Keith murmurs.
“I was a coward,” Shiro says, “and I was scared of how much you would do for me, and I was scared to do the same for you, because I was scared you didn’t feel the same way I did, and I was scared I wouldn’t be able to give you the love you wanted and deserved.”
Keith swallows. “But,” he says, and stops, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “But you already gave that to me, Shiro,” he whispers. “Hell, I didn’t even think I wanted or deserved love before I met you.”
Shiro’s breath catches. “Don’t say that –”
“It’s true.” Keith’s got his stubborn face on, and there will be no arguing with Keith’s stubborn face. Shiro has tried and failed enough times to know. The familiarity of the expression does something funny to Shiro, and his throat closes up, and his eyes itch, and he hasn’t cried in…
He hasn’t cried since Keith left. He wept then for hours, locked away in his office, burying his face in the uniform Keith left behind and telling himself he made the right choice, all the while knowing in the pit of his soul he was wrong, and the next time he sees Keith, if he ever sees Keith, Keith will hate him, and it will be his own doing.
He’s crying again, now, and it’s terrifying. Once he starts, he can’t stop.
“You deserve love,” Shiro gasps, and presses his face to Keith’s hair, waiting for Keith to push him away, because after everything, he should. “You deserve more than I could ever give you, Keith. So much more.”
But Keith, slowly, wraps his arms around Shiro, and tucks his head into the crook of Shiro’s neck, and says, “Anything from you is enough, Shiro. And you're not - you're not a coward. You're the bravest man I knew...the bravest man I know.” He exhales, shoulders slumping in something like relief.
Shiro shakes his head and hiccups on a sob. “I’m really bad at this, Keith,” he admits, and closes his eyes tightly when Keith laughs, so he can memorize the sound, and save it for when things go wrong again.
“At sex?” Keith jokes, and elbows him in the ribs. “Nah. You’re pretty good at that, but I knew you would be. Baby, huh?”
Shiro pulls away, spluttering and hastily wiping at his face. Judging by Keith’s faintly amused expression, it doesn’t do much good. “At this,” Shiro manages. “At…” He flails his hand around. “Stuff.”
Keith’s brow scrunches up suspiciously. “If you call this a hookup,” Keith growls, eyes looking shiny again, “I will kick you out of here on your ass.”
“Not what I meant!” Shiro exclaims, and winces, and flops onto his back.
Keith eyes him. "Okay." Slowly, his brow smooths. "What did you mean?"
"At - confessions, I guess," Shiro offers. "Feelings."
"Well..." Keith chews his lip. "I mean, you thought I loved you like a brother for the last decade, so maybe we're both a little bad at that."
"A little bad," Shiro repeats incredulously.
Keith's mouth twitches. "Just a little."
“Why don’t you hate me?” he says in a small voice, after he’s managed to quell the surge of panicked thoughts swirling through his head.
Keith shakes his head. “I told you,” he says. “I tried to, for a while. I tried to want you dead. Tried real hard. Couldn’t do it.” He pets the sweaty fluff of Shiro’s silver hair. “It’s a lot easier to love you than it is to hate you.”
Shiro’s lips part. “Oh,” he says. Keith tilts his head, brows raised. “So...so you still…”
“Love you? Yes,” Keith says, easy as that.
“Oh,” Shiro repeats. He exhales. “Me, uh. Me too.”
Keith props himself up on an elbow. “You too, what?”
“I love you,” Shiro breathes, “too.”
Keith regards him for a few moments, then cups his face in both hands and kisses him again. It is the kind of kiss Shiro could fall asleep to. He makes a soft sound against Keith’s lips, and slides his fingers through Keith’s hair, just to feel it.
Their lips make a softer sound when they break apart, and they both smile, just a little.
“I missed you,” Keith says, his eyes burning ever brightly. “I missed being your best friend.”
“I missed you, too,” Shiro says, and curls his hand around the back of Keith’s neck, pulling him down fully into his waiting shadow.