Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The posting goes up on a Tuesday.

One of the senior officers walks it down the hallway, smoothing the paper against the bulletin board as they press a gold tack into all four corners. The officer hasn’t even made it down the corridor before word spreads.

In less than half an hour, the halls of the Garrison are overrun as cadets and officers alike scramble to read the message listed on the board. Shiro doesn’t need to read the listing to imagine what kind of job posting it is. In a place like the Garrison, most positions are filled behind closed doors; they’re given to the most qualified, yes, but also the most connected. The Garrison doesn’t need to advertise jobs. Not unless it’s a job no one wants. Not unless they’re desperate.

Whispers echo along with heavy footfalls as every person who comes to read the posting leaves, their faces betraying them.

Curiosity rises, but if there is one thing Shiro is good at, it's waiting.

Shiro is patient. He sits in the chow hall until the final dinner bell sounds, his hands cupped around a mug of coffee now long gone cold. He’s usually the first to exit and return to his quarters, but today, Shiro is the last.

When Shiro’s footfalls sound in the now empty corridor, there’s no one around to hear them.

When Shiro’s heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest, there’s no one around to notice.

When Shiro’s fingers trace the job listing, there’s no one around to see the tremble in his right hand or the medic alert bracelet blinking in silent activation.

The job listing is for Kerberos, the most remote telescope in human existence. The communications satellite there has been freezing, interrupting the Garrison’s reception of incoming asteroid logs. They need someone who is capable of flying to Kerberos and manually sending in the logs.

The glory and wonder of the position is belied by the details. A single rider ship. A one way trip to deep space.

Whoever takes this job will be flying to the furthest reaches of space to reach the most important astronomical site in the galaxy.

This position will be the single greatest human achievement and a death sentence. The remote location means refueling and returning to Earth is impossible. Whoever goes will stay there until rations run out or something worse happens.

What the Garrison needs is a communications pilot.

A pilot who is not afraid to die in space.

Shiro knows just the man for the job.

“And do you fully understand the parameters of this position, Officer Shirogane?” Sanda asks for the third time.

There is a look on her face that makes no secret of her personal opinion, which is that Shiro isn’t physically capable of surviving the flight to the observatory on Kerberos.

Unfortunately for Sanda and the rest of the Garrison, Shiro is the only one to apply for the position, meaning they don’t have any other viable options. He knows they’re just looking for a reason to not give it to him, to say ah see, his body will give out. It’s not because they care about Shiro dying in space, but if Shiro’s body won’t survive, then it would be a waste of Garrison issued resources to send him.

What Shiro knows and no one else wants to admit is that everyone dies eventually. The only difference here is that Shiro will do so sooner than most.

“I do,” Shiro confirms, tightening his fingers around his wrist behind his back.

At least this way Shiro will get to choose where he takes his last breath.

“And can he survive the flight?” This time Sanda is speaking to the doctor who did Shiro’s most recent workup. He’s had six this week alone and the insides of both his elbows are bruised beneath his uniform from so many blood draws. If Shiro never has to see another doctor again, it'll be too soon. Still. it was worth it to get him to this moment, worth it to be this close to the position of a lifetime. Every time they’d poked and prodded Shiro, his arms sore and his heart tired, he’d closed his eyes and dreamed of space.

“The most recent simulator records suggest he will,” the doctor answers, bringing up a set of holo stats on her DataPadd. “The rapid change in gravity will likely lead to up to a one percent loss of bone density for every month he remains at the base. This has the potential to lead to long-term health complications, including osteoporosis-related fractures, bodily swelling, high blood pressure, vision problems, and organ failure.”

They talk as if he isn’t there, as if they’re talking about computer data and not Shiro’s body. The words should put terror in Shiro, but instead, all he feels is peace. He’s always liked knowing what to expect. With his disease, his future was so unknown. This, at least, gives Shiro parameters about his future decline.

“Officer Shirogane is the most skilled pilot we have,” Commander Holt points out. “And the sole applicant. I believe we’ve made him jump through enough hoops. He is more than qualified for this position.”

“Thank you for your input, Commander Holt,” Sanda sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. It’s clear this isn’t what she wants to hear and with the rapid tightening of her face, Shiro has to fight off his own smile. “Officer Shirogane, pack your things. You leave for Kerberos in three days.”

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Shiro says. “I won’t let you down.”

“See that you don’t,” Sanda says, rising from her chair. “Dismissed.”

“Thank you,” Shiro repeats, offering the proper salute before hightailing it back to his quarters, crashing onto his bed in complete exhaustion.

Space.

Shiro is going to space.

Three days isn’t very long to get one's affairs in order, but when you have no next of kin and no one you’re leaving behind, it turns out it’s long enough.

The majority of the hours leading up to Shiro’s launch are spent doing paperwork. So much damn paperwork. It’s almost like signing his life away, except with every signature Shiro feels closer to life than death.

At night when can’t sleep, he stares at the cracks in the Garrison ceiling and wonders what his grandparents would say if they were still here. He selfishly wishes they were, just to see him make it, to know they didn’t give up everything for him for nothing. He wonders what they’d think seeing the little boy who used to ride on his grandpa’s shoulders while wearing an astronaut helmet made out of cardboard actually go to space.

Maybe it’s easier they aren’t here, he thinks as his eyes droop. No sad goodbyes.

No goodbyes at all.

When Shiro isn’t doing paperwork, he’s packing. Garrison-issued quarters are small and the number of things Shiro has accumulated in the years since his promotion from cadet to junior officer isn’t much, especially since most of the furniture belongs to them.

Despite the infinite size of space, there’s very little room on the ship Shiro will be piloting. Every available inch is being used for MFE rations and extra fuel to get him to the telescope. Shiro is allowed one bag on flight. Twenty inches long, fourteen inches wide maximum. No more than forty pounds. He’s pretty sure they're only letting him take this much because they feel sorry for him.

Shiro isn’t sorry.

Despite the allocated bag for personal items, there’s a lot Shiro can’t take. Luckily sentimentality has never had much of a place in Shiro’s life. Nothing lasts forever. China breaks, photos yellow, people die, and all bodies will fail. Still, Shiro isn’t stupid. The telescope will all but run itself, and sending in the biweekly logs won’t take long. Shiro will have a lot of hours to fill, so he packs his own bag as full as he can. He manages to fit half a dozen of his favorite books, a model spaceship he built with his grandpa, the only photo album he owns, and his handheld gaming device. Seeing there’s room left, he adds in the ten thousand piece puzzle he got in a white elephant gift exchange last year and a deck of playing cards. Maybe he’ll finally win at solitaire. The last thing he adds is a notebook and a set of pens.

There’s no need for a paycheck in space, so Shiro fills out the necessary paperwork to ensure that whenever he does finally die, the recurring payments that will have come to his bank account will be donated. He donates other things, too. The dishes his grandmother left him when she died, the extra bedding he has no need for, and the clothes he can’t take with him.

Everyone looks at Shiro like they know he’s going to space to die, but Shiro knows the truth.

He’s been dying since the day he was born.

Shiro is going to space to finally live.

The Garrison has done everything to prepare Shiro for exiting Earth’s atmosphere.

Years of flight sims. Hours of zero gravity training. Hours before his departure they remind him about the physics of it. Escape velocity. The exosphere. Stats. Facts. Yet nothing prepares Shiro for the first moment of weightlessness.

They say flying through space is about movement, but for Shiro, it is more like motionlessness.

Everything is moving, but Shiro is frozen in place as his hands tighten on controls, all the air leaving his lungs in measured breaths while he takes in the sight of Earth disappearing.

Everything Shiro has ever known is behind him and Shiro is free.

They say nothing can breathe in space, but Shiro breathes.

It’s one thing to read about the infiniteness of space, to watch holos and run sims and read books, and something else entirely to be amongst the stars.

Shiro sees nebulae and shooting stars. He passes asteroid belts and the rings of Saturn. Shiro soars through space and feels the smallness of humanity.

While preparing for launch, Shiro had several hours of intensive mental health checks to ensure he wouldn’t lose it in space. Strangely enough, their biggest concern was that Shiro might have a hard time being alone. He didn’t tell them that sometimes the loneliest place in the world is to be surrounded by people.

Soaring towards deep space, Shiro is more alone than he’s ever been in his life, but it is not sad or lonely. It feels humbling. It’s a relief.

The universe has existed for far longer than Shiro, and it’ll keep existing long after he’s gone.

With the Garrison's new hyperspeed stabilizers, it takes Shiro only a few weeks before he is soaring through the Oort Cloud, further than any human has traveled.

The dark is different out here, the coldness causing the formation of small crystals on the window of Shiro’s ship. Outside of his ship, nothing can breathe. The darkness could swallow Shiro whole and no one would know.

Somehow Shiro feels no panic. There is no fear. There is simply a deep sense of awe and peace.

Piloting through the darkest reaches of space, Shiro is insignificant.

Back on Earth his illness, his limitations, had defined him. Out here, none of that matters. Humanity barely matters. In the grand scheme of the universe, Earth is a blip in space and maybe it's nihilistic of Shiro, but it feels good to realize nothing matters.

Shiro isn’t one to complain. Making the best of any situation is a hard-won skill he takes pride in. But even Shiro’s positivity has its limits.

These limits are apparently freeze dried MRE rations.

To say the food in space is less than appetizing would be an understatement. Shiro’s pretty sure there’s more flavor in shoe leather. Or maybe it’s that eating in space is almost like eating with a head cold. Without the gravity to pull fluids down, Shiro’s sinuses have been clogged since he left Earth’s atmosphere, meaning that every single meal he’s eaten has tasted pretty much the same.

If the food wasn’t labeled, Shiro isn’t sure he would be able to tell the difference between freeze dried oatmeal or freeze dried chicken and vegetables. Which is maybe for the best.

It’s not so bad in the beginning, but as the weeks of travel wear on, the monotony of chalky freeze dried rations begins to wear on Shiro more than anything else. It’s funny to realize it’s not the sores he’s developing from being unable to move out of his seat or the lack of human conversation, but the food that threatens to do Shiro in.

When he sleeps, he dreams of his grandmother’s gyoza, of warm bowls of spicy ramen and the first sip of perfectly brewed tea. He misses his grandparents more in the first few weeks of travel than he has since he was fifteen and first lost them.

By day forty, he even starts missing the food from the mess hall at the Garrison, which is a testament to how hungry Shiro is for real food, since the Garrison provided meals barely qualify as edible.

Once Shiro gets to the telescope base, there will be more amenities, or at least that’s what his contract said. Gravity stabilizers. MRE rehydrators. A table. It’s not safe to eat anything with crumbs, and Shiro is required to pilot, sleep and eat in the same small seat, so Shiro subsists on his dwindling supply of freeze dried rations, which can be eaten one handed.

All things considered, it’s not so bad. Sure, the food isn’t good and Shiro kind of feels like he has a head cold and there are sores developing on his thighs and ass from where he can’t move, but when Shiro looks out the windshield and sees endless galaxies, swirling clouds of cosmic dust and stars, it’s all worth it.

Time passes differently in space.

Shiro’s sleep cycle suffers, his joints ache, and for the first time in his life, he grows a beard.

According to Shiro’s digital ship log, he has been in space for exactly one thousand seven hundred and sixty four hours when he reaches the Polystatus Star System.

Less than twelve hours later, he enters orbit for the Kerberors, one of three moons orbiting Diea 57P2, the most isolated planet yet discovered by Earth.

Shiro lands on Kerberos, hands shaking as the magnitude of this accomplishment hits him.

Exactly one thousand eight hundred and one hours and thirty two seconds later, Shiro steps foot on the icy surface of Kerberos. Beneath the thick traction of his boots, the ground is slippery and uneven. He takes a step, nearly stumbling before he rights himself and figures out the best way to move forward.

He recalls watching the livestream of this outpost being built robotically, but seeing it on holo and with his own two eyes is wholly different. The terrain is cold, barren, and nearly unlivable, except for the small outpost near the massive telescope.

It looks unfit for a human and yet, here Shiro is, proof of the impossible.

Shiro breathes heavily as he begins the trek from his ship to the station, but with his body weak from the long journey, what should take him an hour takes nearly four. Or so says the timer on his watch.

It takes four trips before Shiro manages to get everything from the ship into the outpost and by the time he’s done, Shiro is too fatigued to unpack anything besides the folding bed frame and vacuum-sealed mattress. He doesn’t even bother making the bed, taking only enough time to remove his space suit and clothes, pulling on a clean pair of boxers and nothing else before crashing face down into the mattress.

Outside the small viewport in his room, the stars shine and Shiro sleeps.

The first time it happens is three weeks after his initial landing on Kerberos.

Shiro isn’t lazy by any means; in fact, his predisposition to always have something to do is part of what allowed him to have so many successes in the Garrison despite his illness. When people wanted to look at his physical history as proof he might not be able to handle the job, there was nothing Shiro loved more than to shove his experience in their face. Or perhaps shove is too strong of a word. Shiro has too much self-control and self-preservation to do that. But he wasn’t above making sure the chains of command knew what he’d done, and more importantly, what he could do.

If something needed to be done, Shiro did it. The most unsavory jobs, Shiro did without complaint. The hardest to maneuver sims were mastered in no time at all (easier if you forgo sleep and sneak into the sim training lab at night).

If someone else couldn’t handle a job, Shiro most certainly could. Whether the job required social tact or physical strength, Shiro held both in equal measure. The toll either of these took on him was worn in private where it belonged.

There was nothing Shiro couldn’t do. Except maybe rest. At least on Earth.

There was no time to be anything less than perfect when everyone was looking for the moment you might fail.

Out in space, it suddenly seems pointless.

His job is barely a job at all. The telescope all but runs itself and all Shiro has to do is a few hours of telecom work twice a week to ensure the data link is open, secure, and the transfer completes. Outside of that, Shiro’s time is his for the taking. At first Shiro isn’t good at taking. He putters. He repairs anything that needs it, and even things that don’t. He experiments with the rehydrator and makes ridiculous meals for himself. He works out. He does anything to avoid sitting still.

Then he caves.

He sits.

He reads.

He masters solitaire.

When he runs out of things to do while sedentary, he finally allows himself to rest without requiring himself to fill his time with with activities. It’s during one of his self scheduled breaks that he does something he hasn’t done since he was a toddler.

He takes a nap.

Despite Shiro’s tendency to sleep poorly and therefore be chronically sleep-deprived, he has never allowed himself to nap. It felt self-indulgent to sleep during the day and dangerously close to admitting he needed more rest than his peers at the Garrison. Objectively he recognized this was ridiculous, that were it anyone else he would’ve insisted they take the rest their body needed. But Shiro’s never been good at taking care of himself the way he did other people.

Even on the days his body felt close to collapsing, he refused to rest until the Garrison officially signaled lights out at twenty one hundred hours.

There’s no one here watching Shiro. No one to judge how he spends his free time. No one to notice if he walks into his bedroom in the middle of the day after lunch and stretches out in his bed.

For a folding bed frame with nothing more than the vacuum-sealed mattress he brought, the bed is shockingly comfortable. Or maybe it’s just that it’s by far the most comfortable thing here. The furniture he brought is all adequate, but comfort had been low on the priority scale compared to functionality and space saving in the cargo hold of his ship. All the furniture he was allowed to bring was equipped for maximum efficiency. The table and chair in his kitchen and the makeshift not-quite-a-sofa thing in his small seating area in the living quarters are all a little hard.

The bed though, that’s soft. The mattress is cozy, the blankets warm.

Perhaps it's because Shiro’s never allowed himself to lay in a bed when it wasn’t bedtime, but the second his head hits the pillow, his eyes droop.

He groans, rolling onto his belly and shoving his face into the pillow as he pulls his thin but shockingly warm blanket over his head to cover his cold ears. This is one place efficiency and design worked in Shiro’s favor, because the blankets they sent him with are as light as being covered in feathers and yet keep him incredibly warm, something that’s difficult to manage given the temperature on Kerberos. Even with the thick walls and triple-planed viewports, Shiro’s quarters always feel like living in a freezer.

Laying under his blankets in the middle of the day, Shiro suddenly can’t fathom why he never did this before. It’s absolutely wonderful and the deeper he burrows under his blankets, the warmer he gets, limbs going heavy as he drifts to sleep.

Sadly, the sleep is interrupted.

One second he’s peacefully slumbering, and the next, he’s being woken up by a buzzing so intense Shiro falls out of bed. Calling it a watch might be a slight understatement. Technically speaking, it’s a remote locator and biometric scanner coded to Shiro’s unique DNA, the metal of the watchband fused onto his wrist with an indestructible material the Garrison called luxite to ensure he never took it off. What luxite is or where it came from, Shiro didn’t have the security clearance to know. All he knew for sure was that a requirement of his position here was wearing the band. It’d seemed harmless enough to Shiro, who liked being able to know what time it was and regularly used the heart rate tracker and timer for his morning workouts.

What Shiro doesn’t like is being half-shocked to death as the watch band buzzes so intensely his wrist aches.

“What the hell,” Shiro curses, ignoring the stiffness in his joints as he stands up.

It’s only when Shiro moves that the buzzing stops and Shiro frowns, poking at the square watch face. His frown grows when a holo pops up.

Oxygen: 98%
Heart Rate: 82 BPM
Blood Pressure: 95/61
Blood Type: Type O

He tries to close the data, but that only manages to up a new set of biometric readings.

Decrease in mean isokinetic strength: 13%
Loss of bone: 4.1%

It’s not a surprise. Shiro can feel the way his body has gotten weaker in space in just the few months since his launch, but seeing it like this is a shock. Moreso when he considers the Garrison has been using the watch to track his rate of degeneration. Then again, he knew their desire to ensure he was alive was less than altruistic. They needed to know if he died so they could replace him with someone else willing to transmit the data.

“Stupid,” Shiro mutters, tapping at the readings. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Again, he inadvertently brings up a new set of data, this time one Shiro is not at all prepared to see.

Projected date of critical body atrophy: December 1st

“No one asked you to show me this!” Shiro yells to no one in particular, trying once again to get rid of the data by jabbing his thumb against the screenplate.

Life alert readings stabilized and transmitted flashes across the holo reading before the display disappears, leaving nothing but the current time blinking on his watch face.

December first. Four months from now.

It feels a bit like twisted karma. Maybe this is what Shiro gets for finally trying to nap. The date is far sooner than the timeline they gave him on Earth.

“Deep space travel will come at a cost” they’d warned.

Shiro just failed to realize that the cost was his own expiration date.

That night Shiro doesn’t sleep.

He lays awake, arms folded under his chin as he stares at the pocket of sky visible through the viewport near his bed.

He knew space would be dark, but nothing truly prepares you for the pure void of deep space. No beginning. No end. Just darkness.

In the midst of this darkness, Kerberos shines like a beacon, emitting a faint glow that means it’s never completely dark in the bedroom. The Garrison sent Shiro with a small curtain to block the viewport and help maintain his circadian rhythms, but Shiro hadn't hung it.

Something about the soft glow of the moon soothes Shiro’s anxiety.

Even in the darkest reaches of the universe, there is light.

Eventually his arms grow stiff and he shifts onto his back and holds up arms, twisting his wrists to stretch them out and watching the way his bracelets seem to glow in the moonlight, a muscle stimulating bracelet on one wrist, a biometric watch on the other.

These will save you, the doctors at the Garrison had told him with confidence as they’d attached the devices to his wrist.

Full of wide eyed wonder and hope, Shiro had toyed with the bracelets at launch and felt safer knowing the Garrison wanted him to survive.

Shiro understands them for what they are now. Security. The Garrison needs Shiro to survive up here for as long as possible to run the telescope and when his end comes, which it will, they need to be sure.

Tired in ways sleep cannot help, Shiro closes his eyes and counts to ten.

Tomorrow is not December first.

Tomorrow Shiro gets to live again.

Knowing the date you’re going to die should be terrifying, but for someone as pragmatic and organized as Shiro, it’s almost a relief.

Shiro doesn’t want to die. Of course he doesn’t. What Shiro wants is to explore the vast unknown of space, to soar further and farther. He wants to stay on Kerberos for more than a few months, he wants to grow old, not grow weak. But what Shiro wants isn’t relevant.

Humanity has found the means to deep space travel, yet curing his disease still lies outside the scope of possibility. It’s sad, devastatingly so. But lots of things are sad.

For as long as he can remember people have talked to Shiro about the end. About preparing for the decline in physical abilities. They talked about him like he wasn’t there.

He has a few good years left.

Still in his prime.

Peak performance, but decline is inevitable.

People loved to tell Shiro how brave he was simply for existing, as if he had any other choice. As if he woke up one day and said ah, yes, let me be disabled. It was patronizing and frustrating and also something Shiro was used to. He’d developed a stoic pragmatism about his own mortality.

This pragmatism meant Shiro never took a moment for granted. He was so acutely aware of his own lifespan that he was damn well going to make the most of it, which is exactly what he plans to do while here on Kerberos.

In light of this new information, Shiro does what he always does: he makes a plan.

He catalogs his food rations, changing up his food rations to eat his favorite foods first and last.

He realizes they gave him enough coffee to last a year and allocates himself two cups a day instead of the one he’s been existing on.

And he eats his dessert first.

Shiro has one hundred and twenty days left to live and he’s going to live them.

The letter is thick between Shiro’s fingers as he straightens the edges, laying it on his lap before smoothing his forefinger over the thick gold emblem of the Garrison logo on the top.

Most communication was done on DataPadd, except for the most important.

This is Shiro’s first letter from the Garrison.

It will be his only.

His last.

Shiro skims the rest of the letter, uninterested in the financial compensation and accommodations. What catches his eyes is the end of the letter.

Mission duties: satellite and telescope communication.

Outer planetary exploration not authorized

The muscle stimulating bracelet on his right wrist buzzes unexpectedly, causing Shiro’s hand to tremble and sending some of his coffee splashing onto his lap, staining the bottom of his letter.

“Shit,” Shiro curses, ignoring the spasm in his right forearm as he sets his coffee down and tries to clean the letter off with a dish towel. It's no use. The letter is irrevocably tarnished.

The crisp paper is now coffee-stained and the ink is smeared, only the first half the sentence visible.

Outer planetary exploration.

Bypassing his coffee, Shiro lowers his letter atop the table before crossing the room to stand before the small window above his tiny sink. Shiro’s been admiring the view for weeks, mesmerized by the expanse of stars just outside.

The view is so clear, the stars so close.

It’s such a pity to come so far and still be trapped inside these four walls. Shiro’s contented himself with being an arms length away from it all by reminding himself how lucky he is to be here in space, even if he's not supposed to go outside.

“We can't guarantee what effect the unique gravity and planetary pressure on Kerberos will have on your bone density or your disease,” the doctor had told Shiro during his last physical. “We will be recommending the duration of your engagement on Kerberos happen inside the base where pressure, climate, and humidity can all be stabilized. It's to keep you safe.”

Safe.

What a strange concept, Shiro thinks, leaning over his sink to press his hand to the triple paned window. It's cold beneath his touch, his bracelet sending another uncomfortable jolt to his wrist to stimulate the muscles and making his hand tremble against the glass.

Maybe it's time to stop playing things safe.

Compared to what Shiro wears on a normal day, putting on his space suit is incredibly time-consuming. Luckily for Shiro, he’s got plenty of time to spare.

The Garrison might have technically not approved Shiro’s exploration of Kerberos, but they did ensure he had adequate clothing and oxygen supplies should he need to go out to check the telescope. He is going to look at the telescope. Technically. On his way to explore the rest of the moon.

It’s a strange feeling to be purposely doing what he’s not supposed to after spending a lifetime terrified of getting in trouble. It’s strange, and a little exhilarating. If he’d known it was this exciting to break rules, he might have done it earlier. Maybe. Well, if he’s being honest, probably not, but nearly two months in deep space has changed Shiro. Or maybe it’s knowing the date he’s going to die that’s changed him.

Whatever the reason, Shiro's not the same man he was on Earth.

As part of Shiro’s pre-flight debriefing, he received a seven-hour training seminar about using the EVA suit during flight and emergency telescope repair. The Garrison provided Shiro with a detailed list of possible emergency protocol scenarios that could require Shiro to suit up. The current conditions meet none of said protocol, but as far as Shiro is concerned, dying without getting at least one walk on Kerberos is an emergency.

If Shiro’s going to die on Kerberos, he doesn’t want to do that without truly seeing it for himself. He refuses to take his last few breaths while staring out his viewport and wondering what the beauty looked like up close.

Technically he walked on the surface when he got here, but his entire landing feels like a dream. He was so sore and exhausted from being stuck in his pilot seat for weeks that the trips back and forth to unload cargo had barely registered. He hadn’t been able to fully appreciate the wonder of beauty because he’d been on a time constraint to get his supplies inside.

He wants to appreciate that beauty now. He wants to experience wonder.

Shiro wants to explore deep space.

He wants to look up at the sky and watch the bioluminescent gravel shift beneath his boots. He wants to be able to close his eyes before he dies and remember this.

All he needs is one memory of walking on Kerberos.

Just once and Shiro won’t go out there again. No one will be the wiser.

One little trip out and Shiro’s curiosity will be satiated.

First comes the liquid cooling and ventilation bodysuit, which fits Shiro like a second skin. He doesn’t bother attaching the urine collection device to the port like he used on the flight here. He has no intention of being out there long enough to need it and he emptied his bladder before this just to be prepared. One thing interspace travel taught Shiro is that he is not a fan of soiling himself, even in the proper garments.

Next comes the comfort liner, a thicker bodysuit designed to buffer the weight of the heaviest parts of the outer suit, along with providing extra thermal protection against the elements. Once that’s on securely, he puts on the gloves, wiggling his fingers at the strange yet familiar weight of the material. It's easy after that. No telecommunications system needed means he doesn't need the second layer to his helmet, just the outer shield to protect from the elements and provide oxygen and filter carbon dioxide.

Shiro dresses carefully, hyperfocused on the zip and closure of every layer, aware that a single wrong step could mean his suit failing him out there. He might be a little reckless right now going for a little joy walk on a deep space moon, but he’s not stupid and he sure as hell doesn’t want to die early. The focus required to finish dressing soothes away the last of Shiro’s anxiety.

There are no mirrors here, but if he squints, the faintest hint of his own reflection is visible in the window, making Shiro do a double-take. It's Shiro but not, the crystal clear face shield of the helmet not disguising his features at all.

It’s been a few days since he shaved. Back on Earth, Shiro was rigid about his shaving routine. He was rigid about a lot of things. Routine was controlled and control felt safe. Out here, none of that seems to matter. There’s no one to notice if his buzz cut gets an eighth of an inch past regulation, if there’s a crease in his uniform, or a button out of place. There’s no one to notice if Shiro isn’t perfect every second of every day.

It’s not that Shiro’s given up. It’s that he’s letting go.

Sometimes it still feels strange to realize he can simply do whatever he wants every day. Sleep when he wants. Eat when he wants. Shower when he wants. The novelty of being allowed such utter freedom isn’t lost on Shiro, though the sight of a little scruff around his jaw is still strange. The lines around his eyes are even stranger. He looks tired. Older.

It’s a teasing hint of what Shiro might look like if he lived to middle age or beyond. He tries not to think about it too much, somehow unable to look away from his own transparent reflection.

Shiro looks so different from the boy in the official Garrison press release photo. Then again, they’d used his wide-eyed and baby-faced photo from the day he became a senior officer. Just twenty years old, the youngest senior officer in Garrison history. Back when he still secretly hoped the Garrison might use some of their secret research to find a way to save him. He holds no such expectations now, but it’s okay, really. Shiro has never needed saving.

There’s a ten digit emergency code to open the exit door along with a retinal scan. Unlocking the door feels a little like breaking and entering, except Shiro’s not trying to get in somewhere. He’s trying to get out.

Hand poised on the airlock, Shiro hesitates. The Garrison didn’t tell Shiro that this door was monitored, but they also didn’t tell Shiro the true function of his biometric watch, so he’s not entirely sure his security briefing actually covered everything he should know. It covered what the Garrison wanted him to know. Those are not the same.

For all Shiro knows, the second he pushes open this door an alarm might sound, or a silent alert could be sent directly to the Garrison.

The idea should terrify Shiro. Were he on Earth, he would’ve been sick to his stomach at the idea of being caught defying a direct order.

Then again, he’s not on Earth and he’s not the same man he was before he left. A part of Shiro died on the way here, the part that gave a fuck what anyone else thinks.

“If you’re listening right now, I’m not sorry,” Shiro shouts, squeezing the airlock handle before pushing the door.

A gust of wind blows through the cracked door, the force of it causing Shiro to stumble. He might have lost a little bone mass already, but Shiro’s still strong, and he uses his body weight as leverage to shove the door the rest of the way open, barely managing to slip through the door before the wind slams it shut behind him.

He blinks, catching his breath as he takes stock of his current position. If there was an alarm on the door it was silent and with the lag in interdimensional communications, Shiro’s reprimand wouldn't come for hours. The more pressing concern is how to get back into his quarters with the current wind force, but even that pales in comparison to Shiro's current euphoria from staring at the most incredible sight of his entire life: deep space.

It’s the same sky Shiro saw from his ship during his arrival in this galaxy. The same sky he sees from his viewports every single day.

Except it's not the same.

It’s not the same at all.

What Shiro saw before was separated by glass, by walls, and sometimes an entire galaxy, so close yet still so far.

This is space so close he can nearly touch it. He can breathe it. He closes his eyes and opens them again and there before him is his childhood dreams come true.

Shiro is dying, but he has never felt more alive.

The landscape is harsh but beautiful, a distant ice giant tucked away in the furthest reaches of the galaxies. In every direction Shiro looks, the horizon is flat, the sands blowing up in a wind storm and creating glowing clouds that swirl around Shiro’s ankles as he walks.

According to the Garrison, life isn’t sustainable on Kerberos, but Shiro is here and Shiro is alive. For now.

At exactly twenty seven minutes and thirteen seconds into his journey, the telescope base disappears from Shiro’s line of sight. He’s not afraid of getting lost with his space suit’s built-in tracking and navigation and his own impeccable sense of direction so he keeps going, determined to see how far he can get before needing to return home.

To Shiro’s surprise, another forty-one minutes walking offers a shocking change in topography as the flat landscape that surrounded the telescope base gives way to rocky terrain, dotted by uneven cliffs. It’s almost as if Shiro has stepped onto another planet altogether, and if it weren’t for the same comforting glow coming from beneath his feet, he’d almost think he had.

For all the money and research that went into establishing a base and telescope on Kerberos, the debriefing files were shockingly sparse. Small descriptors about the moon’s topography. Rudimentary explanations about the methane, sulfur and ammonia freezing and creating ice crystals that shape the rocky terrain; all things Shiro could have easily looked up on his DataPadd.

There were no detailed explanations about the curious layer of bioluminescent sand that covers the top layer, or the strange pockets of liquid that bubble from the ground and don’t seem to freeze. No explanation or research about the mass of the moon, or possible lifeforms existing beyond the visual reach of Shiro’s base. Nothing.

Not even Shiro’s expedited change in security clearance before he left Earth afforded him any new information about the place he was about to spend the rest of his days. At the time Shiro assumed the Garrison had simply allocated their resources to the telescope and watching for things in the sky, but the further he walks, the less certain he becomes.

The file on Kerberos had been small and succinct: climate frigid, terrain barren.

It quickly becomes apparent that either the Garrison had either failed to do a full perimeter check before building the telescope, which seems highly unlikely, or purposely excluded information from Shiro’s briefing. He can’t imagine how much higher his own security clearance would’ve needed to be in order to have received a more accurate description of the moon’s surface.

It’s unlike the Garrison to have such blatantly incorrect and incomplete records and Shiro suddenly wonders if anything else was left out of his security briefing.

The answer to this is a resounding yes when Shiro finds what is unmistakably a footprint in the ground that is definitely not his own.

Crouching as low as he can with the bulk of his space suit, Shiro drags his gloved fingers over the ground, marveling at the imprint. Two footprints to be more specific. Unmistakably that of a biped. The spacing between them and the depth of the imprints suggests a human-like gait. If Shiro didn’t know better, he’d swear they looked like boots, yet surely if there were lifeforms here, the Garrison would’ve told him.

Like they told you about your watch he thinks, hyperaware of the metal against each of his wrists. His breaths are slow, measured, as he presses his right hand into the ground beside the footprint and lifts his eyes upward.

There’s nothing in his line of sight as far as the eye can see and as Shiro’s gaze travels across the horizon his curiosity rises.

He wants to go further, to explore the rocky edges of the cliffs he can see far in the distance.

He wants to find out what, or who, these footprints belong to.

He also wants to stay alive long enough to do so and while Shiro might be willing to toe the edge of what he’s technically allowed to be doing here by exploring Kerberos, he’s not stupid enough to ignore the wind advisory flashing on the inside of his helmet. Especially now when a fresh gust of wind blows a substantial flurry of bioluminescent dust against his helmet.

Critical storm advisory flashes again.

A final warning.

The wind force is rapidly increasing, a solar ice storm forming in the distance as funnels of glowing sand swirl in the sky like dancing tornadoes. It’s beautiful, but likely to be deadly if Shiro can’t get away quick enough.

With a renewed sense of determination, Shiro spins on his heels and begins the journey back. He’s going home with more questions than answers, but one thing is for certain. Shiro is not alone.

The return trip is far more difficult.

More than once Shiro stumbles, the wind sending him flying sideways or worse directly down to the hard ground. It stings when he falls, but each time he gets back up.

Shiro always gets back up.

By the time he reaches the telescope base, he is utterly exhausted, having expended more energy in this excursion than on anything else since he left Earth. He’s tired in ways that have his entire body aching from the tips of his toes up to his ears. Even his fingers are stiff and sore from the amount of times he braced his falls.

Pain is nothing new to Shiro.

The thing about living with chronic pain is there’s no such thing as a pain-free day. Just pain and less pain or pain and more pain. Shiro wouldn’t even know what to do with himself if he woke up and something didn’t pinch or ache or throb.

In a world where nothing is certain, pain has been Shiro’s constant.

Lately, though, the pain has been getting worse.

The damn bracelet on his right wrist is working overtime. He got an updated med report last week from the Garrison doctor on Earth who is apparently monitoring his vitals, explaining that they were upping the stimulation plan to combat the effects of deep space on his skeletal system. Not to save him, but to slow the rate of physical degradation. Their words. Not Shiro’s.

They want to ensure their investment in Shiro lasts as long as possible. Shiro is a commodity. He’s also not stupid. Whatever selfish reasons they have for trying to make sure Shiro watches the telescope as long as possible are fine with Shiro, because it means more time.

One more day to watch the stars.

One more cup of coffee.

One more chance to be alive.

The truth is no amount of muscle stimulation can fully combat the rapid bone loss and muscle degradation he’s experiencing and he doesn’t need the stupid Garrison watch to tell him what he already knows. His body is deteriorating.

Somehow the pain has been harder to bear this last week. Back at the Garrison, Shiro worked so hard at least his aches and pains felt like they had a reason. Up here, Shiro putters around and does puzzles and naps yet somehow hurts worse than ever.

It’s been harder to ignore the pain. Harder to sleep. Harder to hope.

Falling into bed hours later—once he’s finished decontaminating and recharging his suit and inhaled a double ration for dinner—Shiro is so sore he can barely move. It is quite possibly the worst pain Shiro has ever been in and it’s amazing.

Shiro hurts because he was out there. Really out there.

As a child, Shiro’s most fervent dream wasn’t to find a cure for his disease, but to survive it long enough to get to space. He fought tooth and nail to get into the Garrison, always working ten times harder than anyone else there to prove he deserved his spot. But for all he fought, there’s always been an invisible ceiling that no one at the Garrison wanted Shiro to breach.

He’s more than breached it. He’s smashed that ceiling to pieces and it feels so good he could cry.

That night when the pain is too intense for Shiro to sleep, he pulls back the curtain and stares out the viewport, watching the dust storm rage as he thinks about the unexplored cliffs and the mysterious footprints he found.

Once was not enough. Shiro wants to go back. He needs to go back.

The telescope runs itself.

It’s housed in the compact, thermally controlled building that serves as Shiro’s living quarters, which allows it to run almost completely uninterrupted regardless of air turbulence in the telescope tube or variations in wind frequency or thermal conditions. The revolutionary design also allows for a high level of automation and efficiency.

The only thing Shiro is needed for is transmitting the reports generated by the telescope.

Independently the telescope generates daily reports on the fluctuating weather patterns outside. Previously Shiro hadn’t been very interested in them, as he was far more fascinated by the small object reports.

Today, he’s interested.

He pours over the reports on the screens, grateful for his rigorous academic history, which allows him to make sense of the long strings of data and scientific reports he’s looking at. The verbiage is complicated and technical, but the meaning is clear: it’s a good day to go outside.

The nasty wind storm from yesterday has entirely died down, and if the telescope projections are accurate, it’s not expected to pick up again for at least another quarter rotation, which based on Shiro’s calculations, will give him a good four to five hours outside before he runs the risk of getting caught in another one.

Plenty of time to explore.

Determined to be fully prepared today, and planning to take advantage of every second of clear skies, Shiro fills himself with coffee and protein before laying on his space suit, making sure to attach the voiding bag today just in case.

Though the Garrison made no secret of their intention to keep Shiro inside, it’s clear they were preparing for someone to explore Kerberos, because one of the boxes of supplies they sent him with included a field sample kit with everything from a thermal scanner to prelabeled sample bags and core tubes. Judging by the do not open label on the outside of the box, the collection kit was clearly not meant for Shiro to use, but this far away, these kinds of rules and technicalities suddenly seem arbitrary.

If the Garrison can trust Shiro enough to pilot a top-of-the-line spaceship to the most distant telescope known to humankind and they can trust him to transmit confidential intergalactic safety reports, then they should damn well trust him to do a little exploration and sample collecting. Shiro’s not just a pilot, or a nameless hand to send data; he was top of his class at the Garrison and the head of his research department before he was promoted to pilot class last year.

Excitement makes his hands shake as he packs up a pack with extra supplies, adding in a thermal scanner to the contents of the sample kit, along with his emergency first aid kit and a blade.

Shiro isn’t planning on getting into trouble out there, but he is planning on getting back home no matter what it takes and he hasn't forgotten the mystery footprints. Shiro would be lying if he didn't admit to himself he was maybe a little bit scared about who or what they might belong to, but fear has never stopped Shiro from following his gut before and it wont start now.

Something is out there, Shiro knows it, and he's going to find out what it is.

There’s less resistance on the outer door today. Shiro takes it as a good sign, his stride long and his heart light as he begins his trek in the same direction he traveled the day before.

The storm has blown away any signs that Shiro has ever been out here, the distinctive footprints from his oversized boots gone.

Everything looks different today, as if the entire surface of the moon has been swept clean. He supposes it has. The wind has made the moon look brand new and satisfaction blossoms in Shiro as he looks down to find tiny plumes of bioluminescent sand fluttering around his boots, his footprint sinking into the surface.

Tomorrow these footsteps will likely be gone.

One day so will Shiro.

Nothing lasts forever. Wind blows away footprints and bones turn to dust.

In a few months Shiro will die. There is an entire contingency plan for his body. He had to sign the release before coming here. His bones will turn to ash and be ejected into space and then Shiro will become an infinite piece of the cosmos he loves so much.

For today he still has a body.

Today he has footprints.

Today he is alive.

Shiro loses track of how long he walks. He could check his watch or the tracking system in his suit. He doesn’t.

The Garrison has Shiro’s days numbered already, ninety-nine left if the watch is correct. They can’t have his hours, too.

He pauses periodically, squatting down to collect various samples of dust and rock. The bags are already labeled with a unique barcode. All it takes is one quick scan from the scanner built into the palm of Shiro’s suit and a digital footprint of the exact location and current conditions from the sample collection is cataloged.

All Shiro will have to do when he gets back to the base is upload the files into the Garrison database.

Or not.

The Garrison doesn’t need to know what Shiro is doing out here. Not yet. Sure, he’s not technically supposed to be out here and sure, he broke half a dozen rules for his sample collection and maybe he’s putting his own physiology at risk every time he steps into the unstable elements. But the way Shiro sees it, nothing comes without risk. At least the payoff to this one is Shiro finally living his dreams.

By the time the Garrison realizes what Shiro is doing, he won’t be in any condition to be returned to Earth even if they could tell him to come home. Which they can't. The Garrison thinks they hold all the power here, but Shiro has power, too. Besides, the way Shiro sees it, the next person who comes out here might even be grateful to Shiro for establishing this kind of sample baseline so really he’s doing the Garrison a favor.

There’s no way for Shiro to add his own notes to the data. Not in the field. Even still, he makes a mental note of things he notices as he continues filling his bag.

The sky was beautiful. The starlight reflects like water against this rock. This made me smile.

He debates going into the system and manually adding in his notes later in the footnotes. The Garrison won’t ever notice, but someone might.

One day someone might look at the notes, see the signature T. Shirogane and smile.

Shiro would like it if people smiled when they saw his name.

Losing himself to the task at hand, Shiro walks until his legs ache, his bag is weighed down, and he’s run out of sample bags. The ache in his limbs is satisfying, the heavy weight at his side form his hard work equally so.

Satisfied, Shiro gives his full attention to the shift in topography. He’s wandered far enough that he’s ended near the rocky cliffs he spotted the day before, no longer somewhere far on the horizon but mere steps away.

He’d been so hyperfocused on collecting he hadn’t realized just how far he’d gone, but now he has a new wave of endorphins push his growing fatigue away. There was nothing in the Garrison briefing about cliffs, which means something here is important enough to hide or the Garrison hasn’t explored this yet. Either prospect sends goosebumps up Shiro’s arms as he quickens his pace.

The closer he gets to the cliffs, the more noticeable it is that the ground beneath his feet shifts, his boots sinking into the ground. Every footprint is deeper than the one before and a spike of fear floods Shiro.

Perhaps there is a reason these cliffs were off limits.

Still, he’s come this close. He might be afraid, but he is also brave. Unsure what to make of the ground nearest the edge, Shiro lowers himself to his hands and knees to get closer to the cliffside, scooting himself to the edge and peering down.

And down.

And down.

The cliffs are steep, the edges of the cliff glimmering in the moonlight. Unlike the ground he’s traversed the last few hours, the steep edges of the cliffs are covered in what appears to be exposed minerals, the hexagonal crystal structure reminding Shiro so much of raw zincite back on Earth. Well, except for the color. Or lack of. It’s almost like ice, crystal clear with sharp edges. It looks beautiful and dangerous.

Shiro needs some.

Scrambling for his bag, he yanks open the flap and rummages inside until he finds a small hammer, determined to chip off at least a small piece of the glimmering crystal to bring back to the base.

Between the awkward angle and the hardness of the crystal formations, trying to get a piece is difficult. Especially since Shiro is wary of hitting the formations near the edge of the cliff too hard and inadvertently compromising the integrity of the area.

Luckily, Shiro’s patience is as resolute as his pain tolerance and despite the flare of pain in his wrist and the burning in between his shoulder blades, he remains unmoving aside from the arm that chips away at the cliffside.

“You may not be the smartest, or the strongest, or the healthiest, but you can always be the most patient,” his baba once told him back when his ears were too big for his head and he barely reached his Baba’s waist.

Well, his ears are still a little big, but so is the rest of him. He’s smart now, too. Healthy? Well, not so much.

Patient, though? Always.

Ignoring the rise in pain, Shiro continues to tap away at the small chunk of crystal nearest him, sweat dripping down his face and blurring his vision as he inches as far as he dares over the edge, desperate for a little bit of extra leeway. Enough to catch sight of a cave just beneath him.

Just might be a slight exaggeration. It’s a good six or seven feet down, the ledge of the cave barely big enough for someone to stand.

Barely big enough for—a footprint.

There in the glowing dust is one single footprint leading into the cave. The same shape and size as the day before. Whatever that belongs to might very well be in the cave under Shiro right this moment.

The safest thing to do right now would be to abandon his attempts to get a piece of the crystal, turn around, and head home and lock the door behind him. There’s no telling what or who that footprint could belong to.

No telling unless Shiro looks for himself.

“What the hell,” Shiro mutters, digging through his bag until he finds the rope, a belay device and a climbing cam.

At the time, Shiro assumed these items were to keep Shiro from blowing away should an unexpected storm blow in. He suspects now that the Garrison sent it for other reasons.

Setting up a makeshift repel line wasn’t part of Shiro’s training, likely because the Garrison never intended for him to be the one using the equipment. Unfortunately for the Garrison, they underestimate how many fucks Shiro would have left once he started to get a few more pieces of the puzzle, namely that the Garrison has been keeping things from Shiro.

The odds are Shiro would’ve made the same decision even knowing what he knows now, but that was his place to make the choice, not the Garrison.

With a strength Shiro barely knew he possessed, he uses his hammer to wedge one of the spring-loaded camming devices into the top of the cliff, positioning it in the most secure position he can find. Or at least he hopes it is secure. He hasn’t exactly tested the weight capacity of this stuff. He tries to mentally calculate the load. Back on Earth, Shiro was a good one hundred and ninety pounds, but with the loss in muscle mass and bone density, he’s probably closer to one hundred and seventy five right now, maybe less judging by the looseness in his clothing.

Refusing to go down that route, Shiro sticks to the basic principles of math. One hundred and seventy five pounds plus the forty pounds from the space suit is definitely within the realm of safety. He thinks. He hopes.

Giving the cam a hard tug, Shiro prays whatever the organic material here is composed of holds the line.

It’s tricky with the gloves of his suit, but Shiro makes fairly quick work rigging up the line, understanding now why the suit has a built-in waist harness. How naïve Shiro was to assume it was solely because of the wind storms.

Naïve and fortuitous. The less the Garrison thought Shiro knew, the more chances they inadvertently provided for him to discover things on his own. Had he known then what he knows now, they probably wouldn’t have risked sending up these supplies with Shiro and he really would’ve been trapped inside that telescope hub to die.

Confused, in pain, but most of all, curious, Shiro clips one of the carabiner clips to his suit and the other to his rope.

Shiro is not a spiritual man. Any beliefs he once held died along with his grandparents. He says a prayer now.

“Om Mani Padme Hum,” Shiro whispers, the words achingly familiar though it's been a decade since he heard them in his Baba’s voice.

“Om Mani Padme Hum,” Shiro repeats, taking comfort in the shape of the words on his tongue.

He mentally chants the prayer as he lowers himself over the edge of the cliff, entirely unsure if he will have the strength to get back up, or even be alive to try and do so. He moves slowly, hyper aware of his own climbing inexperience and the fifty foot drop to the bottom of the ravine.

When his hands begin to shake, he has no idea if it’s his muscles fatiguing or his nerves getting the best of him. Either way his movements remain steady even as the rope shakes.

The one thing in Shiro’s favor is that the drop isn’t much and with his substantial height, once he’s got his entire body over the edge of the cliffside, he’s able to stretch out and get his boots onto the ledge.

The stability this footing provides is a sharp contrast to the emotional instability he feels staring into the mouth of the pitch dark cave.

With one final prayer, he unclips his waist clip from the rope then steps into the cave. Without the soft glow from the bioluminescent sand, Shiro is pitched in darkness, reaching up to fidget with the side of his helmet to flip on the headlamp, which casts a bright ray of light down the center of the cave.

Holding his breath Shiro moves slowly, aware of the howling whistle of wind at the cave's entrance and the crackle of sand and rocks beneath his boots with each step. Every sound feels like a potential threat.

Slowly turning his head to avoid any abrupt movements, Shiro watches the play of shadows created by his own body against the cave wall. A few seconds later, his watch buzzes at the same time a holo heart rate alert flashes on the inside of his helmet. If Shiro weren’t afraid to make a sound, he’d laugh at the absurdity of being scared of his own shadow, but as it is, he barely breathes as he inches further into the cave.

What he’s doing is either very brave or very stupid. Maybe a bit of both.

Either way, he’s made his choice and there’s no backing out now. Not that Shiro would. He’s never been a quitter and he sure as hell isn’t going to start now.

With every step he takes his heart beats faster, his breathing going shallow as he moves deeper into the cave. The further he moves, the more oppressive the darkness becomes, as if the walls around him are closing in.

Anticipation fades as anxiety rises and when Shiro ends up at the back cave wall, decidedly empty, he sags in disappointment. When he turns, he half expects something to be behind him. It’s not. There’s nothing. No footprints except his own, no sign of anything having been in this cave. Nothing.

Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. Maybe there was no footprint. Maybe the psych at the Garrison was right when they warned Shiro that months of isolation in deep space would test the strength of his mental fortitude.

Utterly disillusioned and exhausted, Shiro returns to the mouth of the cave and hooks his suit harness back up to the line.

Getting back up the side of the cliff is infinitely more difficult than coming down and every inch he gains comes with a heavy cost as his joints ache and the pain in his shoulder flares like there is fire in his veins.

Maybe the Garrison was right about this, too, about Shiro’s body being incapable of deep space exploration.

Maybe Shiro should’ve stayed inside the telescope hub where things were safe.

Maybe the Garrison was right about everything.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he climbs. Pain is temporary. Pain is proof that Shiro is alive.

It's only when he’s reached the top that he exhales a heavy breath, using his elbows to drag himself up and over the edge before collapsing on his hands and knees. With nothing to focus on now instead of the pain, Shiro nearly sobs as he collapses, rolling onto his back as he exhales a shuddering breath.

Staring up at the starry sky above him, Shiro gives in to the staggering sense of defeat.

Not brave, he thinks sadly, but stupid.

Fatigue plagues Shiro as he walks, every step sending shockwaves of pain up his legs. More than once he falls to his knees, glad there is no one to see how long it takes him to get back up.

There was a time when Shiro’s endurance was legendary. Fastest basic training time in Garrison history. Longest sim run. And now, a few hours exploring and he’s utterly exhausted.

Logically Shiro understands the reasons. He’s not training for hours the way he did on Earth to maintain his peak physical condition and he’s not eating the same way, either. Mostly, though, it’s being here. The beauty that surrounds him is uninhabitable for Shiro’s body. The subatomic particles and high energy protons present in deep space are causing cellular mutation, the likes of which is accelerating the rate of muscular degeneration from Shiro’s disease.

Space is killing Shiro.

Somehow even knowing this, Shiro can’t be sorry. He watches the shape of his footsteps as his boots sink into the moon’s surface and he feels a renewed sense of peace. He may have been born on Earth, but he was meant for the stars.

There are many things that have been taken from Shiro. His autonomy, his consent, and now his strength, but he will never let anyone rob him of his love of space.

Perhaps he didn’t find life on Kerberos, but he is still here and he hasn’t given up and that is enough.

That is enough.

The telescope hub is just coming into view on the horizon when Shiro notices the footprint.

According to his suit’s nav system, he’s exactly one hundred and three feet away.

He dismisses it, sure he’s seeing things. Exhaustion and isolation do funny things to the mind. That’s what the psych told him before he left.

“There may come a time when you cannot trust your own mind. When your body fails you and the end is near, we can help you.”

Whatever that help might look like is in a locked box under Shiro’s bed. Shiro hasn’t opened it. Isn’t sure he wants to.

“This isn’t real,” he intones, stepping over the definitely-not-really-a-footprint and watching his own boot create a print in the sand.

Shiro is not losing his mind in space. He absolutely refuses to.

The second footprint is harder to ignore. The third, impossible.

“What the hell,” Shiro mutters, dropping into a squat that he’s going to have difficulty rising out of. He reaches out slowly, mesmerized as the movement of his hand sends little flurries of glowing sand swirling around the footprint.

It can’t be real, he reasons, trying to talk himself down. Yet as Shiro traces one gloved fingertip around the print, he knows it is. Against all the odds and logic, he just knows it.

Eyes flying up, he searches the horizon for any sign of what or who might’ve left the print, but he can see nothing in any direction except the domed outline of the telescope far off to his left. There’s no way to figure out the source of the print. Unless—

“Unless there’s more,” Shiro whispers, crawling forward on his hands and knees until he finds another one.

Studying the space between the prints and the depth of the instep, he marvels. The gait is so human-like, the shape of the foot print equally so. All of the what ifs that Shiro convinced himself he imagined flood back in as he lays his palm over the print and closes his eyes.

Shiro is not imagining this. There is something out here.

He is not alone.

Grimacing through his pain, Shiro rises from the ground swiftly. Just like back at the cliffs, the prospect of exploration and discovery dwarfs his fear and with every step he takes his adrenaline rises, buffering his fatigue and discomfort

He is going to follow these footprints.

The fear that they will suddenly disappear like back in the cave proves to be unfounded and with every step he takes he sees more footprints. Attention firmly on the footprints it takes Shiro a second to realize they’ve taken a sharp turn to the left.

Following the direction of the footprints, Shiro’s gaze rises as comprehension dawns. The footprints are headed directly towards the telescope.

Heart fluttering in his chest, Shiro quickens his pace. It’s difficult to do so in the suit, but Shiro’s never been put off by a challenge, pushing his own body to the limit as he breaks into a run.

In the distance the telescope looms, growing larger with every foot of ground he covers. Even squinting, he can see no shape on the horizon, no sign of anything or anyone. Undeterred, he runs parallel to the trail of footprints, finding strength in each and every one he passes.

The harder his legs pump, the harder his heart beats until it’s difficult to breathe. The suit isn’t meant for running, or maybe it’s Shiro’s body that is ill-equipped to handle this level of physicality. On Earth he could run miles. In space, just feet.

It’s not a path Shiro wants to travel, so he turns his focus onto the pattern of footprints.

They are measured and equal. Until they’re not. Until the heel of the prints visibly deepen, as if whoever made them was stomping or stumbling.

He slows, browns furrowing in confusion as the footprints dramatically shift, lines in the sand as if something was being dragged.

“Hello,” Shiro calls, the sound of his own voice painfully loud as he turns in circles, half expecting a ghost to jump out at him.

No one answers. Not that Shiro expects them to.

Isolation can turn a man. Your mind will play tricks on you, they’d warned him.

Lowering himself, Shiro traces the shape of something new in the sand, marveling at the shape of what he sees as he lays his glove over it. There is no mistaking what he is seeing.

There’s a handprint in the sand.

Smaller than Shiro’s. Five long fingers and a palm like his own.

So human-like.

“Hello,” Shiro repeats, lifting his gaze and almost expecting to find someone staring back at him. The only thing he sees is a starlit sky and an empty horizon

Like an avalanche, emotions consume him—confusion, excitement, fear—as he tracks the changing prints. Hands in the sand. No more footprints, but rather lines in the sand, as if something dragged themselves.

If Shiro had an ounce of self preservation, he might turn around and run the opposite direction. Then again, if he did, he would be walking away from his home, away from the only protection he has out here. Whatever is on this moon with Shiro is out there, likely injured and hiding by the prints headed directly for the telescope. There is only one thing Shiro can do—keep going.

He ignores the exhaustion that makes his body sway.

He ignores the fear that makes his hands tremble.

He ignores the ragged sound of his breathing as his pants cause hot puffs of air to cloud his vision.

He ignores everything except the strange trail of prints.

Twenty feet out, he notices something huddled at his doorstep. It’s too far away to make out anything except for the presence of an unfamiliar mass.

The trembling in his hands increases so much it triggers the muscle stimulating bracelet, which buzzes so intensely it makes Shiro’s fingers go numb. Shiro has never been more terrified in his entire life. Not even the prospect of being sent into deep space to die alone had filled him with such unmasked fear because that was planned. Shiro knew exactly what to expect. Fly. See space. Die amongst the stars.

This is unknown. There was nothing in the Garrison handbook about what to do if you realized there was some kind of viable lifeform coexisting with you in deep space.

He tries to imagine what the recommendations might have been. Observe. Assess. Knowing the Garrison, probably immobilize.

Shiro doesn’t have any weapons, unless you count the hammer he used for his cam line. He doesn’t want to hurt anything, but he doesn’t want to be hurt, either. His hand is halfway to the hammer when he stops, closing the flap on his supply bag.

“Om Mani Padme Hum,” Shiro breathes, focusing on the cadence of the words as he takes one step forward.

Each new step brings him closer to the lifeform at his door. At this point, Shiro’s within range to be both seen and heard, but the hunched lifeform at his dorm remains unmoving. It could be a trick, Shiro thinks. A trap, even. Yet even as he admits the possibility, he refuses to entertain it.

Space might be stealing his muscle mass, his bone density and his days, but he won’t let it steal his humanity.

The alien probably won't understand English. Hell, they might not even be able to hear. At least not in the frequency of the human voice.

“I won’t hurt you,” Shiro calls anyway.

The form shudders. Shiro shudders too.

Alive, he realizes. Hurt but alive.

“I‘m coming closer,” Shiro yells, the volume of his own voice muffled by the helmet. “I’m—” but the rest of what Shiro means to say dies on the tip of his tongue as the huddled form shifts, rolling onto its side as wide eyes stare at Shiro.

The lifeform is eerily human-like in appearance. Same body shape. Two legs. Two arms. Two beautiful purple eyes staring at Shiro with as much shock and wonder as Shiro feels. So human-like and yet not, their skin a striking shade of lilac with markings on their face that seem to glow like the bioluminescent sand.

“Vokiht,” they utter, mouth falling open for a pitiful gasp of breath before their eyes roll into the back of their head and they slump against the door.

Aliens.

Aliens are real and there is one at Shiro’s door.

Under Shiro’s long list of qualifications which had helped him secure his spot on Kerberos, his unparalleled ability to stay calm under pressure was at the top of the list.

Whether facing down a sim that made other cadets and officers cry or remaining stone-faced as the doctors gave him an updated medical prognosis, Shiro’s reputation for being able to remain calm regardless of the situation or stakes has always been one of his greatest assets.

He doesn’t feel calm now.

Perhaps it's because while Shiro can’t prove it, he feels certain the Garrison knew there was life out here and he feels betrayed and deceived. Or perhaps it's because he’s running on very little sleep and he has pushed his body to the limits and is physically incapable of handling this right now.

Or perhaps, he thinks as he squats down and uses up every reserve of energy and strength he has to lift the unconscious alien off the ground, it’s because he’s going to take an alien inside of his home.

Had the Garrison offered Shiro any warning or training on how to handle the discovery of extraterrestrial life in deep space, it probably would’ve covered how to handle scenarios like this. Well, maybe not exactly like this, but definitely adjacent situations. They didn’t cover it, though, or give Shiro any warning.

The Garrison sent Shiro up here to this telescope base like a hamster in a too-small cage, expecting him to stay in his place. Expecting him to be a good boy who did as he was told and didn’t push the status quo.

Shiro was the perfect candidate. The perfect officer. The perfect everything.

With a limited number of days to live, Shiro was the ideal man for this mission. No matter how things went in deep space, the Garrison wouldn’t be responsible for Shiro’s death.

There was one thing the Garrison never stopped to consider: the thing that made him perfect for this mission was exactly the thing that would set him free. In space, Shiro is just a man. Flawed, full of futile hope, and losing every single fuck he had on Earth.

He can imagine the Garrison handbook now. Ten ways not to be killed by aliens in space. At the top of that list would probably be not taking them into your deeply secure and protected living quarters. There is no list now. There’s no protocol. There’s nothing except Shiro and his inability to let anyone suffer if he has the means to help.

He can imagine the Garrison’s response if they found out what Shiro is doing. The reprimand. The questions. The demand for information.

Hell, they’d probably suddenly develop the technology to get a return flight from Kerberos. They might even send someone else up here.

Somehow the prospect has bile rising in the back of Shiro’s throat. In such a short time this has become his home and the idea of the Garrison barging in and taking over makes him sick.

They’d come in with their rules and charts. With their conditional support.

The alien in his arms would never be free again.

Shiro won’t be free.

Tightening his hold on the alien, Shiro makes a decision.

He will not tell the Garrison about this.

He won’t tell anyone.

Shiro knows firsthand what it’s like to be the Garrison’s lab rat. To have your medical privacy violated. To be studied and talked about. To be reduced to a set of data in a chart. He won’t let that happen to anyone else.

This is Shiro’s home now and the Garrison isn’t welcome.

Shiro has ninety-one days left to live and if this choice lessens that number, then Shiro will live with the consequences.

“Did you know nothing can breathe in space?” Shiro asks aloud.

The unconscious alien on his couch doesn’t answer, which is possibly for the best because Shiro’s nerves are holding on by a thin line right now and he’s pretty sure if a pretty purple alien he found on a distant moon could understand English, he might just drop dead from shock, which would make saving said alien rather difficult.

As it is, the task will be hard enough. Not because the aliens' wounds are too difficult to triage, but because Shiro has no idea how to figure out what the wounds are in the first place. The alien is wearing some kind of suit, but unlike Shiro’s, which he is shedding piece by piece in a heap on the floor, the alien’s suit is almost a second skin. It’s molded to every arch and curve, letting Shiro know in acute detail how very human-like this alien’s body type is.

If it weren’t for the faintly purple skin of their face and the darker markings on their neck and cheeks, they could be mistaken for human; the bone structure and features are that familiar.

This alien is not so different from Shiro and the knowledge is as jarring as it is comforting.

Even in the most inhospitable environment in the deepest reaches of space, life persists.

Shiro might have to die on this moon, but this alien doesn’t have to. Shiro can save them, he knows it. That’s another one of Shiro’s greatest assets—blind faith.

He uses this faith to propel him forward, pushing through his own rising confusion and fatigue as he sheds the rest of his own space suit until he’s dressed in nothing but the skintight undersuit, sagging in relief at the release of the extra weight on his body and the increased flexibility and motion he’s afforded now that he’s no longer wearing it.

Later he’s going to need to deal with the way he discarded the entire thing in a pile, but for now, his only thought is trying to figure out how to help the alien on his couch.

Alien on his couch.

It’s absolutely absurd. Then again, maybe the alien will wake up and wonder what Shiro is doing in his galaxy. After all, Shiro is the interloper here, not the unconscious alien.

“Get a grip,” Shiro mutters to himself, feeling the tendrils of a mental spiral trying to take hold. There’s no time for Shiro to wonder at the universe or humanity right now. He can have a full-blown existential crisis later when he’s made sure the alien isn’t dead.

The thought of this lifeform dying lights a fire under Shiro, an inexplicable mental clarity taking over as he recounts his first aid training. ABC: airway, breathing, circulation. This is where Shiro needs to start. Well, presuming that extraterrestrial biology functions like humans. If not then, well—that’s a possibility Shiro refuses to entertain.

“ABC,” he chants under his breath, hoping against all odds this alien has biology close enough to humans that he can help them.

With shaking hands, he reaches out to skim his fingers down the side of a pale purple neck, shuddering at the ice-cold skin. It could be normal. Shiro has no damn idea what kind of resting body temperature might be considered a baseline, but judging by the fading color in the lips and the shallow breathing, he’s gonna guess it’s not this low.

“I’ll help,” Shiro promises, trying to find a pulse at the side of their neck. “I will.”

It takes him a few seconds, but Shiro fingers a pulse point at the side of the neck, exactly where his own would be, holding his breath as he counts the beats. One hundred and thirty nine per minute. So damn fast.

The list of things Shiro doesn’t understand grows as Shiro tips his head back.

“I need to check your airways. I’m going to open your mouth to check your throat and make sure there’s no obstructions,” he narrates on the off chance extraterrestrial life is capable of unconscious cognition.

If someone were about to stick their fingers in Shiro’s mouth, he’d want a little warning.

There’s no acknowledgement of understanding, no resistance as Shiro presses his fingers to chilled lips, feeling the faintest exhale of breath as he opens their mouth and is met with the points of two sharp fangs. Not entirely human then, he thinks, careful to avoid them just in case as he lets his thumb rest against the flatter teeth to gently open their mouth.

There’s nothing blocking their airways, which is a relief, and Shiro is quick to soothe their mouth closed. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s violating someone else’s autonomy, even to save them.

“I’m going to unpack the first aid kit now,” he says, taking comfort in saying the steps out loud.

He hurries to retrieve the kit from the metal cabinet in the kitchen and begins to unpack it on the floor, wanting to double check what he has and take stock of what he might need. There is the expected contents: an array of bandages, antibacterial wipes, sealant patches and pain relievers. There’s also the stuff Shiro used during his first aid certification but has never had to use in the field: vitals monitor, bioscanner, and oxygen masks. He goes for the bioscanner first, clicking the power button on before holding it up to the alien’s temple. It does nothing and Shiro frowns. Temple reading is where it should work on humans, but this isn’t a human and it’s clear he’s going to have to try somewhere else.

It takes half a dozen tries before the bioscanner activates, the tip flush against the alien’s clothed clavicle.

Shiro holds his breath for a second time, watching the holo readings rapidly flicker before the familiar ding signaling a complete scan.

Unstable life function detected. flashes in red before the diagnostic criteria appears in transparent letters above the alien’s chest.

Hypoxia.
Tachycardia.
Low blood pressure.
Dehydration.
Malnutrition.
Hypermobility.
Ligament sprain.

“Shit,” Shiro curses, dropping the scanner and reaching for the oxygen mask, which he secures over the alien’s mouth and nose, noticing for the first time that they’ve got slightly pointed ears when he has to push their hair back to get the elastic mask strap around the back of their head.

“Oxygen first,” he says, whether for himself or the alien, he’s not sure.

Back on Earth Shiro’s first aid training was routine, the same certification required of any pilot at the Garrison. It was by the book, but basic, and Shiro desperately wishes he’d taken some extra EMT courses. He’d wanted to, and had proposed it even during his last year as a cadet, but his academic advisor had not at all subtly pointed out that those wouldn’t help advance Shiro’s chances of becoming a senior officer and he’d let his dreams of flight dictate everything else. He’d dropped his EMT classes in favor of signing up for two more advanced flight sim courses. Sure enough, his scores there had ensured his placement as a senior officer the following year, but the gasps in his medical knowledge feel like a black hole right now as Shiro struggles to recall everything he knows.

If there’s one thing he remembers from his rudimentary first aid courses, it’s that hypoxia is no joke and if the alien’s levels dip too low, there won’t be anything he can do to help them recover. The other diagnoses need tending to as well, but not until Shiro can stabilize their O2 levels.

Praying their biology is compatible, he flips on the mask, watching with a mix of relief and fear as the alien gasps.

“Shhh, just breathe,” Shiro soothes, laying his hand over the base of the mask to keep it from slipping off. “This is supplemental oxygen therapy for hypoxia, which, um, even if you can hear me and understand you probably don’t understand, but you need this. I’m not hurting you, okay? It’s gonna deliver a fixed oxygen concentration of twenty four to fifty percent and we’re just going to hope that your body needs the same things a human body would because otherwise, well, we’re not gonna think about otherwise.”

There’s no reaction to Shiro’s words or the sudden flow of oxygen they’re receiving, no responding shudder or other physical response of any kind. There is nothing but the faint wheezing sound as they breathe, the clear mask fogging up with every breath they take.

“We’re gonna leave this on awhile,” Shiro says, barely breathing himself. “You’re gonna be okay.”

He’s not sure if it’s true, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, either.

Hypoxia tackled, or at least as much as Shiro is able with his limited training and first aid supplies, he mentally runs down the rest of the list of diagnoses. Hypermobility could be related to the ligament sprain, or it could simply be a feature of the alien’s biology. It’s impossible for Shiro to be sure, especially since he can’t exactly do any kind of examination with the way the alien’s clothing conceals everything except their neck and face. If it can be called clothing. It really appears to be some kind of space suit if Shiro wants to be technical, the thick material clinging to the alien’s body like a second skin.

Without rolling them onto their stomach, which Shiro absolutely will not be doing for multiple reasons, it’s impossible to see any kind of zippers or seams, meaning he has absolutely no idea how the suit goes on or off, leaving him unable to undress them for further triage. Luckily for both of them, the bioscanner didn’t indicate any major bleeding or other issues that require immediate attention, but Shiro won’t relax until he can figure out what exactly is sprained so he can try and wrap it.

Deciding to leave the sprain for last, he moves on to the other issues identified by the bioscanner. Specifically dehydration and malnutrition. These are things Shiro can easily fix. Well, assuming aliens metabolize things the same as humans.

“You know, for being the top space academy on Earth, the Garrison’s education was really lacking in several important areas,” Shiro grumbles, frustrated at how ill-equipped he feels.

There are too many unknowns. Too many ways Shiro’s med kit might not help. Too many aspects of extraterrestrial biology Shiro has no way of examining or comprehending. It makes Shiro unsure. He hates being unsure.

His first aid training should be better. His theoretical knowledge of extraterrestrials should be better. Shiro should be better.

“Get a grip, Shirogane,” he mutters to himself, refusing to spiral.

What this alien needs is Shiro at his best, so that is what they’re gonna get.

“You need fluids and nutrition, fast. In an ideal situation you might get the fluids intravenously for better absorption and I’d make you actual food. Assuming you eat food. I wonder if you eat food,” Shiro chatters, digging through the bottom of the first aid kit until he finds what he’s looking for. “These are rapid rehydration patches and nutrition patches. The downside is these won’t work as fast as an IV would since they’re designed to be worn during prolonged periods without access to food or water. I had to exist on these for a few weeks getting here. Between you and me, they’re a piss poor substitute for a glass of water or a good meal, but they work. They’ve got a high absorbency rate, even if the delayed release system means your body won’t be able to process the full effects for a few hours and…why am I still talking?”

He swallows around a sudden tightness in his throat as the answer comes to him. He knows why he’s talking.

Shiro is lonely.

“It’s been, uh…sixty-four days since I talked to anyone,” he confesses, deciding this can really only go one of two ways. Either the alien mysteriously comprehends not only human language but also English, while unconscious no less, and thinks Shiro is a weirdo, or he can’t understand a thing being said and Shiro continuing to talk doesn’t matter because there’s no one around to hear him.

There is a third option, which is that the alien somehow miraculously both understands Shiro and doesn’t find him strange, but this feels so low on the scale of possibilities that he doesn’t bother entertaining it. In the end, it doesn’t matter how things go so long as Shiro can save them.

“The patches aren’t so bad,” he tells them, tearing open the foil-sealed edge of each packet before laying them both on the floor beside his leg as he reaches for the alien’s arm.

Experimentally he slides a finger around the cuff of the space suit, relieved to find the material has just enough give that Shiro is able to roll them up a few inches to expose two pale purple wrists.

“I’m going to put one on the inside of each of your wrists because, well…that’s where max absorption is for a human and I can’t really reach anywhere else. They’re latex-free.”

He feels insane for rambling like this, but having an alien on his couch is kind of insane, so maybe the two things cancel each other out.

“This might feel cold,” he warns, smoothing the patch on the inside of the alien’s left wrist and marveling at how soft the skin feels. Softer than Shiro’s. It’s a surprise. Out here, the atmosphere has made Shiro’s skin so dry his fingers have started to crack, even with the special moisturizing cream the doctors sent.

“Sorry if my fingers feel like sandpaper compared to yours,” he says, peeling back the second patch and affixing it to the other wrist. It’s more contact with another living thing than he’s had since he left the Garrison and it’s strange to realize how much he missed it.

“Not that you know what sandpaper is,” he trails off, distracted by the faint pulse he feels at their wrist.

Alive.

Pushing past his own rising exhaustion, Shiro continues to smooth the edges of the patch down to be sure the adhesive sticks to the skin while trying to ignore the way his right arm is shaking. He ignores the annoying buzzing of the muscle stimulator on his own wrist and the way the tendons in his forearm feel like they’re on fire, too. He ignores everything except the unconscious lifeform in front of him.

Once he’s sure both patches are on securely, and he’s added a transfusion patch to the left side of their neck to try and compensate for any other fluid deficits the ones at his wrist won’t be able to handle, he slumps to the ground. Even then he doesn’t relax, quickly switching his focus from triage to clean up as he meticulously packs away the entirety of the med kit, making a complete mental catalog of everything inside in case he needs something else. The only thing he leaves out is the elastic bandage he will need to wrap whatever is sprained. Assuming he can at some point figure out what that is.

Maybe when the alien wakes up they can communicate and—Shiro stops himself. He’s getting too far ahead of himself. The odds of interspecies communication is low. The alien will likely freak out when they wake up and leave. Something tells Shiro they won’t hurt him, though whether that’s because of the lack of weapons on them currently or more blind faith, he’s not sure.

Truthfully he’s not sure of much anymore. Turns out realizing the company you’ve dedicated your entire life to withholding information and treating you like a set of data kind of fucks with a guy’s sense of purpose. Or maybe it’s the purple alien on the couch that has Shiro questioning everything he thought he knew about the world.

Or maybe it’s that Shiro has eighty-eight days left and it suddenly doesn’t feel like enough.

There’s an alien in Shiro’s living room and the longing to know more, to learn about them, explodes. He watches the rise and fall of their chest and doesn’t cry because that would require more spoons than Shiro currently possesses.

Utterly exhausted in ways that reach far beyond his physical body, Shiro collapses on the floor and stares at the ceiling while doing something he hasn’t done since he was a child—wishes he wasn’t going to die.

Shiro’s dreams are a mess.

He’s in a ship, but the steering mechanism is jammed. He’s flying directly towards an asteroid belt and no matter what he does the ship won’t turn.

The comm systems are running because there are voices from the central command at the Garrison talking in his headset, but no matter how much he screams, no one hears his cries. No one helps.

When the inevitable crash comes, it wakes Shiro with a start so intense he nearly vomits, rolling onto his stomach as he recognizes the spasms in his muscles that woke him, not the crash in his dreams.

You were dreaming Shiro tells himself, focusing on the way the rug feels under his skin and the sharp aseptic smell from the hypoallergenic air purifier that makes the air in Shiro’s little home breathable and safe even as it reminds him of a hospital.

With no small amount of effort, Shiro rises onto his hands and knees as he takes a series of labored breaths. The pain is so bad his vision blurs and it’s all Shiro can do to keep every wretched sound his body wants to make contained. Everything hurts, the pain on a level Shiro has yet to experience since coming to Kerberos. It’s bad. Bad in ways that make his heart race and his muscles tremble. Bad in ways that have him staggering to the kitchen to rummage through the cupboard in search of the pain meds the doctors gave him. The ones he’s been too stubborn to use.

The pain had been Shiro’s only company, but he’s not alone now and he needs to be able to take care of the alien. Cursing whoever used a screw cap on meds meant for Shiro to take at his worst, it takes Shiro a good few minutes to get the lid off. When he does, he spills the entire bottle of pills, clenching his jaw as he crouches down to pick up every single one, which he puts back in the prescription bottle. All except the single red pill he pops into his mouth before grabbing a hydration pouch off the shelf and stabbing the straw through with such force it squirts out onto his hand.

He sucks the pouch dry, trying to chase away the heavy taste of medicine on his tongue from where the meds startled to dissolve. When he’s done, he recaps the bottles and puts them in the back of the cabinet before hurrying back to the living room.

To his utter relief the alien is still on the couch, unmoved aside from the oxygen mask having slipped down at some point. Unsure if it's even still needed, Shiro opens the first aid kit and does a quick bioscan, relieved when hypoxia and tachycardia no longer register on the holo readings. He sets the scanner back in the med kit before reaching for the oxygen mask.

He’s careful as can be pulling the elastic from around their head, but his attempts to protect the pointed ears from being snapped by elastic means Shiro’s bare knuckles graze the ears instead.

“Sorry,” Shiro whispers, holding his breath.

They twitch, the tips of their ears flickering but not rousing. It’s long seconds before Shiro moves, suddenly hit by the reality that this alien might simply wake at any moment.

He stands before them, an oxygen mask clutched pathetically in his hands as he waits.

And waits.

Long minutes pass before Shiro accepts that they are definitely still sleeping.

With a quiet sigh, he carefully repacks the oxygen mask before lowering himself to the floor once more. The pills are already working, taking off the edge of crippling pain. But with that relief comes side effects, namely a wave of exhaustion so intense Shiro falters.

He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to sit and watch the alien. Make sure they’re okay. Keep watch in case their medical needs change. Make sure they don’t sneak out the door while he’s asleep.

Except what Shiro wants and what he is capable of are two different things.

This is exactly why he’d avoided using the meds for so long. They dull the pain, but they dull his senses too, his limbs heavy as a strange zapping feeling starts in his brain. Sleep is clawing at Shio and he holds off as long as he can, stubbornly refusing to lay down and instead scooting himself across the room until his back hits the wall.

It staves off the inevitable but not for long and sooner than Shiro likes his head tips back against the wall and the room darkens, his mouth falling open on a yawn as he passes out.

Shiro dreams again.

Soft fingers card through his hair, smoothing it back off his head. It’s a nice dream, so much better than the nightmare he had earlier. If more of his dreams were like this, Shiro might actually enjoy sleeping more.

The fingers move through his hair again, and then down over his forehead and the bridge of his nose. It’s not until they’re brushing over the swell of Shiro’s bottom lip that Shiro’s mind fully registers how visceral this dream is. So much so his mouth trembles as the person in his dreams swipes a finger over the bottom lip and—

“Vendux.”

Not a dream Shiro realizes, blinking his eyes open and coming face to face with the unconscious alien from his couch. Not so unconscious any longer and definitely not on the couch.

“Vendux,” they repeat, one purple finger still on Shiro’s bottom lip. Judging by the darker purple hue to their cheeks, the medical attention Shiro gave must be helping. Well, that and the whole no longer unconscious bit.

It occurs to Shiro that even if there was Garrison protocol, he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t include a situation like this. He can imagine the guidelines now—Top three ways to keep your cool and not die when a beautiful extraterrestrial has you against a wall. Or maybe calm under pressure, how to cope with your entire world view being upended with only three months to live.

Then again, knowing the Garrison, it would more realistically be a goddamn form to fill out.

Species: Unknown
Skin tone: Purple, like the ube ice cream Shiro loves on Earth
Defining physical characteristics: Sharp jaw. Piercing eyes. Scar on the left cheek. Pretty

The last thought is the one that has Shiro coming back to himself as the absurdity of the situation really hits him. There’s an honest to god alien in front of him and Shiro’s thinking about how pretty they are.

To be fair, it’s a reasonable thought. They are pretty—dangerously so.

Dangerous, he has to remind himself as the alien cocks their head and licks their lips, the pointed fangs of their sharpest teeth on display. They could be dangerous.

Somehow, Shiro is not afraid.

“Prel droht thikux,” they say, poking Shiro’s cheek.

A million shoulds filter through Shiro’s mind: diplomatic greetings, safety protocols, even outlandish interspecies greetings from the cheesy old alien movies he used to watch on the holo as a teenager.

Somehow the most eloquent he can manage is, “Um, hi.”

“Trhrullal kryl,” they say with such a desperate tone that Shiro is glad he’s sitting down.

“I have no idea what that means,” Shiro whispers, surprised when the alien doesn’t pull away but shuffles closer. Much closer. So close they’re nearly in Shiro’s lap.

Apparently this alien doesn't understand English or personal space.

“You…um,” Shiro starts, rendered speechless when the alien presses the palm of their hand on Shiro’s chest.

Back on Earth, Shiro was often applauded for his charming personality. He’s anything but charming now, stumbling over his words as he stares at two wide purple eyes that stare back at him.

The alien makes a soft sound, reminiscent of a house cat trilling, as their palm skims sideways and their thick eyebrows furrow in concentration, almost as if they’re searching for something. They are searching for something, he realizes a second later when the alien stills their hand near the center of Shiro’s chest just to the left.

They’re seeking out his heartbeat.

“Vizhot,” they utter.

If Shiro thinks his surprise cant grow, he’s proven wrong when the alien leans forward, laying their ear directly to Shiro’s chest to listen to his heart. It’s a wonder, as much as discovering life exists in space, and it’s all Shiro can do not to whimper.

It’s been sixty-four days since he talked to anyone.

Sixty-four days since anyone touched him.

Longer still since the touch was less clinical.

It’s never been like this. No one has ever listened to his heart if they weren’t looking for something wrong with him.

Just as abruptly as they pressed themselves to Shiro’s chest, the alien pulls away. Before Shiro can mourn the loss of physical contact, the alien is snatching Shiro’s hands—not one but both of them—and bringing them up to their own chest.

“You…oh,” Shiro exhales, feeling the faint beats beneath his fingers.

It’s a heartbeat. Two to be exact. They have two hearts.

Words utterly fail Shiro as he presses his palms against their chest harder and focuses all of his attention on the rapid lub-dub of their two hearts thundering against Shiro’s hands.

Alien.

He knew they were an alien. It’s kind of hard to miss with the purple skin and pointed ears and little fangs. Then there’s the whole ‘can breathe on the moon’ thing, but somehow all those facts don’t hold a candle to the knowledge that they've got two hearts.

As a child Shiro was fascinated with hearts. He used to carry around a toy stethoscope from his play doctor's kit and pretend to listen to his stuffed animals, his grandparents, and once one of the stray cats that frequented their neighborhood. Eventually Shiro lost the wonder he’d once held for it. It was hard to see the magic in heartbeats when his own was constantly being weaponized against him. Being a sickly kid in and out of the hospital does that to you. By the time Shiro entered the Garrison, he’d trained himself out of having feelings about being listened to. He’d had to with the constant med checks required as stipulation for his admittance to the flight program.

He can feel that childhood wonder now as the alien’s heart beats, the rhythm seemingly speeding up the longer Shiro pays attention. He can’t help but wonder if he’s making them nervous.

“Vrahtan dek,” they exhale and Shiro exhales with them.

A rush of embarrassment has his cheeks heating when the alien unexpectedly throws themself forward to lay their ear against Shiro’s chest once more, this time curling their arms around his back so Shiro is smashed between the wall and the alien.

It’s not so bad actually, the weight against his chest comforting in spite of the absolute insanity of the entire situation. A normal person would probably be terrified right now, but Shiro’s never been normal, so he’s not about to start now.

The longer the alien listens, the harder Shiro’s heart beats. Still they listen, their ear shoved against Shiro’s chest and unfamiliar hands at his back.

It is the singularly most unbelievable thing to ever happen to Shiro. And perhaps the greatest.

The alien makes a sound almost like a hum. Not a hum, Shiro realizes, when the sound increases in volume and vibration. A purr. The sound is unexpected in many ways but not unwanted, and Shiro feels his own heart skip a beat when he realizes he can feel the vibrations against his own chest.

Outside the window in the corner the stars twinkle, a soft glow from the moon’s surface casting the room in a cool glow and for the first time in a long time Shiro is not alone.

Afraid to do anything that might inadvertently cause the loss of contact, Shiro doesn’t move a muscle. Hell, he barely breathes, every breath measured and slow lest he startle them away.

Well versed in muscle cramping, he picks up all of the telltale signs of a bad one on the way: the pinching in his forearm that turns to numbness, the numbness that verges on painful, then finally, the cramping.

When asked, Shiro tells people that it is manageable.

It is, but less in the not so bad way and more in the crippling pain that makes me want to die but I’m too stubborn to die kind of way.

The muscle spasms, twisting as if someone has twined the muscle around a screwdriver and tried to twist it. The urge to cry out is great and it’s only a lifetime of practice holding it in that stops Shiro from making a noise that would surely spook his new companion.

He breathes slowly. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. He does it slowly, hyper aware of the movement of his chest and the way his breath ruffles the alien’s hair.

When it doesn’t help, he does it a second and a third time, waiting for the spasm to pass.

It doesn’t.

The why seems obvious now. He was an idiot who fell asleep against the wall and is holding himself rigid in ways that trigger his spasms. He knows it. It’s his own fault. He’d just wanted to be normal for a few minutes. Just wanted to prolong this little bit of human-like contact before he loses it forever. Because he will lose it.

At some point, likely when Shiro is unable to bear the pain and needs to move, their positions will change and the spell they are both under will be broken. The alien isn’t going to stay with Shiro and when they leave—which they will—he is going to feel more alone than ever.

Unfortunately for Shiro, his attempts to prolong the contact have caused the opposite and try as he might to ignore the gnawing pain, when it twists up to his elbow he can’t remain still any longer. He lets out a bitten-off hiss and a shudder as he accidentally bucks the alien off and grabs at his elbow.

He tries to ignore the disappointment and frustration, tries not to think about what the alien must think or wonder as he lays flat on his back and spreads his arm out, twisting his wrist as much as he can to try and stretch out the muscle. It’s torture and Shiro wants nothing more than to curl in himself until the spasm stops, but past experience has taught Shiro that doing so will only cause rebound spasms. He needs to stretch the muscles out, even if it hurts like hell.

“Shit,” he curses softly, closing his eyes.

Shiro counts to ten. He thinks about the smell of his Baba’s favorite perfume and the way her skin got thinner and softer before she died. He thinks about the way chocolate tastes on Earth and how Shiro liked to let it melt against the roof of his mouth. He thinks about eating persimmons in the garden in autumn and what it felt like the first time he kissed a boy.

When the spasm stops, there’s no fight left in Shiro. There’s nothing but the phantom ghost of exhaustion as he struggles to swallow his own spit and dares to open his eyes expecting to find the alien has disappeared.

They haven’t.

At Shiro’s right they sit, their dark eyebrows knit so closely together there are thick lines on their forehead and both their hands are hovering in midair as if they aren’t sure what to do.

“I’m okay,” Shiro lies.

The worry lines don’t fade, they deepen, and the alien inches closer, dragging themselves on hands and knees until they’re right beside Shiro once more.

Their gaze is intense, focused, and Shiro has never felt so seen.

“I’m fine,” he tries, but the lie doesn’t hold. He’s lying on the floor, too exhausted to move.

The pain is not what Shiro hates. It’s the fatigue that comes after. Every act, from blinking to breathing, takes strength Shiro doesn’t have.

Pain is the distraction. Fatigue is the debilitating reminder that his body is slowly failing him, that his days are numbered.

Eighty-nine days he thinks, watching the alien hesitantly reach out.

“I’m—” but Shiro can’t finish the sentence, unable to lie again.

“Varhul dhin nez dreglil.” The consonants are harsh, but the tone is anything but.

Eighty-nine days are not enough, he thinks, glad that he’s too spent to cry.

They say something else, too quiet for Shiro to hear, as they crouch down, pointed ears twitching as they scoot closer inch by inch, almost like an animal afraid of being shooed away. Shiro isn’t going to. Hell, the alien could pull out a weapon right now and Shiro wouldn’t even move. Partly because he’s too damn tired, but mostly because he’s so pathetically lonely.

On his own the loneliness was easy to ignore, but with someone here, not so much.

Maybe space is deteriorating more than just his muscles and bones, because Shiro would’ve sworn he had more self-preservation skills, more emotional fortitude, more everything.

Lying on the ground watching them approach, he feels like the shore at low tide, all the water gone and the bottom of the sea exposed. That is Shiro. Exposed. Empty.

“Preht,” they murmur, one hand tentatively sneaking out to touch the tuft of hair across Shiro’s forehead. “Trak preht.”

The words have no meaning, but the touch is something that transcends languages.

“Trak preht,” they repeat, pitch frenzied as they touch his hair again, sending little shockwaves of pleasure through Shiro

Their fingers are long, soft, and when they snake into Shiro’s hair and graze his skull, there is absolutely nothing in Shiro left to try and shield his own reactions. Something of his pleasure must show on his face because the alien’s eyes widen as they touch his hair, this time holding the entire forelock in their fist. Not stroking, not pulling, just holding the way you might hold someone’s hand.

The ridiculousness of the situation really hits Shiro.

Maybe it’s the phantom pain, maybe it’s the fatigue, or maybe it's the fact that there is an honest to god alien holding his hair, but Shiro laughs.

He laughs and the alien startles, his ears flattening against his head as he jumps. Shiro doesn’t mean to keep laughing, but when the alternative is crying, it’s hard to stop.

“I’m sorry, it’s not funny,” Shiro whispers, mustering up every ounce of energy he has to offer the words he knows won’t be understood.

Even if he wasn’t too exhausted to say more and there wasn’t a language barrier, he isn’t sure he could properly explain his own headspace right now. Perhaps it's for the best he doesn’t have to try.

Slowly their ears rise as they lean down, their face just inches from Shiro’s. Definitely no personal space. Their expression is unreadable as they sink lower until their nose is touching Shiro’s. Then, they do the most unexpected thing.

They smile.

The curve of their lips is crooked, the pointed tips of their small fangs visible along with their pearly white teeth. Their eyes have crinkles at the corners, as if the smile is too big for their face, and Shiro marvels.

Of all the things he’s seen in space, they just might be the most beautiful.

It’s a long time before Shiro moves.

The alien seems more than content to stare and to Shiro’s complete surprise, he does not mind being watched so intently.

They poke at his nose and his cheeks. They pull down his lips to look at his teeth. They trace the hollow of his throat and up, spending long minutes examining the rounded top of Shiro’s ears. They listen to his heart again and they touch his hair. Many times.

It should be uncomfortable to be studied with such undisguised fascination, yet somehow it calms Shiro’s frayed nerves. It’s stabilizing to realize that they are as curious about Shiro as he is about them.

After a while, their hands grow more curious, skimming the air over Shiro’s arms. Of course they’re curious. They witnessed his own crippling flare-up. Despite their obvious confusion and curiosity, they don’t touch Shiro’s wrists, a sharp juxtaposition to their boldness from before.

“You can touch,” Shiro offers, but they don’t understand, so he lifts his arm out to them, unprepared for the lump that forms in his throat when they cradle his arm gently in their palm and drag one finger across the inside of his forearm, from the fold of his elbow up to his wrist. They press their thumb against the dark purple Y of his vein, the muscle stimulating bracelet bumping against their fingers as they lift the arm up to their face.

Shiro doesn’t say “I’m okay.” He doesn’t want to lie even in a language they can’t understand.

When they lower his wrist, Shiro tries not to let his disappointment show. He feels exposed enough as it is without them realizing how desperate for touch he is. Turns out spending months in deep space alone leads to some pretty severe touch starvation. Especially for someone like Shiro, who has always craved physical affection.

Granted, he didn’t have a significant other back on Earth to provide him with the frequency of touch he desired, but that was Shiro’s fault and no one else’s. He never wanted to let anyone close enough to offer him the things he so desperately craved, not when he knew he had no future to offer anyone.

Over the years people had tried, and Shiro had tried too. Turned out Shiro wasn’t cut out for casual dating, which often left him feeling more bereft than if he was alone. So Shiro got used to not having wants or needs and focused everything he had on getting to space. And get there he did.

Now here’s here, having achieved everything he’s ever wanted. It should be enough.

It should be enough.

“Trak preht,” they whisper. It’s the same thing they said earlier and the longing to know what it means flares in Shiro.

The desire swirls as the alien moves their hands to Shiro’s chest, smoothing palms over his shirt until they reach the point where the hem meets the waistband of his flight tech pants. Shiro expects the palms to glide lower, but instead they twist the material of his shirt, lifting it. Ears twitch and before Shiro knows what is happening, they’ve shoved the shirt up to his pecs to expose his stomach.

Unprepared for their finger to shove directly into his belly button, Shiro can only try not to laugh at the utter confusion on their face as they stare. They poke again, and then place one hand on either side of Shiro’s tummy to squish. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s strange and Shiro resists the urge to fidget lest he scare them.

“Vurkeht,” they gape, poking his belly button a third time.

The meaning of the word might be impossible for Shiro to parse, but their confusion is anything but with the way their eyebrows have knit together and their ears are alert.

“Um,” Shiro blinks. “Do you not have one?”

They cock their head to the side, one hand resting on Shiro’s belly.

“Do you have one?” Shiro repeats, lifting his hand up to point at the center of their belly.

Something of the meaning must cross language barriers because they start talking quickly—too fast and low for Shiro to pick out a single consonant—as they reach behind their back and tug on something that functions something like a zipper and then decidedly not. The space suit slackens around their throat and chest as they pull their arms out.

Entirely uninhibited, they yank the suit down low on their hips to reveal a broad chest and tiny waist, their skin the same pale purple as their face, but with a few crisscrossing dark purple marks at the chest and waist.

“Vreht,” they say, pointing at their stomach and the lack of a belly button.

An alien stripping in his living room wasn’t exactly on his space bingo card and Shiro struggles to formulate words, no longer from just exhaustion but something that makes his cheeks feel warm.

“Vreht,” they repeat, grabbing Shiro’s hand and placing it directly at the center of their stomach where a belly button would be if they had one.

The skin of their belly is as soft as the inside of their wrists was, though decidedly warmer. When the alien takes a deep breath, Shiro decides it’s a good thing he’s already laying down. There’s a flutter of muscles, an expansion as their lungs fill with air and the belly moves outward. It’s real. They are real.

Unable to hold himself back, Shiro allows his thumb to smooth over the flat skin at the center of their stomach, marveling at how different it is to his own. There’s no body hair as far as Shiro can tell, just impossibly soft, smooth skin.

Either it's been too long since Shiro touched anyone or they’re the nicest thing he’s ever touched because it takes every ounce of self control Shiro possesses to only move his thumb and not his entire hand. He doesn't want to spook them and doesn't want to cross boundaries.

He wants to touch, though, so badly there’s a physical ache in his fingers that has nothing to do with his flare-up.

“Soft,” Shiro murmurs, without meaning to say that out loud.

“Soft,” they say.

“You speak English?” Shiro gapes, somehow more surprised by this turn of events than anything else that has happened since he found them passed out at his doorstep.

“Soft,” they repeat.

“Are you just copying me?” Shiro asks, realizing that they might just be echoing what Shiro has said.

“Soft,” they say again, confirming Shiro’s suspicions.

Even if it is just repetition, it’s clear they have a keen ear for language, and though Shiro has no idea how much of what he’s trying to communicate can cross language barriers, this is a sign that they are trying to understand him. They want to communicate with Shiro.

An idea takes shape in Shiro’s mind as he removes his hand from their belly and points to himself. “Shiro.”

The alien blinks. “Soft.”

“I’m Shiro,” he says again, feeling bolder as he reaches for their hand and extends one finger pointing it at himself. “Shiro.”

They purse their lips making the ‘sh’ sound several times before whispering, “Shiro.”

The consonants are hard and the pronunciation is slightly off, but the sound of his name falling from their lips is the nicest thing Shiro has ever heard.

“Yes,” Shiro crows, giving their hand a gentle squeeze. “Shiro. My name is Shiro.”

“Shiro,” they try again, patting Shiro’s chest.

“Yes,” he nods, surprised at the moisture he feels at the corners of his eyes.

It’s just a name, but it’s his name. It’s his name being spoken aloud for the first time in sixty-four days. His name being spoken aloud by an extraterrestrial. His name being spoken aloud by someone who is looking at him with the same wide-eyed wonder and shock that Shiro currently feels.

“What is your name?” Shiro asks.

His heart thunders in his chest as he waits, hardly able to believe he is communicating with an alien. It’s surreal and wonderful and also apparently not working.

“Shiro,” they smile, poking Shiro’s cheek.

“Yes,” he nods, an echoing smile on his own face. “I’m Shiro. And you?”

“Shiro,” they say again with decidedly more confidence this time.

Shiro hums, reaching for their hand and gently turning it towards the alien, who blinks twice before their eyes widen in recognition of Shiro’s meaning.

“Keith,” they offer, pulling Shiro’s outstretched hand towards themselves until the tip of Shiro’s extended finger bumps their chest. “Keith!”

Keith.

They have a name and it is decidedly human, which raises at least a dozen questions he probably won’t ever get answers to. For now, though, the name itself is enough.

“Keith,” Shiro says, resting his palm on Keith’s chest.

They trill happily, pointed ears flicking in clear pleasure. “Vox kez Keith.”

He has no idea what he means, but the unmasked joy on their face is something that doesn’t need words to be understood. Even in the deepest reaches of space the desire to know and be known transcends species, cultures and language.

“Keith,” he repeats, awed by the sound of pleasure that rumbles out of their chest.

A purr. They’re purring. Because Shiro said their name.

There are only a handful of things that have ever filled Shiro with true pride. The day he got accepted into the Garrison. When he broke the Garrison’s record with the highest Sim score ever recorded. The day he got he was promoted to senior flight officer and got his wings. Flying into deep space and knowing he got there on his own.

And this.

This right here. Having an alien smile at him because he learned their name. It doesn’t eclipse the other moments, because that’s not how Shiro’s brain works. It’s not a scale or a competition. It’s more like an amalgamation of moments and this one goes right in the pot. He feels joy and pride, and something that is hard to parse right now.

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, selfishly hoping to see them smile again. They do.

“Shiro,” they utter in exchange.

This, too, is nice. At the Garrison no one called him Shiro. It was always Cadet Shirogane. Officer Shirogane. Mr. Shirogane.

Even his fellow cadets then officers had called him Takashi. Shiro had been a name reserved for those closest to him, and when you didn’t let anyone get that close, well, it was no surprise no one used it. No one had called him Shiro since his grandmother had pressed her lips to his forehead and whispered, Never give up, Shiro. before sending him to the Garrison.

That was the last time he saw her.

In some ways, Shiro had died along with her. Takashi became a shield. A safety net.

Somehow without even thinking about it, he had offered it to Keith freely. Perhaps it should be strange to give his truest self to someone he doesn’t know, and yet, somehow it feels like the most natural turn of events.

There’s nowhere to hide in space.

“Shiro,” they say once more, clearly pleased with themselves as they lean down to press their ear over Shiro’s chest.

Without the space suit on, he can feel every inch of Keith’s bare chest and the warmth of their skin. It’s both incredibly grounding and also makes Shiro feel like his heart is about to explode.

“Shiro,” they whisper again, and Shiro is seen.

They begin to ramble in their language, the jumble of words impossible for Shiro to parse. Occasionally he picks up his name, but beyond that, the chatter has no meaning. What does have meaning is the weight of Keith, the feeling of their ear pressed against Shiro’s chest and the pleasure that curls around his heart each time Keith slips his name in.

Shiro thought he came to space to die, but it occurs to him now that perhaps he came to live.

Chapter Text

“We should probably get off the floor,” Shiro reluctantly points out.

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he can feel the stiffness in his joints that lets him know he’s been on the cold, hard ground too long. He ignored the discomfort for as long as he could, loathe to have Keith move off his chest and lose the contact. Especially since Keith is so fascinated by Shiro’s heart, and Shiro is apparently very soothed by it. Unfortunately for both of them, if they don’t move soon, Shiro’s muscles will make them and the last thing he wants to deal with is another episode.

Keith makes no sign of moving because of course he has no idea what Shiro has said.

“We have to move,” Shiro repeats, tapping Keith’s back gently as he starts to lift himself up just enough to hopefully signal his intentions.

It works because Keith scrambles back, ears flattened against their head and cheeks flushed a deep purple.

“Sorry, just,” but Shiro pauses, not wanting to explain. It’s not that he wants to lie, it's just that he’s not ready to give voice to the harsh reality awaiting Shiro. Not now. Not when he’s just found Keith.

““Varhul dhin nez dreglil.”

“The floor is hard,” Shiro offers, which is not a lie. It is hard. As if to emphasize, he curls his fingers into a fist and knocks his knuckles against the steel flooring.

“Soft,” Keith says, copying him.

Shiro shakes his head, reaching out to smooth a finger over the back of Keith’s hand. “Soft.”

Keith’s eyes widen as they blink at Shiro’s hand, focused as Shiro drags his hand down to the floor and taps it again. “Hard.”

Keith purses their lips, looking down at their hand and then the ground.

“Soft,” Keith trills, reaching out to smooth his fingers through Shiro’s hair. “Soft, soft.”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods, little tingles of pleasure coursing through him at the contact.

Abruptly Keith pulls their hand away, slapping the floor. “Hard.”

“Yes, Keith. Good job,” Shiro praises.

Keith’s ears flick up as they reach back and forth between Shiro’s hair and the floor, repeating the words soft and hard over and over, clearly proud of themselves, as they should be. It’s nothing short of incredible and Shiro can’t help but wonder if all aliens have such an ear for languages or if Keith is special.

Not wanting to interrupt Keith’s joy, Shiro holds off for as long as he can, but after another few minutes, his muscles twitch uncomfortably and he knows he needs to get up and off the ground. One thing Shiro learned early on his stay here was how much the temperature exacerbated his condition.

The Garrison did their best to plan for the frigid temperatures. The telescope base and attached living quarters are triple insulated and Shiro was assigned an array of clothing meant to help maintain body temperature. There are also the extras, like the special blankets on his bed and a room heater. It all helps combat the below freezing temperatures on Kerberos, making it bearable but never warm.

He’s learned to move often, pacing the living area to get a few steps and improve circulation, to not be stingy using his supply of tea and coffee when he needs a warm up and mostly to never fall asleep anywhere but his bed unless he wants to wake up feeling like there is ice in his joints.

Which is to say that Shiro’s adapted.

Mostly.

Sometimes, like now, he’s reminded exactly how ill-equipped his human body is for deep space.

“I’ve got to get up,” Shiro tells Keith, attempting to smile as he rises into a sitting position. Unfortunately it feels a lot more like a grimace and despite his very intentional attempts to conceal his own discomfort, it must show on his face because Keith’s face tightens.

“It’s just cold on the floor,” Shiro tries to explain, unable to mask a groan as he tries and fails to get up, his legs stiff and joints throbbing. “If I can get up, it’ll be better.”

“Kez Vhryt.”

“I just,” but he doesn’t get to finish because Keith is attempting to scoop him up off the floor.

“Whoa, easy. I’m pretty heavy,” Shiro warns, unprepared for how easily Keith lifts him off the ground.

Even with the loss of body weight and muscle mass, Shiro isn’t exactly small and the fact that Keith picks him up like he weighs nothing shocks Shiro more than anything else he’s seen.

It’s a strange sensation to go from being on the floor to being in Keith’s arms, especially since Shiro is pretty sure no one has picked him up like this since he was a child. He’d gone through a pretty early growth spurt and towered over his grandmother by the time he was twelve. Fun fact about being six foot four by the time you’re a teenager is that no one picks you up anymore. At the time, Shiro relished in being treated like he was older than he was because of his size, so desperate for autonomy and independence. As an adult, he recognizes the strange dichotomy of being treated like he was made of glass while also being adultified before he was legally allowed to drive.

“Druglex huz kreht,” Keith says.

The possible meaning of the words becomes more evident when Keith tries to stand up. Tries being the operative word.

They brace his weight on their right leg, but no sooner are they attempting to balance on their left that they let out a wounded cry of pain, wobbling before collapsing to the ground on their knees.

“Shit,” Shiro curses, bracing for the painful impact of being dropped.

It never happens.

Somehow despite falling, Keith manages to keep his hold on Shiro so that the brunt of impact falls on them and their knees.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers.

He recalls the bioscanner earlier. Sprained ligament. He’s injured and judging by the way they easily crawled across the floor to get closer to Shiro but collapsed when standing, it's their ankle.

“You’re hurt.”

“Druglex huz kreht,” Keith replies, an unreadable expression on their face.

It’s the same thing they said earlier and Shiro desperately wishes he knew what it meant.

“Let me help you.”

Keith swallows audibly but says nothing this time, seemingly studying Shiro’s face. He wishes he knew what they were looking for.

“I can help,” Shiro tells them.

Their ears perk up as they lean forward. “Shiro.”

“Yes, Keith. Let me help.”

“Shiro,” they repeat.

Thoughts race in Shiro’s mind about the possible struggles of interspecies miscommunication and whether Keith’s ankle can be treated the same way a human’s, but it’s hard to focus on anything except the way Keith looks saying his name.

“First step is putting me down,” Shiro says, looking at the ground pointedly.

Keith frowns. “Hard.”

“Yes,” Shiro laughs, utterly delighted by Keith, but also unable to ignore the rising prickle of anxiety about making sure they are okay. “It is hard. But that’s okay I’m going to get up and check your ankle. I don’t know if you call it an ankle. Well, no, of course you wouldn’t.”

Keith’s ears twitch, the faintest confusion evident on his face.

“Hard,” he repeats, tightening his hold on Shiro.

It’s clear that Keith’s managed to make the connection between the ground and Shiro’s discomfort and while their protectiveness is sweet, and more than a little surprising, it also won’t help Shiro take care of them right now.

“You can put me down,” Shiro tries.

It doesn’t work. Not that he expected it to. Keith might be quick, but they’re not a mind reader. At least, Shiro doesn’t think so.

Can you understand my thoughts right now? Shiro thinks, focusing on the words as he stares at Keith. Telepathy seems outside the realm of possibilities, but then this morning so did aliens.

There’s no sign of cognition and Shiro sighs, relieved that he won’t be entirely exposed by his innermost thoughts. Although it would’ve made it a lot easier to try and explain what he needs from Keith right now. Shiro is nothing if not resourceful, though, and Keith seems to be incredibly adept at reading the situation despite the language barriers, so he tries for a more hands-on approach.

“I need to go down,” he repeats, leaning as far as he can to point at the ground.

Keith doesn’t immediately let him go, so Shiro tries again, gratified when Keith reluctantly lowers him to the ground. Gratified and privately mourning the loss of contact with Keith’s strong arms and warm chest.

Yeah, definitely a good thing Keith can’t read minds.

“Thank you,” Shiro tells them, schooling his features neutral in the hopes that none of his own discomfort shows. The meds have definitely worn off.

All things considered, it’s better than it was before and it’s not like Shiro isn’t used to being uncomfortable.

“Now about your ankle,” Shiro announces, the pain fading to background noise now that he has someone else to focus on. “Can I look?”

He pointedly drags his attention down Keith’s body, but the only effect this has is to make Keith let out a high-pitched trill, which Shiro isn’t entirely sure how to read. Realizing he needs a more hands-on approach, again he reaches out. He’s slow, making sure his actions don’t spoon Keith.

“You’re hurt,” he says, gently pressing two fingers to the side of Keith’s ankle.

Keith hisses, pulling their feet in towards themselves, almost like they’re afraid.

Not almost.

They are afraid.

“I won’t hurt you,” Shiro promises, laying both his hands on the ground, palms up. “See. Empty-handed. Even if I did have a weapon, I wouldn’t hurt you. Ever.”

Keith’s ears twitch. It’s not much, but it’s something.

“Can I touch you?”

Again, nothing.

“Touch,” Shiro intones, lifting his left hand and dragging it over the inside of his right wrist. “Touch.”

Slowly, Keith’s ears perk up as they lean forward and hold out their hand. It’s not exactly what Shiro had in mind, but Keith’s understanding is as impressive as it is humbling. Even afraid, they are trusting and Shiro will do anything to prove he’s worth it.

“Touch,” Shiro repeats, dropping his fingers into the center of Keith’s palm, and then drawing them down to the inside of their wrist where the hydration patch still lays.

Keith’s skin is smooth, surprisingly warm too, even with their suit half off. Shiro marvels at their ability to maintain body heat. Keith’s body is a wonder, their skin the softest shade of purple and a few darker stripes like the ones on their abdomen and cheek crisscrossing their arms.

Curiosity gets the best of Shiro, whose fingers dare to go further, slipping over the patch to reconnect with delicate flesh as he traces the inside of Keith’s forearm all the way to the crux of their elbow.

When he lifts his gaze to Keith’s face, it is to find Keith’s mouth has fallen open, a little extra color to their cheeks and the rise and fall of their chest labored with short, shallow breaths. Before Shiro can try to find a way to ask if that was okay, Keith shoves their other arm into Shiro’s lap, answering the question Shiro had yet to give voice to.

This time Shiro lays his entire palm over Keith’s wrist, marveling at how much smaller it looks under the breadth of Shiro’s large hand. He leaves it there unmoving, checking Keith’s face before he begins.

They might not share words, but the desire is clear as day and Shiro wastes no more time before he glides the flat of his hand over Keith’s forearm.

Soothed by the warmth of Keith’s skin, and the pitch of his breathing, Shiro lets his hand travel further this time, moving past the bend of the elbow and up over the bicep. Shiro hesitates at the curve of Keith’s shoulder, unsure how much more to touch, but Keith answers this question too, laying their other hand over Shiro’s to try and move it to their chest.

Everything about Keith’s body is a juxtaposition. Their ability to survive in deep space and their physicality when lifting Shiro earlier paints a clear picture of someone incredibly strong and resilient. But beneath that strength lies a gentleness that Shiro doesn’t take for granted.

Keith is strong, yes, but beneath that is a vulnerability.

Holding his breath, Shiro continues to glide his hand over Keith’s bare skin. He traces the hollow of their throat and then the arch of each of their collarbones. He doesn’t stop there, letting his hand smooth lower across Keith’s chest before reaching its final destination near the center of their chest. Eager to feel it again, Shiro spreads his fingers wide as he seeks out the echoing thud of their dual heartbeats.

“Touch,” Shiro croaks.

“Touch,” Keith echoes.

Their gaze is so open, so trusting, that it steals Shiro’s breath away.

For longer than he should Shiro remains unmoving, eyes on Keith’s face as he gets lost in the rhythm of Keith’s heartbeat.

Eventually Shiro comes back to himself, and the fact that he’s sitting on the floor touching a half-naked alien and mapping their heart. Not just an alien, Keith.

Shiro longs to know how they got that name. Where they came from. Everything. The curiosity is visceral, making his own heart beat faster as his mind races. Luckily for Shiro, he’s well versed in having to wait for the things he wants and he takes a few steadying breaths to get himself back under control.

Maybe later, once he’s wrapped Keith’s leg, he can attempt communication again. The odds are Keith will leave as soon as they’re able, but judging by the way they couldn’t support their own weight on the ankle, it’ll need to heal for a bit before they can do that and Shiro is selfishly pleased at the idea that he won’t have to say goodbye to his mystery companion just yet.

“Keith,” he says in a bid to get their full attention.

Keith’s ears perk up. Attention successfully achieved.

“Shiro.”

“Yeah,” Shiro smiles, charmed by Keith’s obvious delight when they say Shiro’s name. “I need to touch your ankle now, okay? You’re hurt and I really want to help.”

Keith doesn’t show any sign of understanding, so Shiro pulls his hand away, unsure if he’s imagining the slight pinch between Keith’s eyebrows when his hand is removed from their chest.

“Your ankle,” Shiro tells them, pointing towards it but not touching yet. “You’re hurt.”

This time there’s no mistaking the way the space between Keith’s eyebrows disappears as they look down at their injured ankle.

As if on instinct, they begin to pull it away and then stop, staring at Shiro with such intensity it’s hard not to squirm. Slowly, they extend their leg instead of trying to hide it until it's fully flexed and the ankle is right beside Keith.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, wrapping his hand around their calf and gently lifting the ankle into his lap. He smooths his hand lower, reluctant to cause Keith any pain but needing to figure out the extent of the sprain. Of course, this is made more difficult by the fact that the space suit covers their ankle and foot.

Shiro mulls it over, fingers skimming over the suit above Keith’s ankle bone. He attempts to pinch the fabric to see how much stretch or give it has, but it’s impossible. It fits Keith like a second skin.

“Your suit,” Shiro offers by way of explanation. He touches the fabric again, then reaches for the sleeve that hangs loose near Keith’s wait. “Clothing.”

Nothing.

“I can’t examine your ankle like this,” Shiro says, wishing interspecies telecommunication devices were a thing. It would make trying to explain himself so much easier.

Keith cocks their head to the side, studying.

“Clothing,” Shiro repeats, looking down at himself. He pulls on the hem of his own shirt so the fabric stretches away from his body before letting go to reach for the suit again. “Clothing.”

Keith reaches out, fingering the material of Shiro’s shirt and then mimicking Shiro’s action by grabbing the hem. Unlike Shiro, they don't pull it out and then let go, but try to yank it off. Willing to do anything to further their communication, Shiro lifts his arms, allowing Keith to remove his shirt.

Space has already altered Shiro. It’s hard not to think about all the ways his body has changed as Keith appraises him. He has to remind himself that Keith has never seen him before. They aren't comparing Shiro’s body to the version from six months ago when he was back on Earth and in peak physical health.

Steadying his breathing, Shiro resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest and lets Keith look.

Like before, Keith’s hands immediately wander and this too requires fortitude because Shiro cannot recall ever being touched like this if it wasn’t for a medical exam. Keith’s hands are still warm and the juxtaposition is stark. Already Shiro’s losing body heat from not having his shirt on, little goosebumps springing up on his arms and his nipples hardening as he tries not to shiver.

Every swipe of Keith’s gloriously warm palms is like a balm and Shiro catches himself holding his breath as Keith pauses to rest a hand over his heart for long seconds before letting their hands glide lower.

“Soft,” they whisper, seemingly fascinated with Shiro’s belly button again.

“Yeah,” Shiro huffs, trying not to laugh at the slight tickle.

“Droht thoz,” Keith says, abandoning Shiro’s belly button to let their hands rest at Shiro’s sides. It’s more of a hold than a touch and Shiro struggles to find his mental footing with Keith’s strong fingers curled around his hips.

Keith is hurt, he reminds himself, embarrassed at how easily distracted he is by Keith’s touch.

“Your ankle,” Shiro forces out, trying to refocus his attention on the most important matter at hand, helping Keith.

When Keith doesn’t show any sign of releasing their hold on Shiro, he attempts a different approach, laying both of his hands on Keith’s upper thighs. He waits, making sure the touch isn’t unwelcome.

“May I?” Shiro asks.

Keith doesn’t answer in words, but the soft trill they make is enough for Shiro to feel confident this is okay.

Slowly he moves his hands, inching them over Keith’s clothed body.

There’s a sharp inhale, followed by the low rumble of a purr when Shiro’s hands travel over strong thighs and long legs. At this point Shiro’s not sure what the hell he’s doing, but he can’t stop even if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

Shiro wants. He wants so much more than he’s supposed to.

He wants to touch.

He wants to learn.

He wants to live.

“Let me help you,” Shiro begs when his hand reaches Keith’s injured ankle.

Keith’s ears twitch. They might not understand the words, but they are clearly picking up on the change in Shiro’s tone, on the desperation he’s too tired to hide.

There’s a lump in Shiro’s throat that makes it hard to swallow. Even harder to talk.

There is no telling what the future will bring. How many days Shiro really has left or how long it might take Keith to heal.

In a future of uncertainties, there is one thing Shiro knows to be true.

Whatever else happens out here, he can make sure Keith is okay. He can use his last days to make sure that when he is gone, Keith will be able to walk away.

I won’t survive, but you can, Shiro thinks.

Managing to convey that he needed to tend to Keith’s ankle without the suit had been hard enough to begin with. When Keith finally understood what Shiro needed, they’d shuffled back and pulled the suit off before sitting on the ground completely naked with legs spread wide, which had presented another challenge of a different kind. Namely that Keith was absolutely gorgeous and Shiro’s brain was in the gutter.

On Earth, Shiro had fellow cadets and then officers tease him about his lack of sexual interest and late night proclivities. Too busy getting ready to take your job, he’d tell them with a wink, always playing it off like it didn’t bother him and utterly refusing to think too hard about how empty his own bed was.

Shiro thought he’d mastered not letting himself want things he knew he couldn’t have, but something about Keith is different. In a world of black and white, Keith is a color storm, and their arrival in Shiro’s world is threatening the foundation of everything Shiro thought he knew about himself.

Turns out, Shiro is very much interested in beautiful purple aliens with no social boundaries. Not that Shiro holds any misguided ideas that this means anything. Just because he’s lonely, and apparently attracted to Keith physically, doesn’t mean anything. Hell, he doesn’t even know anything about Keith, and he probably won’t get the chance to learn much.

Somewhere out there amongst the stars, Keith has a home. Family. Friends. People who will miss them.

When Keith’s ankle is healed, Keith will leave and the less attached Shiro lets himself get, the less it’ll hurt when Keith walks away.

“Dhrex,” Keith hisses.

The tips of their ears are flattened against their dark hair and the lines of their face are pinched, but they haven’t pulled their ankle out of Shiro’s lap, for which he’s grateful.

Keith is observant as hell and smart, too, but the language barrier has been difficult.

Getting Keith naked had been surprisingly easy. Getting them to stop yanking their leg back every time Shiro tries to check it out was infinitely harder.

Eventually, after no small amount of struggle, he manages to get Keith to rest the ankle in his lap and leave it there. He’d also managed to convince Keith to accept a blanket to cover their naked body, but so far, Keith’s got it draped loosely over their back like a cape, so it's really not providing them any warmth or coverage. Not that they seem to mind at all whether Shiro can see their bare thighs and ridged purple alien cock.

Shiro has no idea if they’re male or female or nonbinary. It occurs to him even as he thinks this, gender is really a social construct and might be an entirely human phenomena.

Regardless of how Keith identifies, it changes nothing. Shiro just wants to be sure he doesn’t accidentally misgender them or make them uncomfortable. Maybe if they stay long enough and he can find out and—no. Shiro shouldn’t do this.

“Sorry,” Shiro apologies, refocusing his attention on Keith’s ankle.

At least first aid is easy to make sense of. There are rules. Parameters. Steps to follow. Guidelines have always afforded Shiro a sense of safety, and focusing on them now feels like a lifeline. What Shiro needs to do is stop letting his mind wander to outlandish desires like becoming friends with an alien.

“So we already know that you can’t bear weight on this and that it’s tender to the touch,” Shiro says, still resolute in his desire to explain everything to Keith whether they comprehend it or not. “And we can see a fair bit of bruising and swelling, which I’m sure is very uncomfortable judging by the face you’re making, which is actually pretty cute even if it comes from a shitty place.”

Abruptly Shiro cuts himself off, realizing what he’s just said. He inhales sharply and warmth floods his cheeks. Thankfully the meaning is lost on Keith, whose expression is so far unchanged.

“Anyways,” Shiro mumbles before he clears his throat, “based on the bit of manipulation you let me do, we can see that your range of motion is also severely impacted. Which is—not great. If you were sick, there’s pills for that. Poisoned? I got an antidote for that. Hell, there’s even instructions to reset a dislocated shoulder or administer a shot for anaphylaxis. A sprain is just mundane enough that the Garrison has absolutely dedicated no research or resources to helping it heal fast. They don’t want you to die, but suffering is not a top priority.” Shiro laughs.

Keith does not laugh and Shiro is reminded that his own sense of humor is a little twisted sometimes. Perhaps it's better that Keith can’t understand his words.

“It’s kind of funny,” Shiro adds self-consciously. “In a very not funny way, I guess.”

Unphased by Shiro’s tangent, Keith lays their good foot in Shiro’s lap beside the injured one.

They’ve done this several times already and at this point Shiro isn’t sure if Keith understands and is being playful, simply wants Shiro to touch their ankle again, or something else entirely.

“This one is fine,” Shiro tries, patting the good ankle.

Keith trills, wiggling their toes against Shiro’s bare tummy. Right. Attention then.

“We’ll just check it out again, then,” Shiro tells him, knowing all too well what it’s like to ache for a little more contact.

“Good range of movement,” Shiro says, manipulating the good ankle in a circle before massaging the bottom of their foot up to the ankle, pretty sure he’s not mistaking the little twitching of Keith’s ears when Shiro reaches the arch. “This one is definitely okay.”

Keith makes no sign of withdrawing the foot, so Shiro lets his touch linger, skimming fingertips over the curve of Keith’s ankle bone and up the inside of their calf. It’s so strange to see how very human-like their body is, and yet decidedly not, the skin the same shade of pale purple everywhere and a long darker purple stripe winding its way around Keith’s calf. Their skin is equally soft here, and Shiro is positive he could get used to touching Keith.

Too used to it.

“Okay,” Shiro coughs, gently plucking Keith’s ankle out of his lap and lowering it to the ground so he can get his attention back on the one that needs wrapping. “Let’s focus on this one.”

A small frown pinches at Keith’s mouth and Shiro resists the urge to laugh. He might not understand Keith’s language, but their face is wonderfully expressive.

“I know it's uncomfortable,” Shiro soothes, reaching for the topical nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory cream in the first aid kit. “I’m sorry.”

Keith’s expression doesn’t change as they watch Shiro untwist the cap and squeeze a generous amount of the cream into his palm.

“I’m gonna apply some of this. In the vein of full transparency, it’s going to probably hurt because the swelling is so bad, but this will help. After that I'm going to wrap it, and then ice it and elevate.” He points at the cream in his hand then at Keith’s ankle, hoping this conveys what his words can’t yet.

Slowly Keith nods.

Gentle as he tries to be, there’s no avoiding the fact that Keith’s ankle is pretty jacked up. The flesh is swollen under Shiro’s fingers, sensitive enough that Keith lets out a low growl as their ears flatten against their head.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro apologizes. “I know it hurts.”

He doesn’t rush applying the cream, because trying to get it over with quickly would only hurt more. He’s methodical, gentle as he rubs it around the tenderest parts of their swollen ankle and then underside of Keith’s foot.

There’s excess cream left in his hands and without even thinking it through, Shiro lets his palms smooth up to rub the rest into the upper part of Keith’s ankle that isn’t swollen. This part isn’t technically necessary, but judging by the little purr that rumbles out of Keith’s chest, it was a good choice.

“Not all touch hurts,” Shiro whispers.

Keith’s purr increases in volume, the vibrations loud as Shiro digs his thumbs into Keith’s calf. He smooths fingers over purple skin, tracing the shape of the stripe and following the curve of it until he reaches the underside of Keith’s knee. It’s only when Keith shivers that it occurs to Shiro that he’s far surpassed his original intentions and his hands are now dry.

“All done,” Shiro coughs, pulling his hand back.

Keith makes a sound that Shiro can’t read, head cocked to the side as they watch Shiro, who puts the cream back in the med kit and then retrieves a compression bandage. Carefully he wraps the long strip of material around Keith's ankle, making sure to apply just the right amount of compression to aid in the healing process. When he’s finished, he smooths down the edges of the bandage, tucking it into the fabric so it doesn’t hang loose.

“What?” Shiro asks automatically when he looks up to find Keith staring. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t understand me. It’s strange to have someone to talk to after so long but know nothing I’m saying makes any sense.”

Shiro swallows, lowering his gaze to Keith’s ankle. “I don’t know why I keep telling you all this but…but even when I didn’t understand what people were doing to me, I wish they would’ve told me.”

Something catches in his throat and Shiro finds it hard to talk after that, leaving Keith’s ankle in his lap as he packs away the few odds and ends he’d pulled out earlier and closes up the first aid kit.

“So,” Shiro starts, refusing to let dark thoughts in. “We need to get you lying down.”

“Vrex khiv,” Keith says, trying to stand up.

“No,” Shiro says, hands on Keith’s knees to keep them from rising.

Keith frowns, repeating the same words. “Vrex khiv.”

“You need to rest,” Shiro tries, half lying on the floor to show them. “See, rest.”

He tries to feign relaxation, but it's hard given that the floor is like a damn ice cube and his shirt is still off. He attempts a smile, but it definitely doesn’t have the intended effect because Keith’s frown merely deepens.

“Hard,” they enunciate, having clearly committed this specific word to memory.

“Yes, it is hard,” Shiro agrees, trying to ignore how adorable he finds Keith’s facial expression right now. They look so serious, as if they’re ready to fight the floor for it daring to be hard. It’s cute. “It’s definitely too hard for you to rest. You can have my bed and I can…well, I can manage.”

Shiro rises, ignoring the sound of protest from Keith.

“I’m fine,” he insists, arching his back to stretch out the stiffness before holding a hand out to Keith.

Keith stares at the outstretched hand before pulling it close to their face and rubbing it against their cheek.

“I was gonna help you up,” Shiro mumbles.

“Soft,” Keith says, rubbing their nose into Shiro’s palm.

Shiro’s hands are not soft. Not like Keith’s. Shiro’s skin is chapped from deep space and his fingertips have calluses. The precise meaning of the word ‘soft’ is definitely being lost in translation, but whatever Keith thinks the word means, it’s clear it's something good, and something they are associating with Shiro.

“Soft,” they say again, and Shiro doesn’t have the heart to correct them.

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers.

Keith stops nuzzling, turning Shiro’s hand over palm up to trace the lines of his hand. They move lower to the medical bracelet, toying with it before turning curious eyes on Shiro.

“Mukuht sren vigu.”

A strange buzzing fills Shiro’s ears as he thinks about the invisible number tattooed on his heart.

Eighty-eight.

Eighty-eight days before he dies.

The edges of his vision blur and he closes his eyes to stave off the mounting panic as he breathes through his nose. In four. Hold seven. Out eight. Repeat.

He doesn’t think about Keith watching him.

He doesn’t think about the way Keith’s finger feels wedged against his wrist between the metal of the bracelet.

He doesn’t think about what his last breath might feel like.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

He—

“Vrungat,” Keith says, pulling Shiro’s trembling hand to their chest.

Before Shiro can overthink what is happening, Keith is purring, the vibrations against Shiro’s palm enough to bring him out of the darkness and back to the present.

He is not alone.

Today is not Shiro’s last day.

Keith purrs loudly and Shiro hones in on the sound, on the way Keith’s chest rattles under his palm and how Keith’s two hearts beat one after the other.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Purr.

Keith is alive.

So is Shiro.

“I don’t want to die,” Shiro whispers, because Keith can’t understand him.

Because Shiro is scared.

Because it is the truth.

Keith purrs louder, pressing Shiro’s hand into their chest with such force he feels every single beat of their hearts. Shiro closes his eyes, feeling Keith’s life under his fingertips and thinks about how the Garrison was wrong about aliens.

Maybe, just maybe they were wrong about him, too.

“We should get some clothing on you, maybe,” Shiro says, as much to himself as to Keith, who is currently pressed up against Shiro’s side, their blanket cape long since gone and every inch of them visible. It was a necessity, really, in order to get Keith off the floor and into the bedroom.

Keith couldn’t hold the blanket on and wrap their arm around Shiro’s neck.

Nudity has no inherent meaning. Shiro knows this. It’s just distracting. Shiro’s been a gentleman, never letting his hand drift lower than Keith’s hip and careful not to let his hands wander. It’s been difficult. Not the not touching part, because Shiro would never abuse Keith’s trust. No, the hard part has been the not wanting.

Wanting to be as close as humanly possible to feel Keith’s warmth. Wanting to leave his arm curled around Keith’s waist so their sides are pressed together. Wanting to give in to temptation and lower his face to Keith’s hair and lay his cheek upon it.

He hasn’t, of course.

He won’t.

But he wants.

“Clothes,” Shiro repeats, tapping Keith’s hipbone to get their attention.

Keith turns their head, looking at Shiro with clear curiosity.

“Clothes for your body. So you don’t get cold,” he says. This is not entirely a lie. So far, Keith is still as warm as when they first undressed, indicating a frankly enviable resting body temperature. It’s entirely possible Keith will remain this warm always, but Shiro has no way of being sure and he doesn’t want Keith to lose too much body heat once they finally lie down.

Shiro stops beside his bed, lowering Keith down so they are sitting on the edge.

The weight of Keith’s stare is heavy as Shiro turns to the closet and pulls out his warmest, thickest hoodie and tugs it over his head. Immediately some of the chill is pushed away and Shiro exhales a heavy breath. He’d been so cold. Too cold.

He searches for something for Keith next, unsure what kind of human clothing they might find comfortable and also unsure what might fit. Keith’s body isn’t small. They're strong, but compact. Lithe. And definitely a good five to six inches shorter than Shiro, meaning anything he picks is going to be too large.

The one upside is, most of what the Garrison sent Shiro with is meant to be worn skintight to prevent the loss of body heat, so at least Keith won’t swim in it.

Aware he’s spending far too long staring at his clothing while Keith sits on the bed naked and staring, Shiro settles for grabbing something simple; a pair of thin, warm lounge-style pants meant for sleeping and one of the softest layering shirts he owns.

“Clothes,” Shiro repeats, turning around and holding them out for Keith, who makes no move to take them.

“Clothes,” he says again, laying them out on the bed beside Keith. “For you. For Keith.”

This gets an immediate reaction, Keith’s ears perking up as they straighten their back.

“Keith.”

“Yes, for you,” Shiro says, picking the shirt back up off the bed and holding it out. “For Keith.”

“Keith,” they echo, reaching for it this time.

They take the shirt slowly, curling their long fingers around the material and holding it up for inspection. They turn it around and upside down before lifting to their nose and inhaling deeply. They’re smelling it, he realizes, watching as Keith fists the material and buries their nose in it.

When they pull the shirt away from their face, something in their expression has shifted, making them look impossibly younger.

“Shiro,” they whisper, exhaling deeply.

Unexpected heat spreads up Shiro’s throat and across his face. He hadn’t really thought about the fact that all the clothing would smell like him. There’s a machine for when Shiro’s clothing needs waterless washing, but Shiro hates the way the clothing smells when it comes out of there, antiseptic and sterile. It’s far too similar to the smell of the medbay at the Garrison. To the hospitals of his childhood. He hates it.

Shiro suffers the smell for his most necessary undergarments like socks and underwear, but he’s definitely taken to wearing most of his clothing as many times as possible before cleaning them. It’s not like he ever gets anything truly dirty, being stuck inside all the time anyway.

Only now it occurs to Shiro that he’s given Keith his clothing. Clothing he’s worn. Clothing that smells like him.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro hurries to apologize, deeply embarrassed. “I can look for something different.”

He reaches for the shirt to try and take it back, but Keith makes a soft hiss of displeasure and clutches the shirt to their chest.

“Keith,” they say, tone as stern as it is shaky.

They look down at the shirt and then back up at Shiro. It occurs to Shiro that he has absolutely no idea how old Keith is. For all he knows, they might actually be one hundred years old and aliens simply don’t age. Regardless, Keith looks as young as Shiro, maybe even younger, and it has Shiro’s protective urges flaring.

Keith is clutching the shirt like it’s precious. Like they’ve never been given anything before and they’re terrified Shiro will snatch it away.

They look uncertain. Afraid.

Maybe Shiro is reading too much into things. Maybe he’s seeing what he wants. Maybe he’s projecting.

Or maybe, he’s not.

Maybe Keith is just as much alone in space as Shiro.

Lowering himself down into a squat, Shiro reaches for the pants and holds them out. These will smell like Shiro, too, and he ignores the part of his brain worrying about what the hell he’s doing as he places them in Keith’s lap.

“For Keith.”

Keith’s shoulders remain tense as they clutch the shirt in their left hand so they can grab the pants with the right. They do the same with these, holding them up before rubbing the material against their cheek.

As expected, they bury their face in the material, breathing deeply. Smelling.

Through it all Shiro waits, crouched between the spread of Keith’s legs until they lower them.

“Shiro,” they utter, looking at the pants and not at Shiro.

“Yes,” Shiro confirms. “They were mine. But now they are for you. For Keith.”

Shiro reaches out slowly and Keith makes a wounded sound, hugging the clothing to their chest.

“I won’t take it from you,” Shiro promises, wishing he could offer the promise in words Keith understood.

Slowly so as not to spook Keith, he reaches out, running his fingertips over the smooth material of the pants, careful not to make any quick movements that might make Keith think he’s trying to take them. Keith doesn’t relax exactly, the clothing still clutched to their chest, but they don’t hiss again or pull their body away.

They’re watching Shiro, trying to figure out what he’s doing.

Afraid, unsure, yet trusting.

Holding his breath Shiro lowers his hands so that his palms rest on Keith’s bare knees. He leaves them there for a few seconds, giving Keith a moment to prepare before he taps Keith’s thighs softly. “Pants. For Keith.”

Keith swallows audibly, gaze honed in on Shiro’s hands.

Very slowly, Keith releases their death grip on the pants, letting them fall into their lap. They keep the shirt fisted tightly in their other hand held up against their neck, but that’s a problem for later. First, the pants.

“Thank you, Keith.”

Keith’s ears twitch.

“I’m going to put them on you now, alright?”

Shiro shakes the pants out, bunching one of the legs up until he’s got the ankle hole in his fingers, which he holds near Keith’s uninjured foot first.

Keith opens their mouth and then snaps it shut. When they don’t immediately move, Shiro drops to his knees, inching even closer so he can slide the material over Keith’s feet to pull the first pant leg on.

The quietest purr sounds from Keith’s chest and they look as surprised as Shiro to hear it.

“Next leg,” Shiro tells them, tapping the side of Keith’s calf before bunching up the pants so he’s got the ankle hole held open. He’s far more careful this time, trying not to touch the swollen ankle as he brings the material over the arch of Keith’s feet and up the ankle.

He brings the pants up as far as he can, which turns out to only be their knees. Unable to figure out how to get them all the way up without manhandling Keith in a way they might not like, he realizes he’s gonna need to get Keith standing again. Shiro rises first, reaching for Keith’s free hand and bringing it up to his neck.

“We need to go up to get the pants on,” Shiro tells them, mimicking the action with his hands. “I want you to hold onto my neck so you don’t put any weight on your bad ankle.”

Keith does not hold on. Keith dances their fingers over the back of Shiro’s neck, letting their fingertips brush over the back of Shiro’s skull. At the Garrison, he’d made sure to never let his undercut grow out, both because of strict regulations and his own personal preferences.

It’s been months since he was able to get a fresh buzz. At first, he missed it. The routine. The familiarity. The smoothness of a freshly buzzed undercut. Right now, he’s never been so glad to have hair because Keith’s fingers are sliding into it and Shiro nearly collapses from sensory overload. Shiro’s favorite thing about having a high-maintenance hair cut was how often someone else put their hands on his head. He thought he missed having his old haircut. Maybe what he missed was someone’s hands in his hair.

“Soft,” Keith trills.

What Shiro means to do is try and get across to Keith that he needs them to hold onto his neck. What actually happens is that Shiro forgets how to speak.

Strong fingers glide over the back of Shiro’s head and then up until they’re tangled completely in the longer part of Shiro’s hair and it’s hard to think about anything except Keith.

Keith and their sweet face and trusting expression.

Keith and the soft little purr they’re making as they finger Shiro’s hair.

Keith and their gloriously long fingers, which are affording Shiro with more human contact than he’s had in a long time. Too long, if Shiro’s pathetic reaction is anything to go by.

“Vrelkuht,” Keith murmurs.

Something about the pitch of their voice sends chills down Shiro’s spine. He likes the sound of Keith’s voice and the rattle in their chest when they speak in their language. The meaning might elude Shiro, but every word is a gift.

Keith’s very existence challenges everything Shiro has ever known and it’s thrilling. Thrilling and humbling.

“Vrelkuht,” Keith repeats.

“I wish I knew what you were saying.”

“Dryn jux khanzut srig.”

“You know, I would probably agree to anything you wanted when you’re touching me,” Shiro tells them. “It feels nice.”

Somehow it’s easy to be so painfully open. Keith can’t understand him anyway, and at this point in Shiro’s life, the last thing he wants to do is spend the end of his days pretending.

What could possibly hurt to lay his heart on the line?

Me, Shiro thinks. It can hurt me.

The knowledge changes nothing.

Shiro spent a lifetime making sure he didn’t let anyone else get close enough to get hurt, but the only person he was really hurting was himself. A little more heartache before he dies won’t be so bad.

“We should get your pants on,” Shiro announces.

Loathe as he is to lose Keith’s fingers in his hair, Keith is still naked and the angle Shiro’s currently hunched over at is making his back muscles begin to tense.

Keith says something unintelligible under their breath when Shiro pulls away, the expression on their face equally hard to understand.

“I need to pull them up, so hold onto me,” he tells Keith, returning Keith’s hand to the back of his neck before using his own remaining strength to haul Keith up from a sitting position.

Sure enough, Keith’s fingers curl around Shiro’s neck, even when he squats down to grab the waist band. Between their good balance and the hold they have on Shiro, Keith manages to remain upright without wobbling while Shiro pulls the pants up their strong thighs and tiny waist, settling the material at Keith’s hips.

The moment Shiro pulls away, the pants slip down, barely held up by the swell of Keith’s ass and very much not-human genitals.

“Right,” Shiro huffs, tugging them back up. “These are definitely a little too big on you. Sorry.”

The fingers at the back of his neck smooth up and down, but whether for Shiro or Keith, he has no idea. Either way, it’s nice.

“I’m gonna cinch the drawstring tighter,” Shiro explains, neck arched as he lowers his gaze and gives the loose strings a little shake to alert Keith to his intentions. He waits a few seconds and then gives the strings a firm tug, looping the material and tying a neat bow at the center of Keith’s waist. The pants still sit low on Keith’s waist, but the drawstring secures them.

“There, all—” but Shiro cuts himself off, lost for words when he straightens his neck to find Keith’s face just inches from his own and their intense gaze fixed on Shiro. No one has ever looked at Shiro with such undisguised curiosity or longing. Shiro knows this is what it is, understands what he sees in Keith’s eyes because he feels it, too—reverence and awe and an inexplicable need to know the one standing opposite him.

As far back as Shiro can recall, he’d been fascinated with space. Encouraging his interest his grandparents had covered his ceiling in stars, filled his shelves with books, and his heart with confidence.

The older Shiro got, the deeper the interest grew. Shiro longed to understand the mysteries of the universe, to explore for himself what he had only seen in the pages of books or on holo screens. Space was beautiful and unknown and from the moment Shiro was old enough to know what he wanted, he knew he wanted to understand it. He feels the same certainty now when he looks at Keith.

“Keith.”

“Trhrox bav vryg,” Keith answers, the hand at the back of Shiro’s neck moving around to his face.

Like their touch from earlier, Keith’s hands explore without hesitation, their palms cupping Shiro’s face. There’s a question in Keith’s eyes and though Shiro has no idea what it might be, the answer is clear.

“Yes.”

Keith’s ears twitch, the smallest hitch of their breathing as they lean in. For a dizzying second, Shiro is sure Keith is going to kiss him.

He holds his breath, mouth falling open as Keith rises up on their good foot, their hands gliding up into Shiro’s hair as their face inches closer. So close Shiro can almost taste them, can feel the warmth of their breath ghosting across his own lips.

A longing unlike any Shiro has ever experienced overcomes him. His heart races and his hands shake and he nearly sobs with the depth of desire that threatens to overwhelm him.

They’re so close, their own mouth just an inch or so from Shiro’s. They come in close, so close. Except Keith doesn’t join their mouths.

It is not a kiss, he realizes. Maybe aliens don’t kiss.

“Trhrox bav vryg,” Keith whispers, resting their forehead against Shiro’s as they breathe him in.

They’re scenting him, he realizes, the same way they had scented Shiro’s clothing earlier.

A purr rattles loudly in Keith’s chest as they press their nose into Shiro’s cheeks, inhaling sharply. Still their eyes remain open, as if they’re trying to see into Shiro’s soul.

Never in Shiro’s life has he felt more exposed or more seen. It’s strange and awkward and somehow more intimate than a kiss might have been.

“Shiro,” they say, nuzzling into Shiro’s cheek.

It is not a kiss.

It is more.

Time loses meaning as they stand there with Keith scenting Shiro and Shiro pretending he’s not teetering on the brink of falling apart. This little room on Kerberos was Shiro’s dream. He thought if he made it here, he wouldn’t mind dying, especially alone.

He minds.

He minds so much he can barely breathe.

“Shiro,” Keith purrs and Shiro breaks.

Not his body, but his heart.

His legs remain upright but something in Shiro rumbles, hot warm tears rolling down his cheeks.

Keith’s surprise is swift, their concern evident. Hands swipe away the tears, but more fall and Keith’s quiet wail of confusion is almost enough to make Shiro stop crying.

Almost.

Shiro tries to stop, but the thing about grief is no matter how hard you wall it away, eventually the dam breaks.

There were no tears when his diagnosis came. Nor when he signed away his life to the Garrison for this chance. Not even when his grandmother died and the Garrison refused his request for leave. He’d held them in like a good boy, knowing that any sign of weakness would lose him everything.

He can hold them in no longer.

Keith noses at Shiro’s cheeks, words whispered against Shiro’s skin. The meaning of them is impossible to know, but his heart understands one thing—he is not alone.

The Garrison said nothing can survive.

In the deepest reaches of space, nothing is meant to live.

Keith lives.

Keith survives.

Maybe Shiro can, too.

“There’s only one bed,” Shiro points out.

It’s not the first time he’s said it and it likely won’t be the last.

After the scenting, which Shiro can’t think about for too long without blushing, he’d managed to get Keith to put the shirt on. It’d been so easy that Shiro was lured into a false sense of security about their ability to communicate despite the language barriers. This was quickly remedied by it taking Shiro a good thirty minutes to get Keith to understand that he wanted them to lie down in the bed. Even longer to get Keith to stay. Every time Shiro tried to leave the room to get the ice pack, Keith would make a distressed sound and roll themselves off the bed to try and follow.

After the third time it happened, Shiro abandoned trying to get Keith to remain without him and had settled for slipping an arm under their arm and helping them hobble to the living room, where he’d retrieved an emergency cold pack from the first aid kit.

Once they were back in the bedroom and Shiro managed to get Keith lying down again, he snapped the cold pack in half and shook it until it froze. On a planet colder than ice where Shiro is in constant need of heat sources, it felt strange to need this. His fingers ached as he massaged the gel packs inside, wanting to be sure it was completely frozen before using another ace bandage to keep it in place around Keith’s ankle. Keith had not taken kindly to the cold pack and getting them to understand that keeping it on would help with the ankle had been a struggle to say the least.

Eventually Keith had acquiesced, though whether it was because they understood the reasons or they were tired of playing a game of kick away the ice pack and make Shiro fetch it, Shiro couldn’t be sure.

All he knows is that he is exhausted from getting Keith settled. The hard part is supposed to be done. Keith’s been triaged. Their ankle is wrapped. They’re dressed in clean clothes and they’re finally resting in Shiro’s bed with their ankle elevated.

Well, resting might be an exaggeration, since they’re currently hanging halfway off the edge of the bed and gesturing rather pointedly at Shiro.

“The bed is for you,” he tries one last time. “For Keith.”

It worked for the pants, so maybe it’ll work now.

It doesn’t.

“Hard,” Keith frowns.

They’ve said this at least half a dozen times and Shiro is running out of ways to refute it.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, because lying would be an insult. And pointless. It’s clear Keith’s got a firm grasp of the meaning of the word ‘hard’, and any attempt Shiro makes to pretend otherwise so Keith will stay in the bed and rest is only going to threaten the tenuous trust they’re building.

“Pricuk,” Keith spits out with all the force one might use if they were cursing. Their frustration doesn’t seem to be directed at Shiro but the floor, as if it is personally responsible for all of Shiro’s ails.

They scoot sideways, making a small amount of room for Shiro and slam their hand on the bed with a rather loud amount of force. “For Shiro.”

“You learn really fucking fast.” Shiro laughs, finding it hard to remember all the logical reasons that sharing the bed wasn’t a good idea when Keith looks so pleased with themself.

Sure, the bed isn’t technically big enough for two. Heck, it’s hardly big enough for Shiro. But Keith is right; the floor is hard. It’s also freezing. Shiro might be stubborn, but he’s not stupid. His body won’t last much longer down here. It's also obvious that Keith is not going to relax until Shiro agrees to share the bed and the longer Shiro spends trying to get across to Keith that having the bed to themselves will be more comfortable for them, the more prominent his own physical discomfort becomes.

Every inch of Shiro’s body aches now that the pain meds have long since worn off. In some ways it's worse now, the short time of being pain-free somehow making the rebound pain after more acute.

When Shiro doesn’t immediately move, Keith pats the bed beside them again and it suddenly seems inconceivable that Shiro has been resisting. There is a soft, warm bed with someone who doesn’t mind sharing and Shiro longs to curl up in it.

When Shiro finally tries to get up it is slowly, not because he wants to, but because sitting on the cold floor for the last twenty minutes has Shiro’s leg muscles so stiff it’s hard to move. If Keith notices they say nothing, inching closer to the wall to make as much space as possible for Shiro on the bed.

“Thanks,” Shiro whispers, gritting his teeth through the flare of pain as he pulls himself up onto the bed.

No sooner are his elbows digging into the mattress at the edge of the bed, desperately trying to get himself a little leverage, that Keith is reaching out for him. Purple fingers curl around his arms before Keith pulls.

One second Shiro’s on his knees, and the next, he’s being yanked onto the bed with far more strength than he thought possible. It’s a little awkward, and perhaps a little too forceful, almost as if Keith isn’t aware of their own strength.

“You’re, uh,” Shiro groans, collapsing onto his hands and knees and trying not to wince, “very, very strong.”

“Nomkox,” Keith whispers, rubbing their hand over Shiro’s elbow. “Prukkax sight veht.”

“I’m fine,” Shiro tries when the space between Keith’s eyebrows all but disappears. “Just give me a second to adjust.”

Keith mutters under their breath, continuing to rub a hand up and down Shiro’s arm when Shiro drops his forehead onto his bent arms. The touch is as nice as the bed and try as he might to contain his own sounds, he can’t help but let out a groan of satisfaction when he gets himself onto his back and finally stretches out.

The bed is comfortable and warm and all worries about personal space fly out the window because the second Shiro stops moving, Keith starts, pressing their arm and leg against Shiro’s body.

“Your ankle,” Shiro protests, but it’s weak even to his own ears.

Keith’s contact is gentle, their body warmer than the blankets, and Shiro’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his head at the depth of comfort Keith’s weight against him provides. He’s not supposed to want this, to want Keith. He’s supposed to be okay alone, he’s supposed to be making sure Keith elevates their ankle so it heals quickly.

Then again, Shiro’s never been a fan of doing what he was supposed to.

He was supposed to be dead by twenty-one, was supposed to spend his last years comfortable and easy in respite. Instead, he defied the odds and became a junior officer, got his flight certification and made it to space.

Maybe this isn’t so different.

Shiro’s out-stubborned death this long, maybe he can do it just a little longer. Long enough to be sure Keith will be okay when he’s gone, and get to know them a little, too.

“Thukiz,” Keith whispers, soothing something small and raw inside of Shiro.

It’s been months since he heard more than the sound of his own voice, but even Shiro knows that it’s more than that. It’s something about Keith. He’s got such a nice voice, honey-sweet and steady.

The sterile isolation of space made it easier for Shiro to treat his own feelings with an equally clinical nature. Keith’s arrival is making that increasingly difficult. He might be an alien, but his presence awakens Shiro’s humanity.

Exhausted, touched-starved, and most of all, lonely, Shiro gives in to the deepest desires of his heart and angles his body towards Keith. He doesn’t even pretend it’s about making use of the tight space. He knows this act is driven solely by his own selfish need for a comfort he was sure he’d never have.

Keith’s reaction is swift, low words uttered as they entwine themselves around Shiro even tighter, so that Shiro’s face is tucked against their neck.

One last tear falls as Shiro breathes Keith in, succumbing to the kind of exhaustion that feels like the end. If this is going to be his last night, at least he is not alone.

Shiro wakes with a start, turning his head to see Keith slumbering soundly on the pillow beside Shiro. It’s impossible to tell what time it is from the darkness, but judging by the weight of fatigue in Shiro’s brain, it’s still late.

He shifts, surprised when Keith tightens their hold on him in their sleep.

With a heavy exhale, it occurs to Shiro how complicated his life has become in less than twenty-four hours.

Secretly housing an alien. Lying to the Garrison, albeit a lie by omission. Complicated is messy. Something Shiro has avoided at all costs.

Back on Earth, Shiro was squeaky clean. A good boy. Perfect. Or, at least as perfect as it was possible to be. Given his disability, there was no room to be anything less if he wanted to achieve his goals. The closest to messy Shiro ever came was when he forgot to make his bed after getting his own room. There were no more room checks when you were a junior officer, but it’d still felt dangerously close to disobedience to leave the sheets so messy.

In their sleep Keith shifts, the arm over his middle giving him a squeeze. It’s likely unconscious, but the contact soothes the itch of anxiety prickling under Shiro’s skin.

Shiro holds his breath and counts the stars outside his window.

Keith holds Shiro and Shiro lets them.

There is so much Shiro needs to figure out, so much about this he didn’t plan, but it’s hard to think about any of that when he’s so comfortable and warm. The lure of sleep is too high to resist and Shiro lets his eyes flutter shut.

His last thought before succumbing to sleep once more is that perhaps it’s time he let his life get a little messy.

When Shiro wakes the second time, he is sure he’s dead because he’s never felt so good.

There was a time when Shiro was a morning person. When he could roll out of bed at 0400 hours and be ready to go in five minutes, smile as bright as the sun that hadn’t yet come up. He drank coffee then, too, but it used to be for taste not necessity. Those days are long gone.

Space has given Shiro many things, and taken just as many.

Sleep helps combat tiredness, but there’s only so much the gravity and compression stabilizers in his quarters can do to combat the crippling effects of deep space on his body.

The longer Shiro lives here, the less restorative sleep has become.

Most mornings now Shiro wakes still exhausted, rolling out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen to make coffee. It’s only after at least two hundred milligrams of caffeine he feels anything close to human.

There’s also the cold. Even with Shiro’s blankets, the temperature drop he experiences while he’s asleep means he wakes with stiff joints or painfully cold fingers and toes if they happen to slip out from beneath the blanket in the middle of the night. On the hardest mornings, he wakes with both, which makes getting out of bed and making the coffee all the more difficult.

This morning Shiro’s not cold or uncomfortable. He’s in heaven, every inch of his body blissfully warm.

The reason he feels so good becomes apparent when someone's fingers slide through his hair and over his scalp, so feather-light if he weren’t already awake he’s not sure he would’ve noticed. But he is awake, and he has noticed, and the day before comes flooding back to him as his eyes fly open to find Keith’s face just inches from his own.

Keith makes a small sound of surprise, snatching their hand back and flattening their ears against their hair.

For a second, Shiro debates closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep again so he can get it back, but that feels deceitful and also unlikely to work.

“Morning,” Shiro yawns, voice hoarse from sleep.

He arches, stretches his arms overhead and arching his toes, trying to get out all the kinks from sleep. There aren’t as many as usual, or as many as Shiro expected.

Technically, Shiro’s never slept with anyone. Not in a sexual manner or otherwise. Only child. Too sickly for sleepovers and too scared of commitment to let anyone close enough to be a lover. If anyone ever asked, which they never did, he might have liked to try it. Just once.

“Did you sleep good?” Shiro asks, aware he won’t get an answer.

“Momdik drat vyg,” Keith says with intensity.

Shiro hums, absolutely lost to the meaning, but utterly delighted to hear the sound of Keith’s voice. It’s so different from the complete silence he’s used to.

“You’re warm,” Shiro tells them, finding his own thoughts slipping out without a filter. Perhaps it's that Keith can’t understand him, or simply the effects of prolonged isolation, but Shiro can’t seem to stop the words from coming out. “Usually it's cold, but…not with you.”

“Kreht,” Keith utters, eyebrows furrowing.

“Cold,” Shiro repeats, pretending to shiver. Keith’s frown deepens, but Shiro just smiles, relaxing his body and tugging the blanket up to his chin. This should all be strange, and it is, yet somehow that makes it all the more incredible. “Warm.”

“Warm,” Keith echoes, sounding the word out slowly.

“Keith is warm,” Shiro tells them, sneaking his hand out beneath the blanket to touch Keith.

“Keith warm,” they repeat, ears twitching.

Shiro nods, marveling at Keith’s ability to pick up new words. He’s not sure the meaning is entirely there yet, but their linguistic ability is nothing short of remarkable.

“Yes, Keith is warm. Feels nice. The cold is…well…it’s not comfortable for me.”

He could tell Keith he’s ill. Keith wouldn’t understand anyway, but somehow the words won’t come. With Keith, Shiro has a chance to be just Shiro without the weight of a ticking clock. In his last days, the idea that he can choose this is alluring. For as long as he can remember, he’s been defined by his illness.

He knows not saying the words out loud won’t change things, that pretending he’s not going to die won’t magically give him more hours with Keith. But it will give him one thing. Freedom.

Freedom to be just Shiro until Keith leaves.

Much as Shiro hates to think about Keith leaving when they’ve only just met, he's pragmatic enough to know it's inevitable and if there’s one thing Shiro is good at, it's accepting the inevitable. He’s got a lifetime of experience doing so, after all.

The only thing that bothers Shiro is the idea of lying to Keith, but he quickly makes peace with this problem. Technically, he’s not lying to Keith. He’s just omitting something. Something that Keith won’t be around to see come to fruition anyway.

In fact, the more Shiro thinks about it, the more certain he becomes that this is for the best. Keith doesn’t need to worry about Shiro out here alone while they’re healing. They need to worry about getting better.

Besides, Shiro’s taken care of himself this long. He can handle it a little longer.

And when he can’t, well, it’ll be too late for anyone to save him.

“Warm,” Keith repeats, bringing Shiro’s attention back to the present as Keith’s fingers lie atop Shiro’s chest. They make a sharp noise, not a trill or a purr but something else. It’s strange, unfamiliar, and Shiro wonders what it means.

“Keith is warm,” Shiro says again, taking comfort in the repetition.

This time Keith does purr, a loud rumble in their chest.

“Keith warm,” they exclaim.

Their voice is filled with such unmistakable joy, such pure excitement, that Shiro can’t help but return the energy.

“I can’t believe there’s an alien in my bed.” Shiro laughs.

“Keith,” they say, as if Shiro has forgotten who they are. He hasn’t. He won’t. Not even when he is going to take his last breath.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, his heart lighter than it’s been in a very long time, “there’s a Keith in my bed.”

“Keith,” they trill, seemingly overjoyed to hear Shiro say their name.

It’s beautiful to see this kind of joy, affecting to know it came from something he is doing. Keith might not be human, but the connection Shiro feels with them makes him feel more connected to his own humanity than anything he’s ever experienced.

He thought the most wonder he would feel in deep space would be seeing the furthest reaches of the galaxies, creating his own name for stars unknown. Turns out it’s saying the name of a pretty purple alien who looks at Shiro like they’re the ones who've discovered something beautiful.

“Keith,” Shiro says again, unable to stop himself.

This is what being alive is about. Connection.

The purring in Keith’s chest increases in volume as they inch their face closer to Shiro’s. The pillow is cool against his own cheek as he turns his head, two wide violet eyes staring at him in wonder.

They reach out, fingers skimming over Shiro’s brow.

“Hello,” Shiro whispers, suddenly feeling shy.

“Vehkne,” Keith trills.

“Okay.” Shiro grins with absolutely no idea what it means.

For all he knows, Keith could be talking about space worms, but their mouth makes such a pretty shape when they speak, the cadence of their voice one of the most beautiful sounds Shiro’s ever heard. He’s certain he could listen to Keith talk about anything and be happy.

Keith draws their fingertip down the side of Shiro’s face and then over the bridge of his nose and the scar that lays there.

“Vracuz prax hig khoddix.”

“I’m okay,” he offers to a question he’s not sure is being asked.

Keith’s fingers smooth over the scar before skirting lower over the swell of his cheek and the shape of his nose. Keith is exploring again, Shiro realizes, memorizing Shiro by touch as their fingers sweep over his brow and then down the shell of his ear and the line of his neck. It’s different than when Keith did it before, or perhaps it's Shiro who is different.

Last night feels like a lifetime ago and though it seems impossible to evolve in just one sleep, the tendrils of possibility that Keith’s arrival planted have Shiro feeling brand-new. Keith’s bold exploration of his body is not a surprise this time. What is a surprise is the depth of desire in Shiro as he finds himself craving the attention in unexpected ways.

Perhaps if he offers enough of himself, his memory will live on even after his body fails.

For a man who has always played by the rules, Shiro finds it surprisingly easy to break them, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it off his head.

“You can touch me,” Shiro tells them, bolder than he’s ever been. “I want you to.”

Keith’s ears twitch as they eye Shiro’s bare chest and then the shirt he’s tossed to the floor. They look at their own, pulling at it.

“You don’t have to,” Shiro tries. “I just—oh, okay.”

Keith yanks their shirt off and then lowers themselves so they’re resting atop Shiro, chest to chest with Keith’s nose pressed against his own.

“Not shy, are you?” Shiro laughs.

“Vehkne,” Keith says, repeating an earlier word.

“I wish I knew what you were saying, we—” but he cuts himself off when his stomach rumbles loudly.

The line between Keith’s dark eyebrows disappears as their expression pinches.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro asks, stomach grumbling again. He ignores it, more concerned with what has Keith’s expression shifting so rapidly. “Is it your ankle or—oh.”

The reason for Keith’s pinched face becomes clear when Shiro’s stomach grumbles a third time and Keith lets out a string of low words in their native tongue, inadvertently knocking their blankets to the floor as they scramble down to slam their ear to Shiro’s stomach.

“Have you never heard a stomach rumble?” Shiro asks, wondering if Keith’s species gets hungry. They must. All species need food of some kind to survive. Then again, he has no idea what kind of food Keith eats. They’ve got two hearts, maybe they have two stomachs. Or more. Maybe their stomach doesn’t growl like a human’s.

When Shiro’s stomach rumbles again, Keith lets out a high pitched trill, pointed ears flattened against their skull as they shove their nose into Shiro’s belly.

“Tickles,” Shiro huffs, trying not to laugh as Keith's fingers gently hold his belly while Keith rubs their nose into it before pressing an ear to the belly button once more.

“It’s hunger,” Shiro offers.

Keith lifts their face, chin resting in the center of Shiro’s belly button as they peer at him.

“Hunger,” Shiro repeats. “Humans need to eat. Quite often. You know…eat?”

As if to prove his point, he draws his fingers through the air with a pretend fork, pretending to chew.

The tip of Keith’s nose crinkles adorably.

“You know, this would probably be easier to explain if I was showing you real food so you don’t think humans eat air, because we don’t.”

Shiro’s stomach grumbles louder than ever before, causing Keith to jump. They jab a finger into Shiro’s belly, eyes darting from Shiro’s face to the flat of his tummy. It’s clear they’ve most definitely never heard a rumbling tummy before.

“There’s a rumbly in my tummy,” Shiro jokes, frowning when he realizes even if Keith understood English, they likely wouldn’t know what Shiro was talking about anyway..

“It's from an old cartoon on Earth,” Shiro offers, unsure why he feels the need to explain the reference. “My grandparents used to put on the holo when I couldn’t sleep, which was….a lot.”

Keith quirks their head, studying.

“Why don’t I get us some food? You can stay here,” Shiro tells them, patting the bed beside them.

They don’t move.

“You stay here. In the bed. Bed,” Shiro repeats slowly as if that will magically give Keith the meaning to the word. For extra emphasis, he pats the mattress. “Bed. Keith stays in bed and Shiro will make food.”

He starts to move but he’s barely got one leg off the bed before Keith is scrambling to grab the leg and pull it back onto the bed.

“Hard. Cold,” they spit as if the floor might kill Shiro. Then they do something he isn’t expecting at all and slam their hand on the mattress. “Shiro bed.”

Mouth falling open in surprise, Shiro can do no more than gape.

“Bed,” Keith repeats, patting the mattress with even more force before tapping Shiro’s chest with a noticeable amount of gentleness. “Shiro bed.”

“You are incredible,” Shiro marvels.

He’s heard of people being on Earth being able to pick up languages quickly. Polyglots. But this surprises everything he thought possible about language acquisition. He can't be sure how much Keith actually understands, but their ability to repeat the words, to identify single meaning, suggests a comprehension that far exceeds what Shiro assumed would be possible when he first found them.

“Shiro bed,” they say again.

“Okay,” Shiro concedes, but then his stomach growls again, invalidating his response. “You know what, I really think we’re gonna need to get up. Plus you might need food too.”

He shifts, making a move to get out of bed, but is prevented by Keith laying on top of him to stop him.

“Oof,” Shiro grunts, unprepared for the full weight of Keith. “You’re a lot heavier than you look.”

Their ears twitch. “Warm.”

“You’re definitely warm,” Shiro confirms, and if he wasn’t starving and in desperate need to pee, he might just laze the day away crushed beneath a stubborn alien.

“Do you get hungry?” Shiro wonders aloud. Keith’s weight is so solid, so warm, that Shiro is loath to move. He knows his body will only last so long before his physiological needs outweigh the emotional ones, but he’s not afraid to toe that limit and find out exactly where the line lies.

They don’t answer, of course, but their toes wiggle against Shiro’s ankle.

“I can make us food whenever we get up. I’m assuming you’ll come with me, based on last night. You really should stay in bed and rest, but I can’t imagine trying to make you,” Shiro snorts, imagining just that. If last night was an indicator, he will only be wasting his time.

Keith rambles out something low and fast, and try as he might Shiro can’t parse any of the words. Still, he listens attentively as Keith continues to talk, the strong consonants softened by the sweetness of Keith’s voice. They continue on, clearly trying hard to convey something to Shiro, who wishes he had Keith’s ear for languages. He’s good enough with English and Japanese and a little bit of Italian and Spanish, but alien dialects exceed even his linguistic abilities.

“I wish I knew what you were saying,” Shiro tells them when they finally stop, their eyes wide and full of something he can’t read.

“Galra,” Keith says.

The word sparks Shiro’s attention. Keith said that word several times.

“Galra,” he repeats and though he butchers the pronunciation, it doesn't seem to matter because Keith’s entire face transforms as they surge up so their nose is pressed against Shiro’s.

It’s lucky he doesn’t mind eye contact because Keith seems to thrive on it, eyes boring into Shiro’s as if they’re trying to see Shiro’s soul. Or maybe, Shiro wonders, he’s offering up his own.

“Are you Galra?” Shiro whispers, lips nearly brushing Keith’s with their face so close.

Keith trills loudly, the sound rumbling against his own chest.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re trying to tell me about your people? You’re Galra?”

“Keith Galra,” they nod, bumping their nose against Shiro’s.

“Keith is Galra,” Shiro echoes, heart racing.

The universe is bigger than Shiro ever imagined.

Aliens are real.

Keith is Galra.

“Shiro,” Keith says, pulling back to tap his chest. “Shiro.”

“Oh,” Shiro exhales, catching on. “I’m human.”

“Human,” Keith repeats slowly.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Human.”

“Shiro human. Keith Galra.”

This is the stuff of childhood dreams and Shiro knows without a shadow of a doubt he’d do it all over again, that he would sacrifice everything to have this moment with Keith. Whatever life is going to take from him, it’s also given him something rare and precious in the discovery of life in space and it is worth every single hardship and pain it took to get here.

“Yes,” Shiro smiles, his cheeks hurting from the force of it. “Galra Keith.”

Keith’s ears twitch as they drop their elbows onto Shiro’s chest and stare, their lips curling up in a smile that highlights the pointed tips of their canines and the sharpness of their features.

“You’re beautiful,” Shiro whispers, because they can’t understand him. Because in a world where Shiro's days are numbered, he is tired of being afraid of living.

“Shiro human.”

“Yes,” Shiro confirms, reaching for Keith’s hand and bringing it to his chest, placing Keith’s hand so that the flat of Keith’s palm rests over his heart. “I’m human. Only one.”

Keith makes a curious noise, spreading their fingers wide and pressing it deeper into Shiro’s chest. Keith yanks the hand away quickly and Shiro struggles to keep his expression neutral. He supposes that was too bold. It was—oh.

“Shiro human,” Keith whispers, laying their ear over Shiro’s heart and tapping his collarbone in tune with the beating of his heart.

When Shiro’s heart skips a beat, Keith's tapping changes.

“You can notice that?” Shiro marvels, wondering just how good Keith’s hearing actually is. Sometimes even the doctors even have trouble picking it up with a stethoscope.

“I’ve got arrhythmia,” Shiro says, sucking in a sharp breath when Keith’s tapping skips a beat again. Keith lifts their eyes, attention on Shiro’s face as the tapping stops. “I’m okay. At least in that regard. It’s not part of…it’s not….it’s just irregular,” he tries, not wanting to mention his disease. “The arrhythmia isn’t dangerous, just irregular. Especially when I’m excited or you know…uh. Wow.”

Keith’s tongue darts out, licking their lips as they trace something on Shiro’s chest with their finger. A word or a symbol, perhaps, but Shiro can’t tell. All he knows is that it's devastatingly nice to be touched, even more so to be the center of someone else’s attention like this.

Keith is tactile, curious, and it very well might be Shiro’s undoing. Not that he minds. Being ruined always sounded scary—the loss of control, the vulnerability—yet somehow he’s not scared. Perhaps he should be. He has no idea what Keith is capable of and yet as Keith’s pale purple finger swirls across his bare flesh Shiro knows one thing: Keith can be gentle.

Whatever else Keith might be capable of, and Shiro suspects it's quite a lot, they are choosing to be gentle with Shiro.

Keith murmurs something quietly before the tapping resumes. To Shiro's immense surprise, even without their ear pressed to his chest, they tap in perfect time with Shiro’s heartbeat.

“Can you hear it?” he asks. “Just…right now? Without even trying?”

Keith’s ears twitch, the tapping never faltering.

“Wow,” Shiro breathes, resisting the urge to reach out and touch Keith’s ears.

He doesn’t touch, both because is afraid of inadvertently doing something that might make Keith stop and because he isn’t quite as bold as Keith is. He settles for thinking about it, imagining the way the pointed tips might feel under his fingers.

The lines on Keith’s face furrow in concentration as they track the gradual rise in Shiro’s heartbeat. Or not so gradual once Shiro realizes that yes, Keith can hear every beat even without their ear pressed to his chest.

They tap fast now, picking up even the occasional skip of his heart. More of them once Shiro really thinks about the fact that Keith is hearing every flutter, skip and beat, hear the way it races because of Keith and skips because it's getting a bit of attention.

It’s strange because Shiro didn’t know. Most of his life he’s spent time being listened to by doctors and specialists he yet he didn’t know it could feel like this, affirming and grounding. Safe.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, tears stream down Shiro’s face. Big, hot tears that stain his cheeks.

“I—” Shiro starts, unable to finish the sentence.

He doesn’t know what he is.

Shiro never cries, especially not twice in such a short time.

Just like the last time, Keith’s features shift, their concern evident as they stop tapping and instead reach out to wipe away the tears.

I’m sorry. I’m not always like this. he wants to say, unable to speak.

Keith turns their fingers over to stare at the moisture collected on the tips of their fingers.

“Human,” they whisper.

The tears fall harder.

Shiro is human.

Humans die.

There aren’t many things Shiro is afraid of. If he had to make a list, it wouldn’t be long. The fun side effect to growing up terminally ill is the other stuff doesn’t seem to matter. Still, there are some things Shiro is afraid of.

Spiders.

Running out of coffee.

Drowning.

Thankfully, the last one is unlikely to happen in space. With Keith’s arrival, something new is added to Shiro’s list. Something he was never afraid of being.

Being alone.

Death does not scare Shiro, but perhaps doing so alone does.

“I wonder if you like coffee,” Shiro ponders aloud, filling the second cup to the brim.

It’s lucky they even have two cups here at all. A happy accident.

Maybe.

When he arrived, Shiro wondered how the Garrison could accidentally send more than one cup and mug when he’s the only one out here. He wonders something else now.

“Coffee is very human,” Shiro tells them, turning to smile at Keith.

Sure enough, Keith is watching Shiro intently, their elbows on the table and their ears alert. Judging by their body language, they’re two seconds from trying to get out of the chair but they don’t. This time. It took Shiro a good twenty minutes to get Keith to understand he wanted them to sit, their bad ankle propped up on the table Shiro dragged in from the sitting area and his pillow. It took a lot of gently guiding Keith back to the chair and lifting their ankle before Keith stopped getting up to watch Shiro prepare food.

If Shiro were in Keith’s position, he’d probably be equally curious, but with Keith’s injured ankle he needs to rest it. Thankfully once the scent of rehydrating food and coffee filled the room, Keith had stopped trying to crawl across the room and allowed Shiro to actually finish getting everything together.

“It’s ready,” Shiro announces, setting down the mugs of coffee on the table. He quickly retrieves the rehydrated MRE meals, setting both on the table before grabbing the silverware. “I’m not sure if you use this. This is a fork and this is a spoon.”

He holds them up, offering them to Keith, who takes one of each curiously, turning them in his hands. Judging by the way they hold them, like one might a stick in the center of his curled up fists, the odds are low they’ve ever used these particular utensils before.

“Humans use them to eat,” Shiro tells them, pulling back the seal on one of the meals and pushing it across the table to Keith as he lowers himself on the edge of the table near Keith’s ankle in lieu of having a second chair.

Keith sniffs the air, lowering their nose to the food and inhaling slowly.

“I’m afraid this isn’t exactly gourmet, just—” but Shiro doesn’t finish, watching as Keith pokes their finger into the food and then yanks it back.

“Kydev,” Keith hisses, pulling their finger into their mouth.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you! The rehydrator heats the food and some of the meals don’t reheat as evenly as I wish. Especially not this kind. Can I help?” Shiro asks, pulling the plastic off his own meal and stirring with a fork. “See, like this, mixing it up helps. It’ll make it look like something you ate and spit back out, but if you don’t mind all your food groups mixed, it's the only way to redistribute the hot spots.”

Keith makes no move to copy, their eyebrows furrowed.

“Try mine,” Shiro suggests, sliding his own meal closer to Keith.

Keith looks skeptical, but lowers the finger from their mouth. They do not reach for the fork or the spoon, instead staring at Shiro.

“You don’t know what it is,” Shiro realizes, leaning over and scooping up a small amount onto the spoon before putting it into his own mouth so that Keith knows what to do. He chews exaggeratedly, swallowing before he says, “to eat.”

Keith still looks unsure, pushing the second meal back to Shiro.

“I can try a different meal,” Shiro offers, mentally cataloging the options. Unsure how long he’d stay alive, he ate all his favorites first. Had he known Keith would be here he would’ve saved some so Keith could’ve tried the ramen or gyoza. Granted, the process to get it to space changed things, but it was still delicious. Now all he’s got to offer are meat and pasta dishes like tonight's spaghetti bolognese. Or at least he’s pretty sure that’s what it is. The labels fell off, but it certainly looks familiar.

“I’ll make something else,” Shiro says again, trying to stand.

Keith stops him, a hand on Shiro’s wrist, purple fingers momentarily obscuring the bracelet at his left wrist.

“Eat.”

“You want to eat?” Shiro asks, looking down at the food then Keith.

“Shiro….Shiro eat.” Keith pushes their own meal to Shiro, their eyes wide. “Shiro.”

“There’s plenty for both of us,” Shiro says, unsure if his hunch is correct. “Are you worried? That there isn’t enough? Because there’s more.”

This means nothing to Keith so Shiro shows him, rising from the table before Keith can stop him and hurrying to the cupboard to open the door. “Food. Lots of food. Plenty for Shiro and Keith,” he tells them. He leaves off the part where if he shares his rations, there won’t be enough for long. That’s a problem for later. For now Keith is tired and hurt and they won’t heal if they don’t eat.

“Keith eat?” It’s unmistakably a question.

“Yes,” Shiro nods, hurrying back to the table and sliding the meal back in front of them. “Eat.”

Keith taps Shiro’s discarded fork, pushing it to Shiro. “Shiro eat.”

“I can see how this is gonna go.” Shiro laughs. “You’re not gonna eat until I do, are you?”

There’s no answer, but Shiro is pretty sure he’s right. Somehow, despite the situation, Keith is worried about Shiro and not themselves.

“Eat,” Shiro narrates, taking a generous forkful of the food and lifting it to his mouth.

The pasta is a little mushy and he doesn’t like what the dehydration process does to tomato products, but the food is warm, coating his belly on the way down, and it occurs to Shiro on the next bite that he very much needed this, too.

Shiro tries not to stare, not wanting to offend Keith, but he’s not sure where the line is between offering Keith autonomy and not helping enough when Keith fists the fork, scoops up a large amount and all of it falls onto the table before it makes it to their mouth.

It occurs to Shiro that maybe if he cuts it up with a knife and a fork like his grandmother did when he was little and struggling with fine motor skills, it might be easier for Keith to get some of the spaghetti on a spoon.

“Just a sec,” Shiro mumbles, rising from the table.

The weight of Keith’s gaze is intense as they track Shiro’s movements. He returns a moment later with a knife held in hand, but no sooner has he held it up to try and find some way to explain his idea when Keith’s face lights up with recognition.

“Blade,” Keith crows, reaching for the knife.

“You know knives?” Shiro wonders, offering the handle.

Keith curls their fingers around the handle, turning it to the spaghetti. They do not cut the spaghetti yet somehow they manage to spear a frankly impressive amount of pasta on the tip which they move to their mouth, lips curling around the end as if it wasn’t sharp enough to cut.

This ability turns out to be neither an accident or a happy coincidence because Keith proceeds to polish off half the food in just a few minutes with nothing more than the tip of the knife and sheer determination.

“Well, I guess I know you used a knife,” Shiro says, curiosity rising about how and what else Keith usually eats. Especially out in space.

When Keith has finished, they use the edge of the knife to scrape at the corners for lost pieces of pasta, and then use their fingers to scrape up every bit of sauce. When Keith is done they look up, catching Shiro with his mouthful as he watches.

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles, embarrassed at being caught staring. He knows it's impolite, at least for humans. Maybe the Galra don’t mind, but Shiro can’t be sure and he doesn’t want to offend Keith or make them uncomfortable.

Keith cocks their head, eyeing Shiro’s half-finished food. Usually Shiro’s got a bigger appetite than this, but between the adrenaline and nerves and something Shiro doesn’t want to think about, he finds it difficult to finish his own food and instead slides the last of his meal towards Keith.

Unsure, Keith starts to push it towards Shiro again, who stops the movement of the container with a hand, pushing it back in front of Keith.

“For you. For Keith,” he insists, pulling his own hand back to rub his belly. “I’m full.”

This is not a lie, entirely. He’s had enough to quiet his own hunger and while normally Shiro might force himself to finish the entire meal for the much-needed calories, he suspects Keith needs them more. Besides, he can always have something else later if he gets hungry. Or when his alarm on his watch goes off reminding him to eat. Whichever comes first.

There’s a few seconds where Shiro isn’t sure the message got across or that perhaps sharing food is frowned upon in Galra culture, but then Keith is stabbing the knife into the remainder of spaghetti and Shiro doesn’t have to wonder any longer.

While his hunger might be gone, the desire for something soothing is not and Shiro reaches for his coffee mug.

On the flight to Kerberos, Shiro had been forced to exist on freeze dried coffee in a bag, which he inhaled through the straw like it was a nectar of the gods and not a paltry excuse for the real thing. In his little home, the gravity stabilizers allow Shriro to make the real thing. Or close to it. The coffee had to be brewed and dehydrated into tiny little tablets, which he pops into the machine. It’s almost like instant coffee with a background taste of something indiscernible. It’s hot though, soothing on the way down, and Shiro takes two hearty sips before he realizes he forgot to sweeten it.

Keith’s got the knife between his lips when Shiro rises, their eyes and ears on Shiro as he moves over to the little kitchen cabinets and pulls down his jar of coffee supplies before returning to the table.

Attention still firmly on Shiro, Keith watches as Shiro unscrews the lids to both.

“This is sugar,” Shiro explains, tipping the first jar so Keith can see the small compacted balls of sugar. “They’re sweet. Between you and me, I like more than I should, but I’ve been cutting back because of…reasons. Today seems like a special occasion, though. Might as well celebrate. Not every day you get a special alien visit, huh?”

Where Shiro would normally drink his coffee with one cube of sugar, today he uses two. It’s not really much more but in a world of rations, it's an indulgence. He grabs the other jar next, tipping it so Keith can see inside.

They lean forward, sniffing at the jar.

“These are the creamer cubes,” Shiro tells them. “They’re made of oat milk because I’m lactose intolerant. Come to think of it, I don't know if Galra can process lactose either, so maybe this is for the best.”

Shiro reaches inside the jar, pulling out two cubes and dropping them into the mug of coffee.

“I like the sound,” Shiro says, surprised at how not embarrassing it is to confess to something so mundane. “It gets awfully quiet here and I came to relish any sound. It’s not as quiet with you. I’m glad for it.”

It’s lucky Keith can’t understand because this confession feels oddly exposing and Shiro distracts himself from the wave of thoughts crashing through his mind. Everything that comes must go. Keith included.

Shiro stirs his coffee three times clockwise, then three counterclockwise, focusing on the swirling white creamer cubes as they dissolve and turn his coffee a far more palatable light brown. This time when he takes a drink, it's not just warmth of the drink that soothes, but something milky sweet that actually tastes good.

“The other mug is yours,” Shiro points out, unsure if Keith has understood that.

To emphasize this, he pushes the other mug of coffee closer to Keith since they’ve now finished the rest of Shiro’s meal.

Slowly Keith reaches for the mug, lifting the cup and taking a tentative sip.

There’s no need to ask if Keith enjoys the coffee. Their face says it all, the tip of their tongue protruding between pursed lips and their nose wrinkled in clear distaste. Shiro nearly laughs but holds the sound in, unsure if it might hurt Keith’s feelings.

“Between you and me, I don’t really enjoy it black, either. I’ll drink it out of necessity because it warms you up and caffeine is really wonderful, especially if you sleep as poorly as I do. But the taste leaves a lot to be desired. Add some sugar and creamer though and—” Shiro breaks off mid-sentence, kissing to the tips of his fingers and signaling to the sky.

The gesture is lost on Keith, who looks down at the mug of coffee like they have no idea what to do with it.

“Would you like to try mine?” Shiro asks, holding his own mug out in offering. Keith didn't seem to mind sharing food so maybe they won’t mind taking a drink of Shiro’s coffee.

“Prevek?”

“Sure,” Shiro agrees, hoping it's the right answer to whatever Keith has asked.

If the subtle change in Keith’s body language is anything to go by, it must be the right response because their shoulders slump as they inch forward, not to take the mug from Shiro but to take a sip of coffee while he holds it.

“Oh, alright, just let me—careful it’s hot,” he warns, rising just enough that he can tip the mug without spilling coffee down Keith’s chin in their eagerness to try it.

When Keith does take their second drink, there’s a far different reaction than before, their hands coming up to cover Shiro’s, which are curled around the mug. They keep their hands covering Shiro’s as they sip.

“Better, right?” Shiro asks, staring at a droplet of coffee on Keith’s bottom lip.

“Vrug,” Keith utters softly, their tongue swiping out to lick the coffee away.

Shiro hums, unsure if this is a question or a statement.

“Vhokti sryt.”

Shiro hums again, finding it difficult to try and parse the social cues and unfamiliar words when his own chilled hands are wedged between the warm coffee cup and Keith’s even warmer hands.

“Vhokti sryt,” they repeat, licking their lips again.

“Do you uh…want more?” Shiro asks, straining his arms to get the cup closer to Keith’s mouth without having to let go and lose the physical contact.

The only answer Shiro gets is a quiet trill before Keith’s leaning forward and wrapping their lips around the mug, the swell of their bottom lip brushing against Shiro’s thumb as they guide the cup up enough to drink more.

They sip slowly, their big eyes flicking between the mug and Shiro as they drain it. It’s only when it’s empty that they drop back down into their chair, leaving Shiro hunched over the table with an empty cup and an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

It’s just coffee, he tells himself.

This is a lie.

In light of nothing making sense, Shiro clings to what does. Routine.

After he and Keith have finished eating, he disposes of the trash in the incinerator and then wipes down the utensils and cups with the waterless cleaning wipes before reshelving the cups and placing the utensils back in the drawer, making sure to put each one in the correct compartment. Well, all of them except for the knife, which Keith refuses to let go of.

Some part of Shiro’s brain is aware that he should probably be worried about an alien in his home that won’t let go of a knife, but Shiro’s gut says to trust Keith and his gut has never led him astray. It’s also possible that with only a few months to live Shiro has entirely run out of fucks and abandoned all self-preservation in favor of blind hope. Truthfully, he’s not sure he cares which one it is. He’s made up his mind to save Keith—to trust Keith—and he will see it to the end however that may come.

After breakfast Shiro straightens the kitchen, which really only includes folding his sole dish towel and hanging it near the basin by his rehydrator and then ticking off a day on his personal rations calendar. His hand hovers as he makes the mark, realizing with Keith here he will need to check another day for every meal to make up for the extra rations.

Later, he should probably go through them and recount to be sure he’s got his numbers correct, figure out if he should lower his own rations to make sure there’s enough for Keith while they’re here recuperating. However long that might be. The fact that Keith can stand, even for a few seconds, means it's probably only sprained and not broken. Then again, Shiro’s medical knowledge of humans is limited, factoring that into extraterrestrial skeletal systems and pain tolerance and his educated guess about Keith’s injury and healing time might as well be entirely made up.

It helps to plan though, and Shiro does just that.

He mentally catalogs what the change will mean for his rations of food and water. He plans for Keith’s stay as best as he can. He plans for Keith’s departure, hoping they stay long enough for Shiro to protect his heart when they do so.

And, he plans to die.

The last one isn’t on his calendar, but there’s no need to add it in red ink when the date is imprinted in his heart.

The date on Shiro’s watch reads September fourth.

Shiro has eighty-eighty days left.

It has to be enough.

“So, uh…the thing is…I need to shower,” Shiro says.

He’s been rehearsing this sentence in his mind for the last two hours while Keith dozed beside him.

Keith isn’t sleeping now. Hasn’t been for awhile if the way they occasionally nuzzle into Shiro’s shoulder to scent him is anything to go by.

Technically he could wait to shower. It’s not like he really gets dirty here, but showering every Saturday morning is part of Shiro’s routine. It’s what makes him feel human, washing away the dregs of sleep and the scent of decontamination that lingers from whatever the hell gets pumped through the air ducts while he sleeps, something that sterilizes his living quarters and smells like a hospital.

When he left, the Garrison told him he’d be allotted one shower a week and Shiro quickly realized the morning after the weekly decontamination would be his day. He’s kept that day like clockwork for the entirety of his time on Kerberos.

The shower is Shiro’s reprieve from it all. Under the spray of warm water he forgets his pain, his worries, and is allowed to be nothing more than a man getting ready for the day.

Showering is more than simply getting clean. It’s an affirmation that he gets another day. That Shiro is still alive.

It’s also a damn luxury because of the water rationing. Most everything up here is dry decontaminated. Shiro’s sole request when making the trip here had been for them to find a way for him to shower. Whether it was goodwill or desperation to get Shiro to take the job, the Garrison had managed to equip Shiro up with the makings of a small shower, which was hooked up to a portable water tank and heater.

Eventually Shiro will run out of water, but that day is not today. Today Shiro is alive, there is water, and he wants a shower. He needs a shower. He needs to feel like something in his new confusing, messy life is normal.

“Have you ever taken a shower?” Shiro wonders aloud, turning his head to look at Keith who is not surprisingly staring at Shiro.

A few days ago the idea of a stranger in his bed, in his private space, would’ve sounded horrifying. Today it's anything but.

The purple of Keith’s eyes reminds Shiro of flying through deep space, of the aching sense of awe and loneliness he’d felt soaring through swirling nebulae and clouds of space dust. He isn’t alone now and Keith’s eyes are more beautiful than anything he saw in flight.

“Shiro.”

Keith says his name a lot. Probably because it's one of the only words they know in English, or maybe they just like the way it sounds. Shiro certainly likes the way it sounds falling off of Keith’s pale purple lips.

“Keith,” he replies in turn, lifting his arm to lay the tips of his fingers upon Keith’s cheek.

A purr rattles in Keith’s chest so he lets the fingers remain, lowering them further so it's less of a touch and more his entire hand cupping Keith’s cheek. Shiro’s not sure what he is doing, what they’re doing, but Keith likes it and Shiro likes it and maybe that's enough.

“I’m going to move soon,” he warns Keith, “and you’re gonna need to stay and rest.”

It’s futile because Keith has no idea what he’s saying and the odds of Keith not following are slim to none, but Shiro’s always been the kind of man who tries the impossible at least once.

“Your ankle is still really bad and you probably pushed it too far following me around yesterday,” Shiro tells them, thinking of Keith crawling or hobbling after Shiro the entire day yesterday, which had led to Shiro abandoning doing anything besides sitting on the couch with Keith’s ankle in his lap.

Shiro talked. Keith listened. Then they’d made their way to bed and fallen asleep because it turned out spending hours talking after not talking for months was exhausting.

And now, well, now they’re awake and in bed and Shiro wants a shower.

He just also wants Keith to stay here where they’re comfortable and warm and rest their ankle to prevent further injury. He’s just not sure how to make that happen.

“I’m going to get up now,” he says, hand still resting at Keith’s cheek.

Now turns out to be several more minutes during which Keith takes to stroking Shiro’s forelock. It’s only as Keith pulls it down that Shiro notices a streak of white. He reaches out to touch it, pulling the hair from Keith’s fingers to yank it down in front of his eyes.

“What the hell,” he whispers, twisting the hair and pulling it hard enough it stings.

Keith rises onto their elbows, crowding over Shiro and pulling the hair out of Shiro’s hand to examine it for themselves.

Bewildered, Shiro watches Keith twist the hair around their finger, the single white hair sparkling in the moonlight shining through the window. It looks even more foreign against the purple of Keith’s skin.

“Prex vhuv,” Keith whispers.

Shiro should be panicking, yet all he can feel is burgeoning curiosity.

There’s an alien in his bed, his hair is turning white, and Shiro’s heart won’t stop racing.

“So, uh…the shower,” Shiro brings up again, a far easier subject to think about than his prematurely graying hair or how the weight of Keith’s body feels above him.

Keith cocks their head, releasing Shiro’s hair in favor of lowering their nose to his own. Shiro wonders if it's a Keith thing or a Galra thing to desire such intense eye contact and physical touch.

He wonders a lot.

“I’m going to shower and you’ll stay here,” Shiro says, his body giving him no choice but to move because of the sudden and intense need to pee.

To get the point across, he wraps his hands around Keith’s shoulders to press them into the bed, rolling them off Shiro. Mistaking his intentions Keith does the same, hands on Shiro’s shoulders as they flip their positions so it's Shiro hovering over Keith.

“”Prex vhuv,” Keith repeats, purring loudly.

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Shiro exhales, wishing he didn’t need to pee so bad so he could stay in bed and enjoy his current position. As it is, Keith's knee is pressing into his bladder and if he doesn’t move, he’s gonna have to explain the unexplainable.

“Warm,” Keith croons, the other word they’ve caught on to quite nicely.

“Yeah, warm. Very warm,” Shiro agrees, trying to extricate himself as slowly as possible to make the transition smoother.

It doesn’t go exactly as planned because every inch Shiro gains is lost when Keith’s eyes widen and they realize Shiro is trying to leave the bed. Immediately, Keith’s grip tights as they give Shiro a stern look.

“Shiro warm.”

“The shower is warm too,” Shiro points out. “There’s heated water. It’s very nice. I’ll be okay there, I promise.”

“Warm?” Keith queries, clearly trying to understand.

“Shower warm,” Shiro confirms, guiltily extracting himself from Keith’s embrace. Judging by the look on Keith's face, they’re not happy about what is happening, which Shiro really does feel guilty about, but nothing can stop him from relieving himself and if he already has to get up for that, he really does want his shower.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers.

“I’ll be right back,” Shiro promises. “You can stay here and be nice and cozy. Maybe nap a little more, even though you don’t look like you’re going to go back to sleep, but you never know.”

“Shiro,” Keith repeats, tugging his heartstrings further.

“Bed for Keith,” Shiro says, patting the mattress once he’s standing. He reaches for the blankets that were kicked to the bottom of the bed in their tussle and pulls them up Keith’s body so they don’t get cold while he’s gone.

Keith frowns.

“This will be good for you. Your ankle is hurt,” he says, bending down to tap his own ankle and then pointing at Keith’s, which is hidden beneath the mound of blankets. “Ankle.”

Keith’s frown remains, but they don’t kick off the blankets or move. Relieved, Shiro spares one more second to smooth the blanket down at the edge of the bed so no cold air can get at Keith’s arms before turning on his heels and walking towards the door.

Compared to Keith’s stubbornness before, they comply surprisingly easily this morning, even remaining in bed as Shiro leaves the bedroom.

There’s the smallest prickle of guilt at leaving Keith alone, but Shiro is able to quiet it with the knowledge that rest is what Keith needs. The bed is the best place for him and it's not like Shiro’s going to leave him alone forever. It'll just be for fifteen or twenty minutes while he showers then he can make them breakfast and keep Keith company again.

Coffee.

The allure is even stronger than usual this morning and Shiro stares longingly at the rehydrator when he passes it on his way to the bathroom. Usually on shower morning, Shiro would make a cup of coffee first to warm him up. He doesn’t make any this morning, loath to waste any extra time.

The cold is sharper this morning, cold enough Shiro can almost taste it. The second he thinks it, he dismisses the thought. You can’t taste cold and even if you could, the Garrison would never allow for temperature fluctuations this noticeable. The most likely thing is that sharing a bed with Keith gave Shiro a level of warmth he was unused to, making the absence of Keith’s body heat all the more intolerable. Either way, the reason changes nothing and Shiro wastes no time turning on the heating element on his water tank before hurrying to kick off his pants and socks into a pile. He’s worn them enough that there’s no question it’ll all need to be dry washed.

He reaches for his shirt next, grabbing it behind his neck to yank it off when he hears it. The sound is faint, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t used to the absence of sound entirely. It’s the unexpectedness of the sound that has it ringing in Shiro’s ear as he hones in on it, straining his ears to listen. There’s a pause of silence, and then a second later it starts again only this time, it’s closer.

A few days ago, the prospect of unknown sounds on a desolate moon in deep space would’ve been the thing of nightmares. Today, there’s only one thing it can be. Or more accurately, one someone.

Someone who is, from the sounds of it, crawling, or more likely dragging, themselves across the floor to get to Shiro.

Really, he should’ve expected this. It was easy to get Keith to remain in bed. Far too easy.

Turning his body towards the open doorway, he waits. Keith doesn’t immediately appear, or at least not all of Keith. What does appear are the pointed tips of two purple ears.

The ears twitch, but Keith doesn’t immediately move, so Shiro does, taking the few steps needed to get to the doorway where he crouches down, grabbing the doorframe to balance himself as he peers out into the living room.

“You can come out, Keith.”

For a few seconds, the only thing that moves are Keith’s ears, which twitch before they inch forward on hands and knees, presumably the same way they got here from the bedroom with their bad ankle.

“You do know you were supposed to stay in bed,” Shiro points out, unprepared for the way Keith’s ears flatten against their head.

“Khymdin pruk vox,” Keith whispers as their ears nearly disappear into their hair.

Something in Shiro’s heart clenches at the unexpected sight and without thinking of the consequences, he drops to his knees, uncaring that he’s naked and the floor is so cold it hurts. All he cares about is Keith and the look on their face.

“It’s okay, Keith,” he says, ignoring the sharp pains in his knees from the cold. “You can come in. You can come anywhere I am.”

Unmoving, Keith stares at Shiro as he inches even closer until his bare knees hit Keith’s fingers on the freezing floor.

“I’m sorry I told you to stay put. I thought it was better for your ankle, but perhaps there are other things that need healing, too,” he whispers. “I know how that is.”

Slowly Keith rises. They can’t possibly understand his words yet they respond to what Shiro is saying nonetheless. Maybe his tone or cadence, or something equally intangible. All Shiro knows is that Keith responds positively to his words, so he will give him more of them.

“You can stay with me,” Shiro assures them. “That’s what you want, right?”

As if in answer, Keith inches closer, rising up so that their face nears Shiro’s.

“I’m not going to send you away if that’s what you’re worried about,” Shiro tells them.

It’s only after the words are out that it occurs to Shiro that maybe it’s not so much a Galra need to be close, but a Keith need. Perhaps Keith is afraid of being sent away.

Perhaps it's a presumptuous thought, but it consumes him.

How long has Keith been alone? Is it by choice? Is he perhaps as desperate for contact with another as Shiro?

Whatever differences they have, this one thing they share—a longing to not be alone.

“Come inside,” Shiro tells them, moving his hands beneath Keith’s arms to help lift them up. Between Keith’s good ankle and Shiro’s strength, they get Keith into a standing position and inside the shower, at which point Shiro shuts the door. He’d left it open in case Keith needed something, but with Keith here, it seems silly to waste the warm steam that will soon come.

It’s only when he’s got Keith seated on the closed lid of the composting toilet that Shiro realizes exactly what state of undress he’s in.

“So, um, I’m naked,” Shiro says.

Keith cocks their head, eyes tracing Shiro’s bare skin. He tells himself it's not a big deal, that it’s not that different from before, except it is. Before all Shiro had off was his shirt, and now he’s completely naked and he’s acutely aware of his soft dick and the ungroomed body hair he thought no one would see. He’s aware of the ways his body has changed in space, warped and shrunken.

When he looks down at himself, he hardly recognizes what he sees. His body is there but changed, his edges softened and faded like a copy someone made without enough ink.

It’s exposing and vulnerable and when Keith begins to shed their clothing too, it becomes something else, something more.

There’s nothing remotely sexual about the way Keith touches Shiro, gaze curious and hands eager. They map Shiro’s body, tracking every scar, curve and freckle. They purr at the hair near his belly button, point at their own and then Shiro’s in bemusement and purr loudly when their hands graze over the pale soft hair at Shiro’s upper thighs.

When the water turns on, nothing is different, but everything changes.

Keith’s hand continues to glide, but this time so do Shiro’s. Long, curious strokes as wet hands glide across bare flesh and exposed hearts.

Shiro isn’t hard when Keith’s fingers explore his dick, or the delicate inside of his thigh, nor when Keith drapes themselves against Shiro’s chest to explore Shiro’s back, a feat they can’t manage on one foot without using Shiro as leverage. Shiro doesn’t mind being someone’s handle, the water beating down atop his head and washing away the stench of decontamination as Keith’s purr rumbles against his chest.

“Warm,” Keith trills happily when Shiro coaxes them beneath the spray.

It is warm indeed, warm in ways that banish the memory of cold from his very bones.

Keith is here and real and Shiro is warm.

Shiro is warm.

There are two things Shiro knows to be true.

The first is that Keith’s injury will heal.

The second is that when this happens, Keith will leave.

It’s as inevitable as Shiro dying.

The only thing that stops Shiro from crumbling under the crushing weight of grief this prospect brings him is knowing that when Keith leaves him behind, he will be healthy, and safe, and keep living amongst the stars long after Shiro’s light has faded.

“Now that we’re clean, it’s time to get dressed again,” Shiro tells Keith, reaching for the same pants Keith had on before.

Shiro had tried to put them in the laundry after their shower, but Keith had hissed and clutched them to their chest and Shiro had realized that perhaps the notion of laundry was too foreign and that something disappearing might seem like forever. Unwilling to upset Keith, he’d shoved his own soiled clothing into the laundry chute while carefully retrieving Keith’s, which he tucked under his arm as he walked them back to the bedroom, still a little damp and a lot naked.

“For Keith,” they say, stretching out their good leg.

“Yes, these were for Keith and they will always be for Keith,” Shiro assures them, understanding that this one outfit will likely never get washed and will definitely never be returned to him. He finds that he doesn’t mind. Not at all.

As Shiro tugs the pant leg up Keith’s calf, he wonders if Keith has ever had clothes like this. The suit they had on when Shiro found them was a rather impressive piece of textile, but it wasn’t soft the way the sweats he pulls up Keith’s legs are now. It was designed for survival, not comfort, which brings up an entire host of questions about Keith’s origin and survival in deep space. Questions Shiro can neither ask nor get an answer to.

“You know before coming to Kerberos, I always wore a uniform,” Shiro tells Keith, unsure why he’s talking about this. “Even on my days off. Can you believe that? You could say I didn’t know how to relax, but the truth was much more complicated. Besides, the Garrison is pretty strict about dress code. They even have sleep uniforms, which are more comfortable than the officer ones, but not as comfortable as this stuff.”

He slides his palm over Keith’s clothed calf, calming his own breathing as he focuses on the glide of material under his fingertips. It seems softer on Keith’s body.

“I’d never worn this kind of loungewear all day before,” Shiro tells Keith as he switches to the other side, extra careful not to jostle or squeeze Keith’s injured ankle as he slips it through the other leg hole. He managed to remove the wet bandages after the shower, but he’s going to need to rewrap it once they’re dressed. “The first few days were strange, but you get used to it pretty quick.”

Angling his body forward, Shiro brings Keith’s arms up and around his neck. When Keith links their fingers, it allows him to pull Keith into a half-standing position, which makes it much easier to tug the pants the rest of the way to Keith’s waist.

“It’s nice to be comfortable,” he grins, lowering Keith gently back to the bed. “Honestly, I think it helped make this place feel more like home.”

“Home?” Keith mimics, the pronunciation endearingly off.

At this point, Shiro should stop being surprised by Keith’s ability to pick up words and yet he can’t help but marvel. He’s been listening intently every time Keith says anything and there’s not a chance he could repeat one of them without guided practice, and yet here Keith is, picking up vocabulary while seemingly trying to parse the syntax.

Then again, perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise that someone who can survive on Kerberos alone the way Keith has can adapt linguistically, too.

“Yes, home.” To help give context to the word, Shiro takes a step back, leaning sideways to tap the wall with his knuckles before patting the bed, trying to show Keith with concrete examples. He’s not entirely sure if it'll work, but home as a concept is a lot more complicated than his name or an adjective. “This is my home.”

Keith leans back to knock their knuckles against the wall. “Home?”

“Well, that’s a wall technically, but yes. This entire place, Kerberos, space. This my home until…well…this is my home now,” he says, cutting himself off.

Keith cocks their head to the side, studying Shiro as he grabs Keith’s shirt. This time Keith doesn’t need to be guided, lifting their arms up and easily allowing Shiro to slip it on.

Lost in his head, Shiro skims his fingers down Keith’s sides as he tugs the material down their chest and over their tummy.

“Do you have one? A home, I mean. Keith’s home?” Shiro asks, strangely aware of the beating of his own heart.

“Shiro,” Keith says.

Shiro hides his face behind his shirt as he tugs it over his head, followed swiftly by the warmest hoodie he owns, a similar pair of insulted lounge pants to match Keith and two pairs of socks.

It was wishful thinking that Keith might understand his question, and Shiro chooses to focus on the more practical matter at hand—tending to Keith’s ankle. It’s easy enough this time since Keith has no problem allowing Shiro to lay the ankle in his lap as he sits beside Keith, smoothing ointment into the skin while hoping the orange discoloration is normal for a Galra. Once he’s finished, he takes a new ace bandage and carefully wraps the ankle, startling when Keith’s hand finds its way to his lower back as he does so.

There is no question, but if there had been, Shiro's answer would be yes.

Slowly but surely, Keith’s fingers move beneath the hem, mimicking the careful way Shiro touches Keith’s ankle. Except nothing on Shiro is broken or hurt. Not anything that can be fixed with a medical wrap, anyway.

“I think it will heal alright, if we can keep you resting,” Shiro tells them, proud he finds his voice at all with the way Keith’s fingers have crept up to rest at the spot between his shoulder blades.

There’s a knot of tension there, the muscles threatening to spasm.

It’s not why Shiro trembles.

Not even a little bit.

While he wraps the last end of bandage around Keith’s ankle, carefully smoothing it into itself so it sticks, Keith’s fingers trace Shiro’s aching muscles, following along the scapula and skimming over the muscles.

“It’s, uh,” Shiro starts, lost for words when Keith presses their palm flat between the shoulder blades, thumb smoothing over one of Shiro’s worst knots.

All of the sudden it’s not his mind he’s afraid Keith might read, but his heart.

“Haktik pruv,” Keith says.

Something about the words sends goosebumps up Shiro’s spine and he gasps, holding his breath. He tries to let it out, but so much more than air is released.

“I wish I knew what you were saying,” Shiro blurts, and once he’s started, he can’t stop. “I wish I knew where you came from and why you’re here. I wish I knew more than your name. I wish I knew if you were going to leave the second you’re healed. I wish I knew why the Garrison didn’t tell me about aliens. I wish…I wish—”

“Haktik pruv,” Keith repeats, spreading the fingers wide at Shiro’s back before letting their palm skim down the curve of Shiro’s spine.

It’s the most aware of his own body he’s been since he left Earth and it’s staggering.

“I wish I could see the sunrise on December second,” he whispers. “I wish you could stay. I wish a lot of things.”

He trails off, surprisingly wiped by the confession as he closes the med kit before he moves back to the edge of the bed. No sooner is he seated then Keith is pulling, trying to tug Shiro beneath the blankets and into their arms.

Predictable as a sunflower seeking the sun, Shiro turns to Keith.

A low sound of pleasure rumbles out of Keith’s throat as they tug the blanket up and around Shiro’s head until only his face is visible, sliping their good leg between Shiro’s as their arm curls around Shiro’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

“Warm,” Keith trills.

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, a mirror image of Keith’s pleasure likely written across his own face. “Very warm.”

“Bukkoz vraz trhrel,” Keith purrs, their bare fingers creeping under Shiro’s shirt to rest at his lower back, stroking. Petting.

The ache that permeates his joints is there, buffered by the soothing ministrations of Keith’s fingers and the low rumble of the purr in their chest. Warm, safe, and inconceivably content, Shiro's eyes flutter shut.

“Bukkoz vraz trhrel,” Keith whispers again.

He swears he won’t sleep, but sleep he does.

In his dreams, Keith stays.

In his dreams, they understand each other.

Chapter Text

Shiro wakes with a start, heart pounding in his ears as he struggles into wakefulness.

He was dreaming but he can’t recall what. He only knows it left him feeling off center and out of sorts. He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to move, but he can’t. There’s a split second where Shiro’s sleep-addled brain panics that today is the day that he’s lost all his mobility. Today might be the day his body fails.

Then Keith half-snores, half-purrs in his sleep, hot breath puffed into the side of Shiro’s neck and he realizes the reason he can’t move is because there’s approximately one hundred and sixty pounds of alien space cat sleeping on his chest.

Keith is here, same as he has been for the last twenty-seven days. Keith is here and he’s asleep, blanketing Shiro in his body and his warmth as if he alone can keep space’s cold away from Shiro.

It’s not strictly necessary with all the blankets, but it feels damn nice and Shiro lets his eyes drift shut as he wiggles his fingers and toes. They move.

Today is not the day.

Shiro is blissfully warm, safe, and alive.

Slowly he counts to ten, breathing in and out in time with Keith. Then he does it again and again until the pounding in his ears quiets. It’s not long after that the frantic racing of his heart slows to match Keith’s slumbering, peaceful heartbeat.

Whatever bad dream Shiro had becomes nothing more than a shadow upon his heart, and one which Keith’s presence keeps at bay.

Everything about Keith is good and warm and bright, and Shiro basks in the weight atop his chest, turning his face into Keith’s hair and breathing him in. Keith smells like Shiro, or Shiro smells like Keith. It’s becoming impossible to tell which is which. All he knows is the scent soothes something deep within Shiro.

The first time he’d done this, he’d accidentally woken Keith, which he’d felt horribly guilty about, at least until Keith had flashed Shiro with a bashful, sleepy smile and stretched atop him. Since then it’s happened a handful of times and each time Keith graces Shiro with a radiant smile that washes away the nightmares and aches that come in slumber.

If the smiles weren’t telling enough, Keith’s also told Shiro he enjoys being woken by him. Or as much as Keith can with their broken English. It’s enough for them to communicate, to share bits and pieces of his stories and for Keith to let Shiro know what he likes.

At first, Shiro thought Keith might pick up just those couple words, but Keith is like a sponge and nearly a month into his stay with Shiro, he’s managing near sentences. Granted, they’re lacking proper syntax, but the fact that Keith has managed to grasp not only the ability to understand a good deal of what Shiro says but to converse is nothing short of amazing. Then again, everything he’s learned about Keith is amazing.

Rubbing his nose into Keith’s hair, he makes a mental list of things he’s learned about Keith, from his gender to how he came to crash land on a remote moon in deep space. Everything Shiro’s learned he soaks up, as much to learn about the Galra as Keith himself.

Keith is—oh, Keith is waking.

“Morning,” Keith yawns, nosing into Shiro’s neck to scent him like he does every morning.

“Good morning,” Shiro sighs, toes wiggling with pleasure when Keith noses into his pulse point.

A quiet hum sounds from Keith’s throat. “Shiro always say good.”

Keith has started saying this every morning after he learned enough English to enquire about why Shiro started to say ‘good morning’ every day. He’d explained the best he could and came to the conclusion that it is a human peculiarity Keith enjoys. As such, Shiro takes even more pleasure than normal being able to say it to him.

“Of course I do. You’re here,” Shiro tells him.

This is true and another thing he takes great pleasure in telling Keith daily.

“Shiro enjoys Keith.”

“Yes,” Shiro answers, though he’s pretty sure it wasn’t a question.

The hum in Keith’s throat becomes a purr, loud and strong as Keith rubs his nose into Shiro’s throat and inhales deeply.

Last week he asked why Keith did this every day, but the only answer Keith gave was that he enjoyed it. Shiro’s not sure if the real reason is too complicated for him to explain with the language barrier or if it really is as simple as pleasure. Either way, he’s happy to be a passive participant in this morning ritual if it brings Keith joy. Or both of them, if Shiro is being honest.

The first few times it’d been something he enjoyed because it clearly relaxed Keith, but with every passing day, Shiro is the one who ends up relaxed.

The purring increases, a soothing vibration against his own chest as Keith noses into his throat, hot puffs of Keith’s breath against his skin. Something has gotten into Keith this morning who seems, if possible, even more tactile, running his hands up and down Shiro’s arms as he stretches out his long legs so that his toes shove into Shiro’s ankles.

“S’nice,” Shiro slurs, finding that his brain to mouth filter never did reappear. Not even once he realized Keith could understand most of what he says. There was a brief period where Shiro was deeply embarrassed about how profuse and honest he was, but that had quickly faded in that face of Keith’s earnest face and quiet Shiro nice.

Keith enjoys Shiro and Shiro enjoys making Keith happy.

Very little makes sense in Shiro’s life anymore, and he’s truthfully not even sure what is happening between him and Keith, but he knows this much and it’s enough.

It’s enough.

While Keith scents, Shiro drifts, eyes half-lidded and brain delightfully fuzzy. It’s not until his stomach rumbles loudly and Keith shoves a bony finger into it that he’s brought back to the present.

“Food,” Keith intones, staring at Shiro with a very serious expression.

“I’m fine,” Shiro tries, aware it's not going to pacify Keith, but too comfortable not to at least try.

Sure enough, the little space between Keith’s eyebrows disappears as his sharp eyebrows knit together.

“Drov vhyl brolna,” Keith grumbles, all of the blankets thrown off when Keith abruptly sits up so that he can lift Shiro’s shirt to look at his belly. “Need the food.”

“You’re cute,” Shiro says, reaching out to trace the furrow of his eyebrows.

“No cute,” Keith says very seriously. “Keith khimket.”

The best Shiro can gather is that ‘khimket’ is something the Galra prize above all else—a tenacity and fierceness that can’t be easily translated to English. Keith is definitely that, but he’s cute, too, especially when he’s saying he’s not.

“Oh right, I forgot Keith is not cute. Keith is very khimket.”

Keith absolutely beams, shoulders straightening.

“Shiro say Galra.”

“A little,” Shiro says, wishing it was more. “You’re better at languages than me.”

“Shiro try,” Keith says, laying both hands on the exposed part of Shiro’s tummy. “Galran hard.”

“So is English and look at you,” Shiro points out.

“Shiro do the learn,” Keith insists, always so quick to reassure him. “Learn more later.”

Later.

Shiro swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. There are only sixty days left until December first.

One thousand four hundred and forty hours left with Keith.

It’s not enough.

“You want coffee?” Shiro asks, reaching out to smooth his fingers over the tip of Keith’s ear. Immediately a full body shudder ripples through Keith as he purrs softly.

It’s a shameless distraction ploy, but any guilt he feels at avoiding the subject of his own imminent demise is belied by the sight of Keith’s smile.

“Keith want coffee,” he confirms, nudging his head into Shiro’s hand for more touching, which Shiro easily offers.

The future is hard, but this—being with Keith—this is easy. So beautifully easy.

“With extra creamer and sugar,” Shiro guesses, very aware of how Keith likes it now. The first few times Keith had simply drank it exactly how Shiro liked. It wasn’t until a few days ago he’d caught Keith staring at the creamer tablets and pushed it towards him, delighted when Keith dropped several more into his coffee before trilling with pleasure at the taste.

“Too much,” Keith protests, eyes half lidded when Shiro traces the shell of his ear.

“Not at all. I’ve got plenty of coffee rations,” Shiro tells him. It’s not the truth, but it's not exactly a lie, either. The coffee will outlast Shiro, and if by some strange turn of events Keith desires all the sugar and creamer tablets and they are gone before Shiro, he would happily drink black coffee if it meant Keith enjoyed his just a little bit more.

There are so few pleasures in deep space that the absolute job Shiro experiences being able to make Keith a cup of coffee is worth whatever sacrifices might be necessary later.

Later.

Later.

Later.

It’s a word Shiro has come to loathe, the five letters filling his stomach with lead.

“Food,” Keith says, poking Shiro’s belly button. “Food help.”

“Help what?” Shiro asks.

“This,” Keith says, reaching out to trace a finger across Shiro’s mouth. Before Shiro can ask what’s wrong with his mouth, Keith is making an exaggerated frown, his face all pinched.

“My face doesn’t look like that.” Shiro snorts.

“You do the frown,” Keith says, dramatically turning his own lips down. As much as Shiro wishes he could say he doesn’t pout, he knows it’s not true.

“I…uh,” he stammers.

“Food fix it,” Keith insists. “Food good.”

In Keith’s world, everything seems to be as simple as food, Perhaps because he is always hungry, no matter when they last ate or how much, or perhaps because he thinks Shiro needs more food. Whatever the reason, Keith is always eager for meal time, and the prospect of encouraging Shiro to eat. Not that he needs much encouragement to eat lately. In the last week, Shiro’s dwindling appetite has returned in full force. He wishes he could say it was a sign that his body was doing better, that the Garrison was wrong, but Shiro can feel in his muscles that it's not true.

Everything is harder—hurts more—but having Keith around does his body good in ways that are unquantifiable. Keith’s presence might not be able to stave off his impending end, but it's making his days better. It also turns out that being happier has increased his appetite, because the food rations that were supposed to last another nine months have already taken a major dent.

Before Keith, Shiro tracked his days with tally marks and lists. The longer Keith stays, the more pointless it all seems. The supplies will outlast Shiro, and whatever is left will be for Keith.

Keith, who is looking at Shiro with such concern that it sends Shiro’s heart into his throat. He’s got to stop worrying Keith unnecessarily.

“I’m hungry,” he tells Keith, which isn't half of what he is.

There is a long list of things Shiro feels right now—fear, happiness, confusion—but hunger is definitely in that mix, too, and this at least is easy to manage. The rest, not so much.

“Hungry good,” Keith sighs, as if all the weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “Shiro eat.”

“Eating involves getting out of bed, though, which means you will have to get off of me,” Shiro points out, tapping his fingers on Keith’s lower back.

Nodding, Keith rolls off Shiro and the bed, landing on his good ankle before standing upright.

“How's it feeling today?” Shiro asks, eyeing Keith’s stance.

“Is same,” Keith answers, lifting the foot and wiggling it.

Same is good. Same means healing. Keith’s been listening to his advice, resting it and allowing Shiro to massage it. In another two weeks, his ankle will be good as new and then Keith will be free.

They haven’t talked about what happens after Keith’s ankle is fully healed and the truth is Shiro doesn’t want to. He knows Keith can’t stay with him forever, because Shiro doesn’t have forever. But this, what they have right now, is everything Shiro has ever wanted and maybe he’s being selfish by not addressing the latter, but he can’t seem to care.

All Shiro cares about is Keith, making sure Keith heals and can get off this moon so that he is safe from the Garrison after Shiro dies. He doesn’t want to risk Keith’s healing journey or the odds of Keith leaving once he gets the chance with something as inevitable as Shiro dying.

When the time comes, Keith needs to leave him behind and get free of Kerberos, free of Shiro, so that he can be safe.

He must take too long thinking because Keith’s face takes on the beginnings of its worried, pinched expression and Shiro hurries up to ensure it doesn’t take center stage on Keith’s face. Or, as much as he can hurry given that his body does not actually want to move.

“Fuck,” Shiro curses, hating that he can’t simply hop out of bed like he used to be able to.

“Keith help,” Keith says, linking his fingers with Shiro’s and giving him a firm hand to help pull him out of bed and into a standing position.

Shiro wobbles on unsteady feet, gritting his teeth against the pain in the hopes Keith won’t notice his discomfort. He must, though, because he curls his hands around Shiro’s elbows to steady him and much as Shiro wishes he could pretend he didn’t need the support, he does. He averts his gaze, unable to deal with the worry he’s sure must be on Keith’s face.

“I’m just stiff from sleeping,” Shiro offers, because he knows without even lifting his eyes that Keith is watching him.

It's always the worst when he first gets up, the warmth of bed ripped away and the lack of movement in sleep making his limbs stiff. Once he gets moving around, things will get better. He hopes.

“Okay,” Keith replies, fingers still curled tightly around Shiro’s elbows.

The spasm is coming, he can feel it, and there is nothing to do but wait it out.

Shiro breathes through his nose.

He counts to ten.

He thinks of Keith’s smile.

By the time the pain has subsided, Shiro’s body is trembling and the only thing keeping him upright is Keith.

“I’m okay,” Shiro whispers.

This is a lie.

“Did you get enough? You’re not still hungry, are you?” Shiro asks.

It seems unlikely given that Keith had a coffee and two full meals this morning, but Shiro always wants to be sure. He strongly suspects Galra have a higher metabolic rate than humans given Keith’s resting heart rate is quite a bit higher than Shiro’s and his body is always so much warmer. If his suspicions are true, then Keith needs the extra calories to function.

“Keith full,” he answers, patting his belly the way Shiro first had when trying to explain what full meant. It’s endearing the way he thinks the hand gesture accompanies the word and Shiro’s never bothered correcting it because it’s so ridiculously adorable.

“If you’re sure,” Shiro says, draining the last of his coffee. It’s long gone cold, but he enjoys the little extra bit of sugar and creamer that always collects in the bottom of the cup. It’s one of the reasons his last drink is always cold; he doesn’t want the cup to be empty. Shiro used to drink two or three cups, but with Keith here, he’d rather limit himself to ensure there's enough to share.

Keith loves coffee so much that he would honestly forgo his own single cup entirely so Keith could have more, but Keith had given Shiro such a stern look when he tried that last week that Shiro hasn’t attempted it since. Cutting himself back to one a day is as much as he can withhold his own rations without rousing Keith’s suspicions.

“Did you want a second cup of coffee?” Shiro asks, watching Keith lick the rim.

Sheepishly Keith lowers the mug, eyes big behind the hair that’s fallen across his face.

“Is that a yes?” Shiro chuckles, delighted by the little flush of dark purple on Keith’s pale cheeks.

“Is too many,” Keith says, somewhere between a question and a protest.

“I think too much coffee is statistically impossible. Besides, I’ve got plenty,” Shiro tells him, which is not a lie. There is plenty of coffee—for one of them—and that one of them will be Keith if it's the last thing Shiro does.

It’s just coffee, Shiro whispers to himself, dropping another pod into the rehydrator.

It’s just coffee he thinks, adding in the exact number of creamer and sugar tablets Keith likes. the sound of the spoon clinking against the stainless steel cup echoing in his ears as the creamer pod bleeds into the coffee turning it milky white.

It’s just coffee, he tries, inhaling the aromatic scent and wondering if it will remind Keith of him when he’s gone.

“You’re welcome,” Keith grins, reaching for the cup like Shiro is giving him something precious.

It’s not just coffee.

It’s not.

“You’re welcome,” he replies automatically.

Immediately Keith’s ears twitch, the wheels in his brain turning as he mutters Galran under his breath. “I meant the thanks. I give the thanks.”

“I know what you meant,” Shiro smiles, the contentment as he watches Keith so full and bright he almost believes for a second it could keep death away.

“I give the thanks,” Keith says again, definitely more to himself than Shiro.

You give me everything Shiro thinks, overcome by the sudden need to touch Keith.

“It’s time for your ankle massage,” Shiro tells him.

If Keith is confused why they’re doing after breakfast and not after lunch like usual he says nothing, merely pushing himself away from the table and rising. He looks down at his coffee, then hesitates, the sweetest furrow between his eyebrows.

“You can bring it with you,“ Shiro assures him.

Normally they only eat at the kitchen, but it hasn’t been for any reason outside routine and Shiro’s desire for a change of scenery from laying on the couch or laying on the bed, but if Keith wants to enjoy his coffee from the comfort of the couch while Shiro rubs some cream into his ankle, it's most definitely okay with Shiro.

Anything Keith wants is okay with Shiro.

“Shiro drink?” Keith asks, offering his mug.

“I could have a little sip,” Shiro says, the same answer he always gives when Keith offers him some. He’d declined the first time, but the little pinch between his eyebrows let Shiro know Keith wanted him to share long before Keith possessed the words to explain it. He strongly suspects there’s a cultural tie to food because Keith always needs to share his extras with Shiro, even just a single bite or sip of whatever he has. Once Shiro has at least tried it, then Keith’s shoulders relax and he’s able to enjoy his extras without worry.

“Good?” Keith asks, slowing his steps to watch Shiro drink.

“Mhmm,” Shiro hums, the rush of creamy sugary coffee a sensory delight in every way. It’s definitely not the way Shiro drinks it, but the decadence of it reminds him of Keith and he savors the taste on his tongue long after he’s passed it back.

They settle on the couch easily—Keith curled into the corner with his coffee—shy smile hidden behind the mug as he pulls off one sock and then stretches his long legs out into Shiro’s lap.

There’s no need for Shiro to retrieve the pain cream from the med kit since he’s taken to leaving it on the side table for their daily massages. He grabs the tube, feeling the weight of Keith’s attention as he uncaps it, squeezing a generous amount into his palms.

“It’s cold,” Shiro warns, rubbing it between his own hands to try and warm it up a bit. The scent of camphor and eucalyptus is cloying, flooding Shiro’s nostrils as he smooths the cream into Keith’s ankle.

“Does this hurt?” Shiro asks.

“No, Shiro,” Keith answers.

The answer is always the same, but Shiro asks. He always asks.

“Good,” Shiro whispers.

This will hurt the physical therapists used to warn Shiro before using this on Shiro. When the experimental drugs and trials had failed, the Garrison had moved on to the muscle stimulating bracelet and the creams. Not a cure, but management.

Beside him Keith relaxes, sipping his coffee slowly as he breathes in deeply.

“I know it stinks.”

Keith frowns. “Stinks?”

“Stinks means smells…unpleasant. Bad. I know the cream is strong.”

“Strong is bad?” Keith asks, clearly trying to process.

“Not always,” Shiro says, rubbing his thumbs into the arch of Keith’s foot and then back up around his ankle. The skin there is still slightly swollen, tender, but infinitely less concerning than a few weeks before.

“Humans is hard,” Keith sighs.

“Suppose we are,” Shiro agrees, tracing circles around Keith’s delicate ankle bone. “It’s just that a lot of things are different from one person to the next. Humans as a species vary a lot.”

“Humans like Shiro?” Keith asks, wiggling his toes.

“Some maybe,” Shiro answers, grabbing the cream to squirt more into his palm. He’s not sure it's really necessary, but he’s not quite ready to stop. “I think….I’m pretty ordinary.”

“What is ordinary?” Keith asks.

“Technically the definition means nothing special or distinctive,” Shiro answers, knowing how much Keith loves definitions.

“What special?”

“Special means different. It means,” Shiro pauses, weighing his words. Sometimes his own self-deprecating tendencies make it difficult to explain things and he can see exactly what he’s walking into with no way out. He won’t lie to Keith. “Special means something or someone that is better or greater than what is usual.”

For long seconds, Keith is silent as he usually is when making sense of new words. Quiet until he’s not.

“No!” Keith all but yells.

“No?

“Big no,” Keith frowns, shoving his socked foot between Shiro’s back and the couch.

“What exactly is the big no?” Shiro asks, fighting back a smile.

“Shiro no ordinary,” Keith asserts. “Shiro is the special.”

“Oh,” Shiro exhales. “I’m not…I’m just—”

“Shiro special,” Keith interjects, as if he can simply will it into truth with his conviction.

“Okay,” Shiro whispers, wanting it to be true. “Okay, Keith.”

His answer must please Keith, because though his expression doesn’t change, his ears twitch. The ears always give him away. Keith’s body language tells Shiro everything words cannot.

“Your ankle is getting much better,” he tells him, capping the cream and placing it on the table beside them before grabbing Keith’s sock and carefully putting it back on so his toes don’t get cold. Not that Keith ever seems to get cold. Something about his physiology seems to defy the temperatures, which makes sense. Unlike Shiro, he was born in space and meant to be here. Shiro’s merely a foreign entity, biding his time in a place he isn’t meant to survive until the universe sees fit to end his stay.

“Because Shiro,” Keith answers, withdrawing the foot hidden behind his back to lay it in Shiro’s lap beside his other leg.

“Guess my first aid training finally came in handy,” Shiro grins, relaxing against the sofa and pulling Keith’s feet against his stomach. He likes the way Keith has no personal space, draping himself over Shiro at all times. It soothes something deep within and Shiro finds it easier to touch in return, his own fingers slipping beneath the elastic at Keith’s ankle so he can lay his fingers upon Keith’s bare skin. It’s not much, just the tip of two fingers against the skin above Keith’s sock, but Keith purrs and Shiro relaxes and everything else fades away.

It’s easy to forget about the Garrison, the bracelets on his wrist, the red circle around his last day.

Nothing matters except now except Keith. Wonderful, beautiful, special Keith.

“Shiro talk?” Keith requests.

This is a common request and one that Shiro loves to grant.

“Anything you want to know about in particular?” Shiro asks, running his fingers across Keith’s calf.

“Sradav,” Keith answers.

The word is familiar and though it takes Shiro a little longer than it might take Keith if the roles were reversed, he pieces together what he remembers from the conversation from a few days ago.

“Sradav,” he repeats.

A soft trill of pleasure sounds from Keith, the same way it always does when Shiro speaks Galran. If he had more days he’d dedicate them all to learning more, to finding out what other things make Keith happy.

If.

If.

“Like family,” Shiro continues, “only more, right?”

“Sradav,” Keith says, draining his coffee cup and lowering it to the floor before he makes a circular motion with his hands and then taps his chest. “Sradav nos kynkav.”

The best Shiro can infer is that it does mean family, but not in the same way it might for most humans. Not just blood, but the people in your circle, your clan.

“You have sradav?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods, twisting the hem of his shirt. “Krolia.”

“That’s your mother, right?” Shiro asks, giving Keith’s ankle a squeeze.

Again Keith nods. “Krolia is sradav.”

“I don’t have a mother,” Shiro says quietly. “Or I mean I did. But mine passed when I was very little. I was raised by my grandparents.”

“Humans have many names. Why?”

“The delineations, you mean?”

“Parent. Mother. Grandparent. Is all sradav. For Galra is Sradav. All.”

“Humans are different. We categorize everything, I guess. I mean, that’s family in the broadest of terms, but you’re right that we break it down a lot, too.”

“Confusing,” Keith grumbles, shoving his toes into Keith’s stomach.

“For what it's worth, I like your way. It’s beautiful.”

“Shiro enjoy Galra?” Keith asks,

“Very much,” Shiro confirms, lifting his shirt and covering Keith’s feet with it to help keep them warm.

Or maybe, privately, it’s just because he aches for the contact.

“Shiro is sradav,” Keith says, voice so low Shiro almost misses it.

Almost.

“What?” Shiro croaks.

“Shiro is sradav,” Keith repeats, louder this time. Loud enough there is absolutely no mistaking his words.

“Like…brother?” Shiro tries, desperately trying to make sense.

“What is brother?”

Shiro puffs his cheeks with air, blowing it out slowly. “Um…familial. When two people have multiple children, they’re siblings. So if my mother had more kids, I would’ve had a brother or sister, but it’s just me. There was only me.”

“Brother,” Keith tests out, as if the word is unfavorable on his tongue. “No. Sradav”

“Oh,” Shiro exhales. Suddenly his heart in his throat, the air not quite filling his lungs. “Keith.”

Slowly Keith pulls his feet out of Shiro’s lap to curl them under himself so that he’s on his knees, kneeling beside Shiro with a curious expression, eyes wide and ears alert.

“Vog kuhz thizik sradav.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Shiro whispers.

“Shiro is the special,” Keith offers, as that explains everything.

“Keith is special,” he counters, though special seems wholly too mundane a word to truly articulate how incredible Keith is, how precious.

“Do humans pick?”

“Pick what?” Shiro asks, heart thundering in his chest when Keth lowers his hand to Shiro’s chest, directly over his heart.

“Family,” he answers, palm resting directly over Shiro’s heart. “Shiro pick?”

“Sometimes,” Shiro answers, craning his neck to stare at the hand on his chest. “Family can be blood, the people you’re related to, but it can be the ones you pick, too. Friends or…or more.”

“More?” Keith questions, so close his breath ghosts over the side of Shiro’s jaw.

“Some humans pick a partner, a lover.”

Keith’s fingers spread wide, the weight of his palm steadying the erratic thrumming of Shiro’s heartbeat. “What is lover?”

Shiro’s heart very nearly beats out of his chest. He’s hyper-aware of the weight of Keith’s hand, the weight of his gaze, and the magnitude of his attention. He tries to stay calm, to think of the exact definition.

“A lover is a partner…romantic or sexual.”

Keith hums softly, fingering Shiro’s hoodie. “Is only one?”

“Sometimes,” Shiro says. “Some humans are polyamorous, or enjoy relationships with many people.”

“What Shiro enjoy?” Keith asks, bunching the material into his fist.

Shiro’s ears ring, his heart beating so fast it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m a one lover kind of guy. I enjoy monogamy, commitment. Being the only one for someone else.”

Even as he says these things, he feels like a fraud. He’s had so little dating experience on Earth. Between his medical issues and the rigor of needing to outperform everyone at the Garrison just to get the same chances, there was no time for dating, for a lover.

“I haven’t….that is,” but he breaks off, unsure why this is suddenly hard.

“Galra one.”

“One lover at a time?” Shiro asks.

Keith shakes his head, inching forward on his knees until he’s almost in Shiro’s lap.

“One forever?” Shiro tries, forgetting to breathe when Keith lifts his knee and seats himself in Shiro’s lap, moving Shiro’s hands to his back.

“Yes,” Keith confirms. “Galra is one.”

“One lover…forever,” Shiro whispers. “What if…what if something happens to them?”

Keith shakes his head, bringing his hand up to his own heart. “Is for always.”

“But…what if they die?” Shiro whispers, barely able to swallow his own spit around the lump in his throat.

It’s like the earth under him is spinning. He can see where this is going and he can’t stop it, can’t protect Keith from his own mortality and it terrifies him. He was supposed to protect Keith.

“No,” Keith hisses, fanged teeth on display. “No.”

“Humans die,” Shiro whispers, and it's the closest he’s come to telling Keith.

Perhaps the closest he will ever get.

“Keith,” Shiro trembles.

“Tell me,” Keith says.

“What do you want to know?” There is so much he will never be able to give Keith, but this at least Shiro can offer.

“Lover,” Keith repeats. “What is?”

“A lover is a partner of romantic or sexual—” but Keith cuts him off mid-definition.

“What mean?” Keith asks, and there’s a desperation there.

“A lover is someone you trust, you care about, that you take care of,” Shiro answers as Keith slides both hands up Shiro’s chest. Keith must hear Shiro’s heart racing, feel how hard it beats against his sternum.

It’s vulnerable and a little bit terrifying.

“It’s someone you love.”

Keith is quiet, smoothing his hands over Shiro’s chest. “Galra pick one.”

Shiro’s eyes water, the question he knows Keith wants him to ask on the tip of his tongue. “And Keith?”

“Keith pick,” he nods.

“Who?” Shiro asks, suddenly aware his entire body is trembling. “Who did Keith pick?”

“Keith pick Shiro,” he answers.

It’s not a surprise. It’s something more. Something that makes Shiro want to laugh and cry and scream.

“Keith, there’s something you need to know,” Shiro grits out, hating the way his body shakes. “I’m—”

“Srynknuht vris,” Keith whispers, hands gliding up to Shiro’s face.

“I—”

“Keith pick Shiro,” he repeats, holding Shiro’s face in his hands as he rubs his nose against Shiro’s. He rubs his nose against Shiro’s nose, his cheeks, his trembling mouth and the tears that run down the side of his cheeks.

“Shiro picks Keith,” he manages before a sob hitches his breathing, scrambling to grab ahold of him. “I pick you, too. I pick you.”

Keith trills, the sound rich and warm enough to keep the darkness from claiming Shiro’s heart.

“I pick you too,” Shiro cries. “I pick you.”

Keith slumbers peacefully, head pillowed on Shiro’s chest while he lies awake and stares at the reflection of the moon out the window.

When Shiro was a little boy, he used to think there really was a man in the moon. He’d tell him all his secrets, his dreams, and his wishes. His deepest, most fervent wish hadn’t been to live forever, but to get to space before he died.

For his entire life, Shiro thought if he could just get here that he could die happy, but he was wrong.

He was wrong.

“I want more,” Shiro whispers, holding him close. “I want Keith.”

There’s no answer.

There is no man in the moon.

“Shiro.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, looking up from the page of his notebook where he was attempting to draw Keith a very rudimentary tree.

“Keith think,” he announces, the lines of his face pinched up in an unexpectedly serious expression.

“Oh,” Shiro says, lowering the notebook and pen to the floor before giving Keith his undivided attention. “What are you thinking about?”

“Lovers.”

Somehow this is not what Shiro was expecting, but given that they didn’t actually talk much more about it the day before aside from cuddling, it's really not that surprising that Keith is still thinking about it.

“What about them?” Shiro asks, sitting up just a little bit straighter.

“You mine?” he asks.

“Yes,” Shiro confirms, reaching for Keith’s hand and linking their fingers.

“Humans enjoy holding of the fingers,” Keith says, more of a statement than a question.

“We do,” Shiro confirms. “I do.”

Keith nods, looking at their joined hands. He traces his fingers over the arch of each of Shiro’s knuckles.

“You look like you’re thinking awfully hard.”

“English hard,” Keith sighs.

“I’m sorry I haven’t learned more Galran,” Shiro apologizes, wishing he had Keith’s gift for languages. It might be easier to bridge the gaps if Shiro understood more than just a few words.

“Galran is hard,” Keith says. “Shiro perfect.”

“Okay, Keith,” he grins, knowing better than to argue with Keith when he pays him a compliment. He’d tried it once and Keith had pinned him to the bed purring until Shiro agreed. Which, in hindsight, had actually been kind of amazing.

“There’s something, though, something you’re thinking of that you want to understand more about, right?” Shiro guesses.

Keith nods, lifting their joined hands he can scent at the inside of Shiro’s wrist, nose butting against the metal bracelet from the Garrison.

“And it involves things lovers do?” Shiro asks a bit breathlessly.

“Mhmm,” Keith hums.

Sometimes it's like this, not so much Keith asking questions or parsing language, but Shiro trying to guess what he’s thinking. It’s not often very hard. Keith’s an open book, his expressive eyes and ears giving away his innermost thoughts.

They do now, big beautiful violet eyes turned on Shiro as he noses into the pulse point at Shiro’s wrist.

“What do Galra do with their lovers?” Shiro asks.

“This,” Keith answers.

“Scenting?”

“Hoklev,” Keith whispers, offering the Galran word for it.

“Hoklev,” Shiro repeats, smiling when Keith purrs with delight.

“Hoklev is one,” Keith utters, bringing the inside of Shiro’s wrist to his lips. He doesn’t kiss it so much as breathe him in.

A thought suddenly occurs to Shiro. “Wait, you did this that first day when you woke up.”

“Yes,” Keith confirms, his breath warm against the delicate inside of Shiro’s wrist.

“Does that mean…but then,” but he trails off, head swirling with the implications. If scenting is how a Galra shows affection to their mate, then things have been far more intimate than Shiro realized and for far longer. “So you knew then?”

“Keith pick Shiro,” he utters, so calm and steady in his conviction.

Shiro reels. “Keith.”

“Shiro.”

“So the scenting is…special?”

Keith nods, lowering his face until it’s pressed against the side of Shiro’s neck. He scents again, pleasure blossoming in Shiro’s chest as the full weight of what’s been happening between them unfurls.

While he was busy trying to figure out what was happening, Keith had already decided. It’s steadying to realize one of them is so sure. Shiro is always stuck worrying about the future that he forgets that the now is just as important.

Later is no guarantee, but right now is real.

Keith is real.

Slowly Keith pulls back, the soft rumbling of pleasure still sounding in his chest as he noses into Shiro’s cheek. “What humans do?”

“Oh, we….we…do lots of things. Kiss.”

“Kiss?” Keith queries, ears quirked up.

“Lovers kiss,” Shiro confirms, dragging his knuckles over the swell of Keith’s cheek.

“What is kiss?”

“A press of lips. We put our lips together and…well, that’s it I suppose. It feels nicer than it sounds.”

“Shiro enjoy the kiss?”

Ears burning and heart racing, Shiro nods. His own experience is so embarrassingly small and lackluster, but the Venn diagram of things he’s experienced and things he wants has Keith firmly at the center.

“I enjoy kissing,” Shiro says.

“Show Keith?” he prompts.

“Show you how to kiss?” Shiro asks, and though he's quite certain this is what Keith means, it feels important to be sure.

“Keith lover,” he whispers, spreading his knees wide as he seats himself more firmly in Shiro’s lap. “Teach me.”

“Teach you,” Shiro echoes, mouth falling open.

“Keith learn,” he says, dark hair falling into his pretty eyes when he leans forward, fingers smoothing over Shiro’s mouth with wide-eyed curiosity. “Keith learn the kiss.”

It is quite possibly the most surreal moment of Shiro’s life, and one of the most wonderful.

“You’ve got to get close,” Shiro tells him.

Immediately Keith’s face is butted up against his own, their noses pressed together with Keith’s eyes wide open. It’s a frankly soul-exposing level of eye contact and Shiro wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s so very Keith.

“Relax and bring your mouth to mine,” Shiro murmurs, reaching up to rest his palm at the back of Keith’s neck.

Quietly Keith purrs as Shiro gives a gentle pull until Keith’s mouth is against his. Keith’s spine stiffens, his hands fisted tightly in Shiro’s shirt as he holds his breath.

“Relax,” Shiro whispers, sliding his fingers up into Keith’s hair.

Keith’s purring increases tenfold when Shiro exhales into the kiss, the soft exchange of breath as their lips rest together.

The kiss is chaste, innocent, yet it sets Shiro’s heart soaring.

Shiro prolongs the kiss as long as he can, until his lungs ache with the need to breathe and he’s forced to pull back. He leaves his fingers in Keith’s hair, palm cradling the back of his head as he smooths his fingers through Keith’s hair.

“I was your first kiss,” Shiro marvels, awed at the intimacy and trust Keith affords him. It is a gift more precious than he deserves, but oh, how he wants to be worthy of the way Keith is looking at him.

Keith doesn’t move, simply staring at Shiro as he brings his fingers up to touch his own mouth.

“Was it okay?” Shiro wonders aloud.

“Kiss,” Keith utters, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Shiro says, unable to stop petting Keith’s hair. “Does Keith enjoy kissing?”

“Yes,” Keith confirms, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

“There’s another kind,” Shiro tells him, heart skipping a beat as he imagines it.

“More?”

“Mhmm, it’s like what we did, but with tongue.”

Keith blinks, poking his tongue out like a puppy before leaning forward. Before Shiro can explain, Keith’s licking across Shiro’s lips and then pulling back.

“Um, not exactly like that,” Shiro tells him.

“Vrox,” Keith mumbles, peering at Shiro owlishly. “Teach Keith?”

With a soft exhale, Shiro nods. “It’s like this.”

It’s been a long time since Shiro kissed anyone like this, longer still since he felt the ache of desire he feels now, pleasure and arousal swirling as he presses their lips together. He waits for a breath, until Keith relaxes into the press of lips before he slips his tongue out, pressing it into Keith’s mouth.

Keith’s entire body tenses and for a flash Shiro thinks he doesn’t like it, ready to pull out of the kiss.

“More,” Keith whispers, tone unnaturally tight.

“Relax,” Shiro tells him, giving the back of Keith’s neck a gentle squeeze. “Breathe.”

When Shiro presses their lips together this time, Keith’s mouth opens easily, his entire body arching into Shiro’s when Shiro slips his tongue deeper, licking into Keith’s mouth with unrestrained purpose. Keith’s mouth is warm, inviting, and he tastes like coffee.

“More,” Keith groans, bumping his forehead against Shiro’s as he tries to deepen the kiss.

“Shhh,” Shiro soothes, bringing his other hand around to Keith’s back. He slips it under Keith’s shirt, spreading his fingers wide and rubbing his palm up and down Keith’s bare spine.

Careful of Keith’s fanged canines, Shiro slips his tongue into Keith’s mouth again, delighting in the way Keith trills and squirms. He does it again and again, until his jaw aches and he can barely breathe and Keith’s malleable in his lap, a ball of purring pleasure. When Shiro finally pulls back Keith’s eyes are glassy, mouth hanging open.

“Beautiful,” Shiro whispers, tipping his forehead against Keith’s as he struggles to catch his breath.

Keith’s chest heaves as he strokes his hands all over Shiro, his arms and his neck, his hair, purring and trilling so loud Shiro can feel the vibrations of Keith’s pleasure.

“So,” Shiro whispers, “what do you think of kissing?”

“Kissing good,” Keith grins, nuzzling into Shiro’s cheek. “Keith try?”

“Try wh—oh!” Shiro gasps, words turning into a moan as Keith pushes him into the couch and shows Shiro exactly how much he’s already learned.

“I think,” Shiro gasps, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a grunt, “you are the fastest learner alive.”

“Keith khimket,” he says, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.

“Yes,” Shiro nods, struggling to catch his breath. “That. Keith is good at everything.”

Keith preens, lowering himself over Shiro so that he’s on all fours above Shiro. He pauses, breathing deeply and letting out a stifled trill. “Shiro smell.”

“Oh,” Shiro blinks. “I um—”

Before he can apologize, Keith’s crawling down, sniffing at his chest and belly before pausing above Shiro’s dick. The sweats are half-tented, the closest to being hard Shiro’s experienced since being in deep space. They’d warned him an erection might be impossible for him once he came here, that the effects on his body mentally and physically might stave off arousal. He’d assumed they were right. For a while. Before Keith, he hadn’t jerked off, or really thought about sex. Even those early weeks sleeping close and being scented he’d felt nothing but warm contentment.

This isn’t like that.

Shiro’s dick is half-hard, though he’d assumed Keith might not notice given their position on the couch.

“Shiro smell new.”

“Oh,” Shiro swallows, heart speeding up as he realizes Keith can smell his growing arousal. “That’s, um, yes.”

“Keith smell?” he asks. He’s so polite about it, so curious as if it is completely normal to ask to scent Shiro’s crotch.

“Sure,” Shiro croaks, rising onto his elbows to watch Keith lower himself.

If Shiro thinks Keith will be content to simply sniff he’s wrong, because Keith drops his face into Shiro’s crotch and rubs his nose and cheek against Shiro’s erection as he breathes in deeply. Shiro tries so hard to have some self-control, to be still, but Keith does it again and it’s Keith’s beautiful face rubbing over his half-hard dick, albeit through layers of clothing, and Shiro can barely hold back his moan and he definitely can’t stop his dick from hardening.

Keith jumps, lifting his eyes to Shiro.

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbles, covering his face with his hands.

“Shiro?”

“Sorry,” he apologies again, his dick softening slightly from embarrassment.

“Humans different,” Keith whispers, crawling between the spread of Shiro’s legs. He pets Shiro’s thighs, never taking his eyes off Shiro’s face.

“It’s uh, well, when I’m aroused, my dick gets hard. Or, uh, in theory. It hasn’t actually happened since I got here, but now you’re you know…and we’re, yeah,” he trails off, realizing he isn’t making very much sense.

“Aroused,” Keith mouths, stumbling over the word.

“The scenting and the kissing is arousing,” Shiro tells him, ignoring the way the confession makes his ears burn. Whatever flare of vulnerability he feels being so candid is worth it for Keith.

Keith’s ears perk up. “Smell for Keith?”

Waves of embarrassment roll through him, swiftly replaced by relief that his awkward explanation is making sense.

“Yes, it’s because of you. For you.”

“For Keith,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply.

“You turn me on,” Shiro tells him, finding it surprisingly affecting to say the words out loud.

“Keith make Shiro umot.”

“Umot?”

Keith nods, crawling up Shiro’s body until he’s hovering over him and his nose butts against Shiro’s.

“Umot,” he whispers, staring at Shiro with a dizzying level of intensity. “Two is one.”

“Two become one,” Shiro says softly. “Like sex?”

“Sex,” Keith echoes. “Sex is umot?”

“Maybe,” Shiro replies, body tingling at the mere thought. “What exactly do Galra do during the, uh, the umot?”

“Much hoklev,” Keith answers, which is no surprise. Shiro’s realizing how central scenting is to how Keith experiences the world, and how he experiences Shiro.

“I enjoy the hoklev,” Shiro tells him, brushing his fingers over Keith’s neck.

Keith’s eyes flutter shut, the quietest trill sounding from him. “Is more,” Keith whispers.

“More?”

“English hard,” Keith confesses, eyes fluttering open. “Keith show?”

“You want to show me the umot?” Shiro asks, head swimming with a mix of curiosity and arousal.

“Shiro want?” Keith asks, ears flattening.

“I want,” Shiro hurries to assure him, letting his fingers glide up Keith’s neck and over the back of his skull so that Shiro can finger the tips of Keith’s ear. “I want anything you want. I want to be with you.”

The trill is louder this time, high pitched and needy as Keith presses his head into Shiro’s hand. “Shiro want Keith.”

“So much,” Shiro answers. “I want everything with you. I want to give you everything. You can have me, Keith. If you want me.”

Keith keens, crashing his lips against Shiro’s. It’s not a kiss, but it’s not quite scenting either. It’s almost like Keith isn’t sure which to do and ends up simply breathing into Shiro’s mouth with trembling lips and an eager heart.

“My Keith,” Shiro whispers, holding him as close and tight as possible. “I choose you, Keith. I choose you.”

The sound Keith makes isn’t one Shiro’s heard before. Not a trill or a purr or a sob, but something that makes goosebumps rise on Shiro’s arms. It’s primal and loud and he can feel it in his core as Keith digs his fingers into Shiro’s hair and pins him to the bed almost as if he’s afraid someone might take Shiro from him.

Shiro doesn’t know how to tell Keith it’s not a who but a what, that death will come for him soon, and not even Keith’s love will be enough to stop it.

“I’m yours,” Shiro soothes, the words as much for Keith as for himself. Death might be waiting on Shiro’s doorstep, but Shiro’s going to keep that door locked as long as possible.

Right now the only one he belongs to is Keith.

“And you’re mine,” Shiro adds, because this is equally true and important.

Keith makes the sound again, though it’s not as loud the second time, almost as if he’s trying to quiet it.

“Keith is Shiro’s,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the sound Keith makes.

The words must get through to Keith because he pulls back, rising onto his knees to remove his shirt, which he tosses to the floor followed by his pants, which he manages to remove without moving from between Shiro’s legs. The socks come next, stripped off and tossed aside until Keith is left laying beside Shiro on the bed entirely naked.

“Fuck,” Shiro says.

He’s seen Keith naked, of course, for showering and tending wounds and changing. None of those times felt like this, though.

The difference between seeing Keith naked and having Keith expose himself for Shiro’s gaze is infinite.

“Beautiful,” Shiro marvels.

“For Shiro,” Keith whispers, grabbing both of Shiro’s hands and laying one over each of his hearts. Beneath his hands Keith’s hearts race, every beat pounding against Keith’s ribcage and reverberating against Shiro’s palms.

What comes next feels natural, the shedding of Shiro’s clothing not so much exposing as revealing. There’s no insecurity as he pulls his shirt off, no worrying about the places he’s gone soft or the scars he bears. There’s nothing except an explosion of joy in his heart as Keith purrs loudly, rubbing himself against Shiro with seemingly no intention aside from touching.

“Umot,” Keith utters, the word echoing in Shiro’s ears as Keith’s touches become more exploratory, until his hand leaves Shiro’s chest in favor of touching him somewhere no one else ever has.

When Shiro cries out in pleasure, Keith tries to swallow the sounds with overeager kisses and whines as he guides Shiro’s hands down to his own most private place, guiding Shiro’s fingers lower. Keith’s biology is so very different and it’s a reminder that at his core Shiro is an explorer.

Doing what he does best, he rolls Keith onto his back and discovers him.

Hearing Keith’s cries of pleasure is revolutionary, his body unfurling for Keith like a flower awakening in spring. He opens himself, body and heart to Shiro as Shiro’s fingers travel into private folds, opening Keith up until Keith’s cock reveals itself in all its glory, as beautiful and unique as Keith. When Shiro takes him in hand Keith becomes a wild thing, pawing at Shiro and dragging him on top.

“Umot,” Keith cries, thrusting up as he drags Shiro down against him.

It’s exactly like sex and yet nothing like it. The movements of their hips as they rub together are familiar, but the sounds Keith makes and the way he touches Shiro are anything but, rubbing his face and mouth over Shiro’s neck.

When Shiro comes, it’s with a sob, his legs giving out on him as he spurts his release over Keith.

“Srynknuht vris,” Keith whispers, rolling them over so that Shiro is beneath Keith, hidden under him as Keith brings their mouths together and blows a puff of warm air into his mouth. He then joins their lips in a chaste kiss as Shiro’s lower half is coated in Keith’s own release.

Everything about Keith is warm and bright and so very alive.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers, surprised at how easy it is to say the words.

“What is love?” Keith asks, pulling back to peer down at Shiro.

“This,” Shiro tells him, as he reaches for Keith’s hand and brings it up to his own chest so that Keith can feel Shiro’s heart begin to slow. “This is love.”

“Sradav,” Keith whispers, pressing his forehead to Shiro’s. “Sradav.”

Unsure which of them is trembling, Shiro presses both of his hands against Keith’s chest, breathing in time with the beats.

Death might be coming for Shiro, but today he is safe and warm.

Today he is loved.

It’s cold when Shiro slips out of bed, the kind of cold that permeates Shiro’s bones and leaves an ache in its wake. The kind that makes Shiro want to burrow under the covers and wrap himself around Keith and never emerge.

Unfortunately for Shiro, today is report day and the last thing he wants is the Garrison poking their nose into his life because he chose cuddling his alien lover over doing his job.

Resigning himself to imminent discomfort, Shiro holds his breath as he slowly wiggles out of the bed, barely holding back a wince when his socked feet hit the floor and pain ricochets up his legs. He knows it's just the shock of temperature change combined with stiffness from sleep, but it hurts and it’s only the desire to not wake Keith that has Shiro able to silence the cry of discomfort that lodges itself in his throat.

Gritting his teeth he rises, slowly and methodically shoving his pillow into the spot where he just was. He’s not sure if it’ll fool Keith for long, but he hasn’t woken up yet and Shiro would prefer Keith slumber happily. There’s no point in both of them being awake at such a stupid hour.

As quiet as he can, Shiro shoves his feet into his slippers, pulling on an extra coat, beanie, and tech gloves before shuffling out of the bedroom.

For reasons unknown to Shiro, the communications log system is housed in a room entirely separate from his living quarters and requires Shiro’s biometric scan to get into the computer room, meaning he has to remove his gloves and endure the cold, making his fingers ache long enough for the lock to open.

Even the whizz of the door opening hurts Shiro’s ears this morning, which he tries to ignore as he yanks his glove back on and walks into the computer room. It’s impossible to be sure if it’s Shiro’s body that is actually worse at tolerating the cold or if it's merely the contrast of warmth and comfort he felt when entwined with Keith. Compared to the frigid temperatures he’s experiencing now, that makes it feel harsher than normal. Perhaps it’s both. Regardless, Shiro longs to get his over with and return to Keith.

“Shit.” Shiro winces as he drops into the communications chair, the cold of the metal beneath against his spine making it feel like his body is being stabbed by an army of tiny knives.

Focusing on the memory of Keith sprawled across their bed like a starfish, Shiro powers on the monitors and watches as streams of code flash across the screen. It’s easy to fall into routine once he gets all the systems started and logs into the Garrison’s remote transmission system.

To most people the strings of code would be meaningless, but Shiro’s not just a skilled pilot, he was top of his class in communications and every string of code on the screen is more than just numbers to Shiro. It’s a star, a moment, proof that the galaxies live.

Loath as Shiro was to leave the bed, the truth is there’s something Shiro loves about this part of his job that Shiro loves, in spite of the cold.

Knowing only he can do this, that he alone is responsible for transmitting data back to Earth that will one day be used for scientific research and navigation beyond the scope of what Shiro can even imagine, is inspiring. As Shiro codes the data and creates the weekly file for the Garrison, he breathes a sigh of relief.

What Shiro is doing here matters.

His life matters.

Maybe his name won’t be in the history books and because of the NDA he signed with the Garrison, no one will ever know it was him who sent the data, but it feels like sending a little bit of hope into the future. With every bit of code he types, his own pain and fatigue fade into the periphery until nothing is left but rock-solid focus.

Strictly speaking, the transmission process isn’t actually complicated, at least not for someone with Shiro's skill set and training, and in less than half an hour he’s compressed the files and sent the data back to Earth. The silence is deafening as he powers the monitors off, pushing the chair back beneath the desk and leaving the communications room without a second glance.

What Shiro does in that room matters, but there is something that matters more.

Or someone.

Shiro is slow to emerge from the communications room, unsure if Keith is awake or not yet. Judging by the lack of Keith’s presence when the door slides open and the relative quiet aside from the hum of the dehumidifiers and air filters, he’s likely still sleeping. A quick walk across his living quarters to check the bedroom confirms Shiro’s suspicions. There in their bed is nothing more than a messy tuft of black hair peeking out from beneath the heavy blanket Shiro covered Keith with earlier.

Something settles in Shiro’s chest as he strips off his extra coat and gloves, finding an unexpected wave of peace folding over him. It’s surprising really, given the grandeur of Shiro’s lifelong dreams, but it occurs to Shiro that nothing in his life has felt quite so beautiful or perfect as the sight of Keith sleeping in their bed.

Their bed.

The thought makes Shiro dizzy with pleasure.

Tiptoeing across the room, he peels the edge of the blanket back, heart skipping a beat when he sees Keith’s slumbering face, mouth open and dark eyelashes resting against pale purple cheeks. He’s beautiful, relaxed, and Shiro loves him so much he can hardly breathe.

He thinks of the future he can’t give Keith, darkness threatening his vision as he reaches out to trace the shell of Keith’s ear and then snatches his hand back for fear of waking him. With a shuddering exhale, Shiro forces the darkness away. The Garrison measured his days and Shiro is going to give every single one of them to Keith.

It hurts to think of the days that might come after. Of leaving Keith behind. There was a time where Shiro mourned for himself, for the life he wouldn’t live. Now that ache is replaced with something infinitely more difficult to process—Keith alone.

He might not be able to give Keith forever, but he can give now.

He can give Keith his heart with intention, without letting the future poison the last of their days.

Determined to make the most of every second with Keith, Shiro hurries back to the kitchen as an idea takes shape. Keith always wakes up hungry, reluctantly crawling from the warmth of their bed only for the promise of coffee and food. Perhaps, Shiro can bring it to him.

Bustling around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, Shiro warms up a few MRE meals in the rehydrator while he brews the coffee, delighting in the prospect of Keith’s surprised face.

He’s just thinking about the way Keith’s lips curl when he’s particularly happy when it happens.

It’s so swift and unexpected that Shiro has no time to prepare and can’t do anything but watch in horror as the tray of food and coffee he just prepared crashes to the floor in a mess, Shiro’s body following suit.

There’s a cry from the other room, Keith’s confused sleepy voice registering as Shiro crumbles to the ground in pain, curling in on himself as his bracelet buzzes.

“Stop,” Shiro cries, knowing what’s coming even before the holo projections flash.

Critical deficiency reached” his watch announces.

“Stop,” Shiro chokes out, dimply aware of banging from the other room.

If he had to guess, Keith fell out of bed, but it’s hard to focus on that when Shiro’s legs won’t move and the muscle spasm is so sudden and intense he can hardly breathe.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want it and he can’t stop it. Holo readings flash before his blurry eyes.

Oxygen: 97.6%
Heart Rate: 71 BPM
Blood Pressure: 93/59
Blood Type: Type O
Decrease in mean isokinetic strength: 22%
Loss of bone: 6.3%

“Stop!” Shiro screams, slamming his wrist against the ground in a pitiful attempt to stop what’s coming next.

It doesn't.

Nothing can stop it.

Projected date of critical body atrophy: October 22nd, his watch alerts loudly as Shiro curls into himself, choking on the sob that is stuck in his throat and suffocating him from the inside.

It’s not enough time.

He was supposed to have more time.

“Shiro,” Keith shouts, curling around him from behind.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro chokes, surprised at how easily Keith is able to lift him into his arms and off the floor. The way Keith holds Shiro like a baby to his chest, murmuring words in Galran that Shiro cannot understand.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro whispers.

“Just food,” Keith soothes, rubbing his nose into Shiro’s cheek.

Shiro is too tired to correct him. Too tired to cry any real tears. He is too tired to do anything but fall into Keith’s embrace and breathe him in.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, unable to say anything else as Keith lifts him from the ground like he weighs nothing, cradling Shiro to his chest.

Like a ship engine roaring to life, Keith begins to purr loud and strong, nuzzling the top of Shiro’s head. The sound does what words could never do, giving Shiro an anchor in the dark. Everything hurts, his heart most of all, but Keith is here and purring and he is not alone. He is not alone.

Closing his eyes, Shiro turns his face into Keith’s neck and breathes in the scent he’s come to associate with home and love and everything good in his life.

Nineteen.

Shiro has nineteen days left to live.

Keith holds him close and the tears finally fall down.

Nineteen days is not enough.

Chapter Text

When Shiro comes to, he’s lying in their bed covered in every blanket they own, including the two emergency thermal blankets Keith apparently found in the excursion kit shoved in the back of the storage closet.

“Shiro warm?” Keith asks, crawling forward.

“Be warmer if you were under here with me,” Shiro answers, hating the way his jaw quivers with the energy required to speak. “Why aren’t you under here?”

“Warm for Shiro,” Keith says, wringing his hands.

“S’enough to share,” Shiro tells him, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

He’s pretty sure he passed out, likely from low blood pressure if his earlier biometrics were correct. He feels less light-headed now, and he thinks maybe his blood pressure isn’t so low. He’s tired, though, tired in ways that make the effort of keeping his eyes open and the blanket lifted in invitation exceedingly great.

It’s clear Keith doesn’t need to be told twice, slipping beneath the blankets with a frankly impressive level of speed and dexterity. He doesn’t hover to the side, or hesitate about touching Shiro. Instead, he covers Shiro’s body with his own. Despite the chill that clings to Keith’s clothing, his skin is warm and Shiro lets out a full body sigh of relief when Keith scents at his neck.

“I’ll be better later,” Shiro whispers, perhaps too softly to be heard.

Shiro is not better later.

Nor is he better the next day, or the day after.

What Shiro initially believed to be a freak occurrence because of his low blood pressure turns out to have been not so much of a fluke, but rather the start of a steep decline in Shiro’s physical health.

Shiro doesn’t understand the words that Keith mutters when he listens to Shiro’s breathing and feels the pulse at Shiro’s neck for what seems like minutes on end, but it’s clear Keith understands something is wrong with Shiro and that it’s much more serious than before.

If Keith has thoughts about why Shiro suddenly cannot cross the living room without a steadying hand or why he needs Keith’s arms wrapped around him from behind to stay upright long enough to make coffee and food, he says nothing. Then again, neither does Shiro.

Despite what the language barrier prevents him from communicating, Keith seems to understand in his own way, gently adjusting his support to meet Shiro’s needs.

It helps to not have to try and explain what Shiro hardly feels capable of processing.

Somewhere between the things unsaid is a space where Shiro can just be.

“You’re so beautiful,” Shiro says, reaching out to skim his fingers over Keith’s cheek.

He feels good today. Or, good-adjacent. Better than he has since his fateful fall five days prior and while he’s not naïve enough to think it means he’s suddenly going to be fine, he is more than amenable about taking full advantage of wherever this little fit of strength came from.

“Shiro beautiful,” Keith counters, inching further into Shiro’s lap while nuzzling his cheek into Shiro’s palm.

The notion is foreign. He doesn’t feel beautiful. He feels like a piece of clay stretched too thin and cracking at the edges. He’s lost weight, clothing hanging off him in ways that make his body feel like it belongs to someone else’s and there’s an unnatural paleness to his skin. Yet somehow Keith looks at him like nothing about him has changed.

Keith looks at Shiro like he’s a man with a future and it’s easy to believe.

Under Keith’s adoring gaze, it’s easy to hope.

“Can I kiss you?” Shiro asks, gliding his hand around Keith’s head and down to rest at the back of his neck.

“Anything for Shiro,” Keith answers, parting his lips as he leans forward.

There’s such a simple pleasure in kissing Keith, in the languid slide of lips and the way Keith’s grown comfortable and bold. He still sometimes pulls back because of his fangs, or his kisses turn into more scenting or licking, but the sheer euphoria of sharing this with Keith makes it perfect no matter what form their intimacies take.

The last few days there’d been nothing but cuddling, but Shiro has energy to spare today, energy he wants to use on Keith.

When his hands grow curious, Keith’s noises crest, trills that flood Shiro’s ears along with the pounding of his own heart.

He slips his hand into Keith’s pants, pleasure spiking when Keith growls softly and tips them sideways on the couch until Shiro’s beneath him. He’s sweet, moving a pillow beneath Shiro’s head and tugging a blanket over them before Shiro’s hands continue to explore. It’s like making love in a fort, the dark safe and warm as Shiro strokes and touches, exploring Keith’s body with single-minded focus.

Through it all Keith’s sounds grow, little grunts and growls and purrs that urge Shiro on. When Keith comes a few minutes later, it's with a cry he stifles against Shiro’s mouth.

Greedily Shiro swallows down the sounds like a man drowning.

Maybe he is.

Drowning.

Drowning in Keith, in his scent and his warmth and his love.

Murmuring unfamiliar words, Keith scents at Shiro’s throat as he works his hand down the front of Shiro’s sweats. No sooner has Keith wrapped his long fingers around Shiro’s cock than Shiro is coming with a broken-off sob, digging his fingers into Keith’s back hard enough to leave a mark that will fade long before Shiro.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers.

And he does. He love’s Keith in a way he didn’t know he could love anything or anyone. He loves Keith fiercely and devoutly and with every fiber of his being.

“Krehlkut vhuz.”

“What’s it mean?” Shiro asks.

Keith swallows, shaking his head. “No words in English.”

“Okay.”

Keith shakes his head, grabbing Shiro’s hands and laying them over his heart. “Krehlkut vhuz.”

Beneath his fingers Keith’s heart thrum, strong and beautiful as Keith. There might not be words in English, but Shiro thinks he understands.

“I love you,” he repeats.

Keith smiles, something soft and sweet and Shiro exhales, breathing easier than he has in weeks.

Everything is okay. Shiro is okay.

As long as he can see Keith’s beautiful face he will be okay.

It’s dark. Too dark.

Dark in ways Shiro hasn’t experienced since he was piloting through the deepest, darkest reaches of space to get to Kerberos.

He blinks, wondering if he’s dreaming, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t do anything and Shiro can’t help but wonder if Keith shut the curtains that let in the soft glow of the moon. He never has before, but it’s the only explanation. Unless.

Unless.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, a strange buzzing filling his ears. He’s acutely aware of the way his clothing feels against his own skin, of the sharpness of Keith’s scent and the buzzing of the air filters.

All of his senses feel dialed up, except one.

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, voice too loud.

Beside him Keith stirs, body warm and languid from sleep as he curls into Shiro.

“Shiro?” he murmurs.

He sounds tired, sleep clinging to his voice, and guilt wars with rising panic.

“Did you shut the curtains?” Shiro asks, struggling to sit up. It’s difficult, his body trembling, but Keith is quick to get his hands under Shiro’s back to help guide him into an upright position.

“Shiro,” Keith tries, and there’s something in his voice that answers his question. It’s not pity exactly, but something equally painful.

“Did you shut the curtains, Keith?” He asks it again anyway, panic gripping his throat.

”No,” Keith answers.

“Is it dark, Keith?” Shiro asks, unsure why he’s not crying.

“No, Shiro.”

Shiro blinks and blinks, but nothing changes until he understands that he doesn’t need to ask more questions.

The Garrison told him this might happen, at the end. Space blindness, they’d called it. The unfortunate effect of increased intracranial pressure over a prolonged period could lead to the loss of eyesight when his body began to shut down. The beginning of the end. They warned him and yet he isn’t prepared.

Nothing could possibly prepare Shiro for being robbed of the sight of the one person in the universe whose existence gives him hope. It’s hard to believe when he kissed Keith on the forehead last night before he fell asleep that it was the last time he’d ever see him.

If he’d known he would have looked longer, harder. Would’ve stayed awake memorizing every curve and contour of Keith’s beautiful face in the hope that when this moment came Keith’s memory might shine brighter than the darkness.

“Shiro okay?” Keith asks, and for the first time, Keith sounds scared. He should be scared. Shiro certainly is.

There’s nothing but darkness where the shape of Keith’s face should be.

Shiro cannot see Keith.

Shiro is not okay.

“No,” Shiro whispers. “I don’t think I am.”

No tears fall, but Keith kisses away their ghosts anyway, murmuring soft words in Galran against Shiro’s skin as he pulls him close.

“Will you tell me a story?” Shiro asks.

He’s still lying in Keith’s arms, using Keith’s body as a pillow as he rests between the spread of Keith’s legs. The panic at realizing he couldn’t see had been great, and the only thing that had pulled Shiro’s mind out of the dark had been Keith’s physical presence caging him in on all sides. Keith’s body, his voice, his everything.

It’s been hours and they haven’t moved. Shiro’s not sure he ever wants to. If this is the end, he never wants to let go.

Never.

“A story,” Keith echoes, trailing his fingers against Shiro’s scalp.

“Mhmm,” Shiro hums, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s easier to pretend the darkness is his choice. “A story is like an account of past events, things about your childhood or an adventure you went on. I just…want to know more. If you have anything to share.”

“Keith has story,” he says, twisting Shiro’s forelock around his finger. The hair in front is long, longer than it’s ever been. All of Shiro’s hair is longer than it’s ever been. Just yesterday Shiro thought perhaps he should give himself one last haircut. That won’t happen now.

“I’d like to hear it,” Shiro says, rolling over so that his cheek rests over Keith’s chest, his arms wrapped as tightly around Keith’s middle as he can manage, which is not much at all.

“Story in Galran,” Keith tells him, adjusting his touch so that one hand now rests at the back of Shiro’s neck while the other smooths broad circles over his back. “Keith not know enough words.”

“I love listening to you talk in Galran,” Shiro assures him, pressing his ear harder against Keith’s chest.

Keith’s heartbeat is so strong, so loud. Louder than the dark.

“Thuht okeht krek vhoz,” Keith starts. As if he senses Shiro’s waning consciousness, he pitches his voice low, sliding one hand up into Shiro’s hair to cradle his head gently. Shiro doesn’t sleep, but he’s not exactly awake either, drifting somewhere in between.

As a child, Shiro had been afraid of the dark. His grandparents had hung plastic stars on the ceiling and put night lights in every room. Eventually he’d outgrown the fear. There was no place for a space explorer who was afraid of the dark.

He is afraid now.

The only thing that keeps him tethered is Keith’s voice.

The end is coming, but not today.

Not today.

“I can’t see,” Shiro chokes, the veneer of calm he was holding onto breaking like a dam collapsing under too much weight. He held it back as long as he could, but Shiro is only so strong.

“Keith here,” he soothes, squeezing Shiro’s hand so tight it hurts.

It hurts.

“I can’t see you,” Shiro sobs. “I want to see you.”

“See me,” Keith whispers, pressing his forehead to Shiro’s as he loosens his grip to place his hand atop Shiro’s to guide Shiro’s hand over his bare skin.

Shiro’s hands tremble as he traces familiar curves and dips, remembering the way his hands looked against the pale purple of Keith’s skin. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

Tighter.

Tighter.

“See,” Keith urges, guiding Shiro’s hands across his chest and up his throat to rest upon his face.

There’s a sob lodged in Shiro’s throat as he touches Keith’s lips, his cheeks, and his nose.

“See,” Keith whispers, pressing his forehead to Shiro’s.

“Keith,” he shudders, hands shaking as they trace collarbones and shoulders.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut so tight it hurts, waiting for the spots to form behind his eyes. It’s faint, like an eclipse, and Shiro’s head aches as he drags his hands lower, desperate to bask in Keith’s light.

“Keith here,” he repeats, voice steady and firm as crowds over Shiro, placing both of his hands at the top of Shiro’s head while his knees bracket Shiro’s sides so that he is hidden securely beneath Keith, as if Keith alone can keep the darkness away. Perhaps he can.

“See,” Keith repeats, the sweet cadence of his voice like a star in the dark.

Slowly, Shiro opens his eyes and there is nothing but darkness, but Keith purrs loudly bringing their bodies together Shiro’s heart manages something his eyes cannot—to see Keith.

“Shiro.”

“Yeah?”

“Shiro sleep?” Keith asks almost shyly, as if the fact that Shiro already answered isn't enough of an answer.

“No, Keith, I’m not sleeping.”

Keith shuffles, his nose pressing into the side of Shiro’s face so that when he breathes warm arm puffs into Shiro’s ear. He’s also got his arm and leg thrown over Shiro protectively as if Shiro might simply disappear from the bed. As if he possessed the strength to get up alone or the wherewithal to stumble around blind.

“What are you thinking?” Shiro asks, turning his face to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek. It lands on his eye, which isn’t exactly where Shiro meant to place the kiss, but a quiet purr rumbles from Keith as if the kiss was exactly where it was meant to be.

“Shiro say things.”

Shiro hums, unsure where this is going, but positive Keith will get there.

“Shiro say things and Keith…not understand.”

“What did I say?” Shiro asks, laying his lips upon Keith’s forehead.

“Humans die.”

“Yes,” Shiro whispers, holding Keith closer.

“What is die?” Keith asks, spreading his fingers wide at Shiro’s belly.

Shiro exhales slowly, weighing the words before he speaks them. Every one costs him, in more ways than one. “When all vital functions cease, and the body fails….we die. I’ll die.”

It’s strange to say it out loud. He’s thought about it so many times that it almost stopped feeling real. For all the thoughts, it occurs to him now he’s never said the words out loud, especially not to Keith.

“No,” Keith challenges.

“If I could change it, I would,” Shiro whispers. His voice shakes, alongside his body.

“Shiro no die,” Keith grits out, as determined as ever.

“Keith,” Shiro tries, but Keith shakes his head, digging his fingers deeper into Shiro’s flesh. If he could see Keith’s face, he suspects there might be tears. “Shiro no die.”

“I love you,” Shiro offers, because he can’t argue about this with Keith, but he won’t lie, either.

“Shiro no die,” Keith repeats, rubbing his face against Shiro’s.

There are wet spots on Shiro’s cheeks, but Shiro is not crying.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers, wishing it were enough.

“Shiro eat,” Keith says.

“M’not hungry.”.

“Keith not ask hungry,” he grumbles. “Keith say eat.”

“Oh, okay,” Shiro concedes.

“Keith make food,” Keith tells him, his knees bumping against Shiro’s thighs as he climbs into Shiro’s lap on the couch.

There’s plenty of space for Keith beside him, but Keith only sits in his lap. He’s not sure if this is for Shiro’s benefit or Keith’s, but every time Keith lets his full weight settle in Shiro’s lap, he feels a bit more alive.

“I could try to eat a little,” Shiro offers.

The prospect of eating sounds exhausting, and not at all appealing, but he hasn’t eaten since yesterday and he knows Keith is worried. Shiro doesn’t want to eat, but he will try for Keith.

“Shiro need food,” Keith says, knuckles bumping into Shiro’s chest as the sound of silverware scraping metal hits his ears. “Open.”

Doing as he’s told, Shiro opens his mouth, relieved when Keith offers only the smallest of bites. He chews slowly, the effort required to swallow inordinately great. His jaw aches and his throat muscles are sore and the flavor of the food isn’t exactly appetizing, because it tastes like Keith rehydrated gravy on top of stir fry.

“Open,” Keith prompts again.

When he gives Shiro a second bite, Shiro is positive this is what Keith has done. It’s definitely gravy on stir fry and it’s kind of horrible, but also the best thing Shiro’s even eaten because Keith, who has no idea how to make human food or work the rehydrator, somehow figured it out for Shiro.

“Is good?” Keith asks.

“Delicious,” Shiro answers. “Thank you, Keith.”

He doesn’t need to see Keith’s face to know how Keith feels. The soft purr of pride that rumbles out of him is enough for Shiro to know the effort he’s making now is worth it.

Keith is worth it.

“Keith has plan.”

“What plan?” Shiro asks, obediently opening his mouth for another bite.

“Good plan,” Keith answers. “Shiro need eat.”

Too tired to eat and question the plan, Shiro uses what strength he does have to finish as much of the meal as he can. It’s definitely not all of it, but he manages another five or six bites before his stomach protests and his head aches.

“Shiro eat?” Keith whispers.

This time Shiro can’t comply, shaking his head.

“M’tired,” he whispers.

“Shiro rest. Shiro need strength. Keith have plan.”

Too tired to point out that strength is exactly what Shiro doesn’t have, he says nothing, instead tipping his face into the crook of Keith’s neck.

“Tell me a story,” he whispers.

“What story Shiro want?” Keith asks, depositing the food on the table before manhandling Shiro so that he’s resting between the spread of Keith’s legs, head pillowed on Keith’s chest.

“One with a happy ending,” Shiro answers, entire body sagging with relief when Keith begins to purr beneath him. The sound is loud, the vibrations strong, and Shiro breathes easy, his eyes fluttering shut before Keith has even begun.

There’s no fanfare when it happens. No alarms sound. In fact, it’s quite anticlimactic.

One moment Shiro is struggling to roll over in bed to alleviate the numbness in his arm and the next, the medical alert and muscle stimulating bracelets simply slip off.

It’s not a surprise, if he thinks about it. He’s lost so much weight that the bracelets have been loose for weeks.

He picks them up, twists them between his shaking fingers and realizes the Garrison can no longer see him. They can’t see his heart rate or his oxygen. They don’t get to track his decline. They don’t get to know the moment he dies.

Beside him, Keith sleeps peacefully as Shiro drops both bracelets between the crack in the wall, a thrill of satisfaction flooding his veins at the sound of metal colliding with the hard floor hits his ears.

At least now the Garrison will no longer have his last moments.

Those are only for Keith.

Shiro can’t be sure what Keith is doing. He’s been bustling around all day. There are sounds he can’t make out and sounds he can. Doors and drawers opening and shutting and things being moved.

Keith only started when he thought Shiro was asleep, but the truth is that Shiro can’t sleep. The exhaustion might be great, but the pain is greater. It clouds Shiro’s mind and prevents him from truly resting. Still, he pretends in a pathetic attempt to give Keith a small reprieve.

Except Keith’s been out of bed too long now because the cold is seeping in, making Shiro’s joints throb and his bones ache. He holds off calling for Keith as long as he can, which isn’t very long at all.

“Keith,” he croaks.

Something clatters to the floor with a thud before Keith’s footsteps near.

“Shiro?”

Before Keith snuck out of bed, he piled all of their blankets on top of Shiro, along with several of the coats and hoodies, but Shiro cannot feel their warmth. He can feel nothing but the bite of chill.

“I’m cold,” Shiro whispers, shocked to realize that the frail voice he hears belongs to him.

“Cold,” Keith echoes, followed by the pitter-patter of his footsteps.

The bed dips, more cold air whipping against the sliver of exposed skin at Shiro’s neck and belly as Keith lifts the blanket and then he crawls under, wrapping himself around Shiro.

“Keith warm,” he soothes, and he is. There’s a chill to his clothing, but beneath that, Keith’s flesh is warm as ever and he slides his hands under Shiro’s jumpers to lay them over his chest.

“Sleep,” Keith whispers, nose pressed against Shiro’s temple as he breathes him in.

“What…what were you doing?” Shiro asks, shocked at how heavy his body feels now that Keith is here.

“Keith have plan,” he says. “Shiro sleep.”

“Slept…before,” he lies around a yawn.

“Prilnu,” Keith snorts, nosing into Shiro’s cheek. “Sleep.”

Shiro opens his mouth to protest but it’s useless, his mind slipping into dreamland before he’s even finished yawning.

Shiro sleeps.

Shiro dreams.

In his dream Keith sings, wrapping his body in robes of gold and carrying him through the end.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Shiro cries, clinging to Keith. “Don’t leave me.”

“Shiro.”

“Don’t leave me,” Shiro sobs.

“Shiro stay with Keith,” Keith soothes, cradling Shiro close.

It’s then that Shiro realizes he is not dreaming. Keith did not wrap his body in golden robes but pieces of his EVA suit. The undersuit that once fit Shiro as snuggly as a second skin hangs loose on his changed frame, the comfort layer over that even looser.

It doesn’t make sense.

Nothing makes sense and everything hurts and Shiro would cry but he doesn't have the strength.

“Keith,” Shiro croaks, voice small and broken. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

“Keith have plan,” Keith tells him, pressing a kiss to Shiro’s forehead before his helmet is gently set over his head and secured to his EVA suit.

It’s the last thing Keith tells him before Shiro is lifted from the ground and carried out the front door.

Death might be coming for Shiro, but it appears Keith has decided to take him first.

Every step Keith takes jostles Shiro, skin rubbing against the inside of his suit. It’s hard to be sure where he is or what’s happening. Everything is loud and dark.

The wind howls angrily at Shiro's helmet, making his ears ring as the cold tries to get in, but inside the suit Shiro is warm. The warmth comes at a cost, though. The weight of EVA suit makes him feel like his bones are being crushed and his lungs ache and the helmet is freezing when his head lolls to the side and his nose smashes against it.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers.

He wants to go home. He wants a hug. He wants to lay his cheek upon Keith’s chest and hear his hearts beating, to hear him purr one last time.

The wind howls and Keith can’t hear him.

No one can hear him.

“Keith,” Shiro tries one last time, but his voice is too small and the universe is big and Shiro is dying.

Shiro is dying

When they stop moving, Shiro is sure he’s reached the end, literally and metaphorically.

Keith lowers him to the ground and Shiro is too weak to cling to him, though his heart breaks into a million pieces to be out of Keith’s safe embrace.

Even through the many layers he wears and EVA suit, the frigid temperature of Kerberos’s surface stings and Shiro curls in on himself, gasping for breath as the cold permeates his entire body.

He didn’t know dying was so cold.

Shiro’s eyes are wide open but the world is dark.

His eyes are open and it’s dark.

So dark.

Shiro blinks and when he opens his eyes his grandmother is there.

She kisses the top of his head, stroking the hair off his forehead. When she leans down, he can smell the scent of fresh summer air on her dress. Her favorite blue dress. Shiro remembers it the way he remembers sunshine and the sound of his mother’s voice before she died.

The last time Shiro saw Baba in this dress he was nine years old and he’d accidentally burnt a hole in it trying to build his own rocket. When Shiro had cried, she’d kissed his head and whispered I love you more than the dress.

The dress went in the trash that night.

His Baba is dead.

And yet, here they both are.

“I’m scared, Baba.”

“Don’t be afraid, Takashi.”

“I am afraid, Baba. I’m so afraid.”

“Of course you are afraid, because you are human. When you stop being afraid, you stop living. Don’t stop living, Takashi. Don’t give up.”

“Baba, please don’t—“

She is gone before the words come out.

Or perhaps, she was never here at all.

There is light ahead, brighter than any star in the dark night. Illuminated by the glow is a silhouette of a man.

“Hello?” Shiro whispers.

There is no answer.

“Who’s there?” Shiro calls louder, clawing his way up onto his hands and knees.

“I’m waiting for you.”

“Who’s waiting?” Shiro asks, crawling towards the light. His knees ache and his fingers tremble and there’s a pain in his lungs he’s never felt before.

“Don’t be afraid, Shiro.”

“But I am afraid,” he yells, stumbling on all fours.

“I’m waiting for you,” the voice says again. “Let go.”

“I can’t let go,” Shiro chokes, knees giving out on him as he crashes to the ground. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave him. I’m not ready.”

“It’s time to let go, Shiro.”

“No,” Shiro sobs, dragging his body across the floor with his bare hands.

“Let go, Shiro. You’ve been so strong. It’s time to let someone else take care of you now.”

Shiro shakes his head, slowly inching himself closer to the light.

“Who are you?” he yells.

“You know who I am.”

“No I don’t,” Shiro protests, the closer he gets the further the light seems to fade.

“Yes, you do,” he says, stepping into the shadows. “Close your eyes now, Shiro. Let go.”

“But I don’t want to die,” Shiro cries, collapsing in a heap when his arms give out on him. He can’t crawl, he can’t cry, he can’t fight.

Shiro is so tired.

The end is here and Shiro can’t fight it back any longer.

The man in the shadows nears, but Shiro is too tired to lift his eyes. He squeezes them shut instead, imagining the shape of Keith’s smile. If this is the end, then Shiro will go on his own terms, with the memory of Keith to keep him warm.

“Shiro.”

Shiro closes his eyes tighter and thinks of Keith.

“It’s okay, Shiro. I’ve got you. I’ve got a plan.”

“Om Mani Padme Hum,” Shiro whispers as he is scooped up and carried into the light.

Death hurts less than Shiro expected.

“That’s because you’re not dead. Not exactly.”

“Then what am I?” Shiro asks, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re Shiro. My Shiro.”

Shiro blinks, the familiarity of the voice breaking through his mental walls as he struggles to open his eyes. “Keith?”

“Yes,” Keith smiles, smoothing his fingers over Shiro’s cheek. “Yes, Shiro.”

He’s beautiful. So beautiful.

“I don’t understand. Am I dead?”

“No, Shiro. You’re not dead.”

“But you’re here and I can understand you and where are we?” he asks, looking around. Everything is hazy, the edges of his vision blurred. The only thing he can see clearly is Keith.

“You have a lot of questions,” Keith laughs. “My beautiful, curious Shiro.”

Shiro’s heart breaks into a million pieces. Even in death, Keith is good to him.

“I told you, you’re not dead.”

Shiro gapes. “I didn’t say that out loud.”

“You don’t need to say it out loud here.”

“Where is here?” Shiro asks, startling when Keith links their fingers. Keith’s touch is solid, warm, and it sure doesn’t feel like being dead.

“Again, not dead,” Keith says. “And here is, well, hard to answer. Technically your body is in the caves right now. The same ones where you rescued me. Mine too, actually. As to where we are, that’s a little tricker. In Galran, we call it the Vhemuk. It means the ‘in between’.”

“In between what?”

“That depends. It’s different for everyone. Quintessence is a powerful thing.”

“Quintessence,” Shiro echoes. “Is that what the caves are made out of? The Garrison seemed interested in it.”

“Many people are interested in Quintessence. This moon has huge caverns of raw Quintessence. Because of my Quintessence sensitivity, I was tasked with watching it when your Garrison began building a base here. My job was to watch from afar and report back to my people, but my ship got caught in a solar storm and I crashed.”

“So that’s why you were here?”

“I thought the Quintessence needed protecting, but the Quintessence wanted me to protect you.”

Shiro blinks, trying to make sense of it all.

“You look confused.”

“I am,” Shiro confesses. “I feel like it should be about the Quintessence, but mostly it's about why I can understand you.”

“Oh, now that’s easy. We’re in your mind.”

“We’re what?”

“Well, technically our physical bodies are in the cave because of the concentration of raw Quintessence, which is the only place I can try to save you. But we’re also in your mind. So it’s not that we’re speaking English or Galran. We’re actually not even speaking at all.”

“That makes my head hurt,” Shiro says, staring at Keith’s fingers twined in his own. It feels so real.

“It is real,” Keith answers.

“But you said it's in my mind.”

“Of course I did,” Keith says, “but that doesn’t make it any less real. I know it’s a lot to take in. I was raised for this. Quintessence is precious to the Galra, and those of us with sensitivity are trained from birth.”

“You’re trained from birth to rescue terminally ill humans who get themselves sent into deep space to die.”

“I was going to say we’re trained to harness the power of Quintessence to manipulate the balance of power in life and death, but that works, too.”

“What are you, a death wizard who can do magic?”

“It’s not magic,” Keith tells him, squeezing Shiro’s hand.

“What is it?” Shiro asks.

“What do you think it is?”

Shiro thinks about his grandparents. About their faith. He thinks about the prayers he whispered in his most desperate moments. He thinks about finding Keith when he’d all but given up and the way Keith’s presence gave him strength. There are words for these things, but none of them properly encapsulate the power it holds.

Maybe this is like that.

“You’re incredible.” Keith smiles.

“Me?” Shiro gapes. “You’re the incredible one.”

“I’m not special,” Keith scoffs. “I’m just—”

“The most precious thing in any universe,” Shiro interrupts.

“Pretty sure that’s you,” Keith counters.

“No it’s definitely you.”

“No, you,” Keith tries.

“Are we having our first fight?” Shiro asks.

“Guess we are.” Keith grins. “And I win.”

There’s a curl to his lips, dark hair falling into his eyes, and Shiro is overcome by the depth of his love.

“Oh,” Keith exhales. “You said…but I didn’t know. We don’t have that word in my language and I just didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Shiro whispers.

“I didn’t understand what love was. I do now.”

“I love you,” Shiro says, in case it’s the last time.

“It’s not going to be the last time,” Keith tells him, “not if you choose.”

“Choose what?” Shiro asks, a strange buzzing filling his ears.

“You need to choose, Shiro.”

“Choose what?” Shiro asks, vision blurring.

“It takes a lot of strength to harness the Quintessence. I can’t stay here much longer, Shiro. You need to choose.”

“Choose what, Keith?” he asks, confused when Keith’s hands are no longer in his.

“Don’t be afraid, Shiro.”

“Keith, don’t leave.”

“I love you, Shiro.”

“Keith,” Shiro screams, panic making the edges of his vision blur. Keith’s face is fading, the lines softening and his light diminishing.

“You need to choose, Shiro,” he says, his voice sounding too far away.

“Choose what?” Shiro yells, trying to grab Keith, but his hands go right through him.

“Don’t be afraid, Shiro.”

“What if I am?” Shiro asks, desperately trying to grab ahold of Keith.

“I’ll catch you, Shiro. It’s time to let go.”

Shiro chokes on a sob, watching the light fade as Keith disappears until Shiro is alone, the darkness coming in from all sides.

I’ll catch you, Shiro. It’s time to let go.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers as the dark closes in.

When the darkness surrounds him, Shiro doesn’t scream or cry or fight. He does something he has never done before.

He lets go.

He lets go and trusts Keith will catch him.

Shiro’s eyes fly open with a shuddering gasp, oxygen flooding his lungs as he blinks away bright spots before his eyes. He’s in the cave, with someone leaning over his body.

“Keith?”

“Shiro,” Keith gasps, his hands on Shiro’s face, his neck, his chest.

The glow of the crystals is dim, but it's still bright enough it hurts Shiro’s eyes and he nearly weeps with joy.

His eyes hurt.

His eyes hurt and he is alive and he can see.

“Shiro okay?” Keith asks, frantically trying to find Shiro’s pulse.

“Keith,” Shiro says, sitting up so quickly his head spins.

“Shiro rest!” Keith shouts, trying to push him down, but Shiro is stronger.

Shiro is stronger.

“I’m alive.” Shiro laughs, nearly delirious with relief as he pushes himself into an upright position.

There’s no pain when he does it. No ache in his joints nor trembling in his muscles. Shiro’s body feels good, good in ways he’s never experienced even on his most pain-free days.

“Shiro rest,” Keith grumbles, pushing at his shoulders, but Shiro shakes him off.

“I feel fine. I feel good. Keith, you saved me.”

Keith’s ears twitch, his cheeks flushed dark purple. “Shiro choose…Shiro choose Keith.”

“Yes,” Shiro nods, thinking of the moment he gave in. The moment he chose to trust Keith. “And you saved me.”

The flush deepens. “Keith not—”

But Shiro interrupts him with a kiss, fingers curling around the back of Keith’s neck as he pulls him close and breathes him in. When they kiss, it’s slow, gentle—the delicate press of lips, the sharing of breath, the sweet ecstasy of being alive.

“You saved me,” Shiro whispers against Keith’s lips.

“Keith save Shiro,” he agrees, tipping his forehead against Shiro’s.

Experimentally, Shiro wiggles his fingers and then stretches out arms, shocked at the utter lack of pain. He twists his torso, waiting for the spasm in his back, but nothing comes. There’s no pain, only the faintest hint of fatigue from lying on the floor of a cave.

“Keith,” Shiro gasps. “Keith, nothing hurts.”

“Quintessence,” Keith answers.

“You did this,” Shiro marvels, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Keith had told him there was power in Quintessence, but this is so far beyond anything Shiro could’ve ever imagined. “You healed me.”

“Heal,” Keith echoes, with a sweet cock of his head.

“Is it gone forever?” Shiro asks, unsure if it’s he or Keith who is shaking. “Will it…come back?”

“Keith heal Shiro,” he answers, lowering his palm to Shiro’s chest to rest it over his heart. “Quintessence.”

“I feel strong, Keith,” Shiro tells him, covering Keith’s hand with his own.

“Keith have plan.”

“Yeah, Keith. You had a plan,” Shiro murmurs, kissing the top of his head and pulling him close.

It’s only when he rests his cheek against the top of Keith’s head that it occurs to Shiro he’s not wearing the helmet for his EVA suit. It probably should’ve occurred to him earlier, like when he woke up or kissed Keith, but coming back from the dead has a way of rattling your observations.

“I don’t have a helmet on.” Shiro gasps, touching his face. “How am I breathing?”

Keith turns his big eyes on Shiro, his smile widening. “Keith give Shiro.”

“What did you give me, Keith?”

“Krizhuht,” Keith answers, pulling Shiro’s hand to his chest.

Beneath his palm Keith’s hearts beat, his life thrumming as vibrantly as Keith himself. Shiro suspects he may never entirely understand the how of what Keith has done for him, but what he does understand is the why. He understands the way Keith’s hearts beat and what the expression in his eyes when he looks at Shiro means.

Shiro is loved.

Shiro is alive.

“Is there anything else you might want?” Shiro asks, turning in circles in the living room. After so many months here, it’s strange to realize he will be leaving soon.

Leaving and never coming back.

“Coffee,” Keith answers, rising onto tiptoes to rest his chin on Shiro’s shoulder from behind.

He reaches up, smoothing his hand over Shiro’s hair, the entirety of it now as pale as the surface of the moon from the Quintessence. Shiro was a bit self-conscious at first when he realized his hair turned white, but Keith’s been effusive in assuring Shiro it’s beautiful and every time he touches it like he is now, twisting a long bit around his finger, Shiro feels like maybe it’s true.

“I have already commandeered the remainder of the Garrison’s coffee supply, don’t worry.” Shiro laughs, patting the side of the excursion pack where the last sixty-two coffee pods are tucked securely in the bottom of the bag, along with the last canister of creamer and sugar tablets.

Considering the Garrison thinks Shiro is dead and will be keeping all of his pay stubs for the time he was here, he doesn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt of pilfering from the Garrison’s supplies.

Behind him Keith hums, slipping his hands around Shiro’s waist and beneath the hem of his hoodie to rest his hands on Shiro’s bare tummy. He gives it a squeeze, purring. In the last few weeks since Keith saved him, they’ve done nothing but laze around the the base, cuddle, eat, and have a lot of sex. Turns out not being dead or in crippling pain does wonders for Shiro’s appetite and sex drive, both things Keith eagerly indulges.

They’re pushing their luck now, though. With the bracelets off and the transmissions no longer being sent, the Garrison thinks Shiro is dead. They likely sent someone new to replace him the day his bracelets stopped tracking. The time it takes for someone to get from Earth to here means Shiro felt safe staying here for a few weeks to recharge and build his strength, but their time here has come to an end. It’s not safe any longer, and more importantly, Shiro can feel it's time to move on.

“Shiro sad?” Keith asks, turning his lips against the side of Shiro’s neck in one of his not-quite-a-kiss half-kisses where he merely breathes Shiro in, lips against Shiro’s throat.

“Why would I be sad?” Shiro asks.

“Shiro leave home,” Keith whispers, tightening his hold around Shiro’s waist.

“No, Keith,” he says, turning into the embrace so that he’s face to face with Keith. He reaches for Keith’s chin, tilting it up. “You are my home. Wherever you go, I will follow.”

Keith trembles. “Shiro alone. No humans in Daibazaal.”

“I could never be alone with you.” Shiro draws his thumb over the swell of Keith’s bottom lip before kissing him

With a shudder Keith surges into the kiss, hands scrambling against Shiro, who manages to gentle the kiss, giving the back of Keith’s neck a firm squeeze until Keith settles. There’s an anxious energy in Keith that can’t be quieted with just this, but Shiro’s learned the ways to soothe Keith’s nerves and this is one of them.

“Sradav,” he murmurs against Keith’s lips, delighting in the way the tension melts out of Keith’s body with a single word.

“Shiro,” he purrs.

“Trhruz snav,” Shiro soothes.

Keith’s inhale is sharp, eyes widening as he pulls out of the kiss and turns his violet gaze on Shiro. “Shiro?”

“I’ve been practicing.” Shiro grins, twisting some of the long hair at the back of Keith’s neck around his fingers. “Breru semkez kros.”

Keith’s ears twitch as he trills softly. “You want learn Galra for Keith?”

“I want to do everything for my Keith,” Shiro tells him. “Besides, we’re going to Daibazaal and I need to make a good impression on your mother. Do you think she will like me?”

Somehow asking the question out loud sends a spike of nervous energy through Shiro. For all he’s joking about the situation, he really is quite nervous to meet Keith’s mother and the rest of his family. His sradav.

Keith huffs. “Everyone like Shiro.”

“Everyone feels like a slight exaggeration.” Shiro laughs, some of his tension fading. It’s hard to worry about what anyone else might think of him when Keith’s affection is so loud and bright.

“Everyone,” Keith repeats, face screwed up in a very serious expression. It’s hard to take it seriously when he’s purring so loud, though.

“You’re so cute,” Shiro tells him, kissing the tip of Keith’s nose.

“Keith no cute,” he protests.

“Keith is very cute,” Shiro challenges, kissing his nose a second time.

Keith pretends to grumble, but judging by the increase in his purring, he doesn’t actually mind the compliment at all. Much as Shiro would love to spend the day complimenting Keith, or taking him back to bed, neither of those are an option. Based on his calculations, someone from the Garrison could arrive any day now and the last thing he wants is someone finding either one of them.

Keith’s ship is fueled and charged, already packed with the rest of Shiro’s belongings and supplies they decided to borrow from the Garrison. The only thing the ship needs now is them.

“It’s time to go,” Shiro tells him, stepping back to grab the pack and throw it over his shoulder.

Keith nods, moving beside Shiro as they make their way to the door where Shiro pauses, hand hovering over the biometrics scanner to unlock the door. Once they leave, there will be no coming back.

“Shiro?”

“I’m okay, Keith,” he says, and it’s the truth. In fact, it just might be the most true this statement has ever been.

“Okay,” Keith says, watching Shiro unlock the door.

A gust of cold wind whips through as the door opens, the soft glow of the moon beckoning them out. Inside the base is Shiro’s past. Outside this door is his future.

Reaching for Keith’s hand, Shiro links their fingers and steps over the threshold.

He doesn’t look back.

They told Shiro nothing can breathe in space.

Shiro breathes.

Shiro lives.