the night reeks of old pine and termite shit and the faint bitter layering of old cigarette ash. in the dark, there's nothing but your own lungs at work and the cot creaking metallic beneath you, noisier than any barracks-issue. constellations smear the windows of your little cabin like crushed flies; moonlight steeps the dank floorboards blue, blue, blue-green-blue, flecking shadows across a ragged plank, magazines stacked on folders, the old workstation you used to bang on as a kid, all clacking keyboard, a heavy-headed monitor, and a system that coughs static and dust every time it boots up. in the still and the black outside, things are scuttling and slithering and prickling needles high; but nothing dreams out here but you.
close your eyes. press your palms flat against the bed. military routine does something to you -- files you down to gristle and grim conviction, works you until your bones grind through patterns in reflex. tomorrow's chores: collect water. check the generator at dawn, before the day goes bone-bleaching. track the weather report for the week to measure out your next restock in town. carve open one can of soup or beans to take with the bread before it goes bad. read the new magazines out on the porch 'til just before noon. there's a fleet's worth of stories buried in this state: warped little skeletons pulled out of the thin, glassy lakes up where civilisation clusters; radioactive coyotes bounding out of the canyon where they used to dump nuclear waste; a man with the wings and head of a moth who defends hitchhikers on the backroads.
they say the egyptians believed that the sky wasn't real space -- it was a woman, a goddess, who covered the planet with her body. according to the mythology, the stars were just a part of her skin. they still made pretty good progress on working through star tables, though -- and they tracked the nile's flooding based on an astronomical calendar. don't ask me how that fits together.
this is not a desert story, nothing to clip out of a newspaper or a magazine's gloss. you are not dreaming the easy curling voice, the railing's clank beneath your knotting fingers, the history of a people who watched the stars and crumbled away to dust. the dream is that there's someone else to tell it to you.
but it isn't the story that matters -- rumors come and go, but how many times have you heard that voice? a hundred. a thousand, in countless ways -- through daylight, yawning bright; echoing down the barracks halls, tugging at your rucked-up collar (take it easy, cadet); skimmed across the library's rooftop through sand-scrubbed shadows and silence. i should've known i'd find you up here. a laugh, warm as a firing engine, and the press of his palm against your spine. sorry i'm late.
that's a story too. here is the dream: the way you close your eyes. how your hands bunch tight like there's a railing out here to hold onto.
[ when he wakes to the deepest silences of the desert night, a stray coyote barking, or the winds kicking up the red grit and sand, it feels a little bit like waking up from a dream. tonight, the sensation is different. the world doesn't seem to settle for it, to reorient itself with this empty frustration he can feel inside of himself. he feels small.
there's old wood and a reek of something like oil, a scent like the earth that surfaces from the cot every time he rolls over and rustles dust. but no, that isn't him. he feels like an intruder, he feels like he lives here, and there's static in the air, the world sitting strangely blue behind the quiet folds of cloth covering the windows; he thinks about the radios and the machines tucked away in the corner of the little room, and then he remembers that they've been off for years.
it's a strange mix of feelings. the nascent tension, the wrong words forming in his mouth. he remembers the stories of the pyramids, and the cats, and the constellations. he remembers feeling the scrunch of his smile, hearing them come from a voice that sounds oddly like his.
it's the middle of the night, sitting in a cabin that feels like his, that still feels unfamiliar, looking at the dark silhouette of someone he thinks he knows. there's relief, maybe, and something that feels like a long time coming. whatever it is, it feels right for a moment, because whatever the case might be, he's just glad to see him. ]
Hey.
[ quiet, gentle. anticlimactic for a reunion, but devastating for how it jolts and settles him in a single star-falling instant. ]
a heartbeat and the double-vision of it comes apart. there's a moment where the world's a single image -- clouds racing and curdling from the brightening stars behind barred, dirt-smeared glass -- and then there's two of them: a stranger with his hands settled along the rusting cot, keith with his whole frame twisted to meet that single voice, steady as a compass needle swinging true north. ]
Was I loud? [ in contrast, the syllables drop like coins into the dusty hush, one after another; around them the house hangs still. ] I think I was -- dreaming.
[ and there goes reflex again, an absent traitor in the way he reaches out to clasp shiro's arm for some slight sign. be here with me. just be here. ]
[ there's not much he can say to that, feeling a bit out of place in keith's cluttered, empty house, and comforting him with company only. kerberos is a recent thing, but a distant memory in this little sliver of time shared between them. he doesn't remember the details past the long flight it would've been, the return that took longer than any of them ever expected.
but there's a cracked television screen somewhere in old memory that flickers with blue and green static, and a reporter's bland voice mechanically rehashing the same old news. pilot error, the headlines say. and if they look at all of the cut-outs strewn along the floor, if they read the worn paper and along their ripped edges and bleeding ink, they'd both remember that he's still lost in space. ]
Must've been some nightmare. [ but he's smiling at least, his tone warm and fond and hushed in the nighttime. his arm is solid, both of them made of flesh and blood and his fingers are tangible where he's reaching forward to brush back keith's hair.
ruffling and familiar. just like how they both remember. ] You should go back to sleep. I'll be here.
[ a fleck of a sound, not quite disagreement, as he bows his head a little -- doesn't lean into the touch, but can't quite shift away, either, from the brush of shiro's fingertips, flicking warm through all the blue shadows. there's a clipping running to grey and dust in a shaft of moonlight, a thousand betraying signs around them -- but his eyes turn up beneath the fringe: he isn't looking anywhere else. ]
[ and that's honesty enough to rip the illusion open for a singular second -- remembering the sleepless nights in the days that followed after; how he'd train instead, sweat running down his brow as the fluorescent lights shone brightly overhead; zarkon is attacking, paladins assemble, and he's already out the door, rushing down the halls with keith keeping steady by his side.
but they're in the middle of a desert in the middle of nowhere, and he's sitting on the edge of keith's uncomfortable bed, feeling a little guilty. it's almost -- relaxing. peaceful. all that he knows is that he's glad to see him, that for now, this is enough. ]
Not that I'm complaining about the accommodations.
[ a shrug, like motion could slough the memory. talking trails his knotted fists across the sheets, restless -- and he's shifting to follow through after all: dropping into a slouch at the very edge of the bed, side-by-side with bare centimeters between them under the arid night. ]
[ it's not a good question. he can feel it long before it forms on his tongue, before it chokes out the strange familiarity that settles in their proximity, that creates distance yawning wide until they're lightyears away again.
he's not sure why he asks it. somehow, he thinks keith's been dreading the question -- he thinks they'd rather get it over with. ]
[ there's a sheer, blank silence: the empty tolling of a boy who hadn't thought of the question at all. hadn't thought past the slight dip in the mattress, moonlight dusting silver across shiro's knuckles and the familiar shock of hair.
next to this, the history behind it seems to wither. it hadn't mattered -- but he can't say that. ]
I had to.
[ a half-truth, told sidelong. ]
After you left -- they weren't going to let me on a real mission anyway.
it's one moment -- a flicker-flash -- a star of a heartbeat that prisms and shatters, blue-blue-blue, light slung in a thousand directions before every ray spins together again. here you are with a torso caught between your knees in the dark, wrists and fists tumbled to either side of his head, ground grating white beneath knuckles and fingertips, a heaving breath that you grind down with a laugh still caught in your lungs and sweat a long gleam down your spine. he's still fighting it, fingers banded along your arm as his heels scrape leverage through the dust and his hips twist against you -- but he's laughing too, and the thrum goes singing to your bones with the adrenaline of a good fight.
one heartbeat. one second, one sliver of a night and its thousand-thousand refractions: the broad sling of his shoulders with his fists pulled up, his gaze flashing down as you snapped a kick at his kneecaps, drove in swinging. dust smearing down your spine as you rolled. circles after circle, pacing in silence. static twisting beneath your ribs, nameless and bright. a bigger opponent means you aim for the weak points: throat, stomach, knees. unless you can hold him down, you lose the second he touches you. but you know him -- know how he moves: in strides, not springs. careful before he's ever showy. salt on your tongue, the way it must taste on his. a new bruise clouding the thick of your right shoulder, pulse after bright pulse, dizzy-swarming-blue-green-blue before it clears. the faint half-smile he'd cracked, one moment -- the last -- before you lunged and toppled him.
he'd have gone easy on you if you gave him the chance. he always does, sure as newton's first law. the trick is not to let him.
but that was heartbeats back -- and your pulse is pounding still as you brace a hand above his head, pin the other arm with your knees rooted at either side. you won this, and he knows it: frame settling beneath your hand, his mouth a too-sharp set as your shadow sweeps over his darkening, starless eyes, as you bow your head -- thighs bracketing his ribs, breathing the faint rime of salt -- as you lean in to tell him --
"got you."
happy. that's what this is: your mouth's curl irresistible, electricity prickling up your spine in a dull scorched trail, the way it feels to twist instinct into practice and feel him thud and give way beneath you. here and now, newton's third law spinning light out of violence, surer than anything you've ever known: you're right where you're supposed to be. ]
he's broader maybe, taller and made of more muscle than you are, but you can outrun him. you've daydreamed of all the different ways to take him down. it's not really a question of how, because he's told you. he's taught you before, and maybe there's both pride and regret in his smile the first time you actually land a blow.
but that's a memory that's neither here nor there.
it's not a move that he expects in any case. it's getting harder to breathe with keith's thighs closing hard around his rib cage, but he manages, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his every inhale-exhale, with his struggling, helpless laughter. he's giddy. his heartbeat's going a mile a minute, adrenaline flushing hot in his bloodstream, and maybe he feels a little guilty that he even thought about pulling his punches, about tipping his weight to the side just as keith surged against him.
but he's on his back -- fair and square. ]
You got me.
[ it's naturally winded, but no less proud. or immensely pleased. ]
[ the moment settles, but his lungs haven't caught up to it; he gulps for air, grinds the heel of a hand against the dust -- and leans over shiro just a little. you have to take your advantages where you can. ]
Just saw a chance, I guess. [ and then, on another wry breath - ] You left that one open for me.
there's a look to keith in the moment, all of his jagged edges shining under a sheen of exertion, his hair a damp mess. for all that keith doesn't smile very often, it's always impossible to hide his unabashed grins when they're toothy in the training room's bright lights.
pride. and a bit of shock, too, for toppling over at all. it's a rush of a feeling that he can't quite put a name to, that reminds him too much of - ]
[ somewhere behind them, past the pale arched doorway, there's a thundercloud's worth of complications. a war, steel-hard lions quiet in their hangars, star after star darkened under the shadows of a galra fleet. but shiro's steady between his knees -- and maybe it's a little bit of a relief to feel just this: a moment like the crack of a punch, iron on his tongue, the impact of striking shore with his pulse crackling beneath his ribs and a familiar smile that he can't help answering.
something just this simple. ]
Does that mean you want best out of three?
[ he's still tense -- he has to be. but his mouth's crooked, hair swaying with the bow of his head, and he's in no hurry to pull away. ]
I figured you might just wanna stay down there all day.
[ and that's laughter, too. here, there's no outside world to worry about, no plague of monsters, or soldiers that show up in his nightmares, that he rips to shreds with a right arm that doesn't belong to him. he knows it's selfish -- but he doesn't know what good or bad he's done to deserve the answering crook of keith's smile, the feeling that races through his bloodstream like he's taking flight.
i've got you, buddy. there's copper in his mouth, a bruise on his rib cage, but he's never been happier.
his hand's trailing up keith's arm, fingers curling into his shoulder, but keith's stance is solid. ]
[ sent at some godawful hour of the morning (read: probably six). and then, because who the fuck knows how this companyman makes friends, let alone tracks them - ]
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w7d1, night
the night reeks of old pine and termite shit and the faint bitter layering of old cigarette ash. in the dark, there's nothing but your own lungs at work and the cot creaking metallic beneath you, noisier than any barracks-issue. constellations smear the windows of your little cabin like crushed flies; moonlight steeps the dank floorboards blue, blue, blue-green-blue, flecking shadows across a ragged plank, magazines stacked on folders, the old workstation you used to bang on as a kid, all clacking keyboard, a heavy-headed monitor, and a system that coughs static and dust every time it boots up. in the still and the black outside, things are scuttling and slithering and prickling needles high; but nothing dreams out here but you.
close your eyes. press your palms flat against the bed. military routine does something to you -- files you down to gristle and grim conviction, works you until your bones grind through patterns in reflex. tomorrow's chores: collect water. check the generator at dawn, before the day goes bone-bleaching. track the weather report for the week to measure out your next restock in town. carve open one can of soup or beans to take with the bread before it goes bad. read the new magazines out on the porch 'til just before noon. there's a fleet's worth of stories buried in this state: warped little skeletons pulled out of the thin, glassy lakes up where civilisation clusters; radioactive coyotes bounding out of the canyon where they used to dump nuclear waste; a man with the wings and head of a moth who defends hitchhikers on the backroads.
they say the egyptians believed that the sky wasn't real space -- it was a woman, a goddess, who covered the planet with her body. according to the mythology, the stars were just a part of her skin. they still made pretty good progress on working through star tables, though -- and they tracked the nile's flooding based on an astronomical calendar. don't ask me how that fits together.
this is not a desert story, nothing to clip out of a newspaper or a magazine's gloss. you are not dreaming the easy curling voice, the railing's clank beneath your knotting fingers, the history of a people who watched the stars and crumbled away to dust. the dream is that there's someone else to tell it to you.
but it isn't the story that matters -- rumors come and go, but how many times have you heard that voice? a hundred. a thousand, in countless ways -- through daylight, yawning bright; echoing down the barracks halls, tugging at your rucked-up collar (take it easy, cadet); skimmed across the library's rooftop through sand-scrubbed shadows and silence. i should've known i'd find you up here. a laugh, warm as a firing engine, and the press of his palm against your spine. sorry i'm late.
that's a story too. here is the dream: the way you close your eyes. how your hands bunch tight like there's a railing out here to hold onto.
how you pretend you're still waiting. ]
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there's old wood and a reek of something like oil, a scent like the earth that surfaces from the cot every time he rolls over and rustles dust. but no, that isn't him. he feels like an intruder, he feels like he lives here, and there's static in the air, the world sitting strangely blue behind the quiet folds of cloth covering the windows; he thinks about the radios and the machines tucked away in the corner of the little room, and then he remembers that they've been off for years.
it's a strange mix of feelings. the nascent tension, the wrong words forming in his mouth. he remembers the stories of the pyramids, and the cats, and the constellations. he remembers feeling the scrunch of his smile, hearing them come from a voice that sounds oddly like his.
it's the middle of the night, sitting in a cabin that feels like his, that still feels unfamiliar, looking at the dark silhouette of someone he thinks he knows. there's relief, maybe, and something that feels like a long time coming. whatever it is, it feels right for a moment, because whatever the case might be, he's just glad to see him. ]
Hey.
[ quiet, gentle. anticlimactic for a reunion, but devastating for how it jolts and settles him in a single star-falling instant. ]
Are you awake?
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[ a star falls.
a heartbeat and the double-vision of it comes apart. there's a moment where the world's a single image -- clouds racing and curdling from the brightening stars behind barred, dirt-smeared glass -- and then there's two of them: a stranger with his hands settled along the rusting cot, keith with his whole frame twisted to meet that single voice, steady as a compass needle swinging true north. ]
Was I loud? [ in contrast, the syllables drop like coins into the dusty hush, one after another; around them the house hangs still. ] I think I was -- dreaming.
[ and there goes reflex again, an absent traitor in the way he reaches out to clasp shiro's arm for some slight sign. be here with me. just be here. ]
Almost felt like you were still gone.
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but there's a cracked television screen somewhere in old memory that flickers with blue and green static, and a reporter's bland voice mechanically rehashing the same old news. pilot error, the headlines say. and if they look at all of the cut-outs strewn along the floor, if they read the worn paper and along their ripped edges and bleeding ink, they'd both remember that he's still lost in space. ]
Must've been some nightmare. [ but he's smiling at least, his tone warm and fond and hushed in the nighttime. his arm is solid, both of them made of flesh and blood and his fingers are tangible where he's reaching forward to brush back keith's hair.
ruffling and familiar. just like how they both remember. ] You should go back to sleep. I'll be here.
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[ a fleck of a sound, not quite disagreement, as he bows his head a little -- doesn't lean into the touch, but can't quite shift away, either, from the brush of shiro's fingertips, flicking warm through all the blue shadows. there's a clipping running to grey and dust in a shaft of moonlight, a thousand betraying signs around them -- but his eyes turn up beneath the fringe: he isn't looking anywhere else. ]
Why're you even still up?
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[ and that's honesty enough to rip the illusion open for a singular second -- remembering the sleepless nights in the days that followed after; how he'd train instead, sweat running down his brow as the fluorescent lights shone brightly overhead; zarkon is attacking, paladins assemble, and he's already out the door, rushing down the halls with keith keeping steady by his side.
but they're in the middle of a desert in the middle of nowhere, and he's sitting on the edge of keith's uncomfortable bed, feeling a little guilty. it's almost -- relaxing. peaceful. all that he knows is that he's glad to see him, that for now, this is enough. ]
Not that I'm complaining about the accommodations.
Cozy place you've got here.
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[ a shrug, like motion could slough the memory. talking trails his knotted fists across the sheets, restless -- and he's shifting to follow through after all: dropping into a slouch at the very edge of the bed, side-by-side with bare centimeters between them under the arid night. ]
And it's still got power.
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[ it's not a good question. he can feel it long before it forms on his tongue, before it chokes out the strange familiarity that settles in their proximity, that creates distance yawning wide until they're lightyears away again.
he's not sure why he asks it. somehow, he thinks keith's been dreading the question -- he thinks they'd rather get it over with. ]
Why'd you leave?
[ the garrison. ]
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next to this, the history behind it seems to wither. it hadn't mattered -- but he can't say that. ]
I had to.
[ a half-truth, told sidelong. ]
After you left -- they weren't going to let me on a real mission anyway.
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wow???
what
WHAT!!!
i don't know why you're being all rowdy, they're just staring into each other's eyes
eat dick, motherfucker. in fact, eat exactly 1.75 testicles.
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w7d3, night
it's one moment -- a flicker-flash -- a star of a heartbeat that prisms and shatters, blue-blue-blue, light slung in a thousand directions before every ray spins together again. here you are with a torso caught between your knees in the dark, wrists and fists tumbled to either side of his head, ground grating white beneath knuckles and fingertips, a heaving breath that you grind down with a laugh still caught in your lungs and sweat a long gleam down your spine. he's still fighting it, fingers banded along your arm as his heels scrape leverage through the dust and his hips twist against you -- but he's laughing too, and the thrum goes singing to your bones with the adrenaline of a good fight.
one heartbeat. one second, one sliver of a night and its thousand-thousand refractions: the broad sling of his shoulders with his fists pulled up, his gaze flashing down as you snapped a kick at his kneecaps, drove in swinging. dust smearing down your spine as you rolled. circles after circle, pacing in silence. static twisting beneath your ribs, nameless and bright. a bigger opponent means you aim for the weak points: throat, stomach, knees. unless you can hold him down, you lose the second he touches you. but you know him -- know how he moves: in strides, not springs. careful before he's ever showy. salt on your tongue, the way it must taste on his. a new bruise clouding the thick of your right shoulder, pulse after bright pulse, dizzy-swarming-blue-green-blue before it clears. the faint half-smile he'd cracked, one moment -- the last -- before you lunged and toppled him.
he'd have gone easy on you if you gave him the chance. he always does, sure as newton's first law. the trick is not to let him.
but that was heartbeats back -- and your pulse is pounding still as you brace a hand above his head, pin the other arm with your knees rooted at either side. you won this, and he knows it: frame settling beneath your hand, his mouth a too-sharp set as your shadow sweeps over his darkening, starless eyes, as you bow your head -- thighs bracketing his ribs, breathing the faint rime of salt -- as you lean in to tell him --
"got you."
happy. that's what this is: your mouth's curl irresistible, electricity prickling up your spine in a dull scorched trail, the way it feels to twist instinct into practice and feel him thud and give way beneath you. here and now, newton's third law spinning light out of violence, surer than anything you've ever known: you're right where you're supposed to be. ]
no subject
he's broader maybe, taller and made of more muscle than you are, but you can outrun him. you've daydreamed of all the different ways to take him down. it's not really a question of how, because he's told you. he's taught you before, and maybe there's both pride and regret in his smile the first time you actually land a blow.
but that's a memory that's neither here nor there.
it's not a move that he expects in any case. it's getting harder to breathe with keith's thighs closing hard around his rib cage, but he manages, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his every inhale-exhale, with his struggling, helpless laughter. he's giddy. his heartbeat's going a mile a minute, adrenaline flushing hot in his bloodstream, and maybe he feels a little guilty that he even thought about pulling his punches, about tipping his weight to the side just as keith surged against him.
but he's on his back -- fair and square. ]
You got me.
[ it's naturally winded, but no less proud. or immensely pleased. ]
Who taught you that one?
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[ the moment settles, but his lungs haven't caught up to it; he gulps for air, grinds the heel of a hand against the dust -- and leans over shiro just a little. you have to take your advantages where you can. ]
Just saw a chance, I guess. [ and then, on another wry breath - ] You left that one open for me.
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there's a look to keith in the moment, all of his jagged edges shining under a sheen of exertion, his hair a damp mess. for all that keith doesn't smile very often, it's always impossible to hide his unabashed grins when they're toothy in the training room's bright lights.
pride. and a bit of shock, too, for toppling over at all. it's a rush of a feeling that he can't quite put a name to, that reminds him too much of - ]
What?
[ lilting maybe, with the lingering laugh. ]
No way, I would never.
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something just this simple. ]
Does that mean you want best out of three?
[ he's still tense -- he has to be. but his mouth's crooked, hair swaying with the bow of his head, and he's in no hurry to pull away. ]
I figured you might just wanna stay down there all day.
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[ and that's laughter, too. here, there's no outside world to worry about, no plague of monsters, or soldiers that show up in his nightmares, that he rips to shreds with a right arm that doesn't belong to him. he knows it's selfish -- but he doesn't know what good or bad he's done to deserve the answering crook of keith's smile, the feeling that races through his bloodstream like he's taking flight.
i've got you, buddy. there's copper in his mouth, a bruise on his rib cage, but he's never been happier.
his hand's trailing up keith's arm, fingers curling into his shoulder, but keith's stance is solid. ]
I figured I could ask for a nap if I win.
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[ leaning over him at once, maybe three perplexed degrees short of a frown. ]
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[ he says, grinning wide as his hand settles between keith's shoulders, bracing still. ]
You're gonna win, aren't you?
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I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS SAT FOR TWO DAYS!!
i can't believe keith sat on shiro for two days
technically shiro was on top at the time.
fuck
FIVE MONTHS LATER!!!
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CH. 4, BACKDATED A LITERAL MONTH BECAUSE YOU TOOK TOO LONG
[ sent at some godawful hour of the morning (read: probably six). and then, because who the fuck knows how this companyman makes friends, let alone tracks them - ]
it's keith
I DON'T NEED YOUR LATE HATE
but he's all right. he'll act natural. it's easy. just respond with something casual. ]
Good morning, Keith.
This is pretty early. Are you in some kind of trouble?
. . . it's fate, mate. ):
i wouldn't start texting you just when i needed something
i'm irate by your bait, date
Or emergencies.
Is this either?
let's not debate, how can i placate you, delicate chordate. ):
[ a trifle belatedly - ]
were you sleeping?
wait
/ accelerate(s)
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but keith doesn't need to know that. ]
I was already awake. Don't worry about it.
What did you need?
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