He dreams of the water and watching, waiting, wanting something to happen, but unsure what. In his dream, it's still and perfect—until the dock falls apart under him and the waves leap up to meet him. Every motion he makes in the water kicks the waves higher and higher and pulls him deeper. He wakes in terror, fear-sweat stinking the room, the scale burning against his chest.

Shiro doesn't appear that day.

The sea is unnaturally still and there are clouds lingering over his little bay, casting their eerie half-light over everything. It reminds him of the dream, so he goes inside and busies himself rearranging the all his gifts, one eye on the water out the window. By evening, there's not a whisper of Shiro's presence. Bleakly, he wonders if the scale was a parting gift or some offering made to console him in parting. Or maybe Shiro is busy. Maybe he's fighting.

Maybe he didn't expect to win.

Keith fingers the scale as he looks out the window and remembers the touch of Shiro's hands on his legs and between them and the heady, heavy feeling of a body against his, and feels alone. For the first time in years, he isn't sure he knows how to be that.

On the second day, the clouds that have been gathering and milling over the little bay finally break, but it's not a storm so much as a mist. Keith goes out in it once to keep watch over the dock and even remembers to wear a rain slick, though there's no one there to appreciate his care.

The rain obscures all the horizon, but still, he knows nothing is waiting for him out there. The sea is black and restless and uninviting. He can feel the rocking waves in the way they hit the dock and it shouldn't be high tide, but if he were to slip his feet over the side, they would brush the water. A storm surge. He remembers reading about them in school, but he was always a poor student. He wanted to fly more than he wanted to read.

"Shiro?"

He has to ask. He has to try.

One rogue surge takes him by surprise, rushes up the beach and slaps the wood of the dock like it's grasping for him. It looks less like water than oil as it slips back off the dock, leaving the wood shining and dark.

A little terror takes him then and he runs—off the dock, back up the beach and the stairs, and when he gets inside he locks the door and almost has to stop himself from calling the station. It's not how the ocean felt before Shiro. It's worse. Now he knows what was watching him and this doesn't feel like watching, this doesn't feel like curiosity. The water looks violent. The water will hurt him if it touches him, he knows it in his gut.

He lights a fire in the little pot-belly stove in the corner to ebb away the chill and damp and lights the lamp by the couch. It's not past afternoon, but with the light on inside, he can barely see out the windows for how dark it is.

He falls asleep there on the little couch, huddled under a blanket, trying to bear away the cold.

On the third day, nothing changes. He entertains the brief thought of writing a note in a bottle and tossing it out to the sea, just for luck. It goes so far that ends up back inside looking for one on a whim, but only finds the green glass bottle on the windowsill. It's half-filled with little cowrie shells—another gift.

There's no cork and he only gets as far as picking it up and making to tip it on the dining table before he realizes what he's doing and stops himself.

It's so quiet. The silence almost seems alive, oppressive, a thing that's stolen his voice and his breath.

Instead of throwing a bottle, he collects up all the spare paper in the house, all the fliers and old envelopes and yellowed newspaper he never had a use for and sits on the beach making little paper airplanes out of them. His dad taught him, but the memory is so old all he isn't able to recall the shape of it.

The wind is strong. He watches it carry all the little planes away one by one, little spots of bright against the grey of the sky. He wonders if they'll wash up on the shore in town or back on his own beach or if any will find their way to the deep. He wonders if Shiro will see them, or if he'd care if he did.

That night, he dreams again of the dock: the still water, the moon above dripping honey light on the ocean. This time, the dock doesn't fall apart. He leans over the edge and sees the shadow of what's waiting for him and slips into the water like he's going home.

It's almost a good dream.

On the fourth day, he goes to the edge of the waves and stands in perfect stillness until the water is lapping over his ankles and wetting the cuff of his rolled-up jeans. There's a storm in the air, blowing in from the horizon. If he had more paper to toss at the waves, he would.

Nothing comes. There's not a hint of anything familiar.

He presses the necklace to his chest with the palm of his hand until it hurts, until it leaves an indent over the center of his chest and mourns.


He hasn't spoken with Kolivan since his warning and he hasn't wanted to. Some things are better left alone and part of him is sure Kolivan will be able to see what he's done, like it's written on his face and skin. It's not shame he feels, but it's close. Closer, now that Shiro is more a memory.

It's almost no surprise that Kolivan shows up unexpected anyway.

He's out on the beach when he hears the truck roll up. In the absence of anything else to do, he's taken to working little rocks and shells out of the perpetually wet sand and tossing them back into the sea. It takes him a shamefully long time to get up to the house. He has to stop twice to catch his breath and by the time he gets there, Kolivan is out of his truck and waiting. He looks poised for a fight Keith isn't sure he's got the energy to put up.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

Kolivan gives him a sour look. "You need a ride."

He's not usually so pushy. "No, I don't." Keith leans against the door as Kolivan's eyes run over his face and down. He frowns, thick brow furrowing, and Keith realizes he forgot to shove the necklace under his shirt—Kolivan zeroes in on the new addition to it and draws a little breath, frown deepening before he starts and stops and starts again to say something, like he's at a loss for words.

"We're going to town." Kolivan's tone doesn't leave room for an argument. Keith is torn between frustration and a little wriggle of fondness that Kolivan cares enough to insist.

Frustration wins out. "But—"

"You have an appointment."

All disagreement dies in Keith's chest. A numbness crawls up the back of his neck. "But I cancelled it," he admits, sounding like a child to his own ears. It's a lie. "I feel fine." That's a lie, too.

The less he thinks about it, the better it will be, and so long as he had Shiro to spend time with, he could run from the thing in his lungs and hide from it and Shiro didn't know the difference so Keith didn't have to, either. The truth is he never had an appointment. He didn't make one. The doctor in town was kind his first week, but she didn't have anything new to tell him that the Garrison doctors hadn't already gone over in painful, painstaking detail.

Kolivan doesn't respond. The worst part isn't that he looks shocked, because he doesn't. He looks resigned. This is what he expected. Keith hasn't disappointed him; his expectations were already this low. "You don't make this easy, kid," he says finally.

It's cold with the wind kicking up. The rumble of thunder on the horizon echoes over the water and through the hills, mist thickening and obscuring their edges. Keith wraps his arms around himself tighter and Kolivan traces the motion with his eyes. They've been here before.

Keith swallows down the lump in his throat. "There's something I need in town though—if you're not busy."

It takes Kolivan a moment to gather himself and then he sighs all at once and turns back to the truck. "Yeah, sure. Get in." The words are harsh, but he opens the door for Keith and closes it for him without slamming it, so it's not a loss.

On the way, Keith tries to make small talk and mostly fails, but neither of them are much good at that sort of thing to begin with. He gives up around mile four and focuses on counting trees and then loses track of that, too, mesmerized by the sway of them in the storm breeze. They haven't had a proper storm since he moved there and it's something to think about that's not the ache below his throat.

"What is it you want?" Kolivan asks, first to break the silence as they start passing the few empty buildings that signal the outskirts of town.

"I need a book."

Kolivan frowns. "What kind of book?"

"On sea… creatures. Sea stuff. Sea animals?" Keith winces.

"Sea stuff." Kolivan sounds skeptical at best, but he flips on his blinker and turns in the direction of the library all the same. Keith's only been there once before. It's not extensive, but if it doesn't have books on the ocean when the ocean is visible from almost every window in the place, what's the point?

It doesn't disappoint.

The library is sparse but there are posters on the wall—maps and sea charts and a few public service announcements about reef rebuilding efforts and whales. The view is bleak out the windows—dark skies, a darker sea, and the town feels like something clinging to the edge of it.

Keith remembers the simulations at the Garrison and how, from out of atmosphere, cities became nothing but spec-smudges against the ground, stuck on the edge of the infinite blue. The night simulations were better. At least then cities had light to see them by. He wonders if this town would have registered at all on their sensors.

There are crags out in the water, breakers casting against them in flares of white. A question occurs to him for the first time.

"Why aren't there lighthouses here?"

Kolivan is picking through one of the shelves next to him. "There are," he answers after a moment. "Up coast, down coast."

"But here—"

"No one comes around here, Keith." He shoves the book he's flipped open back on the shelf with a little more gusto than is warranted. "What are you looking for?"

Keith weighs his words to find the ones that won't sound ridiculous.

"I saw this—thing the other night." Kolivan goes stiff. "Like… lights? In the water? They were neat."

The memory is tied to Shiro and his hands and his body and the way he fit to Keith. Speaking the words aloud unlock something in him, break a dam he hadn't known he was building and it's a shock how much he longs for that night. He'd forgotten for a minute, maybe, and it all comes rushing back to fill up his edges, pushing the air out of his lungs.

Around his neck, the string of shells grows heavy. He wants to hunch over, right there in the aisle with Kolivan watching him, maybe open his mouth and scream and exhaust some of it. There must be a way to. He can't live the rest of his life like this, but he doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't let himself do more than draw a shaky breath.

"Neat," Kolivan repeats. His eyes narrow. "But those are only on the reef" Keith sees the exact moment it connects for him and winces. "Keith—"

"I was... on a boat?" It's a poor lie. He's always been shit at lying.

"You don't have a boat."

He's not quite shouting. The librarian is watching them with wide eyes from her desk against the wall. Kolivan mutters something that includes a dig at his father and genetics and apples and trees. He cuts himself off and turns away to the window, rubbing both temples with one hand, thumb and forefinger digging in like Keith has caused him a physical pain that he'll be able to dig out of his skull if he tries hard enough. "It's dangerous out there. And you're not well."

"I'm fine." Keith doesn't mean to yell, but somehow it comes out louder than Kolivan's voice—harsher, more vehement. Somehow, he will be. Out of the dozen reasons he shouldn't comes a strange defiance: Shiro left him and his body is broken, but he's stubborn, too, and he's tired of being something sick, something damaged, something broken.

Maybe Shiro did know the difference, after all. Maybe Shiro saw sickness in him, smelled it on his skin. Maybe that's why he left. Why be with something only half-made, and poorly at that?


Kolivan drops him back in front of the shack and Keith wonders how many more times he'll live that exact moment: the truck door clanging shut behind him, the dusty front door and cracked concrete walkway, the scrubby plants lining the road and peeking up out of the decrepit brick flower boxes under the windows. He should take the time to set them right, but he's not in the mood for fixing things and hasn't been in days.

He picked three books. He stacks them up on the couch next to him and settles in for the night. It's not a bad place to sleep.

The books are older than he expected. They have strange names for stranger creatures, descriptions of things that live in the deep and dark and for a while he forgets what he was looking for. How could they know more about the stars than this? He stops at a description of something with scales and spikes and bioluminescent lights along its spine. It can't be real. Keith flips back to the title page and copyright twice to see if it's not someone's pet project that found its way to the reference shelf.

He's heart-sore and tired by the time he finishes flipping through them all. Sleep takes him like a lover, slow and soft.

That night, he has a dream he can't remember the edges of, but it leaves him shaking in sweat, needful and scared in equal measure. He waits an hour to see if sleep will take him again, but it doesn't. It's not late; he's been sleeping too much. His limbs are leaden, no matter how much he sleeps.

The images from the book play behind his eyes as he lies there, listening to storm whip by. Things with teeth and scales, things that slither and claw, things so like Shiro in all the ways that don't matter. Maybe Shiro was in a fight. Maybe he lost. Maybe, Keith starts to think and then is sure, this is all he'll have in life. One sweet memory of a few good weeks that warp and twist with time like the boards of the steps he keeps hammering back into place, until he's unsure how it happened or if it did at all.

The storm can't decide which way it's blowing. He pulls on a shift and steps out into it, bracing himself against the cold and willing away the shivers that wrack him. His breath is tight, but it's been tight for days and this won't make it worse. Nothing can be worse, he thinks for a moment and then hates himself because he can't be so pathetic that he misses Shiro this much.

He should have walked to the cove. He should have walked into the ocean. He should have yelled and screamed and had done with it. This, he thinks, balling a handful of wet sand in his fist, is pathetic.

For the briefest moment he wonders what would happen if he tore off the necklace, scale and all, and gave it back to the sea—but even as he wonders he knows he wouldn't. It's the most foolish sentiment, but he can't imagine he won't live the rest of his days with it. And maybe it's all right to want something that much, to miss something that much. He's mourned before and come out of it. The first days are the hardest. He throws the sand at the water instead.

It doesn't hit.

The water rushes back from the little pile of sand and keeps going. The gathering storm has had it high and angry for days, but in that moment, it starts to settle.

Keith stands. He takes half a step toward it. It's hypnotic. After so long watching the ocean, he's learned it's rhythms, and it's never done this. The little hiss of water escaping sand is audible above the sound of the wind, but barely. The clouds start to break above him, full moon illuminating the beach as he follows it half in a trance and half hyper aware. One hand he keeps wrapped around the scale hanging from his neck like it's a thing to anchor him to the shore and maybe it is. Maybe that's why Shiro gave it to him.

They read about earthquakes and tidal waves in school. He can almost remember the warnings about them—everyone knows you don't follow the ocean when it pulls back into the sea, but he's too curious not to. He walks past shells and little crags embedded in the sand, heart thudding in his chest. It feels like minutes he walks but it can't be more than a few breaths before the water stops.

It goes still and churning, waves unsure if they want to break or mill. The silence is perfect and horrible and that's the moment he sees it.

In the moonlight, the creature is out of every childhood nightmare. Only the silhouette is visible against the waves behind it and under it. It staggers unnaturally out of the waves an inch at a time, falling back into the water over and over before it rises again. It looks like something the sea should be taking away. Keith can't order his thoughts. It's like watching film in reverse, the way it jerks and about unnaturally.

It doesn't make a sound. He can't order his thoughts enough to decide if he should run—until a gap in the fog and clouds whipping by illuminates the figure. It's only for a second or less, but it there's a shock of white hair on its forehead and the width of its shoulders, the shape of it, even from afar—it's familiar. Keith knows that shape.

He's running before the revelation fully hits, but it's Shiro. It can't be anything but.

The new body moves wrong, like a fawn learning to walk. It's pathetic to watch him try to find his balance and fail; Keith is by his side as fast as the sand will let him move, kicking it up and skidding through it, but it's not fast enough. Shiro falls again as Keith watches and Keith's heart goes with him.

"Hey, hey—" He steadies Shiro with a hand against his shoulder and kneels in the wet sand, trying to catch his own breath past the shock that the body under his hands his real and not some figment he's conjured.

Shiro doesn't try to get up again. "Keith," he says. His voice isn't guttural anymore, isn't strange—it's human and soft and broken. He repeats the name again and his head falls to Keith's shoulder, damp hair dripping against the cotton button-up Keith threw on before he came outside. "Keith."

The name is so sweet off those lips. Even if the voice is different, it's familiar in every right way.

Shiro's skin is ice; Keith unbuttons his shirt with shaking fingers and drapes it around him, pulling it tight, and then draws his arms around Shiro and holds, marveling that he can now. An arm comes up around him—hard metal against his ribs and spine as Shiro shudders and breathes.

What have you done? he wants to ask because this cost Shiro something. It had to.


Moving him is an endeavor. In the sand and wind, it's almost impossible. The storm comes rushing back while Keith holds him and by the time he gets Shiro up, the waves are lapping at their heels.

"Come on, Shiro," he goads, trying to get their feet to work in tandem so they can make any headway. There's real terror running through him, part from the unknown and how strange this is and part from the sure knowledge that neither of them can handle the cold like this. It shouldn't be this cold. "Please, Shiro."

He remembers the first time Shiro gave his name and how sweet it seemed, how discordant. Now it's a litany.

The high, panicked tone of his voice works by accident. Shiro finds some strength and stops sagging against him, which is a relief—Keith can hold his weight, but he can't carry them both through this. Their progress up the beach is so slow Keith can only take it in by inches. One step, another. He almost walks them into the stairs by accident and that's another ordeal. Shiro is breathing too hard to talk and Keith doesn't know if it's in exhaustion or pain yet.

He makes himself list priorities with every step—heat, dry clothes, first aid, questions—until they're at the top of the stairs and he's maneuvering them both inside. He beelines for the bathroom, Shiro still hanging off his shoulder but able to hold himself up at least and turns the water on high and hot.

"You need to get warm," Keith mutters for both their benefit and pushes him under the spray of the shower gently. He looks at Keith with doleful eyes, like some poor, half-drowned animal. The irony isn't lost on Keith, but there's heartbreak in it too. The thing that writhed in his chest when he first realized what was on the beach contorts again. He reaches out a hand to drag his fingers down Shiro's cheek. The scrape that was there the last time they were together is gone, but it's Shiro.

"What did you do?"

Shiro doesn't answer, but he turns his face into Keith's hand and kisses his palm. It takes all of Keith's willpower to not strip and climb into the shower and stay with him, but Shiro needs clothes and food and if he goes there now, there's no coming back tonight.

He pulls away, but Shiro's hand lingers on his. Shiro draws it back to his mouth and makes a small, desperate sound against Keith's knuckles. It shoots through Keith like terror and longing and it doesn't matter what Shiro did to be here, like this. It doesn't matter—and there are some things you hunger for more than food or heat.


Shiro isn't human. He's still what he was.

He presses his hand to the scale on the necklace Keith's gotten so used to wearing he forgets it's there at all and holds it there as Keith breathes under him, naked but for that one thing.

"You kept it."

Kept isn't the right word. Clung to, maybe, like one clings to the last thing keeping them afloat. Shiro's eyes run over him, shining in the lamplight with a gleam like hunger.

He bends. Keith is used to the bite when he kisses, but it doesn't sting now. His teeth are human. Keith deepens it on his own, goading Shiro until it hurts, savoring the spot he'll be able to worry later as a reminder.

All he wants is here. You left me, he doesn't say, but his body aches with it too completely to imagine it doesn't show. Shiro settles himself between Keith's legs, leaving his own on the bed behind him as if he's unsure still how to use them, but he's still big enough that it's on the right side of too much and too close.

Don't leave me again, Keith doesn't say, but tries to make it implicit in the way his hands drag across Shiro's back and the way his nails cut half-moons into Shiro's shoulders when the cool metal of Shiro's hand works its way between them. By the time he moves lower, Shiro's fingers aren't cold anymore.

He isn't taking his time. The way he touches is strange because all his usual slowness and ease are gone. The care is still there and he's still gentle, but there's need in equal measure. Keith realizes it as he bucks against the hard weight of him and pulls Shiro down until he can push his face against Shiro's chest to ground himself.

Shiro missed him. He breathes Keith's name against his hair and Keith almost wants to laugh.

He moves like he brought the ocean with him, rocking and steady and massive. He finds his strength right as Keith's is flagging. There are moments of panic and pain, but Shiro smooths the lines off his face and steadies his hips and though he's new to his body, evidently some things come easier than walking. Taking Keith apart is second nature to him already.

By the time they're both sated and exhausted, the light through the curtains is watery and bright enough to highlight the edges of his face and smile. He's tacky with sweat and his hair looks like something tried to nest in it. There's no reason for Keith to feel charmed by it, but he is.

"Good?" Shiro asks, like the bed isn't ruined and Keith's legs aren't dead where they're locked around his waist. He eases out and Keith feels the loss so keenly he has to close his eyes.

"Really good," Keith mutters into his own hand, trying to level with the numbness that's settled in between his legs and how much he still wants it. He's wet there. Too wet. Shiro left him a mess. He feels fingers opening him, the sheets below him dampening against his skin before Shiro pulls away with a satisfied sound.

Keith's past the ability to blush. He'll clean himself up when he can move and then do something about the sheets.

He pulls Shiro down to his side and resists the urge to roll and wrap his arms around that warm body and hold him like they're back in the sea and this time he's the one trying to keep something precious safe from the pull of the waves. He makes it as far as wiping the hair off Shiro's brow before a sound splits the silence—a stomach growling.

Shiro's eyes go wide and Keith buries a laugh against his neck. He isn't human, but he still needs to eat like one.


By the time they roll out of bed—and it's a more literal roll than it should be, for Shiro's part at least—it's past noon.

Food is the highest priority, but it necessitates some amount of clothing. Keith shoves Shiro in the shower first with a quick tutorial on soap and faucets and then goes through and starts opening windows because the shack is small and homey, and it turns out the ocean hid many, many sins. Shiro doesn't mind the smell and seems vaguely amused that Keith does, but it's already mostly a lost cause no matter how Keith feels about it.

The breeze blows the last of the storm in the window, wet grass and salt air and clean. It's a mirror for the feeling rushing through him, though he can't put a name to it. He takes a moment to breathe and think and try not to let it overwhelm him.

After Shiro is clean, Keith hands him a pile of hand-me-down station clothes and Shiro gives him a bright smile. "I know how these work."

Keith feels heat rush up his chest. Shiro treats clothes like wrapping paper, but if he can take them off, logic follows that he can put them on.

"Good." Keith pushes past him to the small bathroom, but Shiro catches him around the waist and pulls him in for a sloppy kiss as he goes.

It doesn't hit Keith in full until he's under the hot spray of the shower. He's still tired and there's a dull ache in his hips and back and chest. He cleans himself in places he hasn't had to before and by the time he gets out there's a blush over his cheeks that threatens to be permanent.

Shiro is waiting outside the door, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, one that's edging a little too close to smug.

"Your shirt is on backwards," Keith throws over his shoulder and pulls on boxers and then a ratty shirt, too, when he remembers the marks Shiro left on his shoulders and neck. He doesn't plan to see anyone, but it's the thought that counts.

In the kitchen, he pulls out a chair for Shiro, still half in a dream. Shiro gives it a moment of consideration where Keith wonders if maybe chairs aren't self-explanatory before he sits primly and glances around. The smile that breaks across his face is almost offensive. As far as houses go, the shack isn't one. It's three rooms—one of which is a bathroom—and full of mismatched furniture and odd decor. One set of bookshelves sits as monument to someone's attempts at woodworking. Probably his Dad's. Neither chair at the dining table matches anything else in the room. Humble is putting it kindly.

And now, thanks to Shiro, it's like some strange treasure hoard. Shiro looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

"What do you want to eat?" Keith asks, voice high and rough with the burn over his cheeks. Cooking for Shiro is a daunting proposition, but it only occurs to him to worry about it the moment he's staring down the stove.

He turns back and Shiro's grin has widened to something obscene. He pulls one foot up on the chair and wraps his arms around the leg, resting his chin on his knee lazily. "You—"

"That's not food," Keith interrupts. Fine. Eggs, because they're the one thing he's sure he can't mess up. Maybe toast if Shiro cooperates. He pulls out ingredients and starts a pan heating on the stove, ignoring the eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

Outside, the sun is in full blush and it's almost like those days of cold and waiting and mourning never happened. All of it is lost like a bad dream soothed away by a warm presence. The reality of the person sitting at his really is too grand to make room for sad things.

For the first time in days, he can breathe.

"Here." Keith sets the plate down in front of Shiro when he's finished and adds a napkin to his lap for good measure, before he realizes this is Shiro's first time with silverware and a napkin might be about as effective as pasting a band aid on a gunshot wound—or a strip of a gauze over a gaping rend in one's side.

"Thank you, Keith." Shiro is still smiling, still polite.

Keith pulls his chair to the same side and shows him how to eat. He entertains a brief fantasy of feeding Shiro, but it would please him too much and he needs to have some shame.

Shiro nods along, eyes too intent for polite interest, as if he thinks he'll be tested on it later.

Under the table, their legs brush. Shiro is antsy with them and it must be hard to keep still when he's used to treading water with a dozen feet of tail. Keith gets bold, sets a hand on his knee to steady him. "Here—" Keith demonstrates etiquette and then wonders why he's pretending he doesn't drink out of the carton and eat out of the pan.

But Shiro nods at Keith again, picks up a fork with his metal hand—and they both watch in horror as it crumples in his grip. He drops it as soon as he takes it, but the damage is done. It looks like scrap metal. Shiro's mouth works in shock for a moment while Keith tries not to wonder how it is the worst Shiro's ever left on him is a few minor bruises of passion.

"Sorry," Shiro says lamely.

Keith swallows, nods, and then chokes on the giddy sound trying to work its way out of his mouth.

It takes another ten minutes for him to get the hang of it. Sitting in a chair proves to be the most difficult part. He keeps shifting to find a comfortable position and in the end, Keith gets him a pillow from the couch and suggest gently that he can eat with his fingers.

A kind of joy settles into his chest as he watches Shiro eat. He keeps catching Keith's eyes and smiling and Keith mimics it every time without meaning to, so taken with it all. "It's good," Shiro says earnestly, as if eggs are something mythic and delicious and not the minimum effort of cooked food. Keith's face gets sore from grinning.

It's perfect and strange. A little unease settles in the pit of his stomach because as much as he wants Shiro's hands on him and as good as the marks on his waist and the ache in his hips is, it's too different. His first question comes back to him—the one he couldn't get out of his mind as he saw Shiro stagger out of the water.

"Shiro…"

He looks up at Keith and the morning sun catches his eye at the right angle to catch the grey in the black and goes deeper. His pupil reflects the light back in a flash of green. The question almost stops in his throat at it. Why question something that can't be explained? Why question something perfect? But he has to ask.

Shiro blinks at him and opens his mouth and the question falls off Keith's lips.

"Where were you?" It's easier than asking how he's here and kinder than pointing out the obvious.

Shiro puts down the fork he was barely using. "I wanted to be with you," he answers slowly, choosing his words with the same care with which he's chosen all of Keith's gifts. His voice isn't guttural anymore, but it has the same deep shades under the lilting softness. It could be a growl if he wanted it to be—he could be everything he chooses not to be. "I did what I had to."

Keith waits for him to say more, but Shiro is implacable.

"Shiro—"

"I made a deal. To be here, like this." He looks peculiarly hang-dog, as if he thinks this is something Keith will be mad about, as if there isn't a mark from Keith's mouth peeking out under the collar of his too-tight shirt, as if Keith didn't spend the better part of a week in utter mourning without him.

"Okay," Keith says lightly and then hates himself when, "was it worth it?" trips out after. He can't know everything about Shiro. He doesn't know if he wants to. He can keep his secrets; it doesn't make Keith love him any less.

Shiro stands. His chair scrapes against the floor, discordant in the silence but oddly domestic. He can't remember the last time he sat across from someone at a breakfast table one-on-one. "Keith. Of course." He's on his knees before Keith's chair. "Do I need to prove it?"

His tone implies a hundred good things. He would, Keith realizes. If Keith asked, he would, right there at the table. Maybe they will, if they have time.

"How long are you here for?" he asks instead while he still has courage and braces himself for whatever answer comes.

Shiro nuzzles against his leg, the same pose he's looked up at Keith from a dozen times. "As long as you want."

Keith feels something drawn taut in his chest give, finally. If it's up to him, Shiro will never leave.