#alasfic

His future is a rising star in the night sky, shining brighter by the second. He should be happy, Yuuri thinks. He should be proud of what he has achieved so far. And yet— And yet...

Yuuri tries to loosen the tension in his shoulders, one that is ever present, ever growing. Tries to release the strain, but stops short. It makes it even harder to breathe.

The seasons have changed countless of times—ever since his dream had been said with naïve eyes, face pressed up against the TV screen. When he would collect every poster, every cup, every pencil he could find. When life seemed so much easier, back then. Like anything was possible.

Even when his feet would be bleeding and every muscle would scream, he would push further. To reach that impossible goal. To reach Polaris; too stubborn to stop.

And yet, here he stands, surrounded by darkness on a rink full of scratches, a testimony to his pain. His hard work, some would say. His passion. His dream.

He’s surrounded by empty seats and forgotten gloves; while somewhere, some place unknown, families gather. Making jokes over shared dinner, celebrating a new milestone in their lives. Colourful, warm. Everything here isn’t.

He’s standing there, surrounded by shades of blue and white and black, the cold seeping into his bones with every passing second he remains unmoving. His muscles ache as his family sits together, warm, telling each other stories about their day, their plans for next week. All smiles as a seat remains empty.

Yuuri breathes a shaky exhale, mildly watching the small cloud fade into nothing.

Keith tips his head forward a bit, hands folded together in his lap. His shoulders are lax, eyelashes fluttering closed and on the brink of remaining so. Snip, snip, tiny strands falling, tickling exposed skin; brushed away by tender hands, every touch and trace sending shivers down Keith’s spine. Sometimes, Shiro merely blows the cut pieces away. Every time does it leave Keith’s skin burning.

“Are you sure you don’t want to cut your bangs?” Shiro asks without looking up into the mirror ahead, focused, voice accompanied by the soft hum of the metallic melody created by his fingers.

“Mhm, ‘m sure.” Keith gives in to the lull of it all—to Shiro’s voice, to gentle hands, to the warmth. He gives in, and lets his eyes fall closed, leans back just a bit. Leans into the touch; craves the tenderness of Shiro and takes it in like sunlight, as his thoughts wander to quiet mornings and whispered nothings into the back of his neck. To strong arms around his waist, leaving kisses where he can’t reach. To fiery hands and lips roaming his body.

To safety and serenity. A windless ocean, deep and silent.

Shiro exhales, the ghost of a laugh; brushes against Keith’s bare neck. Slow, never rushing, never pressuring. “All right,” a whisper, so close to Keith’s ear.

(Not close enough.)

“But tell me once they get too long, okay?”

“Mhm…”

Shiro moves to the side, then; a grin shy on his lips, hidden from Keith. The hair is soft, still damp at the scalp. He brushes through it with his fingers, inhales Keith’s gentle sigh and captures it in his chest. Takes it all in, this—the two of them together, here, where they’re not haunted by fear, always on edge and ready for battle. Where they’re able to wake with the sun, of tangled limbs and heartbeats whsipering to each other promises they already know.

Shiro evens out where needed, appreciating this little ritual of theirs. Their quiet. After battles and loss and growth, there’s no need to speak.

Shiro threads his fingers through Keith’s hair one last time, even if there’s no need to. With silent steps—bare feet against tiled floor—he moves to the other side, eyes lingering on the image cast to the mirror. Keith, lips slightly parted. Keith, with lines of worry slowly fading. Keith, beautiful and alive and here.

Shiro is pulled out of his thoughts when violet eyes flicker open and lock with his in the reflection, asking a wordless question.

“Sorry, sorry, got lost in thought,” Shiro smiles, voice as light as his touch as he turns and continues his work. More hair falls, and Shiro’s mouth moves quicker than his thoughts. No barrier to hold him back, not in front of Keith. “I just wonder why you didn’t cut it, back then.”

“You weren’t there.” The answer comes quick, simple. With someone else, it might have sounded accusing; spat with thinly veiled venom and undigested hurt—but not with Keith. He says it with an ease like he’s talking about the weather; a fact.

Shiro sighs but remains quiet and so does Keith.

Shiro understands. He always does.

“All right…!” Shiro steps back a bit, ruffles Keith’s hair to check for any missed spots. “Aaaaall done!” His eyes flick back to the mirror, “what do you say?”

Keith’s eyes soften, then. Unwavering, never looking away. Still watching Shiro. With the same intensity and feelings when he realized it wasn’t unrequited. “I love it.”

Shiro shudders, a chill that barely rakes his shoulders; breath halted between parted lips before they curl up into the smile only Keith knows. One that Keith keeps close to his heart, where no one can take it from him.

I love you, too, Shiro says, even when he doesn’t. It flows in his step, with every breath he takes, with every touch against Keith’s skin. Whispered words into the crown of Keith’s head, silent unlike their heartbeats.

Waiting, waiting, Keith is always waiting for something, for that spark thrown into his life that changes everything. That ends days and nights blurring together. That ends the deep-rooted fear spreading over the world, haunting the generations to come; those that remain. Marking people with scars visible or not. Taking—greedy. Taking houses, land, lives. A battle where no one wins except for one. A battle of loss.

He waits for what ends alone, and starts together.

Waits and hopes for the days where the grass was fresh under his bare feet and the air clean of dust and smoke. When eyes were round and naive, blind to the truth of the world.

Days of laughter, of him at his side.

He holds on to those memories like the lifeguard keeping him sane. Keeping him grounded, when the world around him is shattering.

The hope in Keith’s chest is a fragile flame, a candle in the wind, doomed to be blown out if he slips up for just a second. What was once a raging fire has only left behind ashes and scars—has died down to this pitiful thing, stuck underneath his nails, stubborn.

He wants to let go. He doesn't.

It would be easier. It wouldn't.

Keith lets his head fall back against the wooden wall; lets lightly-tanned fingers curl around the metal ring hanging around his neck. Simple and small—too small for him. Old. Filled with memories and promises. Promises he’s holding on to even if they sting at his skin like thorns. Metal that is smooth and cool, electric and heavy. Not his own. Decorated with the smallest of scratches. A message left inside, carved like a secret.

He’s dead. He’s not.

Keith closes his eyes. The air reeks of dusty wood and soil, gunfire replacing the sound of chirping birds.

I should leave.

Shiro’s uniform is drenched in blood, right arm ripped away from him. The adrenaline and panic and fear save him from the excruciating pain he’s prone to experience, leeway for him to find shelter first. To get away from here as fast as he can.

The scenery rushes by, a blur of green and brown with the setting sun. Explosions and gunfire are still within range. He needs to get away from here. Move, move, move.

“What about Shirogane, Sir?”

“He won’t survive for long with that wound.” 

He trips, clutches his damaged arm and falls to his knees. It throbs. It trobs. Dull, but not. His uniform is heavy and sticky but taking it off would be too painful. Would require too much movement. His legs are shaking, shaking, mind spinning but there’s no time. He has been planning to escape for weeks now—if he doesn’t make it...

He doesn’t complete that thought.

A stab, right at his nerves. Electricity setting him aflame, coursing through his veins. Makes his entire body spasm and freeze; his vision flickers to black like a candle blown out. Silence. Thud, thud, thud.

Shiro recollects himself. Takes a deep breath, as much as his lungs allow . Slowly sits back and counts to three; waits for the pain to settle down, just a little.

Then he grits his teeth and presses the sole of his foot against his other calf to hold his pants in place. Tugs—nothing. A panicked and hopeless whine scratches and bruises the depths of his throat, but he has to remain calm. Remain calm. His hand is shaking. My hand, my only hand—

Inhale—he tries again. Tugs, tugs, tugs like trying to start a dying engine with sweaty hands barely able to hold on. There's that whine again, so he stops. Pauses, clasps and unclasps the dirtied palm. Remain calm. Relax.

He releases the numbing tension in his shoulders. Settles the acid in his stomach threatening to rise. Closes his eyes even when there's still screams and gunfire in range. Distant, but not far enough. He has to move. Has to move.

You're fine. You're hidden. You're fine. You're free. They can't get you. You're fine.

Shiro grabs on to the edge, presses his foot hard enough to bruise, and pulls.

The sound of fabric tearing cuts through the air, cuts through flesh. It doesn't matter. It doesn't hurt.

“Yes...!” Shiro chokes, the first smile on dried and bloody lips since years. With hurried motions he tears more, up his leg; follows the seams back down. He wraps it around his arm even if only to stop the bleeding just a little.

He applies a little pressure; chokes. Bites back the tears but allows himself to experience the pain. “Accepting it is the quickest way to making progress,” the words long said ring in his mind.

Breathe, he tells himself even as his lungs burn and shoulders threaten to shake. Even as he is collapsing within himself like a dying star. Even as the things he witnessed will haunt him like a shadow.

He ties a knot as best as he can. And with a grunt, he pushes himself off the ground. Every muscle aches, strained. Bleeding, bleeding, there’s so much blood am I—

(Black hair, purple eyes. Round eyes. Child’s eyes. Known, when they shouldn’t—)

Shiro closes his eyes; steps forward. Moves despite his arm throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart. Pushes aside the flicker of something resembling the broken shard of a memory, and marches on.

Fallen leaves crunch under his soles, the quickly dropping temperature and cool air biting at his skin, crawling up his exposed leg. The sun dips lower, lower, final rays blinking between thick stems. Leaves fading into orange and black illuminated in bright gold—but Shiro can’t stop to appreciate the beauty of it all.

The trees are dying, and so is he.

And then there’s a rustle, closer than it should have been able to get to him without letting him notice.

Shiro spins on his heels—and regrets it within the same heartbeat.

(Black hair, purple eyes. Hardened eyes; grown up. Know, when they shouldn’t—)

Shiro’s world fades to black, arm pounding, pounding, cloth tainted in blood and sticking to his skin. Head ringing, ringing, the gasping shout of the voice drowned out, far away.

He doesn’t feel hitting the ground. He doesn’t feel the gloved hands brushing away his bangs. Doesn’t see eyes widening in recognition and disbelief; the stutter of a breath in panic as Keith notices the wound and blood. There's so much blood.

“Shit,” Keith hisses under his breath as his head snaps into the direction of his shack. Will I make it? What the hell happened to you? There's so much blood, Shiro.

Keith takes a deep breath. Feels the air expand and sting, battling for space with the rapid beat of his heart. The thoughts in his mind turn into static, and so he lets his body guide him instead.

Shiro is bigger than him. Heavier. More muscles. So Keith picks him up on his back and runs. Runs, runs, runs, lets his feet carry him over grass and fallen leaves, falling like Shiro’s heartrate—

The words are stuck in the tension between Shiro’s shoulders, in the tight press of his lips, eyes unable to meet Keith’s. He’s close; not close enough. Keith only wants to reach out, silence static thoughts. He wants to wrap his arms around Shiro’s waist to selfishly steady himself and whisper “please don’t do this.”

But there’s and odd sense of acceptance in his chest. Makes his shoulders slump, numbs his mind from any irrational thoughts.

“Keith...” And he’s breaking. He’s breaking and Keith knows it and yet all he can do is hold his breath and stare head-on into dark brown eyes that have moved up but still can’t meet his.

Keith remains silent. Waits. Keith hates waiting.

“I’m leaving...” Shiro’s eyes flick up, and they’re squeezing, squeezing, squeezing and Keith is sure he’s choking.

“I know,” is all he says instead.

Keith doesn’t know whether he wants to run or just stay very, very still; to not make the sword piercing his chest go any deeper.

Shiro takes a deep breath, shaking. Recollecting. Scared, but he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t allow his chest to be crushed.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

And Keith steps closer, piercing his chest fully, bleeding, bleeding; the invisible tears he cannot spill. There's a waver in his step, but not in his voice.

“I don’t care.” His hand moves forward, shaking more than he'd like to so he intertwines his fingers with Shiro’s. A burning warmth, bittersweet. Palm bigger than his, fingers hesitating to curl around his own.

Shiro’s mouth parts, brows knitted into an expression that only drives the sword deeper. Broken. Disbelief. Lost. Tears reflected in deep brown they both hold back from spilling.

Will you miss me?

Of course I will.

Shiro’s hand comes up to cup Keith’s cheek, a touch so gentle it’s barely there. As if he’s afraid. Afraid to touch, afraid to speak, afraid to leave. Deep-rooted and ugly.

He marvels the deep purple eyes, so close, so trusting. Bold—sure. Thinly veiled hurt reflected in the shine in them. He lets his thumb slide across Keith's cheek, slow, gentle, burning skin even when the touch is gone.

Shiro's eyes fall closed, his head dips low; meets Keith's.

Lips brush together, words whispered like promises.

Time isn’t an option here. Days blur together like the air on a hot summer’s day, every breath shallower than the one before as you wait, leaves your heart racing the quieter it is. Silence isn’t good. Silence is just the countdown for when you’re next. Silence allows for your thoughts to speak louder, consume you.

Shiro clenches his hands together, a strain in his knuckles strong enough to distract his mind just a bit. To ground him, to remind him who he is. That isn’t an option here, either. To be who you are, to fight for it, to disobey. So he has to do it in quiet, in this solitary cell with a guard on the other side of iron bars. Where every move of his is recorded and reported.

His eyes fall closed, tired lines at the edges.

Inhale—his lungs ache. So he stops short, releases the tension in his shoulders. Focuses on the drumbeat of his heart, and returns home.

Inhale. Keith’s smug smile when he had beat his record for the first time. Exhale. Keith pinned underneath him in the empty training room after hours, when they should be asleep but aren’t. Inhale. Keith’s thigh pressed against his own in the cafeteria, hidden in plain sight, a secret of their own. Exhale. Keith moving closer with mindful steps, careful, eyes unwavering. Never stopping to look into his, deep purple like a cat’s. Moving closer, closer, until he’s pressed against the wall.

Inhale.

His heart is the ocean at dawn, tired waves reaching for the shore. Pulling back, reaching out again. Unsure, but steady.

Shiro falls back onto the cold bed barely enough for one, the wall pressed right against his arm.

It’s dark here. It always is. Where the only sources of light are neon purple and out of his reach. Where an empty void surrounds them, holds them capture, away from home. Where scars mark his skin, reminders for him to carry and hide, regret for his actions collecting like stars in the sky.