You can read the whole fic on AO3.
Something stirs in the corner, a shade that barely takes form, and Shiro moves on him in a fluid lunge, muddled from sleep but wrapping the polymer of his mechanical fingers around the shadowâs throat on an instinct distilled in him through countless fights. He doesnât crush the fragile breathing tube quivering under his grip but exerts just enough pressure to make it seem like he might. He doesnât relish killing, but he wonât hesitate to squeeze the breath out of this stranger to save his life. They will not defeat him again. Not now, when heâs close to his goal he can taste it in the arid desert air. The shadow squirms and wheezes, voice thready, but it filters into Shiroâs confused brain and triggers an emotional response.
âShi-Shiro. Itâs Keith.âÂ
Shiroâs hold slackens as a horrible understanding crashes into him.
Keith.
Heâs almost injured Keith.
The one person who matters more than anything in this world, this universe, this reality. The bright light that has guided him home.
Shiroâs knees buckle, and he slumps down like a marionette with its strings cut. In an instant, Keith shifts and kneels next to him, putting a hesitant hand on Shiroâs flesh shoulder. Heâs glad Keithâs not touching the prosthesis. Most days, he wants to rip the thing off and leave it in the dust, sickened by the artificial reminder of his captivity, but he knows that a soldier canât afford to give up a fighting advantage, so he keeps the artificial arm and holds his disgust in check.
âTakashi, itâs me. Youâre safe. Do youâdo you remember me?â Keithâs voice breaks on the last question. He doesnât sound like the cheeky cadet that loved teasing Shiro at all. Clearly, Shiroâs not the only one transformed by his year-long absence.Â
âSay something. Please.âÂ
Shiro knows he should keep his hands off Keith, that he deserves better, not this broken half-monster heâs become in order to survive, but heâs pathetic and weak and desperate to touch, so he enfolds Keith in a hug and buries his head in the crook of Keithâs neck, inhaling the sweet smell of spicy chocolate. A rational fragment of his mind running in the background notices that Keith doesnât resist and sinks into the embrace willingly. Tears of gratitude burn a path down his cheeks and fall into this lap with a splash louder than a clap of thunder.
âTakashi,â Keith whispers and brushes the dampness away. His hand is warm and soft and tender. No one has touched Shiro with tenderness in a year, and the gesture only unravels his loosely stitched soul further. The silence between them swells, unpleasant and ready to burst, until Shiro clears his throat once, twice, three times to spur his half-atrophied vocal cords into working.
âKeith.â


















