Keith leans forward a little further, puts his weight on his arms and kicks his socked feet in the air a few times, like paddling water. “I’ll be your friend, Shiro.”

Shiro pauses where he’s bent over the couch, meets Keith’s gaze dead-on and stares. “Aren’t you generous.”

“I’m so good,” Keith chirps.

“So drunk,” Shiro mumbles. He’s not wrong.

TL;DR a first meeting, a snow in, a Holt, and two lonely boys

Life is short, and third chances are improbable, even with a man like Keith at your side. The war isn’t over, and Shiro doesn’t want to see the end of it without telling him he’s everything. He can’t think of a single reason not to anymore, and he already can’t take it back. There’s a scab on Keith’s knee and his fingernails are bitten short and sweat shines on his throat. Shiro wants to be consumed by him.

“Where does it hurt?”

Keith doesn’t elaborate, and Shiro doesn’t ask him to. Just raises his prosthetic hand in a loose fist and lets it fall sluggishly on his own chest where he guesses his heart is hidden.

Two times. Here. It hurts here.

Keith doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reach up to wipe the tears from his face. He props himself up on an elbow and leans down to first lay a dry kiss to Shiro's chest, and then lay his soft, heavy head. His ear pressed over Shiro’s plaintive heart where it slowly beats on through the night.

TL;DR communication is easy, healing is hard