aarnivalkeaa

“Shiro?” 

“Please close the door,” comes the whisper from the bed.

Keith does so, leaving both of them in that pitch-black blindness. Keith knows his way to Shiro’s bed in his sleep so he doesn’t bump into anything. The sheets rustle once more.

“Can I sit?” 

Shiro sighs. “Yes.” 

Keith sits, carefully, to the edge of the bed. It’s not uncommon for them to visit each other’s rooms or for Shiro to message him like this. It’s a good old rhythm that they can fall on: the same question can I and the same answer yes. 

Shiro takes a deep breath and then exhales, slowly. 

Keith doesn’t have to look long to see what’s the problem. Shiro’s sitting crosslegged on his bed, shirtless, his Galra-hand on his lap. It’s glowing faintly purple, pulsing softly, ominously. 

“Is there… something wrong with it?” Keith shifts closer and kicks off his boots. He keeps a small distance between them. 

The metallic fingers twitch. Shiro’s face is unreadable. “You would think that I would be used to it already, after having used it for so long.” His powerful shoulders are slumped, his entire posture screaming defeat. “But I’m not. Sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding on. The nightmares certainly don’t help.” He brings the hand to his face. Now the light is enough to illuminate the exhaustion in him. 

“We’ll fix it,” Keith whispers. They’ve had this conversation before. Enough times that Keith grows weary and Shiro’s exhaustion is palpable. “No. I’ll fix it.” Keith takes that offending hand between his and brings it to his lips. It’s a little too warm to the touch, that softly pulsing light growing. But still he kisses each fingertip, each knuckle, the inside of the wrist. 

“It is still your arm, babe. It is a part of you and I will fix the part that’s making you feel this way, that’s still connected to the Galra.”

Shiro makes a wounded, broken noise. “I want to rip it off,” he whispers, barely audible. Still his fingers curl around Keith’s hand. “If there is a way to disconnect it from the Galra, I would like it. There’s no getting my real hand back after all.” His voice is as rough as sandpaper. 

“It is a part of you, so it means I love it,” Keith whispers back. He keeps stroking the gently glowing hand. He lowers it back to Shiro’s lap and shifts closer. He leans and kisses the part where metal meets flesh, the crisscross of scars rough against his lips. “But when it makes you feel this way, I want to give you a new one.”

Shiro’s breath hitches. He runs his hand down Keith’s arm. “I love you.”

Keith pulls him close: Shiro nuzzles against his neck. “And I love you.”