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Sextantis

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i.

Shiro counts stars on the freckles of Keith's back. His teeth tearing at the skin of Keith's neck, eyes fluttering closed, open again as Keith's hands roam his chest, his thighs, ghosting the length of his dick, calloused fingers and chewed nails scratching and leaving behind a trail of burning skin everywhere they touch. The whole universe could fit on the little brown spots peppered across Keith's shoulders like little galaxies, and Shiro runs out of names to call them when Keith breathes against his ear.

Shiro.

There's a hunger in him, in them, there's a need buried down in the pit of his stomach that Keith sets on fire with the touch of his hand. It was cold, out in space. Keith warmed him then, the memory of him, the shape of his face, the echo of his voice, the taste of his mouth keeping a small fire burning inside Shiro and urging him to live, to come back for the things he couldn't leave behind; and Keith warms him now, teeth on his throat and nails on his back, grounding him, keeping Shiro here, with him, when part of him wants to pretend he was never gone, and part of him could just disappear in thin air.

What day is today?

They rediscover each other's bodies day by day, a hand on the shoulder to focus each other, back pressed to back on the training room, fingers grazing and entwining under the table, a kiss goodnight in a dark hallway, Keith's lips still as dry, as chapped as Shiro remembers, fingers brushing hair out of his eyes. Every touch feels like the first time, feels like coming home.

Does it matter anymore?

Keith weights on him, pushing Shiro down into the mattress, and this too feels like the first time, and in its own way it is - the first time after Kerberos, the first time after the end. The first time after everything changed, and yet, all it took was opening his eyes to see Keith by his side again, to know that nothing had changed at all between them.

I'm not made of glass.

Hands on him like porcelain, Keith sits between his legs, knees spreading his thighs apart, fingers stretching him inside, and still Shiro feels like he's made of crystal, like Keith touches him so lightly he barely feels real. Shiro pushes back, hooking his feet on the back of Keith's waist to pull him closer, yanking him down for a kiss by the hair, teeth on Keith's lips, chin, throat, bringing him closer, grounding him here, with him.

You're not made of stone.

When Keith pushes inside him, burns through every wall, becomes part of him like they’re one and the same, Shiro feels like he could dissolve into a million stars -but Keith is here with him, now, and for a moment Shiro feels whole again. This could be the first, the last, each and every single time. He's home now.

It matters to me.

...then let's find out.