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It had been a joke -- that he was in a threeway relationship with his boyfriend and space. Adam and the stars, the stars and Adam, there was scarcely a distinction between the two. Both had his chest aching with longing and tenderness. His first perfect flight simulation and his first time holding Adam’s hand were equal levels of dizzying. Their first kiss was the same day that they both advanced a level, heading forward on a fast track to actual field experience, to their future.
By the time they’d almost graduated basic training, Takashi Shirogane was the new face of Garrison recruitment, boyish grin adorning thousands of posters across the country. Adam was his touchstone, his rock, the gentle teasing about his “fame and fortune”, the warmth he curled towards in the middle of the night to whisper about his doubts, the face he woke up to every morning. That’s all he wanted, to keep waking up to Adam’s smile. They began talking about the future like it was something closer than someday, began talking about after graduation, about the types of careers they could go into. About getting an apartment close to the Garrison, about the ideal commute, about how great it would be to have somewhere bigger than a dorm to decorate. It seemed obvious that they’d be decorating it together.
But graduation came first. Adam was on the navigation track, his natural linear way of thinking a perfect fit for the charts and star maps. And Shiro was recruiting and practicing and putting in grueling simulations and late-night cram sessions for pre-pilot screenings. He was tough, but the Garrison’s standards were tougher, and he’d have to be even better than the best to make the cut. Still, he was a natural leader, drawing in the new recruits like moths to a flame, making them believe in the Garrison, in the stars, in themselves. “That’s what I love most about you,” Adam murmured one night, against the back of Shiro’s neck, stealing him away from his books and his practice tests the way only he could. “Everyone wants to be you. Everyone wants you.”
And later, with the door locked and the window open, with the moon pouring in and Adam’s hands on his skin like they’d been made to be there -- “But you’re mine. You’re mine, you’re all mine, Takashi. ”
“Always, always, always ,” Shiro had promised that space between their lips, that breathless bliss that had only ever been Adam’s.
Three days past graduation Shiro had woken up from his best night’s sleep in ages, made himself and Adam a cup of coffee and brought it back to the bed where his boyfriend was still drowsing. Or, he’d meant to. He’d told his fingers to curl around the handles, to grip firmly, to lift the steaming mugs the way he had a thousand times before.
But they didn’t. They shook, and wouldn’t stop shaking, splashing boiling liquid onto his wrists, onto the counter, and Shiro tried to will it away -- he must still be tired, it was all the late nights, that was all, that was all -- and lift the cups, carry them over. His whole world was waiting for him, he just had to pick up the damn coffee. He tried again, forcing his hands to obey him, his muscles to stop trembling, he got as far as raising the two cups up off the counter and --
-- crash!
Adam was out of bed and grabbing his hands before he could touch the shards of ceramic lying in the puddle of coffee, his face sleep-flushed, his hair a mess. He could feel the tremors rioting through Shiro’s entire body, tremors that had been written off as fatigue or nerves for weeks. Shiro had ignored the weakness for far too long, had muscled through long enough to pass the final flight test, but it was two cups of coffee that gave him away.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, Takashi, it’s okay,” Adam whispered, kept whispering as he cleaned up the mess, kissed the burned backs of his boyfriend’s wrists, helped him back up and into bed. He said it again and again -- “it’ll be okay” -- as he called the Garrison medic, as they waited for the blood tests to come back, as the shaking refused to stop. It kept spreading, in Shiro’s hands, his arms, his entire right side.
“It’ll be okay,” Adam murmured when the final results came, the ugly, sickening truth that this was irreversible, that it would keep happening, worse and worse, that Shiro had one good year of flying left, maybe two, before his entire body betrayed him. His muscles would shut down, too weak to obey the signals his brain tried to send them. There were experimental therapies, ways to mediate the effects of the disease -- the Garrison would cover some of them, long enough for Shiro to have a successful, if short career as a recruiter, though of course it was much too risky to have him actually in the cockpit. He could fly simulations for new recruits, where there was no danger if his body betrayed him. Even after that, there was a new ad campaign in the works, the royalties would be enough to live off of for some time.
“It’s going to be okay,” Adam soothed, curled around Shiro in bed as they both wept for that perfect future they’d made together, both of them among the stars. “I’m not going anywhere, Takashi. It’ll be all right. All that matters is that you’re safe. You just have to stay safe.”
Shiro was tucked in on himself, breath coming in hitches, feeling the loss of everything he’d worked for like a tangible pain. Adam was petting his hair, kissing where his neck and shoulder met, saying all the right things, but he was wrong . Shiro didn’t want to be safe. He wanted to be in the cockpit of a ship, every movement as easy as breathing. He wanted to fly again.
He tried to say this, but it came out as another sob, and Adam wrapped both arms around his waist and said again and again how they were going to get through this together. Adam would help him fill out the paperwork to get the assistive devices and medication he needed, Adam would help him figure out a way to tell Keith -- god, Keith was going to be crushed -- Adam would be there every step of the way. They loved each other, they had a future here on Earth, and it was okay if it wasn’t the one they had initially planned.
Adam was everything rock solid and safe and reassuring, and Shiro felt like the worst kind of traitor for wanting something else. In between getting used to the gentle electric pulses from the wristband that would help keep his muscles cooperating and receiving signals from his brain, Shiro kept going over the plans for the Cerberus mission -- proposed by Sam Holt, one of the Garrison’s best and brightest alums -- until he could draw the ship’s blueprints from memory. He knew exactly the route from Earth to Cerberus, knew the risks and the potential obstacles, could picture himself skillfully navigating the asteroid belt, the space debris, just him and the stars. The samples Commander Holt and his crew were hoping to gather were secondary for Shiro. It was about the journey, not the destination.
But it was a journey he was forbidden from now. Now Shiro had physical therapy and a medication regimen that Adam helped him stick to. He had listings of affordable apartments that he could tour while Adam finished up his navigator’s certification and looked for a job as an air traffic controller or something similar. He had the new recruitment campaign, photos to pose for and look through, picking the one that would draw in the most new cadets, would help the Garrison reach for the stars he would never get to see. He had Keith to worry about, Keith with his serious dark eyes and perpetual scowl, who took in the wristband and the medication and never asked questions, but who seemed to know everything. Shiro had a whole life on Earth to look forward to, beneath the stratosphere, and at least he would live to see it.
And into the middle of it came Matthew Holt. He’d graduated early -- he was a Holt, so of course he had, six months ahead of schedule -- and had both a medic’s and a navigator’s certification under his belt. He was skinny and short and had the most ridiculously wild hair and his eyes were ferociously bright as he leaned over the poster mock-ups that Shiro was pretending to consider, and said, “You know, I’m pretty sure if the Garrison doesn’t let you come with us, my dad’s just gonna kidnap you and take you along anyways.”
Shiro looked up, pulling one hand away from where it’d been fiddling with the wristband, a nervous habit that made Adam even more anxious. Too much messing with it might make it less effective, and that meant more medication, more PT, more nights spent awake arguing about how acceptance was an important stage of grief that Shiro wasn’t letting himself get to. That was their most common argument, lately -- that Shiro wasn’t accepting his diagnosis, and if he never accepted it, he’d never move past it.
“Huh?” Shiro managed finally, curling his fingers into tight fists against the tremors that hadn’t come yet, but always did.
Matt had his hands braced on the table, leaning over, almost nose-to-nose with Shiro and he had the exact same grin as Sam. “You’re a pilot, yeah? You want to be the pilot for the Cerberus mission, don’t you? Dad says commander whats-his-face is giving some push-back, but that you’re gonna be the best whether you’re authorized or not, and we need the best. ”
Shiro had never heard Commander Iverson called anything but his name, and the wild disrespect of it had him stifling a laugh. “I’m a recruiter,” he said, looking back down at the posters, deflecting the compliment. Maybe he’d almost been the best, but that was before the diagnosis.
There was a pause, then Matt suddenly swept the posters off the table and onto the floor, ignoring the soft protest, leaning in even closer, close enough that Shiro could smell his shampoo, could see that his eyes were less brown than gold. “You’re a pilot , Shiro,” he said firmly. “You’re the best damn pilot in the Garrison, and we need you. ”
It wasn’t Matt’s fault, he didn’t know about the diagnosis. He didn’t know the risks, that a year-long mission would be skirting the boundaries of what Shiro was safely capable of and could possibly lead to him being even weaker when he returned. If he returned. He only knew that this mission was everything either of them had ever dreamed of and their best shot was to have the greatest pilot in the Garrison at the helm of that ship. Matt was too idealistic and naive, just like Shiro had been when he first became a cadet. He was oblivious and grinning and inches away, and god, Shiro wanted to say yes.
Safety be damned, Earth be damned, he wanted to say yes.
“Okay,” he said, not thinking about Adam and their apartment and their future together and the band on his wrist and the pill counter in his dresser drawer. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Adam didn’t come to see him off. On the day of the launch, it was just Keith, hugging him suspiciously tight, like he knows (maybe he always did), and Matt with his glasses gone and his smile bright and cocky and arrogant. After that one huge fight in their dorm, when Shiro said he was going and Adam accused him of being reckless and Shiro accused him of not wanting him to take risks and Adam yelled that he might not come back and Shiro yelled that he’d rather die in a ship than on Earth and Adam said he might just get that, if flying mattered so damn much and Shiro said it was the only thing that mattered -- after that, they hadn’t spoken much. Not until Adam came to pick up his things, and Shiro pretended to be asleep, back to the door, hands trembling beyond his control. Stress made the tremors worse, the physical therapist had said, but they hadn’t mentioned anything about break-ups.
“Come back safe, Takashi,” Adam had said into the silence, holding the box full of his half of their life. Not come back to me , not I’ll be here when you do . A well-wish, but not the one Shiro wanted.
Then the door had closed, a soft click, too quiet for everything it meant. Shiro had almost rolled over, almost gotten out of bed and ran after Adam. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t either of their faults, it was just a big ugly thing that in another world they would’ve had time to sort out. Adam was stoic and steady, he would’ve been patient enough to balance out Shiro’s anger and hurt. They could’ve untangled the snarl of grief and found their way back to each other
But there wasn’t time. The launch was happening in hours, then minutes, then Shiro was sitting behind the controls and Sam and Matt were strapped in on either side of him, and mission control was counting down, four three two one and --
-- and he made a choice. Adam might’ve wanted him safe and smart, but Shiro had leapt into danger with both feet. Into danger, with his tiny crew and the wide endless sky in front of him. With Matt Holt still grinning that brilliant, almost taunting grin that had started this whole mess, daring him to be reckless, be bold, be everything that Adam had begged him not to be, and Shiro couldn’t make himself regret it.
Even later, staring out into the dark abyss of stars and blackness, feeling the weight of it on every side, the ache of missing Adam was tempered with the exhilaration of being out in the middle of space. “It’s okay to miss him,” Matt had said that first day, when they were trying to get some sleep, soft enough so only Shiro heard it. “I mean, I-I don’t really know what went down, but you guys were like, the dream team, and I heard something bad happened and --”
He’d cut himself off, rolling over in his bunk, his sudden embarrassment such a stark contrast to his usual cocky attitude. “It’s not really any of my business,” he’d mumbled, and maybe it was the close quarters, the three bunks pressed into the tiny space allotted for sleeping, but it was so easy for Shiro to reach out, to touch between those bony shoulders, a silent understanding.
It got easier and easier to do that, to reach out to poke Matt in the ribs, where he was most ticklish, or to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance when he was puzzling over some equation two hours past bedtime, or to hug him tight enough that he gasped and wiggled in protest when they successfully navigated a minor space dust storm. They were so close together, just the three of them, all alone with only the radio tying them back to earth, so it was natural to get close, right?
Besides, Shiro was lonely, was nursing the ache of missing the Garrison and Keith and -- and Adam, always Adam. He carried that pain alongside the tremors that overtook him every night when he powered down the wristband and let his muscles rest, shivering under his blankets so hard it nearly rattled the entire ship. Sam knew about his condition, helped monitor it quietly, but there were few secrets on a mission this small. Matt had to know.
Still, he never asked. He distracted, he teased, he made stupid jokes until Shiro threw mashed space yams at him, but he never asked. And he never stopped reaching out in the middle of the night, an echo of that first time Shiro had touched him, his hand small and warm and gentle. He would press his palm to Shiro’s spine, where the muscles jumped and quivered, and hold it there silently, for a long moment, such an innocent gesture that had the uncanny ability to calm every single time.
There were few secrets on that tiny ship, but the way Shiro wanted to roll over and reach out was one of them. He could feel the ghost of how Adam had touched him on his skin, and he wanted so badly to let Matt chase it away. Shiro knew all he would need to do was ask, was reach back, and Matt would gladly give him anything he wanted. He’d known that from that first conversation, with Matt leaning over the table, bright and beaming and so, so close. He knew he had that effect, and the selfish part of him wanted to give in.
As the weeks and months passed, it grew harder and harder to resist it, to hold back from letting Matt get closer. They were never apart, always going over flight plans or sharing meals or sleeping side by side. It became natural to let the distance between them dwindle to almost nothing, and what was the harm in that? They were crewmates, on a dangerous space mission they might not return from, so who would it hurt if they gave each other some extra encouragement and comfort? Nothing too far, not with Sam so close as well, of course not.
Still, Sam was scatterbrained on a good day, and on a more distracted one he was downright oblivious. And the ship was small, but it wasn’t so small that they couldn’t find places to be alone. A late night in the mess hall, the two of them bent over one book, and Shiro reaching across to grab a pen and Matt leaning in at the same time and they were suddenly so, so close and Matt was whispering, “Takashi, I--”
“Don’t.” It wasn’t sharp, it was gentle. They were always gentle with each other. “It’s -- I like Shiro better. Just Shiro.”
Only Adam had ever called him Takashi.
Matt knew that, Shiro could see in how he exhaled and nodded and closed his eyes. Matt knew, and he didn’t resent it. They were a million miles away from Earth, after all, wrapped up in space and starlight, and nobody could see it when Shiro kissed Matt like he’d wanted to since the day of the launch. He was slow, careful and slow, not wanting to go too fast and scare Matt away.
But Matt -- Matt kissed like a supernova, searing and sudden and catastrophic. Matt didn’t seem to care that his father was a room away, or that they had a mission to complete, or the vast conflict of interest they were currently engaging in. He was on his feet so quickly that if the chair hadn’t been bolted down (in case of zero gravity situations), it would’ve gone skidding back across the floor.
Shiro made a quiet sound of surprise, low in his throat, but it was swallowed up by Matt’s mouth on his, insistent and warm, Matt’s hands through his hair, Matt’s blunt fingernails skidding across the fuzz of Shiro’s Garrison-regulation cut. Kissing Adam had been everything Shiro knew for so long, that the fire of it had lulled into a gentle, familiar glow. It had still been pleasant to kiss Adam, but Shiro knew the routine of it, knew the taste and feel.
Kissing Matt was so new, so intense it was almost terrifying. There was a desperation in Matt’s lips crushed to his own, a fever that was so like Shiro’s own drive to do everything, experience everything he could before his own muscles betrayed him and left him a helpless shell. Except for Matt, the only thing he wanted to experience was kissing Shiro, kissing him again and again until Shiro was lightheaded and gasping, spots dancing before his eyes, until Shiro had to reach up and grasp onto Matt’s hands, still tangled in his hair.
That seemed to bring Matt back from where-ever he’d gone, lips parted, panting as he rocked back enough to look down into Shiro’s eyes. “Sorry,” he rasped, tongue pressing to the back of his teeth like he could barely keep from tasting Shiro on his own mouth.
Shiro shook his head, still breathless, still cradled between Matt’s shaky hands. He should’ve been frightened of how much Matt clearly wanted him, of the hunger in the other young man’s face. He should’ve stood and left and kept his distance, as much as he could, for the rest of the mission.
Instead he found reasons to be alone with Matt. He found excuses to touch him, handing over books or pens or foil packets of freeze-dried space food. Silly, transparent excuses that Matt clearly saw through, and Sam either didn’t catch or didn’t care to catch. There was never enough time to sate that raw hunger Shiro still saw in Matt’s eyes, even as he laughed and took the food or the charts or the awkward teasing. No amount of wordless, hasty fumbling in corridors or quick, hard kisses just around the corner from Sam was ever enough. Everything just made Shiro want more.
I’m sorry , he wanted to say, in the precious moments before Sam woke up, when he deemed it safe for Matt to crawl into his bunk and curl up silent and close to him, kissing the back of his shoulder, hands warm under his shirt. I’m sorry I still miss Adam, I’m sorry you aren’t him, I’m sorry I don’t want you to be. Was this what a rebound felt like? Shiro would’ve thought it’d be an echo of what he had back on Earth, someone who was understated and subdued like Adam was, someone who touched him, kissed him in the same way.
Matt was nothing at all like Adam. Matt was like nobody Shiro had ever met. Matt never stopped kissing him like he was drowning and Shiro was air.
It was so different, that Shiro began to wonder wildly if he had never been in love at all, if this was what it was supposed to feel like, if he was supposed to feel out of his depth and overwhelmed every time Matt so much as looked at him across the room. But no, he knew he loved -- had loved -- Adam. Or he thought he knew.
As with all things, there wasn’t enough time to figure it out, to find enough stolen moments to determine if the thing thrumming in his veins when Matt held onto him was love. Because the mission had to go on, and there was landing on Cerberus and gathering samples and then the sky was splitting open with a shattering, horrific sound and the entire world was ending.
In the mass cells on the prison ship, nobody cares what anybody does. Inmates scream or cry or babble or pray or sit staring at the wall for hours and hours on end, and nobody pays any attention. They’re all living on borrowed time anyway, so why bother about what the dead man walking next to you is doing?
They’ve taken the wristband, and it takes all Shiro’s effort to keep the tremors from being visible. Any sign of weakness could make him a target -- or even worse, could make Matt one. He’s still not sure why the aliens left the two of them together and took Sam away. There doesn’t seem to be any logic to why this is happening. A few of the other prisoners have attempted to explain, but as soon as anyone gets close, Matt starts shivering like he’s the one with tremors.
In the deep purpley-gray prison jumpsuits, Matt looks so much smaller than Shiro realized. He’d thought he was familiar with every inch of his body (or, at least, what he’d been able to explore in those stolen moments on the ship, which feel eons ago), but he looks like skin and bones under the rough fabric. He feels like it too, curled up into Shiro’s side, face pressed to Shiro’s bicep and breathing in short, staccato breaths.
“It’s okay,” Shiro says, stroking his fingers up and down Matt’s arm, through his hair, over the knobs of his spine. “It’s okay, I’m right here.” He learns Matt all over again, in that cold, crowded cell, memorizes him by touch and it tethers him to the world. Nobody cares if the two strange aliens are tangled up together, silent and clinging and trembling. Nobody cares if Shiro kisses Matt’s forehead again and again, if Matt’s fingernails are drawing gouges into Shiro’s skin.
Matt is a supernova burning out in terror, and Shiro had no idea he was brave enough to do what he does later, in the arena. He had no idea he could be that daring, that reckless, could step into danger like it had never scared him for a second. Maybe it’s because he’s dying anyway.
Maybe it’s because Matt dying would kill him quicker.
It’s a resurrection when Shiro steps into Black for the first time. It’s another when Keith pulls him back to the real world, white-haired and one-armed and put back together with Galra tech and Lion magic. But Shiro doesn’t feel himself breathe again until he’s in bed after coming out of the pod and he looks up to see Matt standing in the doorway.
“Shiro.” He sounds the same, even if his hair is longer and his face is scarred and he’s somehow grown. He sounds awed and exhausted, like it’s another late night on the ship, on the way to Cerberus, and Shiro almost reaches out with the right hand he hasn’t had in months. “ Shiro. ”
“Hey, Matt,” Shiro manages, sitting up slowly, off-kilter with his right sleeve tied off so it doesn’t flop around uselessly. The body he’s in sparks with memory -- Matt coming in for a handshake, pulling him in for a hug instead, a performance to keep suspicions low, another trick -- and he pushes it back. Smiles mechanically. “Good to see you. Again.”
Matt’s more muscular now, that’s how he’s grown, lean and coiled like a predatory animal where he used to be bony and gangly, and he crosses the room in three quick steps. Shiro could make a joke about that, could tease him for the sir , could say anything. But then Matt’s fingers are through his white hair, and Matt’s lips are pressed to his forehead, and this is a resurrection too.
Shiro’s breath catches, and he closes his eyes. He leans in, feels Matt’s hands cradling either side of his face, Matt’s lips on the bridge of his nose. They aren’t on the prison ship anymore, so anyone could see, but he doesn’t care. Matt’s kissing his scars, fervent and worshipful, his supernova burning him back to life, and Shiro’s trembling even though Haggar took the disease out of his body when she took his mind and his memories and his sanity.
“I missed you,” Matt murmurs, sinking onto the bed, mindful that Shiro’s weak and tired, back in a physical form after so long on another plane. Matt could probably understand more of Coran’s lengthy explanation about lion consciousness, but Coran isn’t there to babble now. Now, it’s just the two of them, and Shiro reaches up to grip onto Matt’s wrist as tight as his clumsy hands can. “I missed you so much. ”
It isn’t I love you , not yet, though Shiro thinks he does. Every risk and every danger in those words, he might take, for Matt. For the feel of those lips against his cheek, his nose, his chin, his mouth.
“I missed you too,” he whispers back, letting Matt’s scarred hands chase away every ghost, the way they always had. He wants to say more, wants them to have had more time to fall in love, the way he had back on Earth. But Matt knows. He’s always known.
So instead Shiro leans into Matt’s hands, lets Matt wrap him up in his stronger, broader frame and hold him. Someday, after this is all over, after Shiro doesn’t have to be a Paladin or a hero or a savior, they might have time to be in love like humans are. But that’s the risk Shiro took, leaving everything he knew and falling in love with Matt, who led him back to the stars and proceeded to eclipse every single one of them.