voltron, sheith // a kiss, in a liminal time of your choosing
When it finally happens, they’re under the halogen glow of a flickering lamp and even Keith knows it’s no substitute for moonlight; but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s making do under less than favourable circumstances. He never knows if he’ll get the chance tomorrow, anyway. Might as well.
So he’ll take what he can, however he can, and what he can, now, is a fistful of Shiro’s collar. The nape of Shiro’s neck is smooth, well-shaven, and Keith knows he’ll be in trouble in a whole other way if he leaves his marks on clothing or on skin, exposed, so he leaves them instead where no one can see.
Shiro’s hands find his hips, find a lull in his erratic rhythm to steer him, steer them, firmly against the wall, and then they’re sliding round his back and under his jacket and what gives Keith the biggest thrill of all is the tug of Shiro’s glove, the friction of leather on his shirt and the way that it pulls. Keith stands his ground, comes up for air, leans in again—closer, closer still—and he tastes desert dust, tastes salt and sweat and a clouded sunset sky below. Spilling streaks across the barren ground, across their faces.
There’s Keith’s bed, right behind them. Shiro does not steer them there.
Good, Keith thinks fiercely. He’s better on his feet. Alert, knife-blade senses singing and alive, alive. He can take it all in, the sensation of Shiro’s shoulder heaving beneath his grip, the throaty murmurs that punctuate their ebb and flow, and as Shiro breathes something that could be his name, could be a quiet swear word, could be both—Keith swallows, lets his reverence be a prayer, an offering.
There is nothing celestial, he knows, about any of this. They’re just trying to get by. Sometimes, they don’t know any better, and that’s the most gut-wrenching beautiful thing about this; that there are no guarantees in the life they lead, only incandescent promises like candle flames, willingly lit and given.
Shiro’s lips tear away from Keith’s as he straightens, slowly. Drag a trail of gentle fire across his cheek, his temple, the shell of his ear, and they come to rest there, not saying a word. No secrets to be whispered, no more spaces between them. Only reality, now.
It could have been a kiss in an alleyway. Another dead end, smeared with handprints and reeking of someone’s 3 AM party. Or they could have been trapped in a pod, drifting in deep space with no escape; they could have been two pilots lost in a star field, destined to become another spark that burnt up, burnt out, and collided to flare again, brighter than before. Across the galaxies, they would’ve found their way.
And Keith would have fought off garrisons more, ridden his bike halfway across this world and the next, till he found it.
The windows, beside them, are half open. The curtains stir lightly. As a warm breeze ruffles his hair, Keith can close his eyes and pretend they’re out there somewhere, to chase a horizon that they once watched together.
So, in repayment for the wonderful picture of Eric and Amelia, jolebirch asked for a one shot that focused on Eric and Addy (a reoccuring OC). This is the result. I hope you like it and thank you again! :D