voltron, shiro/keith // the night before kerberos
He’s shedding up the night sky, and awake, awake, he’s a Molotov cocktail against the denim-blue midnight; he wears it tight and close, close as he keeps his prayers to no one, his solitude.
Under his hands, he feels his engine teeter on the precipice of go, and go again, faster. Kicks things up another gear with a reckless flick of his wrist. This, this hits the spot, sweeter than honey and coffee and a hot summer’s dream, and he soars, swoops low to skim the ground where the red cliffs are watching.
When he comes in to land, Shiro’s waiting.
“Hey,” he says.
“How long have you been there?” asks Keith, without preamble. His bike’s still burning, and he knows it’ll scorch the ground if he lets it all the way down. So he leaves it where it is, hovering, but for Shiro’s sake, he dims the headlights.