“I know how to play a few on a guitar,” Keith offered. “I don’t own one, though.”
Shiro could see it. Keith, sitting in a corner or a bench somewhere, the roughened pads of his fingers on the taut strings. Maybe he didn’t sing, but did he hum?
“…Something on my hands?”
“Hm? I was just thinking you can see the callouses–” he reached for Keith’s hand, cupping it in his palm so he could see them better. “Your fingers are hard, right at the places where they’d meet the strings.”
The motion had been so easy that it took the soft hush for him to realize what he’d done. Keith’s hand was warm in his own, fitting so easily like it was only natural to be there.