Written for the @softsheithweek prompt:
Day 6: A Day In The Life Of Sheith
Summary: The Black Paladins spend a rare day off together.
Other days: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | read on ao3
Days like this are rare. Keith wakes to a syrup-thick morning, a beam of golden sunlight heating a diagonal square over his hip through the curtains. Outside the window is birdsong and a cool desert breeze and the distant roar of jet engines blazing through the sky. Inside is soft blankets and twisted sheets and the affectionate curl of metal fingers in his hair. Shiro’s breath is warm against his cheek, soft.
The first thought Keith has is that he wishes he could bottle this moment, frame it or tack it to the wall of his life like a polaroid along with all his other best moments.
He feels the moment Shiro wakes up. The heavy, dead weight on Keith’s chest becomes kinetic; one thigh shifts between his legs and Shiro’s head burrows into his neck. Keith tilts his chin slightly for lazy, warm lips, the brush of a tongue under his ear, the tickle of silver hair against his cheek. Metal fingers follow the dip of his collarbone, resting on his throat.
He fills his arms with Shiro, kissing his hair and then his face, and then his lips. They become the rustle of sheets, soft exhales, the sound of each other’s names, reverently as though no other words would ever matter to them again. Keith traces the deep, pocked scars on Shiro’s shoulder, first with his fingers and then with his lips, and then he sinks lower and Shiro’s voice becomes honey-thick and gasping.
The curtains billow gently in the breeze, silver with the backing sun. Dust-motes hang suspended in the shifting beams of light, disturbed only by the roll of Keith’s spine, corded muscle shifting in his back.
They spend hours wrapped up in each other, nowhere else to be, and the universe still needs saving but it can wait for them. They can have this. They deserve one day.
When they get hungry Shiro makes a token effort at dressing and fetches them toast and fruit and coffee from the Garrison mess, and they push the ruined sheets on the floor and sit cross-legged on the bed and watch the contrails streaking over the blue, blue sky. Keith’s hair sticks up on one side and he’s still sleep-rumpled and warm. Shiro takes off everything except his underwear, because it’s the desert, and he doesn’t mind Keith seeing his scars.
They laugh a lot. They talk. They do other things. And the day drips like molasses, each slow and perfect moment a lifetime filled with each other. When the light tints the edges of the world orange-pink, they change the sheets in silence and sit together by the window watching purple twilight until it turns blue, and then black.
The twitter of birdsong rises to a chorus, then slowly goes quiet. It’s replaced by crickets and frogs and the far-off distant howl of coyotes. The sounds of the Garrison die out as shifts change and the last bell sounds for lights-out. Keith is melted into the warmth of Shiro’s chest, safe in the bracket of his arms. They haven’t spoken for a while, the responsibility of tomorrow looming over them again like the shadow of a warship in low orbit.
But for a day, this one day, they had their own world, and even if they never have a day like this again, it will have been enough.
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