⟪ he’s fine, he says. wobbly as fuck. struggling to place one feet in front of the other. one slap at a time. if shiro flinches the second keith’s hand smacks his cheek, the spectacle draws a faint, deep rumble from his chest—it’s funny. it shouldn’t be but it is, and he has to commend keith’s resolve, however ridiculous his plan is.

scoffing on an exasperated breath, he shakes his head and rises next to him, gently patting his shoulder. ⟫ Alright, big guy. Come here. ⟪ here being shiro’s back. it’s a bit of a struggle to get keith to climb up there—mostly because of the missing arm, but also because of keith’s surprisingly heavy weight, limp now, a solid network of toned angles and crisp lines. keith has grown. and in so many ways, too. sometimes, shiro can scarcely compare him to the kid he once knew, and it’s a sting that comes and goes, when he thinks of all the milestones he missed. it’s only partly assuaged when he realizes what keith was able to accomplish all on his own, the man he’s become a sight to behold. it’s not pride, exactly. or not just. it’s something else, and it’s warm, where his chest is an otherwise shambled mess, though it’s never a feeling he lingers on. ⟫

You okay there? ⟪ he only asks for good measure, carefully bending to grab what’s left of the lantern and making sure keith doesn’t slip. balance is everything. ⟫ And before you say anything, don’t waste your energy trying to argue. I’m not letting you down. ⟪ it’s 100% a double-entendre, firm, unyielding. shiro can be stubborn, too, a little bent forward as he starts walking, though he does lift his arm, turning his face a little to check on him. ⟫ You can carry the lantern if you want, but you have to promise to hold on tight. ⟪ to him, and to the lantern. mostly him, though. ⟫