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Chapter Text

The letter announcing Shiro’s promotion sounds exactly like a letter thrown onto a desk might be expected to sound, regardless of the weight of the stationary its printed on: it makes a slippery susurration as it lands and skids across the pile of file folders stacked in Shiro’s inbox. Shiro does not receive it with good grace, despite the promise it offers of a higher salary and an increase in vacation time he won’t take anyway.

“Special delivery!” The communications officer says as he turns on his heel and leaves the office. “Don’t rip it up like you did last time.”

“Fuck right off,” Shiro calls after him. But the door is shut and the officer doesn’t hear, so the the only witness to his ill humor is the embossed envelope staring up at him from where it landed atop his data pad. He stifles a groan and reaches for it with his prosthetic hand— his other arm is still tender from the cave exercises he led a week ago, resulting in a new and thrilling bat phobia for his subordinates and a strained deltoid for him. Shiro could use some babying, but when left to his own devices he’s more likely to muscle through discomfort. It’s not his best quality.

The announcement feels like a portent of ill omens to come. Shiro is very aware that most people in his position — elevated within the ranks of the Garrison and plotting even further upwards — would be foaming at the mouth at this latest promotion. But it’ll take him away from leading missions and even further away from training recruits, grounding Shiro in his least favorite place in the world: at a desk in company headquarters. With that desk will come meetings and untold hours of listening to interdepartmental squabbles, with none of the relief he currently finds pushing his body to the limit in a survival exercise or leading a team of specialists in an unmapped cavern. Shiro appreciates that he’s part pilot, part bodyguard, part special ops trainer these days, but he does use his brain in the field. He’s not so certain he’ll be able to do that with a desk job.

Of course, half the reason he’s getting a desk job is because the brass — and possibly Shiro’s ex-boyfriend, who works closely with them as a retired contractor — are convinced that Shiro can’t work in the field now that he’s got a prosthetic right arm instead of a flesh one. Shiro thinks that’s bullshit (or blue mud, as his grandfather, who had a less staccato/vulgar vocabulary than Shiro has cultivated, might say). Shiro’s had the prosthetic for years and each version from R&D has only gotten more effective. He spends a lot of his non-mission time maintaining his muscle mass so he can keep up with the prosthetic, actually. If anything, it makes him a more impressive specimen.

“‘The Garrison is pleased to announce the honor of your promotion to Brigadier General ,’ oh no, they aren’t,” Shiro says. “I’m fine with Colonel. I excel at being a Colonel. This is horse shit.”

“I was wondering if your new prosthetic didn’t have thumbs,” Mitch says. He enters the office looking precise and grizzled as always, and probably a little annoyed. Well, he has the right. The poor communications officer Shiro cussed at is probably under Mitch’s command. “I mean it, Takashi; ‘no thumbs’ was the only holdup I could imagine that would explain why you wouldn’t open the mail. It’s even work related. You love working.”

“I don’t love being promoted out of my job.”

“Peter principle,” Mitch agrees. “You won’t be a good administrator. But you have the ability to learn.”

Shiro eyes him in the same way one might eye a dead fish: speculatively, depending on the context. Like a fish, the whole situation reeks. “Adam put the brass up to this, didn’t he.”

“Adam has better things to do than try to advance your career when you’re not looking. It’s not even his job any more — you two called it quits over a year ago.”

Crumpling the notice isn’t difficult at all. Shiro’s prosthetic is stronger than the fancy cardstock the message is printed on. This noise is better than the one the paper made slipping into his inbox: there’s a satisfying crunch and heft to the paper. It feels expensive. Well, that’s the Garrison’s own fault for being so wasteful. It’s probably not even made from recycled materials.

“Look,” Mitch continues. “Adam’s a consultant now. He doesn’t have any pull when it comes to your career, so don’t put this on him. You want to blame someone? Blame yourself. You’re making everyone else in the field look bad, of course you’re going to get promoted into a mahogany-trimmed office. You have two choices: become a fancy Brigadier General and wear the nice uniform they give you, or find another calling. You can only be a hotshot pilot commander for so long before you’ve got to step aside for the next generation.”

“I’ll do that,” Shiro says.

Mitch freezes. “Which thing. No. Shirogane, you’d better be picking the uniform.”

“Retirement sounds so interesting to me all of a sudden,” Shiro says, logging into the portal for Human Resources and clicking the option to schedule an appointment. He can arrange for an exit interview before submitting a formal resignation, right? “I’m in my prime. I bet there’s a whole world out there I could explore. Maybe I’ll take up sailing. Or buy a house. What do you think the dating scene is like for a retiree, Mitch? I bet I’ve still got it. If I’m not married to the job, I could really focus on a relationship for once.”

“You don’t even own off-base housing,” Mitch says. “Be reasonable. You can fuck around on vacation like everyone else, log out of the HR portal right now! Shiro, I refuse to accept this.”

“That’s what I said the last time you tried to promote me,” Shiro retorts. “Reap the whirlwind, Mitch.”

The paperwork takes a while, but for once it’s paperwork that feels like a ropes course: there’s a goal at the end, so it feels like a training exercise, and thus can be treated as a game. Shiro enjoys the tactical negotiations that ensue — figuring out his pension and continuing healthcare are easy enough since he’s been with the Garrison for over twenty years. The hardest part will be finding a place to live. Since he’s no longer tied to the airfield, and since his glib suggestion of buying a house has lodged itself like a splinter in his brain, Shiro spends the rest of the night pursuing real estate listings on islands. He’s not sure about the sailing thing — that was more to get Mitch’s goat, since Iverson absolutely detests aquatic endeavors and will leave any non-work conversation centered around them — but Shiro thinks he’d like living near water.

One stands out: the island town of Marmora looks pretty enough in the photos, and it has an old inn up for sale. It’s less tourist-y than some of the other destinations he’s saved and the price reflects it. An additional cursory examination of the Chamber of Commerce’s website reveals that the town is in the midst of a revitalizing effort and would welcome new residents.

“Look at you,” Shiro says to himself, scrolling through the photos. The inn looks empty, and like it needs a lot of work. “This could be a nice adventure.”

The purchase price isn’t exactly a stretch, but it’s the kind of financial commitment that means Shiro will need to find a new job — a new calling, really — if he goes through with it. He’s never owned a house, but he’s pretty sure they come with extra costs, like taxes and utilities. Possibly even appliances.

He calls Pidge and runs the numbers. Pidge is not, strictly speaking, employed by the Garrison, nor is she Shiro’s financial advisor; she is, however, the only person in his social circle to own property.

“Hypothetically,” Shiro says, “home ownership.”

“It builds equity,” Pidge says at once. Then, in a tone of rising horror: “oh my god. I’m turning into my father, never tell him I said that. Restart: home ownership. I just repainted a wall and didn’t have to submit any paperwork to do it, I feel vaguely gratified. I might build a sculpture studio. I have options.”

“Glad to hear you say so,” Shiro says. He types out a one-handed application for a mortgage, preening slightly at the sight of his credit score. Age has its rewards, and this number is one of them. “You’ve convinced me. Send me an invitation when you have your first gallery exhibition, okay?”

“Wait,” Pidge says. “You mean a house for you? I was under the assumption you were asking for someone who occasionally left the office when they weren’t on field missions, or who enjoyed the prospect of relaxing on a porch. Do you think I should have a porch? I like the idea, but I can never see my computer screen when I take it outside. Maybe I should get an umbrella. Shiro!”

“You’ll visit me, right?”

“I always visit, it’s part of my charm. Where are you going? Matt didn’t say anything about another assignment, and I just had dinner with him. He’s dead to me, secrets are no fun unless I’m the one who knows them.”

“I’m looking for a change of scenery,” Shiro says honestly. “Maybe even a change of pace!”

The best way to get Pidge’s help on anything is through compliments, so information is exchanged and Shiro files the requisite paperwork to secure a loan. The mortgage application goes through with ease, despite the complications inherent in the no-money-down benefits his tenure with the Garrison entitles him to. Some finance person working the night shift in a nearby office suffers a spasm of joy when they review the information, and a favorable PDF of epic proportions is in Shiro’s inbox by the next midmorning. The closing occurs with a video call walk through and another flurry of signed digital documents — and then, in less than a week, Shiro is a homeowner. Pidge informs him that this is fast, to the tune of science fiction. What’s there to say? He’s a man of action.

That action leads to him loading his duffle into his Jeep even though HR has refused to see him about an exit interview. Shiro settles for emailing a resignation letter to Mitch and CC’ing every administrative coordinator he can think of as he walks out the door to headquarters. Perhaps it’s cruel not to have given proper notice, but Shiro’s entire career was built on his ability to make decisions on the fly. There’s no reason not to apply the skill to his own future.

Pidge can find him in an emergency, and for once, Shiro hasn’t left a stack of work waiting for his return. He puts on a pair of new, shiny aviator sunglasses (purchased with the unenthusiastic help of the cashier at the gas station just off-base), buckles up, and points his car in the direction of Marmora — towards his new home.

He’s got a future to chase.

+++

The island of Marmora is not an exotic place. It has the usual seasons, is close enough to the mainland that there’s an overwater bridge for day traffic and a ferry for cargo and port deliveries, and an economy that is hopefully on the upswing, albeit a very slow upswing. A glacial upswing. Keith’s lived here ever since he finished his construction, carpentry, and maintenance training program, accepting an invitation from a distant cousin on his mother’s side who’d tracked him down after he turned eighteen and got out of the foster system. It’s most notable characteristics are a supremely over-involved local government (there’s one committee that keeps trying to ban clotheslines; the owner of the coffee shop keeps old protests signs in the back for whenever they feel the need to picket), a divide between summer and year-round residents, and a surprisingly robust DIY community. It’s also home to about twelve historic buildings and many more bungalow-style or slightly grandiose houses, the most notable of which is an inn that hasn’t had an owner in at least ten years.

Keith’s loved the old inn for as long as he’s lived here, though he wouldn’t be able to put that feeling into words if he were asked to do so. Keith’s not one for articulating his feelings anyhow, but the inn is special; he’d try to make an exception.

Objectively, it’s nothing special. There’s no famous architect behind the design, and the building itself is fairly ho-hum, all things considered. But it does have a massive sun porch that wraps halfway around the main house, and the sharp gables were retrofitted with a rain barrel system back when Keith was still scrabbling his way through trade school and his apprenticeships. The previous owners were ambitious but foolhardy in their approach and now the property is in need of serious work: interior, most of it, since the structure has solid bones. It makes Keith’s fingers twitch with the desire to piece the house back together. He sketches out ideas for converting the whole thing into a net-zero dwelling, adding in solar panels and laying down radiant heat underneath tiled floors. Or maybe he should redo the floors in bamboo, or in salvaged wood? There are plenty of derelict homes on that side of the island to liberate materials from; the local economy is on a seesaw of tourism and a slowly emerging class of telecommuters. There might be grant money for a project like that. The Chamber of Commerce has been rolling out their plan to somehow update and also preserve the island. Their office is a swamp of infighting, but the money is a distinct possibility if he feels like dealing with the inevitable public hearings.

This is how Keith daydreams. He refinishes the floors at Thace and Ulaz’s place, helps Acxa lay bluestone for her patio, and even helps Romelle from the cafe paint her kitchen in chalkboard paint — Keith detests chalkboard paint on principal, it’s the worst thing HGTV has ever done to him — and all the while, he’s dreaming of remodeling the inn. It’s not a pipe dream, really; with the right investor (read: capital), Keith could conceivably take on the project. He doesn’t want to own the place. He’s content with his garden apartment and the workshop space he shares with Acxa, and Keith thinks it would be wasteful for a single guy like him to own or even live in a big, rambling house like that — even if a part of him, the part that never had a permanent address as a kid, longs for a home of his own. One where he doesn’t pay rent, one where he doesn’t have to trade favors with the building owner to fix a shitty door jamb. There’s a reason everyone who has ever owned the old house in Marmora has used it as some type of hotel, for all it’s only got five bedrooms. (The bigger question — why anyone would ever want to live here — doesn’t occur to Keith. He likes this town, its proximity to the state parks and the meandering river studded with behemoth cottonwood trees. Who wouldn’t want to live here?)

So it’s not a shock when Thace says, “inn sold,” in the middle of handing Keith a cup of his atrocious coffee, brewed and burned in the Mr. Coffee that has existed in his kitchen for as long as Keith has known him. Only Ulaz will willingly drink coffee that Thace makes, out of love if nothing else, but Keith usually holds the mug for a while out of politeness before dumping it into the compost. It’s like receiving a blessing on a pilgrimage. Keith’s pretty sure Thace still has the original carafe, which counts as a sort of miracle.

Today he actually takes a sip and makes a mild face. “Not a developer,” he says.

“No,” Thace says. “Some big name probably wants to remake himself and get away from it all. Put his name in lights.”

“I think you’re confusing the plot of The Great Gatsby with Marmora’s landmark salable property,” Keith protests. Thace ignores him.

“I can see it now,” Thace continues. “He’ll come into town and start buying up the land bordering the state parks, probably start launching drones — ”

“Good morning, Keith,” Ulaz says over the sound of Thace extemporizing.

“Morning,” Keith says. “I haven’t checked the news, Thace was just telling me about the inn, and, I think, Elon Musk. It’s hard to tell.”

“— and the next thing you know, Marmora will be some wing-nut tycoon’s summer estate — ”

“Ah,” Ulaz says apologetically. Thace, still in full-throated complaint, hands him a cup of coffee. “Thank you, Thace. Yes, we watched a documentary on the Vanderbilts last night,” he explains. “Date night. Very informative. I can see the parallels.”

Sensing that his tirade is wasted on the current assembly, Thace resumes disseminating the news. “The deed transfer went through without a buyer inspection — video calls don’t count in my book — so who knows what the poor devil is thinking.”

Keith makes a humming noise, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“Oh dear,” Ulaz says. “That’s a look.”

“Who’s looking at anything?” Keith asks.

“You’re right, I haven’t opened the blinds yet,” Thace lumbers out of his seat and adjusts the window treatments. Light filters in across the table and spears Keith in the eye, sharp enough that it almost takes his mind off the start of a plan. Maybe he’ll take a walk when he gets lunch. Maybe he’ll walk past the inn. A new owner might want to hear Keith’s ideas. (He normally keeps those ideas to himself, but in this fantasy, the new owner cares what Keith has to say.)

“We won’t stop you,” Thace tells him knowingly. “But would it kill you to drop off some flyers for the store while you’re out?” The flyers are for the series of night workshops the hardware store Thace and Ulaz co-own offers to those who need a refresher on conducting minor home repairs or beginning low-cost projects, like re-framing a window to fit a replacement from the salvage yard.

Since Keith is due to cut a couple of custom orders at the hardware store anyway, he agrees. He walks the six mile loop from their home in the exact middle of the downtown, where most residents cultivate a heavy, slapdash approach to “fix it and forget it” and “DIY sustainability” instead of hiring an architect to really put an ailing structure to rights, distributing the flyers at the diner and the library before reaching his final destination. All the while, he wonders who bought the inn — what they want — if they’ll hire local labor to fix the place up.

Keith’s not much of a dreamer. But this feels like an unlocked door: it might need a little WD-40 on the hinges, but it’s solid. It’s an opening he might be able to walk through.

He posts the last of the flyers on the signboard at the coffee shop, taking care to make sure the little progress flag Ulaz drew in the corder is unobscured. Then he orders a coffee to go, since he couldn’t bear to drink any of Thace’s monstrous brew, and heads back to his place. He’s got some orders to place. And if he pauses in his work to examine the plans he’s accumulated for the inn over the years, well, that’s between Keith and his drafting pencil.

Chapter Text

Shiro’s a trained survivalist, for all he prefers sleeping on a mattress these days. He’s not horrified or overwhelmed by the state of the building he has purchased when he pulls up outside in the Jeep he bought after his first promotion. It was almost a thrill getting it out of storage for the drive to Marmora, since Shiro hasn’t been allowed to drive himself anywhere off-base outside of a flight cockpit or the occasional emissions test since he made Captain. The difference between freeway driving and an actual mission has less to do with the vehicle and more to do with the soundtrack, he decides. The music of his new life: Pet Sounds. He’s pretty sure Pidge left the album loaded onto the car’s computer system the last time she borrowed it.

He parks the car in the empty driveway and sits at the wheel for a minute, crossing his forearms over the wheel as he takes in the structure he signed a good chunk of money over for.

The house — and house is a conservative term, it’s much too big to shelter one person — needs work. Shiro both knew and can live with this, even if another buyer might see it as an opportunity to tear the place down and start fresh.

It’s a Victorian with two stories and sharp gables, all the windows intact and framed with decorative elements. The five guest rooms are all upstairs, and the lower level is taken up by a library, an office, an immense kitchen, and probably some other elements of square footage Shiro’s forgotten from his brief encounter with the listing description. In person, the white exterior paneling is in need of a refresh (and it’s less whimsical than the brightly painted Victorians Shiro saw on the mainland before driving over the connecting bridge) and the gardens are unspeakable — in that there’s no garden to speak over, just a windbreak of un-trimmed fruit trees and a few mature specimens at the edge of the property line. The exterior porch is sagging in spots, but it wraps more than halfway around the house, ostensibly to take in the views. Shiro doesn’t know if he can quite see the water from here, but that doesn’t matter. He already feels free and easy and smug, just from looking at his house and realizing that he hasn’t made a terrible mistake. Between the outside looking decent and the inspections that reported a stable structure and a lot of needy interior projects, this is not the worst decision he’s ever made — and Shiro has survived every terrible decision he’s made up until this very moment, so he likes to think he’s got a good track record.

The sense of possibility is intoxicating. Shiro’s never lived anywhere he was allowed to put nails in the wall to hang a picture, let alone choose the layout and color. To top things off — an abundance of choice! A mission brief full of opportunity! — there’s a long trench outside the window to what Shiro assumes is the kitchen. Maybe he can put in a garden and see if he has a green thumb, or at least not a black one. Maybe he can start growing the ingredients for his own tea blends, or for canning pasta sauce. Shiro can’t remember the last time he ate a tomato that wasn’t conveyed to him as an anemic slice on a disappointing sandwich.

He remembers following his mother around her parents’ house every summer, seeking out repairs for her to-do list. Shiro has no skill of his own, but he’s at least familiar with the rhythm of maintenance. This could be an adventure; it will certainly beat sitting at a desk and filling out paperwork.

Paperwork. His resignation still hasn’t been processed. Matt keeps checking the status and reporting back, but Shiro wouldn’t be surprised if the Garrison just cycles through all of Shiro’s accrued vacation before sticking him on a leave of absence, just so they can come up with a plan to rope him back into the fold. It’s a problem, but one he’s willing to ignore for the time being. He’s got a dream to chase, however nebulous it might be at the moment.

“All right, old timer,” he tells himself. “Let’s get to it.”

The keys work well enough in the door. They might stick a little, to be honest, but his prosthetic is stronger than a normal hand. Deadbolt locks are no match for his grip; fortunately, he has enough experience handling delicate equipment that he doesn’t break the lock, either. Best not to create problems when he doesn’t even know the extent of the repairs that need to happen.

He walks into his new house for the first time. Pidge has talked about this feeling, the sense of potentiality that goes hand-in-hand with owning something, but Shiro never really understood it before now. Leading a mission, flying an experimental aircraft — all of his experiences are largely communal and have an outside origination. Home ownership, or at least his thirty-six hour experience of it since the closing, is an entirely different sensation. Not just due to the weight of his new mortgage.

It’s the first time Shiro has embarked on a mission without any kind of backup. Sure, he’s done solo infiltration before, and he’s had an absurd amount of autonomy in his career — but this is an investment in his own future, made without asking for permission or trying to interpret orders from the top. Shiro is in charge.

It’s not too bad inside. Dusty, maybe; Shiro should probably have hired a cleaning service before he hoofed it out to the island — but he likes the hollowness of the place, the way the light has bleached outlines across the wood floors over the years, highlighting loose boards and dinged molding. The walls could use a new coat of paint, since everything is a buff-grey color that could be a design choice or could be dirt. No wallpaper or carpeting, at least, and the windows aren’t high efficiency. Shiro can hear the wind and distant water from outside, and the occasional car horn. The inn is within walking distance of the island’s downtown. He’ll explore that after he settles into this place.

It’s the first empty building he’s been in without wondering who else might try to get inside.

“What do you think,” he asks the house, half-expecting an answer. “Should I make a go of it?” Despite his savings, he knows buying a house isn’t exactly a reasonable response to the unwanted promotion, and the restoration and upkeep are going to both him until he lines up a plan for the future, even if it’s a nebulous let’s survive this project and see what happens kind of plan, the type of plan Shiro is known for. “I don’t have a lot of relevant experience, and I doubt you’ll go easy on me.”

Adam had sniped incessantly about it when Shiro had refused to buy a house back when they’d been together — Adam always wanted predictability, or at least a grounding that Shiro wasn’t as interested in pursuing. Age changes man, though. Staying in one place might be interesting now. Interesting, or possibly lonely. Shiro wonders if it will be hard to make friends and meet people on an island — if it’s as cliquish as working at the Garrison was.

“Kind of funny,” he muses. The house creaks in response; maybe it wants to get to know him too. Emboldened, Shiro continues his introduction. “I didn’t like the idea of being tied down, so I grounded myself. I needed a new challenge anyway.”

The rest of his exploration is straightforward. It still takes up the last of the available daylight.

The building doesn’t have any utilities hooked up yet and he’s feeling a little stressed at the thought of his new financial burden, so he settles in for the night on the floor of the front room, leaning against the duffle bag he retrieved from the car.

He starts making a list, using his headlamp (so efficient!) to illuminate a piece of scratch paper. Shiro is a fan of lists, even if he doesn’t often have the luxury of time to devote to them. (This is possibly why Adam was always after him to get out of the field and into the main office, where his lists would be of use to someone aside from himself and whichever low-level grunt offered to do the grocery run. Also, Shiro’s penmanship is impeccable.)

The first order of business: find a hardware store. Second: call the utility company. Shiro can manage without a grocery run if he has to, but he pencils that in as number three.

The list continues, traveling from one side of the scrap paper back over to its front, where he continues scribbling along the marginal free space. After a certain point, the list is less about making a plan and more about creating a distraction. It’s a meditation. Hardwood floors are different from sleeping on the ground, or even on the terrible cot in his old office, Shiro realizes. His back aches and he’s starting to feel pins and needles in one of his legs.

That’s another point for the list: tomorrow morning he’s got to order a real bed.

Even more than flying, even more than pushing new recruits through fire until they become better versions of themselves: he likes the idea of making this place his own. It could be something that’s new constantly, all the time.

+++

Shiro wakes with a crick in his neck and a plan of action for the day. Last night’s list wasn’t just an exercise, after all. Shiro’s a man who thrives on following through. After gingerly stomping his feet to determine if the floor is stable enough (it creaks but doesn’t crack, so he’s willing to trust it with his weight) he performs his morning calisthenics then suffers through a series of anguished voicemails from Iverson:

“I’m stalling as long as I can,” Mitch wheedles. “Nadia in HR owes me a favor and I’m not above bribing a Holt to crash the system if I have to. You can have a raise! You can have a fancier arm and R&D won’t even make you up your contribution to the insurance policy! You won’t have to get permission to leave the state on non-Garrison business! Shirogane, my ass is on the line here — get back to base!”

“Not likely,” Shiro informs his phone. He suspected Mitch would try and salvage the situation, but Shiro’s through being ordered around. “And I’m keeping my arm. I’d like to see anyone in R&D try and take it back.”

With that — it’s deeply cathartic to be snide and refuse to reply to Mitch’s messages — Shiro walks out of his house in search of coffee.

The closest coffee shop is within walking distance (for a given value of walking distance; Shiro enjoys stretching his legs, even if the sidewalks are miserable or nonexistent. It feels like being on a mission), and has a community pinboard located near the coat hooks to boot. Shiro studies it while gulping a drip coffee. He orders a flat white and a banana in celebrate after he discovers the flyer for a local hardware store advertising homeowner education services. Shiro’s still finding his feet in Marmora, but the tiny “progress” LGTBQ flag on the corner of the flyer is a heartening sign. He’s not interested in waging a war against small minds, but he’s been out and comfortable that way for too long to pretend at respectability — if there weren’t small signs of queerness visible to his well-trained eye, he might have reconsidered his hasty move.

He commits the address to memory before returning to the Jeep and navigating slowly through the downtown and a parallel parking space. Shiro is a decorated pilot with years of experience maneuvering in tight quarters, but parallel parking the Jeep makes him feel like he’s in the middle of a performance evaluation. It sucks balls, if he’s honest. By the time he’s managed to get the car situated he’s half-convinced the whole town is looking right at him.

When in doubt: walk like you have a plan. Shiro thinks of the hardware store as a fact-finding mission, so he saunters in with his house key at the ready — he needs at least one duplicate — and the hope of getting a few handyman references while he waits. He expects to see a potbellied contractor leaning against the counter and talking about the best type of wax seals for reseating a toilet. Instead he meets Ulaz, who immediately identifies Shiro as an outsider.

“I could pretend not to recognize you’re new in town,” Ulaz says. “But it’s the off-season; no one comes here after August. And all my husband can talk about is who bought the old inn, so I put two and two together. Been a while since anyone did a walk-through, but my guess is you need some work done.”

“Yes,” Shiro says. Why pretend? The floors withstood this morning’s workout, but he’d like a professional to look them over. “Takashi Shirogane, freshly retired and looking for a plan of attack, that’s me. Call me Shiro.”

“I like a man who knows to shop local,” Ulaz says with approval, and calls into the back room for someone who will ostensibly offer advice about the project’s scope. “Keith’s the one for the job,” Ulaz turns back to explain with all the solemnity of a matchmaker. “He’s dependable and he’s got vision. More importantly, he’s never thrown out his back while unloading a special order.”

“That was one time,” Ulaz’s husband Thace yowls from where he’s cutting Shiro’s new house keys. “Keith’s not even thirty, it’ll happen to him too!”

“I don’t think it will,” Ulaz says. “He lifts with his knees. Keith — this is Shiro. He’s bought the inn.”

Keith has emerged from the cutting room. He’s messy, but not filthy: Shiro knows the difference. He’s shorter than Shiro by a bit and covered in a layer of sawdust. There’s a respirator dangling about his neck, but his hair is pulled back in a neat tail, showing off a solemn face with arresting eyes. His work is all over him, his lean musculature is the finest form of advertising Shiro has ever seen, and he still gives the impression of being clean. Endearingly, he’s got a pencil shoved behind one ear, as if he’s the sort who prefers to take notes as thoughts occur to him.

If Ulaz (the Ichabod Crane of hardware store owners, Shiro thinks vaguely) had been a surprise, Keith is something of a shock. He’s lovely.

It’s been a while since Shiro wanted to sweep someone off their feet, but Keith is magnetically attractive and vital. As a professional with years of evaluating people based on a brief first impression, Shiro feels confident that Keith is something special.

Then Keith opens his mouth and steals Shiro’s heart.

“Good to see you’re not actually a Vanderbilt,” Keith says by way of incomprehensible greeting. He offers his hand and Shiro shakes it firmly, enjoying the little haptic tap back that indicates Keith hasn’t flinched when confronted with the existence of Shiro’s prosthetic. He can sense texture and temperature, and both indicators are lighting up a little corner of Shiro’s brain. Adam was the last partner Shiro had for any sustained length of time, and he had the most boring hands imaginable: too smooth and soft to have ever done a hard day’s work. Keith is the opposite.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Shiro tells him. “I wonder if I should be flattered that you’ve heard of me — but a Vanderbilt, really?”

“Television reception’s terrible out here,” Thace says. “Mostly we watch PBS documentaries.”

“Of course,” Shiro says, not understanding in the slightest. He’s not a television guy, mostly sticking to audiobooks or whatever’s playing on the flatscreen at the gym. He’d left the Garrison in the midst of a Millionaire Matchmaker marathon; the cadets had been emotionally invested in anything that ended with a wedding. Are the Vanderbilts an HBO series, he wonders?

“That’s the last documentary he watched, on the Vanderbilts. They were ridiculous. I mean,” Keith manages, and Shiro realizes: they’re still clasping each others’ hands. “When we heard the inn had sold, we thought it might be a developer or an industrialist. Not — ”

“A one-armed, retired pilot?”

Keith’s grip on Shiro’s hand tightens. “You can fly?” This close, his eyes are wide and guileless. Shiro appreciates that Keith doesn’t fixate on the arm thing — leading with it had been a test — and indulges in stroking his thumb flirtatiously along the back of Keith’s hand. He nearly picks up a splinter doing so, but Keith’s interested flush is worth it.

“Yeah, I can fly,” he says. “Not sure about fixing up a house, but put me in a cockpit and I can find my way around. I’m great at chasing horizons. But enough about me: your colleagues were saying you’re the man to talk to about rehabbing my midlife crisis.”

“I’m not a contractor,” Keith says as if by rote, as if that means something that Shiro’s supposed to cotton on to, “but there are a lot of jobs at the inn I can work on.” He reclaims his hand in order to retrieve the pencil shoved behind his ear; a battered notebook materializes as well. A man after Shiro’s own heart, honestly. “Do you have a list? Tell you what, I can give you my number — you probably want references — it might be easier if I walk around the property and get a feel for what you want to change.”

“As if you don’t have three different drafts for what you’d do to that building, given half the chance,” Thace scoffs. “Shiro, hire him.”

“With a reference like that, I’d be a fool not to,” Shiro says. “But tell you what: bring your plans and come walk through the place in the next couple of days if you have the time. You’ll feel more prepared, I’ll have had more than two cups of coffee, and we can have a conversation. If I meet you client standards and I like your plans — no need to make this process more difficult than it has to be.” He’s being charming, but he’s also serious. If Shiro’s learned one thing from training and active duty combined, it’s that sometimes things go in the right direction. What that happens: it makes sense to haul ass before anything untoward catches up with you.

“You won’t regret it,” Thace says, despite Ulaz delivering an unsubtle elbow to his side in an attempt to rein him in. “Keith’s got more wood sense than handymen with decades more experience. He’s certified as a rough and a finish carpenter, practically unheard of for a guy his age.”

Shiro has no idea what that means. It sounds impressive.

“I’m good at what I do,” Keith says, unblushing. “I’ll bring my portfolio, give you the names of some people to call. I haven’t got as many years of experience as some of the contractors back on the mainland, but Thace is right — I do know the inn. And I know how things work on Marmora, which is useful. Small towns are something.”

“I like a man with confidence,” Shiro says. “All right. You know where I live — if you’re serious, stop by tomorrow, say oh-eight-thirty, and show me what you’ve got.”

Keith nods, looks like he might offer to shake Shiro’s hand again — but then composes himself. “Yes, sir,” he says instead. The honorific sounds unfamiliar in his mouth, but Shiro thinks he could help Keith get used to uttering it. “Good to meet you. Ulaz, Thace — I’ve got some work I need to finish back at my place. Text me if you need any heavy lifting done.”

“Get out of here,” Ulaz tells him. “I know you have plans to dig out of your terrible flat file, and if Thace tries anything funny I’ll exert my husbandly wiles.”

Keith offers a little half-smile, and if that’s a preview of the real thing — Shiro hopes he’ll have a chance to see it in full bloom.

He watches Keith stride away, admiring the pull of his worn jeans against his ass. The scenery in this town really is remarkable.

“Want to open a homeowner’s account while you’re here?” Thace asks, interrupting Shiro’s contemplation. “You’ll get ten percent off raw materials any time you attend a shop skills class.”

“Ah,” Shiro prevaricates. “Can I get that spare house key?”

“Of course,” Ulaz says, and hands over the set. For some quixotic reason, it’s been cut from purple metal instead of the standard dull brass. “Welcome to Marmora, Shiro. It’s a whole new world.” He disappears inside the lumber room and a moment later, the air is full of the buzzing whoosh of a shop vac. Shiro can smell the sawdust kicking up.

“A whole new world, huh,” Shiro mutters. “That’s for sure.”

“He’s single,” Thace informs him. “Not Ulaz, I’m married to him. Keith’s single. Don’t let his demeanor fool you, he takes direction well.”

“Tell you what,” Shiro says. “Go ahead and sign me up for that homeowner’s account.”

Thace cackles and starts jabbing buttons on his sales terminal. “I think I’m going to like you, Shiro. You’ll fit right in and shake things up. That’s just what Keith needs — what we all need — around here.”

+++

“Have you seen him?” Romelle demands as soon as Keith enters the coffeeshop. “That man! He’s new in town, I can tell.”

“If you mean the guy who bought the inn,” Keith starts, “his name’s Shiro.” He’s still feeling flushed at the way Shiro had rubbed at the dry skin along Keith’s knuckles, like maybe he thought Keith didn’t take good care of himself. Like maybe Shiro had thoughts about how to take care of Keith.

“I knew it wasn’t Elon Musk!”

“Don’t speak that name in this sacred place,” one of Romelle’s part-timers keens from the dish sink. He can’t help himself; he’s Romelle’s nephew, and something of a befuddled environmentalist.

“Fear of the name breeds fear of the thing itself, and Elon Musk is a parody who will one day turn into compost like the rest of us,” Romelle says firmly. Then, back to Keith: “Tell me everything.”

“He bought the inn,” Keith repeats. “I’m meeting him there tomorrow morning.”

“You got the job?” Romelle squeals with delight and rummages in her apron pocket for her phone. “I’m telling Acxa, we’ll celebrate.”

Romelle has been trying to seduce Acxa ever since Keith introduced the two of them, back when he started doing the odd design project at the coffee shop and needed an extra set of hands with the lumber. It’s a complicated dance; Acxa hates chalkboard paint almost as much as Keith does, but Romelle has a certain kind of energy that compels even the most taciturn of lesbians to give her a second chance.

“I can’t celebrate,” Keith says. “It’s a job interview. I need a big coffee, to go, so I can get home and review my notes.”

“Acxa will bring them here,” Romelle says, reading from the screen. “You don’t need to review, you need an intervention. I’m willing to serve you decaf, and that’s it. You’ll over analyze those drafts if I leave you to your own devices, you don’t know how to pace yourself.”

True, but unwelcome just the same. Keith doesn’t know how to say: the inn is as good as a castle on a cloud. Now that Shiro has shown up, tall and broad and greying, and smiled at Keith like — Keith didn’t know how to classify that smile, only that it seemed like Shiro was hungry to know him, and that Keith felt that same hunger in response.

None of that means anything if Keith’s plan’s don’t pass muster tomorrow morning, though.

“You’re being too conservative with the layout,” Acxa says when she drops off the plans. “I stomped on the floors really hard the last time the Preservation Committee held a house walk; there are some weak spots, but you could totally take out a couple load-bearing walls and restructure the main floor.“

“That would ruin the character of the foyer,” Keith tells her. “Besides, I’m not licensed to erect that kind of interior structure, you know that.”

“You could be,” Acxa points out over the sound of Romelle snorting at the word erect. “You’re already a licensed carpenter and I know you’re about six hours of studying away from passing the contractor exams.”

That’s a sore spot. Keith knows, intellectually, that he could pass those tests — but then what? He’s better off doing repair work and the occasional finished carpentry project, even if it is a little boring at times. Besides. The kind of insurance policies general contractors have to carry is too rich for his blood, too risky. It’s better to dream small.

“I’ve never been in the old inn,” Romelle’s nephew says dreamily as he delivers Acxa’s oat milk latte.

“It could use some color,” Romelle tells him. “You’ll tell your hunky boss that, right, Keith? Some accent walls and maybe a polished concrete countertop in the kitchen.”

“Concrete’s a pain in the ass to seal,” Keith says. “It stains.” He notices that he doesn’t get offered a latte. The mug of plain decaf Romelle slides over nearly spills on the top sheet of his designs and he regrets ever helping Romelle with that chalkboard paint; she’s going to insert herself into his business for the rest of her natural life and there’s nothing Keith can do to stop her.

“Concrete’s all wrong for that house, Romelle,” Acxa says disapprovingly. She’s a little conservative about countertop mediums. And to Keith she adds: “just think about it,” which is a whole speech from her. Acxa is almost as allergic to pep talk.

It’s not until later that night, after he’s redrawn his design suggestions in his nicest handwriting and consumed so much decaf it feels like his back teeth are floating, that Keith makes it back home. The plans didn’t need as much obsessing as he gave them, but reviewing them filled the hours until he could conceivably call it a night. He’s a boringly early-to-bed sort anyway, always has been, and he shuffles back and forth from the main room of his little apartment to the bathroom while he counts off the required minutes of toothbrushing; Keith has always been preemptive about oral hygiene, in the way of someone who couldn’t afford dental visits between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six.

He spits foam into the sink, flosses; thinks again about the potential locked up inside the inn, and thinks again about the way Shiro had touched him. His prosthetic had been warm and textured and unflinching, a beautiful extension of the man himself. Keith recalls the trust in that touch, the test of it, the flirtation. (He hopes it was a flirtation.)

That touch has been on a loop in Keith’s head for most of the day, and it’s a strange draw. Aside from a few messy flings in the heedless days between aging out of foster care and stumbling into his apprenticeship, Keith doesn’t have a lot of experience with the pleasures of the flesh. Most of what he knows is gleaned from watching tidbits of romantic dramas with Thace and Ulaz, or cultivated by hand in the dark, before he sleeps, alone in his single bed. Keith likes the idea of being touched, but it’s never held so much weight before.

It’s not just that Shiro was attractive, though that’s certainly true, obviously true, ridiculously true. It’s that Shiro looked Keith in the eye when he spoke to him, and that he seems interested in what Keith can bring to the table (never mind that Keith would make him a table). In their brief moments of conversation, Shiro had radiated confidence and ease, his body had taken up an unbelievable amount of space: his broad shoulders, his forearms brilliant and sleek with muscle, his elegantly functional prosthetic. Keith’s in good shape himself, works hard for a living, spends a lot of time with other professionals who know how to lift a heavy object without pulling a muscle (well, aside from Thace, who never did learn how to use his knees. It’s a good thing Ulaz was a medic before he left the military). Shiro didn’t look at Keith like he cared about the contractor’s license; he looked like Keith was a key part of Shiro’s home renovation adventure.

“Settle down, Keith,” Keith tells his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “It’s a job interview. A conversation. You know how to talk about houses.” Even if it’s frightening and exhilarating to talk about the inn, the house that Keith has always wanted to work on. Once he fixes it — if Shiro chooses him, anyways — Keith won’t have anything left holding him down, no big nebulous dream to point to when someone asks him why he’s sticking around in Marmora.

But that’s good, too, Keith hopes. He puts himself to bed, tucks himself on his side and cups his hand over his chest as he starts to doze off, right over his own heartbeat. The inn is just a building. Keith can think of a lot of reasons he wants to stay here, and the thought of adding someone — Shiro? — to that list — of Keith maybe allowing himself to dream a little bigger —

He falls asleep before finishing the thought.

Chapter Text

Keith shows up at the inn the next morning, right on time, wondering if he ought to have brought coffee with him. It feels like the polite thing to do — he always grabs a drink when he meets with any other client — but it also feels like he’s heading into a job interview. It’s been long enough since he had one of those that his memory of the etiquette is murky at best.

The deciding factor against coffee, really, is not that Keith’s unsure of Shiro’s order. Romelle probably has it scrawled on that terrible chalkboard she keeps behind the coffee counter; she does that with transplants, because no one else ever asks for a menu. No, it has more to do with Keith own quasi-socialization hangover from reviewing his plans at the coffee shop last night. Walking back through that door is just another reminder that Keith is still figuring his shit out. He’d rather channel his early morning energy into meeting Shiro face-to-face, and finding out if he’s hired or rejected without further delay.

He hopes Shiro appreciates the plans Keith has drawn up; Keith’s not shy about his love for the inn, and he knows he’s got talent with remodeling old spaces.

The real question is, will Shiro recognize Keith’s skill? Plenty of people dislike that Keith’s never been to a fancy school, or that he hasn’t sat for his contractor’s license, but Shiro seems like the kind of person who lets skill and talent shine. Shiro had seemed impressed when Thace had bragged about Keith’s skill as both a rough and a finish carpenter — but does Shiro even know what that means? Keith learned how to frame up carpentry structures first and the finer work came after, seemed like a solid career move. It’s made Keith more able to pick up handy work, that’s for sure, since he can rough out a structure and replace delicate woodwork, all on the same 1099.

Keith knows he’s got the start of a crush on the man — who wouldn’t? The white hair, the laugh-lines, the way he touched Keith’s hand like Keith was a goddamn princess instead of a laborer — and he tries to steel himself for disappointment.

But instead of disappointment, he just sees Shiro waiting on the sagging front porch. He’s wearing trim cargos and an unbuttoned navy henley, but more importantly: Shiro’s not messing with his phone or reading the paper or distracting himself from waiting for Keith to arrive. Instead, he’s looking at the view from his front porch and giving every indication of enjoying what he sees. The inn has a beautiful vantage point of the downtown and the barest hint of the rock formations that lead to the water. Keith is happy that Shiro can appreciate its serenity. It speaks well of him: that Shiro has an eye for detail, and the depth of character to appreciate the world around him.

“Morning,” Keith says. There; the greeting is out of the way.

“You’re right on time,” Shiro answers, at once turning and giving Keith his full attention. His gaze is grey and full of purpose. Keith isn’t the sort of person who pays attention to another person’s eyes or whatever, but he feels a little warm at how much focus Shiro gives him, even though Keith hasn’t done anything to prove himself yet.

They stomp across the porch and through the front room, then in and out of the Victorian’s small rooms to assess any decay. Despite Shiro’s misgivings, the building is fairly sound: there’s a miraculous absence of water damage, for one thing. The floors need refinishing and a few patches, that’s for sure, and there are a lot of fixtures that will need updating. The laundry area has hookups but no machines, just an enormous sink and a drain in the floor, and the kitchen is at least usable, even if it’s cramped and full of cabinets that no longer open or close properly.

“Have you ever used a stove like this one?“ Shiro asks, gesturing to the vintage salamander that takes up most of one wall. It's a grungy enameled behemoth, dented and probably in need of a flexible gas line.

“They’re not so bad,” Keith says. He jiggles the handle on one of the oven compartments; the hardware’s loose and tacky with petrified grease. “I would maybe wait on lighting this one until you get the gas lines checked. Do you cook much?”

“I haven’t,” Shiro says. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t. We had most meals on base, back at the Garrison.”

“Ah.” Keith doesn’t know what the Garrison is or does, but he’s lived in houses where the occasional meal has been left on a sideboard for the truly desperate. It’s an institutional practice. “Well, is it a priority?”

“I can subsist without an oven,” Shiro says dryly. “If I’m desperate, I’ll scrounge up a dutch oven and build a fire pit outside.”

From the kitchen they hoist themselves up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Shiro insists on going first: he hefts himself from each riser with more force than necessary, like he’s stress-testing the house. Keith’s never had a client try to protect him from going through a stair before, and it feels a little chivalrous.

“Five bedrooms,” Shiro marvels. “Wait, how do I know they’re bedrooms?”

“Building codes,” Keith says, and then, to his horror, the minutia keeps tumbling out of his mouth, the same way wood scraps never stay put in a sorting box once you pull out the first piece. “At least half the ceiling’s gotta be seven feet high and the total square footage is — I’m sorry. There’s a size requirement. Some states want you to have a built-in closet, but not here.”

“Huh,” Shiro says. Then, staring at a cast iron bathtub that takes up most of one bathroom: “How do you think they got this up the stairs?”

The tour takes the better part of the morning, and Keith is surprised at how calm he feels by the time he and Shiro have finished canvassing the house. Most of the work won’t require complicated permits, since Shiro doesn’t seem interested in changing the internal layout and the porch repair and reconstruction will fall under the local height limits for external structures. Keith’s not so confident about upgrading electrical in a place like this and says so without prevaricating, but adds that he knows some people who might be willing to perform that service.

“It sounds like you’ve got this under control. We should exchange contact information,” Shiro says. “Draw up a contract and figure out what parts you want to outsource.”

“Are you hiring me?”

“You haven’t given me a reason not to,” Shiro points out. “I like the way you explained the flooring and electrical situations and I looked up some of your previous work before you got here today. Your friend Romelle at the coffee shop is very complimentary of your work, by the way. I like what I’ve seen, and I know I want to see what you can do with this place. I bet if I give you clear skies, freedom to fly, you’ll blow me away.”

Keith has never met anyone so lavish with compliments. They can’t possibly be personal — he and Shiro have only just met — but they feel genuine. Keith feels seen, and more than that: appreciated. He feels a little flushed and sweaty, which might be due to the weather. It’s a nice day. By the end of the consultation, Keith is slouching inside the entryway of the inn with a pencil and a pad of paper balanced on his thigh, taking notes while Shiro talks through his ideas for the inn.

They’re not bad ideas. Certainly they are possible ideas, which is always a good sign. Shiro seems aware and appreciative of the skills the job will require, if not of the challenging scope of pulling permits and sourcing materials on his modest budget. Shiro has talked in a sideways fashion about his capital reserves, and Keith has a notion that this project will require strict planning in order to avoid bankruptcy. It always boils down to budgeting, unless Shiro decides to do something reckless, like selling his car.

That is: More reckless than buying a run-down inn located in a former tourist paradise, and without seeing the place in person before placing a bid. Thace had a lot to say about that, when he read the property transfer and dug up the unpublished dirt at the last building commission meeting. Shiro gets points for style.

Fortunately, Keith’s daydreams over the years have always been oddly practical, and Shiro seems keen on the idea of salvaging materials from other building sites and the Habitat for Humanity store a couple hours and a ferry ride away. Every time Keith mentions a cost-saving measure or a design plan that enhances the view, Shiro listens until Keith finishes talking before examining any supporting documentation and then — agreeing with him.

Keith is mildly boggled that an out-of-towner would defer to Keith’s professional opinions and yet: here he is.

“So I’m thinking about a kitchen garden, but I’m sure there are structural things I should focus on first,” Shiro says. “Especially considering I’m living here at the moment.”

“Living here — yeah, that’s important,” Keith manages, not because it’s a ridiculous thing to do and more because Shiro seems too composed to do it. But then: Keith doesn’t know him yet. “What do you need to make yourself feel at home?”

“Running water,” Shiro says wryly. “Kidding! I talked to the utility company this morning, I should have that soon. No, I was thinking about fixing the stairs, since I didn’t bring my rock-climbing gear along with me and getting to the second floor felt dicey for someone my size — the first night in the building I almost went through a riser, that one I pointed out to you. But the first order of business is ordering a bed. If I’m being honest: I’m getting too old to sleep on wood floors. I’ve slept in worse places, but age is supposed to have some rewards.”

“Infrastructure’s important, but you can’t be that old,” Keith says, idly responding to the wrong part of that statement. Thace has been taking bets on Shiro’s age and financial outlook, settling on “silver fox” and “loaded,” but actually talking to Shiro has convinced Keith it’s more “prematurely grey” and “comfortable.” Then: “Roughing it? What made you move out here without even getting set up with basic utilities or a bed?”

Shiro laughs and rubs at the back of his neck. The sun slanting through the doorway glints off his prosthetic; Keith supposes that it also illuminates the crows-feet starting to emerge at the corners of Shiro’s eyes, but he’s trying not to ogle his new client.

“Everything happens all at once, doesn’t it? I turned forty-seven and I got a promotion at work,” Shiro says. And huh, that’s — not old, really, Keith, thinks. “And boo-hoo for me, it meant I was pretty much slated to never get out into the field again. You know — stop doing anything I’m good at, that I have experience in, and shove me in an office for the next twenty years. Boredom’s not a good look on me, and I don’t intend to stick around to catch it, so here I am: retired and investing in a new hobby.”

“A decent hobby,” Keith allows. “Home renovation is, uh, never really finished. There’s always something that needs to be fixed.” He doesn’t say: and that’s when it’s a move-in ready house. Shiro doesn’t seem like he minds projects, and Keith’s not one to judge how a man chooses to live. In his wildest daydreams about buying his own place, Keith knows he’d end up camping out for months before anything he can afford will be considered livable.

Shiro gives a decisive nod. Whatever he used to do, Keith can see how he was good at it, and how he would thrive in a fast-paced environment. Not being geared for a desk job himself, Keith appreciates the decisive mindset that enabled Shiro to switch from whatever he was involved in to… this.

“I’m glad you’re willing to coach me,” Shiro tells him. “Never owned a house before. Always lived in barracks, except for when my ex-partner and I tried our hand at cohabitating. That didn’t work, and the condo was only part of the problem.” He snorts derisively, and even that’s attractive. “The building was all right, but having an HOA? I dealt with too many regulations at work. Didn’t need to come home to someone telling me what color to paint the stairwell or if I could adopt a dog that weighed more than seven pounds. Adam was allergic to dogs anyway. But enough about my failed relationships — you’re the expert here, and I want to hear your advice. Tell me what else this house needs, besides the floors and the electrical.”

“You sure you don’t mind?” Keith says, a little sly. “I mean, I could have opinions about stairwell colors. And I don’t have a dog but I bet if I did, it would be way more than seven pounds.”

“Oh, you’re trouble,” Shiro says. His voice has gone warm and approving, the way Keith has always imagined someone might sound if they decided to flirt with him. “You’re a rebel under all those building codes and sawdust. I think we’re going to get along. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the steps — that one’s the least creaky — and we can talk about what working here is gonna look like for you and me.”

It’s easy to obey, and Keith’s prepared. The night before he’d typed up a rate sheet and now he lays the contract out on the step between them, letting Shiro read through and make minimal changes. There’s not much to change.

Keith’s cheap. Not in a tawdry way: more, he doesn’t cost a lot to hire out for home improvement jobs because he works by himself and because (Thace says) he always undercharges for labor. He likes to think that he does good work, and that the quality is why people reach out to him, rather than the price point, but it’s probably a toss-up. Keith doesn't have a lot of expenses, and he doesn’t have to pay insurance for a crew, so he doesn’t worry about making a particular level of overhead. It’s why he never dreamed he’d be able to own the Marmora Inn; he was content to envision what he might do if he was ever hired to work on it.

Shiro doesn't argue about Keith’s fees. Keith appreciates that gesture of trust, because his prices are not indicative of low self-worth. He’s selling a skill, and he has faith in his ability to perform. He just didn’t expect Shiro to ask to work alongside him — and, as the work begins to take shape, he didn’t expect Shiro to tip him.

Keith’s not sure if this counts as a tip. But over the next two weeks of preliminary work, every time they go out for coffee or Shiro grabs lunch, he picks up the check. Keith doesn’t want to presume anything, but after the third time he offers to pay and Shiro waves him off, he becomes comfortable with their little status quo. It’s nice not to have to worry about incidentals on this job, especially because the inn has so many elements that need work that Keith’s often in the building until late at night. Shiro in turn handily navigates the delicate balance of following Keith around and helping (inasmuch as an inexperienced first-time homeowner can help; and Shiro’s strong enough to lift building material without a struggle even if he doesn’t know the names of any of Keith’s tools) and leaving Keith to accomplish his tasks alone. An added bonus: unlike some people Keith could name, Shiro knows how to lift a heavy object without throwing out his back.

Watching Shiro lift anything, seeing how his muscles stand out: Keith feels like that’s kind fo a bonus, too. Keith’s never done a day with free weights, but he’s starting to daydream about asking Shiro to take him to the gym, just to see if the one-on-one coaching would make him spontaneously combust. According to Romelle, Shiro’s started teaching a workout class at the local gym once a week. It’s popular as hell; her nephew changed his shifts at the coffee shop so he could attend.

It takes a while to coax Keith out of his shell, but Shiro manages it. He manages it without Keith actually noticing until it’s the middle of August, almost four weeks into the project, and they’ve become — not friends, that’s a hollow word in Keith’s experience — close.

Keith realizes it with a start, one morning as they’re both hunched over an ersatz table made from a sheet of plywood and two sawhorses. Keith’s sketching out ideas for custom windows since the ones already framed in are starting to warp. He’s oddly enamored with the idea of wide bay windows that will expand the tight quarters of the Victorian’s small rooms without having to add a thousand lamps. It seems like something a big house ought to have, good views with plenty of nooks for curling up in the sun. Keith’s not sure where he got the notion, unless he’s more tuned in than he realized to the cozy romance audiobooks Thace listens to at the hardware store. They all take place in stately manor homes.

The inn is not a stately manor home. Shiro hasn’t even said if he wants it to be a functional bed and breakfast, one that accepts visitors. Keith is of two minds about that — if that decision is yet to be made, it ought to be decided upon in the near future, so Keith can make certain that the building is compliant with local regulations. But if Shiro doesn’t have plans to open the doors to lodgers, what will he do with the entirety of the house? Keith hopes he’s not planning to sell it. If the renovations go well, Shiro has made noise about putting in landscaping, maybe excavating the old fruit trees from their ivy prison. That’s not Keith’s usual, but he wouldn’t mind building a series of raised beds outside the kitchen for that kitchen garden they talked about on the first day. The house is situated so that it’s a candidate for solar, and the idea of pursuing those complexities makes Keith want to flex his fingers and go through his enormous stash of codebooks. It’s the kind of project that would go into a portfolio, if Keith had the ambition to create a real portfolio. Right now he just has a couple of clips, plus whatever Romelle puts up on her blog. The chalkboard paint project was so popular that he got four referrals alone from one post.

“You’ve trailed off,” Shiro teases, and pushes over a steaming mug of coffee. “Need a pick-me-up?” He didn’t make the coffee; he’s taken to stopping by the cafe when he walks the length of town and getting an enormous thermos filled to the brim. Keith’s never cultivated a caffeine habit, partially because he doesn’t like being dependent, but he has gotten used to this: the way Shiro makes sure Keith gets the first mug, and the way Shiro has meticulously cycled through a small collection of locally-crafted coffee mugs until landing on one that made Keith smile at the sight. He serves Keith’s coffee in that mug, a hand-thrown vessel with abstract slashes of colored glaze that’s not remotely symmetrical, every time it’s on offer.

Keith is starting to think of it as something that could maybe belong to him, even if he knows it will just go back into a cupboard once the project is over and there’s no excuse for him and Shiro to meet in the mornings and go over the plans for the house.

“Ha,” Keith says instead of giving voice to his melancholy train of thought. He accepts the offering, delighting in how Shiro keeps his hand on the mug until after Keith has got ahold of it, so their fingers brush against each other. “No, just lost in thought. Are you going to sell the place?” He might as well rip off the bandage.

Shiro quirks a perfect eyebrow. “Why would I sell my home,” he asks, “when I haven’t even gotten to enjoy living in it? You’re the one who helped me get the new mattress up there and that was less than a month ago.”

“It’s a lot of work,” Keith says uncomfortably. “Some people — they build things up and put them back on the market.”

“I like it here,” Shiro says. He’s using the tone of voice that he must have called on whenever he was commanding the cadets he talks about managing at his old job. It makes Keith feel like he could replace his bones with steel, just with the confidence Shiro’s voice inspires. “I’d like to stay. Unless you think the town wouldn’t have me.”

“Who wouldn’t want to keep you around?” Keith asks. He feels a little hot, and too sincere, and covers it with a gulp of coffee. It’s scalding, just the way he likes it. Shiro has taken to adding cream. Keith has only ever put milk in his coffee before, because why would he buy two different cartons? But Shiro has been convincing him to enjoy the unctuousness of cream, the way it smooths out the brew without cooling it all the way down. Not even Romelle would have thought to suggest that to Keith, and she’s known him for so long that it’s impossible to avoid doing free labor for her from time to time. Shiro’s just thoughtful and aware whenever Keith is concerned, and Keith is flourishing under his scrutiny.

“You’d be surprised,” Shiro answers. “I’m sure a lot of my old subordinates were happy to see my backside walk out the door at the Garrison, even if my superiors are still blowing up my phone. But no, no plans to flip the place. I’ve moved around a lot over the years, and of course I was always in the barracks or on an assignment: camping or in an institutional single-occupancy room. Couldn’t even have a hot plate, so I thought having a stove I could use as an anvil would be an upgrade,” he jokes. “At this point I think it’d be an adventure to decorate every room in a different color and sleep in a different bed every night. Revolve through my own doors.”

“No guests?”

“Oh, I’ll entertain the idea,” Shiro allows. “I’m not opposed to having company, or to making this a base of operations once I settle on my next career. But I don’t have paying guests in mind, if that’s what you’re angling after. You’re curious this morning.”

“Building codes,” Keith retorts, once again in familiar territory. “You get more leeway if you’re not planning to monetize the interior of the house. The community planning committee on Marmora is kind of unreal about that sort of thing. We don’t have any local character on the whole, but it’s like Chairman Trothrod is determined to make up for lost time.”

Shiro makes a faux-considering noise. “I’m an old man,” he lies — even with the white hair and crows-feet, he has the energy of someone who thinks ultramarathons are fun. “Think I could use a stair lift? An elevator?”

“Just want to know if I need to widen the door frames so we can get a hospital bed in here,” Keith says, the humor feeling clumsy on his tongue.

“I think we’ll be all right,” Shiro winks at him. It shouldn’t be appealing, but it is. “Worst comes to worse, you can just drag me in on a surfboard or something.”

“I’ve never surfed in my life,” Keith protests. “We don’t have the coastline for it on Marmora — we’ve got cliffs.”

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro laughs. “You’re giving me ideas now. All right, forget my invalid future. Let’s go out with a bang: cliff-diving, how about that?”

No one ever bandied that old saying about in Keith’s childhood, the one about jumping off a cliff if everyone else was doing it, because Keith knew how to keep his head down. He knows he plays things too safe, relies too heavily on the trade he knows and the town he’s settled into. But he thinks that if Shiro were the one coaching him, Keith would take the leap.

+++

The handyman is good with his hands. He’s good-looking too, Shiro thinks, and responsive to teasing. It’s almost like no one’s ever bothered to tease him before, and that’s a pity. Shiro is enjoying this, the way Keith blooms and blushes at the slightest innuendo. And he’s more than a pretty face, though Shiro is old enough to admit, even if only to himself, that he enjoys a bit of scenery.

Keith is lovely and he’s smart. A little too smart for the place he’s carved out for himself, but Shiro isn’t going to complain when it yields custom windows and built-in storage, nor when it allows him to work alongside a man whose ethic for labor meets Shiro’s own exacting self-requirements. Shiro doesn’t collect possessions as a rule, but he’s inclined to start, if only so he can admire the way Keith’s workmanship will accommodate any mundane treasure. The house is a hobby enough for Shiro, but he envisions collecting quilts to store in beautiful cedar chests. It feels very romantic, even if Shiro’s never used a quilt before in his life and isn’t entirely sure where he’d go to find one. Keith would probably know.

Keith doesn’t know how to flirt back, but he’s trying. Shiro feels like he shouldn’t encourage the behavior, but he’s having too much fun to quit. And why should he quit? Shiro wants to stay here. If Keith wants to welcome him — he’s young, but he knows his own mind.

A few days after the entertaining questions, where it was obvious to Shiro that Keith was wondering if Shiro was planning to move a family into the house — obvious, that is, until Keith explained that he needed to know if the inn was slated for reopening as a business, since it affected the building codes, maybe Shiro doesn’t still have it and he should return one of Iverson’s phone calls, or at least send an email to HR and badger them for his exit forms since it’s been six weeks since he walked out of the Garrison offices — Shiro interrupts Keith where he’s starting to prime the new wall in one of the inn’s endless bedrooms.

The wallpaper removal was sticky and disgusting work, and Shiro had helped as much as he could until Keith had banished him from the premises — “this is why you’re paying me; save yourself,” — but the priming is a more genteel task to witness. Keith’s dressed in a black tee shirt that’s faded to grey in some spots, and despite his care, there’s a mist of primer speckling his forearms and cheekbones. It’s like looking at freckles on a negative film. Shiro pauses to admire the wiry muscles standing out in Keith’s forearms as he runs the pain roller along the walls, the way his shirt’s gone a bit dark with sweat in the small of his back. Keith’s meticulous about the floors here even though he hasn’t yet refinished them and has placed drop cloths all along the walls, but he has a delightful ruffled appearance when he’s in the middle of painting.

He notices Shiro noticing him, and pauses in his task to remove an earbud. Keith doesn’t keep the volume high, but Shiro can make out the faintest cadence of an audiobook before Keith fumbles for his phone and hits pause.

“Special delivery,” Shiro smiles, injecting every ounce of warmth he has into the tone. Keith gets spooked easily, and Shiro has been coaxing him into a less unsettling reaction; Keith responds well to kind words and admiration, and it’s not a hardship for Shiro to speak to him with those things in mind. “I brought you a scone. They had apricot.”

Keith loves apricot. Shiro’s ambivalent about most stone fruits, but he greatly enjoys watching Keith enjoy it. Apricot is also Romelle’s most popular flavor of scone at the little bakery in town, baked and brought in daily by another local resident, and Shiro had to call ahead and stake out the counter in order to ensure he won the prize.

“You shouldn’t have,” Keith protests, pleased. He runs the paint roller down the wall a few more times. “I’m just about at a good spot to break.”

Unlike most twenty-somethings Shiro has known, even if they were all recruits, Keith’s fastidious. He wraps the roller and goes down to the basement to scrub his hands in the laundry sink before joining Shiro in the half-finished kitchen, where Shiro has uncapped his thermos and poured a coffee into Keith’s favorite mug.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked yet,” Keith says, entering a room in a faint cloud of the orange-scented pumice scrub he uses to get paint and grease off his skin. “What I’m doing with my life, I mean.”

“Mostly I was congratulating myself on my good fortune,” Shiro says. “Think about it from my perspective: I show up and start making noise about the one building you’ve always wanted to renovate, and then you agree to work on the project with me. You’re cost-conscious. Your work is beautiful — I don’t know anything about lumber, but I can tell that you do, so I trust you to stick to it, and every time I’ve asked you to explain something you make sure I understand what you’re doing. You’re reliable.”

“And I’m not a contractor.”

Shiro pauses for a moment and drinks his own coffee, letting Keith’s concern hang in the air for a moment. It needs to cure, like a coat of paint, before anything can be done to address it. “Does that bother you?”

Keith sighs and chases a stray crumb across the wax paper bag it arrived in. “I thought it would bother you.”

“Trust me, if I’m bothered, I’ll let you know,” Shiro informs him. “The only thing that matters about the contractor license is how you feel about it. It’s your career — your life. I walked out of a stable job with a pension and sunk my savings into this place, I don’t have a leg to stand on.”

“You’ve got the arm, though, I’ve got to hand that to you.”

“You’re trouble,” Shiro tells Keith, like he tells him occasionally. “I like that about you.”

“The contractor thing matters because I like you,” Keith blurts out, “and I’m worried you won’t take me seriously if I don’t have that certification. It would mean I was a professional.”

Shiro would like to cheer. He had hoped Keith was developing a fondness for him — more than a fondness, really — but he hadn’t wanted to press the issue past the careful, sustained flirting he’s been investing into the project. “I think I’m the last person who can tell you what a contractor’s license would or wouldn’t mean for you,” he says levelly. “But I can promise you this: I take you very seriously.”

“Oh.” Keith sits back and thinks over that for a minute. He bites into his scone while he’s thinking, and Shiro enjoys the way the crumbs cling to his lip before Keith licks his tongue out to capture them.

“Obviously the project is nowhere near finished, but rest assured: even if you put the last nail in the floorboards today and packed up your tools, I will never give up on you. So do me a favor: don’t give up on yourself, either.”

“You sound like Ulaz,” Keith smiles. He’s got a little flush across his cheeks, slightly occluded by the primer flecks.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Shiro says, because he’s talked to Ulaz a few times since he got his keys cut and every encounter has made Shiro feel like he really will emerge from his old career and flourish in Marmora. “Hold still.” He leans across their sawhorse table — Shiro still hasn’t decided what to do about most furniture, and this works — and rubs his thumb over Keith’s mouth, brushing away a loose crumb Keith’s tongue missed. “Now you’re perfect.” He’s playing with fire, maybe, but he licks the crumb off his own fingers once he withdraws, mostly for show.

“Shiro,” Keith says, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“I need to make some calls,” Shiro tells him. Knows he’s leaving Keith wanting more, leaving Keith with a deeper blush and wide, aroused eyes. It’s a tactical decision. “Finish your snack. You’ve earned a break.”

Shiro makes sure to stretch when he stands to walk out to the Jeep (his office space, it feels like; this is where he makes most calls, since it’s the only place he has that lets him close a door all the way). He knows Keith’s looking at him, watching the way Shiro flexes his arms and belly and allows his shirt to creep up over his abdomen. That’s the point.

Chapter Text

After the conversation in the kitchen, the dynamic at the inn starts to change. The intensity ramps up with both speed and ease, over the course of the next few days: Shiro still flirts with Keith, still helps carry materials from Keith’s truck into the building, still complains bitterly about having to choose paint colors for the bedrooms for after Keith finishes hanging the new drywall; and he still brings Keith little offerings. Keith is thoroughly addicted to coffee now, to the point where on days he’s not working at the inn he has to swing by Romelle’s and buy a cup just to muscle through the morning. He even drinks Thace’s coffee now, and that’s a tragedy.

“You’re messing up my system,” Romelle points out. She doesn’t have a real menu board up in the coffee shop, just a list of prices and the names of regular customers scrawled alongside them. Keith’s change of habit has caused her, for the first time since he helped install and paint that fucking chalkboard, to smear out a line and paint over it with new information. “You hate getting used to new things.”

Well, now Keith is used to drinking hot coffee and cream. He got used to it without realizing, without having to deviate from his own comfort: this is something Shiro gave him, and that Keith accepted, and now it’s a whole new habit. He likes the taste of hot coffee muted and enriched with heavy cream.

It’s a little thing, but one that makes him wonder if there are other changes he could pursue — just because he’s felt secure in the small life he’s built for himself doesn’t mean it has to stay small forever.

But the biggest change is that Shiro has started making overtures — more obvious than touching Keith’s mouth, even. Nothing untoward, but one afternoon he asks Keith to remove a splinter from his palm, and when the deed is done, he just… holds Keith’s hands for a few minutes. It’s just as the sun’s setting, slanting through the kitchen windows and highlighting the work Keith has done to strip the old varnish from the kitchen cabinets. The raw wood looks warm and inviting, and for a minute it feels like they’re sitting in a home, not amidst the dust and disorder of a medium-scale renovation project. Shiro’s flesh hand is cupped in Keith’s own rough palm, and he’s tucked his prosthetic beneath them, like his mechanical hand can hold up the entire structure of their fingers and skin. It feels monumental. It makes Keith think about myths of the titan Atlas, who held up the whole world.

“There you go,” Keith says, a little regretful when it’s time to let go.

“No kiss?” Shiro asks him. And it’s not a dare, not exactly, but something compels Keith to grab Shiro’s hand back and press his mouth against the little rent in his palm where the splinter was. There’s no blood, but the sensation of Shiro’s un-smooth skin feels almost akin to walking on a cliff-edge.

“Oh,” SHiro swallows, eyes dark. His voice has gone lower than usual, and Keith feels like the tone is backing Keith to lean in closer, to make certain he doesn’t miss what happens next. “Now I’m really feeling better.”

Keith wonders what it would be like if he scrambled across the floor on his knees, if he clambered into Shiro’s lap and kissed him for real; but the moment passes. It doesn’t feel awkward in the slightest.

Shiro sighs and stands and extends his prosthetic hand to lift Keith onto his feet, and Keith accepts it even though he doesn’t need the help. They release each other’s fingers without lingering this time and Keith dusts his hands off on his thighs, one-two-three, the palms and backs and palms again.

“Wash your hands,” he reminds Shiro, who looks delighted at the prospect of being bossed about.

“I’ll do that,” Shiro tells him. “Drive safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s nice to think that someone is expecting Keith, these days. Before this project, he just roamed from little job to the hardware store to little job, then back to his studio apartment.

When Keith gets home that night, he feels too awake to lie down. In the interest of keeping busy — of not lying back and touching himself to the memory of Shiro’s hands, because the anticipation of the next touch makes Keith feel too jittery to relax enough for his usual masturbatory routines — he sorts though all the loose screws in his collection, dumping out the old peanut butter jar he empties his tool belt into at the end of every project. He’s invested in a couple of those plastic totes with multi-sized compartments, and he thinks about Shiro while he allocates each sized screw to its proper place. They’re on the verge of something, Keith thinks. He spends three days a week working with Shiro on the inn, and the rest of the time he thinks about what Shiro might be getting up to: ordering seed catalogs for the garden Keith has promised to build him, maybe, or beginning the first cursory examinations of the job market. Maybe he’s exploring the national forests outside of Marmora. Shiro’s Jeep is collecting a collage of dings and scratches and mud spatters; it looks just like any other local car, the only oddity the untracked windshield still garnished with Shiro’s old Garrison parking sticker. Shiro has a place of his own here, has even let Romelle’s nephew paint the back window of the Jeep to advertise for the summer intramural flag football tournament. Thace has made some noise about recruiting Shiro as a coach if he’s still around next season. Keith doesn’t play, not because he can’t, but because he’s seen how intense the games are and doesn’t want to sprain a knee or something; but maybe he’d give it a go, if Shiro was in charge. He thinks that Shiro would be a good coach, someone who pushed for excellence and still kept injuries to a minimum.

“I don’t think I’ve got the temperament to retire early,” Shiro explained again, right before he got that splinter lodged in his palm. He was sanding a cabinet door, mostly to keep Keith company and to avoid answering his phone. There have been a lot of calls that Shiro’s sent to voicemail lately, all of them sounding as though the place Shiro left is desperate to reabsorb him.

The topic of retirement was one Shiro ruminated on periodically — not so much repeating himself as working through his options, the same way Keith talked about picking up a new woodworking skill or thought aloud about how he and Shiro were possibly going to move the enormous antique stove out of the kitchen. “I know I don’t have the bank balance for it. Are you looking for an apprentice? Maybe I could become a handyman like you — on call to save the day.”

Shiro would be a good handyman, but Keith doesn’t think that career path is his best course of action. Shiro is too polished to fit into the life Keith leads — and he has so much space to work with. The inn is becoming more livable by the day, and by now Keith feels confident enough to say so.

“You miss training your subordinates. Can’t you do something like that on an independent basis?” He has a vision of Shiro leading a group of vacationers up a rock climbing wall. Keith is pretty sure it was something he could make, or could learn how to make, or maybe Shiro would prefer free climbing on the local cliffs. “Make people come to you, so you didn’t have to travel so much, but it would still be physical. You could boss people around to your heart’s content.”

“What, like a summer camp?” Shiro considers the idea. “No. A leadership camp. I love yelling at administrators. I have an old buddy who went corporate who’s always looking for professional development activities that involve heights. You make a good point.”

Keith thinks about the conversation because: it’s the first time he’s offered Shiro a solution that doesn’t involve Shiro leaving Marmora. This thing between the two of them — it’s always been a give and take, because that what Shiro hired Keith for in the first place. It’s gone beyond wood and nails, though, beyond even the dreams Keith used to have about renovating the inn. Shiro is the sort of person who makes dreams expand, Keith thinks, and he’s beginning to understand how that will affect him.

+++

The next day — Keith wonders if he should have jacked off before bed last night, because he feels like his skin is oversensitive to every little touch Shiro bestows on him — Shiro employs his own human intuition, his gift for reading Keith’s body language, maybe, and makes a move. Makes a move is too divorced a term for what actually happens: Keith thinks that they have an equal partnership in this. It’s early afternoon and Keith tells some terrible joke he saw on the message board down at the hardware store — something about a stud finder, probably, that was a classic for a reason — and Shiro laughs like someone who has never heard the pun before. Keith can’t look away.

“You’re a forgiving audience.” Keith says, mostly to say something, but it’s filler.

It’s hot out despite the fall color starting to creep across the island and Shiro’s bowed to the elements by removing his shirt. He’s still wearing an undershirt, but the fabric is thin enough that Keith can glimpse vague sightings of Shiro’s chest beneath it, the greying hair, the fullness of his pecs. It is a pleasure to see Shiro so happy, to know that Keith has elicited the response. It is a pleasure to see Shiro at all, the admire the way he gives himself over to the joke. Keith wonders if he could taste Shiro’s pleasure if they kissed mid-laugh, or if he should keep admiring Shiro from the shrinking distance between them.

It’s not the first time he’s thought about kissing Shiro. Keith thinks about kissing Shiro almost all the time now, ever since he kissed Shiro’s splinter better, and the curve of his neck and the sleek contour of his jaw make the thought feel even more firmly lodged in Keith’s brain, in his guts.

Eventually, Shiro stops laughing. The conversation stalls a bit and the energy in the room changes. It simmers down, thickens from humor to arousal. Keith can feel it wriggling down his spine, wants to roll up his tape measure and slouch into Shiro’s space. As it is, Keith’s shorter; he thinks Shiro would have to bend a little to kiss him. The desire worms its way under Keith’s skin at the most random times, like when they bicker over who’s going to pick up paint samples. It’s Shiro’s house; Keith has other work. There should be a division in the labor, but it seldom occurs. Keith thinks his attraction is similar in that it doesn’t fall within defined parameters; he thinks about Shiro all the time.

Shiro feels the change in mood, too, he must feel it. Aside from how close it is in this part of the inn — Shiro hasn’t made any noise about adding central air, but he has been talking idly with Thace about updating the windows so they can be opened to catch cross breezes, something Keith is eager to do even if he has to piece together new frames from scrap wood — he seems to take up more space than he did a moment before. It’s his assertive look, the one Keith mostly only sees when Shiro is going through his forwarded mail and talking on the phone with some person or another he knows from before he moved to Marmora.

The change in the air feels enticing. Like running down a hill and being sure there’s something good at the end of the path.

“Invoice me,” Shiro says. His voice is low and stern, deliberate. “Write it up on the back of the lunch receipts if you have to, but invoice me now — and make sure you give yourself a fair shake.”

“We agreed I’d hold off on invoicing you until the end of the month,” Keith says, because it’s just easier to keep a tally and settle up at the end of each period; Shiro buys most of the materials anyway so there hasn’t been a lot of overhead for Keith. There’s still a lot left to do, even if they’ve finished off the main living area and one of the bedrooms. Keith is proud of the master bedroom, especially because it took him and Shiro most of an afternoon to wrestle the mattress up there, and if it had been up to Shiro, the mattress would still be on the floor. But Keith insisted, and helped him pick up a bed frame, and then built the frame for the bed that Shiro sleeps in every night. There are clean sheets on the bed; Keith does the laundry for him because Shiro doesn’t know where he wants the machines hooked up, on the first floor in the kitchen or down in the cellar next to the big sink, and Keith already goes to the laundromat to wash his own clothes.

“End of the month’s not for another sixteen days, Keith, just write it up.”

As much as Keith aches to follow the order — and it is an order; Shiro is shoving paper scraps and Keith’s stubby carpenter’s pencil into his hands — he doesn’t want to put an end to whatever this is between them.

“I’ve still got work to do,” he protests.

“I don’t fuck people who work for me,” Shiro says. Oh. Oh. “Invoice me. I’ll write you a check, or, hell, I’ll give you cash if that’s what you want — but I can’t take you to bed if you’re thinking of me as your boss.”

“I think you’re still gonna call the shots even if I’m not working for you,” Keith says. It’s an instinct. He wants to push back, to hold on to his twin desires: he’s loved the inn for as long as he’s lived on the island; and for as long as Shiro’s lived on the island, Keith’s wanted to spend every waking minute in his presence. The two can’t be divided.

“If you’re into that,” Shiro says. “I’d like to. But I can’t do anything until you invoice me.”

Somehow, Keith manages to scrawl something from memory: the slip of paper says “for services rendered” plus a halfhearted dollar amount. He slaps it down into Shiro’s waiting hand.

Shiro pockets the invoice without even looking at it and says “Cash or check? What’s the electronic payment service you kids are using these days — hell.”

For a second, Keith worries that Shiro will tell him to go, to type something up, send it to him via registered mail, and then he’ll wait for the payment to clear — but instead, Shiro kisses him.

Shiro manhandles him, really. He gets a firm hold on Keith’s ponytail and drags his mouth up to meet Shiro’s, and he uses his prosthetic to get a grip on Keith’s hip, then to heft him up flush against Shiro’s lap. Keith’s not used to being touched, not even with all the shoulder claps and handshakes and sideways nudges Shiro has taken to bestowing, but he welcomes this new experience with open arms. In fact: he opens his arms and clings to Shiro, though Shiro gives no indication that he plans to let go. It’s been a while since Keith was this close to another person, since he rolled his hips and felt the heft of another dick against his own; he’d forgotten how hot it is.

“Please don’t make me send an invoice through registered mail,” Keith says in the brief moment where Shiro pulls back to check his expression. “Don’t stop!”

“The mail’s too slow on this island,” Shiro says, which is true — half the time, people just slip letters under the door. His eyes are wild, all intense, the pupils enormous. His pulse is rabbiting fast and visible in his throat and Keith wants to put his mouth against that spot on Shiro’s neck, to feel the way the blood is moving under his skin. “Hand-delivered is fine. Is this all right?”

“Shiro,” Keith says, and in a flash of inspiration, leans up to kiss Shiro. It’s the bravest thing he’s ever done and also the simplest. “I’ve wanted to kiss you forever.” Forever, a few weeks; it’s all the same.

“That’s good,” Shiro says. He adjusts his grip, but he doesn’t let go of Keith’s hair. Instead, he guides him into position so he can kiss him again.

Despite that show of strength, Shiro’s a polite kisser. He kisses warmly, like he’s saying hello, fond and plush. Not too much tongue, but with intent. It feels generous. Keith’s almost too greedy to appreciate it.

He kisses Keith’s top lip, then his bottom lip, nips gently at him so Keith knows to open up — and then keeps kissing him, open-mouthed and hot, thorough without getting too messy. It feels good. Keith grinds speculatively against Shiro’s thigh and takes the time to wipe his hands off on Shiro’s shirtfront before sneaking beneath the fabric so he can feel Shiro’s skin. He tries pulling back, maybe to encourage Shiro to kiss him harder — Keith can take it, and Shiro seems like he’d enjoy giving it to him — but Shiro pulls tighter at Keith’s hair and rocks against him.

Keith can’t help it. He moans a little at the movement, the way Shiro makes Keith sort of dry-hump against Shiro’s leg. He can’t feel much, not through two layers of denim, but the muted friction is enticing. He rolls his his again, this time with deliberation, and the drag is just a little bit better. With a little practice, Keith could probably ride Shiro’s thigh like this until time stopped.

Keith’s not quite hard yet, but he feels like that could change any minute; the way Shiro kisses him is pretty inspiring, as is the heavy, twitching sensation of Shiro’s own growing arousal.

“That’s a good idea you’ve got there,” Shiro tells him. His voice has dropped even deeper, pleased and plainly affectionate. “Allow me to expand on it.” He kisses Keith again — really kisses him, like they’re having a conversation and he’s interested in knowing what Keith will contribute — and adjust his grip on Keith’s hip. Rather: he releases Keith’s hip and instead squeezes him firmly between the legs before slotting his hand into Keith’s back packet, where he takes advantage of the loose fit Keith favors to really get a grip on Keith’s ass.

No one’s ever grabbed Keith’s ass with so much intent before. There isn’t a lot of foreplay going on in the bars Keith has frequented, and he hasn’t much liked anyone who’s ever kissed him. This is something else. He feels hot all over, his belly tight with exhilaration. Keith can’t decide if he wants to rock back into Shiro’s hand, or press forward against Shiro’s thigh again; he’s pinned, deliciously so. All of the films Ulaz picks when it’s his turn to choose what they’re watching on movie nights, the ones with heavy glances and meaningful eye contact, are starting to make sense. Keith doesn’t know how to move his body in this situation, doesn’t really know what to expect from Shiro except for pleasure. That’s already a given: it’s a certainty. Shiro is going to make Keith feel good, and they’re both going to have fun while he does so.

Keith has no doubt, none whatsoever, that Shiro wants this, wants to kiss Keith and maybe even ruin him. He’s momentarily glad they’re working on indoor projects now, that there aren’t any tools lying on the grass outside, that the door is shut between them and the outside world. Everything, Keith thinks, is right where it’s meant to be.

Eventually Shiro navigates the both of them down the hall, up the stairs — Keith nearly slips on a stray pile of sawdust from the refinished railing, and Shiro has to haul him back up into a kiss to keep him from fetching a dustpan and cleaning up the hazard — all the way to the master bedroom, where Keith helped Shiro haul and unpackaged the ridiculous mattress Shiro ordered online. The bedding isn’t pin-straight, even if it looks properly made up. This isn’t a catalog spread; it’s rough around the edges, real.

“No military corners?” Keith asks. They’ve stopped at the bedside and he’s glad for the reprieve, his blood fizzing bright in his veins. He needs a moment to breathe everything in, to knead at his own crotch for s second so he can ground himself.

“I’m trying to retire, remember?” Shiro lowers himself to the mattress, shoving the duvet out of the way. It’s a long way down. He doesn’t have a box spring or a bed frame in here, just the mattress and a closet door that’s a little ajar; has he even unpacked? Shiro’s clothes are all identical, a civilian uniform. “Now. Come here.”

Keith folds himself down on top of Shiro. It’s awkward for a moment — Shiro shoves him off with a laugh and says, “god, you’re eager, let’s get you undressed,” and pulls his undershirt off before moving to help Keith divest his clothing.

If Keith had planned this, he would have — gone home for lunch and showered, or brushed his hair, or maybe applied some of the good hand lotion Ulaz always gives him at the holidays. His hands feel too rough against Shiro’s skin to be allowed, and yet: Shiro allows it. Shiro encourages him. Shiro’s hands are as calloused and hard as Keith’s own, just in different ways.

The whole encounter is unfamiliar and comforting. For every move Keith makes — rolling back atop Shiro, kissing him clumsily from the strange new height, clutching at Shiro’s magnificent chest, rubbing his fingers hard against the shape of Shiro’s nipples — he’s met with steady guidance. No wonder Shiro was a pilot; no wonder he was a figure of authority back at the Garrison. The way he takes charge of Keith’s body feels competent, practiced. Keith appreciates Shiro’s finesse, the way he coaches Keith to kiss more tidily, to way he hikes Keith’s leg up over his own hip so Keith can rut against him. Keith doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s wonderfully, pleasurably, sure that Shiro has the matter well in hand.

His hands —

“Look at you,” Shiro says. He’s laughing, and so is Keith. Who knew that sex was fun? It feels like they’re racing each other, like they’re on the same team with the same goal in sight. “You love this.”

“I’ve never — you feel amazing,” Keith babbles in return.

Shiro adjusts his grip so he can stroke the edge of Keith’s jaw, coax him down for another kiss. His hand covers the whole side of Keith’s face and blocks out any distractions that might creep into Keith’s peripheral vision. “I could say the same,” Shiro says. “Now trust me — ”

“Okay — ”

“Good,” Shiro grits. “Hold on. That’s right. Kiss me again — now get down, good boy. God, you look good in my bed. There’re condoms in my bag, I want you to bring them here.”

The box is easy to find. Upon withdrawing it from the toiletry kit, Keith notices that the condoms aren’t lubricated. Shiro has an entire box, open and missing just a few; Keith realizes that they’re in case of emergency, in case Shiro needs to protect his phone from the elements. It’s ingenious. He wants to copy the idea immediately, can think of a dozen applications: protecting the screen from pain splatter or drywall dust, or an accidental dunk when he’s washing brushes.

“Can I keep a couple of these? The times I’ve gotten caulk on my phone screen — ”

“You can have as many as you want, so long as you get back over here and put one on me,” Shiro says.

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you,” Shiro promises.

Keith obeys, palming the packets and a little bottle of lubricant before hurrying back to the bed. It’s ridiculous and undignified to hurry when he’s aroused and naked; things bounce. Shiro seems to like the view.

There’s light coming in through the windows — Shiro and Keith have been focusing on structural improvements, they haven’t gotten around to installing blinds, and the panes are uncovered. No one can see into Shiro’s bedroom except for the squirrels they’ve evicted from the attic; the inn is the tallest building on the block. The sun illuminates Shiro in all his glory: splayed thighs, weeping heavy cock, greying chest hair, his gaze fixed unerringly on Keith. There’s something potent about the way he lies back on the mattress, waiting for Keith to meet him: Keith’s already, obviously, aroused, but the look on Shiro’s face makes him feel tender, too. Stable.

Keith tumbles back down on top of Shiro and passes over the condom, pays close attention to how Shiro opens and prepares to don it. His cock is ruddy in the afternoon light, and Keith can’t help but reach out and twist two fingers around the glossy head before the latex barrier is rolled down the length.

“You’re so warm,” he manages. A stupid thing to say, especially in such a wondering tone. Keith knows how a dick feels. He’s touched his own often enough, and lately he’s touched himself exclusively to thoughts of Shiro. But touching Shiro is different. Keith wants to make him feel good, wants to wallow in feeling good himself.

“Yeah?” Shiro smiles broadly and kisses Keith. As he does so — his mouth is nearly as blood-hot as the skin across his muscled thighs — he presses the little bottle of lube into Keith’s grasping hands. “Open this for me, then, and I’ll warm it up. Warm you up, too.”

The lube is thicker than anything Keith has used before when he’s touched himself. It clings to his fingers and only starts to really melt against his skin once Shiro strokes his hand through the unappealing blob Keith’s expressed into his palm. Once Shiro’s body heat is added to the mix: Keith feels like he’s been dipped in warm oil and rubbed sleek. Shiro kisses him while he massages lube against Keith’s dick and balls and further back, nudging against his hole. It’s thrilling, sure, but also kind of relaxing: every new sensation is pleasurable and enticing. Keith writhes happily into Shiro’s knowledgeable touch, eager for each pinch and every change in pressure. He hopes that he gives as good as he’s getting. It would feel greedy, the way Keith blooms under Shiro’s hands — but from the look on his face, Shiro’s feeling similarly ecstatic about the encouragement Keith babbles at every turn. Who knew Keith had so many things to say, all of them about Shiro’s hands and Shiro’s delightful body, and, most importantly, Shiro’s dedication to everything Keith tells him.

Having an orgasm at the hands of another person is messy and transcendent. It’s also utterly normal, just like all the uncountable times Keith’s come on his own. He’s pretty sure he makes an unappealing face, but Shiro keeps kissing him, and pushing fingers into him, against him, until Keith feels like a sweaty and overstimulated nerve; when Shiro starts to pull back to check his work, Keith still manages to plead, “don’t stop!”

“I thought you said I was gonna stay in charge,” Shiro says. He swipes his wet hand against himself, testing the glide of the residual lubricant smeared across the condom. He uses his whole body to keep Keith’s legs spread wide open and hefts him up higher against his belly. “Are you testing me? Lift up.”

Keith obeys. He probably says something when Shiro presses into him, but all his attention is centered on the flinching, overstimulating, fantastic slide. Taking Shiro feels like an extreme sport.

After, Keith feels like he’s made the thorough acquaintance of every muscle in his thighs and lower back. He could give them each their own name: he feels spectacularly well-used.

Shiro flips Keith off him, then rolls over to press him down into the turmoil of the bedding. He kisses the back of his neck. Keith snorts at the feeling; it tickles. He wants Shiro to keep doing it.

“Pretty baby,” Shiro croons. “You’re a natural.” He pets down Keith’s spine with his prosthetic hand, the metal hot with kinetic energy, and spends a long time palming and squeezing Keith’s upturned ass, playing with the lube. It’s going a little tacky, and the friction makes Keith squirm and push back into the touch. The way Shiro examines his body feels more intimate than the sex, but that could be a trick of the light. “You sore?”

Keith — probably will feel sore, later, but at this moment his body feels like a foreign country. Kind of like the morning after he went bouldering the first time: what had been a pleasurable ache turned into a deep stiffness he’d had to ease through. Right now he just feels soft, feels like chasing that stretch and pinch and pressure. “I’m all right. What about you, old man? Did I wear you out?”

“Hmm. Gave me a run for my money,” Shiro tells him. There’s a flush starting to fade from his cheekbones and his breathing has gone back to its usual slow, even rhythm.

Looking at him now, as the light changes, is like watching Shiro transmute himself from a sex god back into the man who pays close attention to every dry statement Keith has ever made about building codes. It’s not a complete change, nor an instantaneous one: as if to punctuate the cessation of their interlude, Shiro drags his thick fingers between the press of Keith’s cheeks once more before withdrawing. He flops inelegantly onto his back, cupping his sticky hands behind his head.

“Don’t — “ Keith scrambles up so he can tug Shiro’s hands away, but it’s too late: the fruits of their labors, smeared mostly across their bellies, are now matted into the spiky regrowth of Shiro’s undercut. “Ah, you got yourself. That’s gonna be a pain to wash out.”

“So you’re saying you’ll help me clean up? I knew I could count on you. Very thorough, never leave a job half-done.”

“Har har,” Keith deadpans. “Just for that, I’ll let you empty out the shop vac before I leave tonight.” He can’t stop smiling, and his cheeks ache from the arc of it.

+++

True to his word, once he’s seen to Keith’s aftercare — Keith argues halfheartedly, but Shiro still insists on making him stand obediently in the tub so Shiro can wash him up with the handheld sprayer he still intends to replace with an actual showered — Shiro forages through their discarded clothing to retrieve his phone.

“I’m not mailing a check,” he repeats himself. “What’s your banking info?”

“I know you’re good for it,” Keith protests. He’s examining his underwear, apparently on the fence about putting it back on after getting cleaned up. The light in the room has moved all the way across the bed and towards the slightly-open doorway, and Keith’s naked shadow is stretching across the floor like it’s yearning to escape. Shiro can’t have that.

“I asked you a question.”

Apparently deciding his boxer briefs are wearable for the period of time it will take Keith to return home — a period of time Shiro is intent on delaying as much as possible — Keith hunches and steps into the garment, one long and lightly-furred leg at a time. He’s not all the way dry yet and his hair looks like crosshatching against his pale skin, sort of how Pidge draws shading in the figure study classes she takes from time to time. Shiro wonders what she’d think of Keith, if she’d offer to draw him so Shiro could keep his form framed front and center.

Shiro regrets that he only has one clean towel. He unwinds it from his waist and rubs it against the bristle of his undercut before flipping it around and draping it over Keith’s stubborn shoulders, mopping up the little streams of water that trickle from his wet hair. Shiro wasn’t the only one who got enough jizz on him to necessitate a full shampoo; it was a mutual sort of anointing, still hot to contemplate even though he’s sated for the moment.

“If I’m going to keep doing this,” Shiro says, and he gets his prosthetic up around Keith’s throat so he can pull him into a kiss, “I need to make sure I pay you before we end up in bed again. I’m not interested in having that kind of advantage over you.”

“Bold words from a man who doesn’t know how to repair a staircase,” Keith says. He has his own power in this relationship. But he tilts his head back so Shiro can really get a good grip, and opens his mouth for the kiss like he’s hungry for it. Keith probably is hungry for it; Shiro’s been coaxing him close and closer ever since they started work on the inn, making a point of touching Keith since Keith leans into every point of pressure like he’s starved for it. “I’ll share the transfer info if it’s so important to you, but I don’t mind working on account. That doesn’t have to change.”

“No,” Shiro corrects after a pleasant delay. He tosses his phone back down onto the ruined bed so he can get his other hand on Keith again. “It’s changing. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Made up your mind to look out for me,” Keith observes. But that’s the point: Shiro thrives on looking out for people, and having sex is another layer of responsibility.

Eventually he does get the necessary information out of Keith — not before a lazy round of kissing, not before he convinces Keith to let Shiro towel-dry his hair and finger-comb it smooth.

Keith’s invoice is smeary and crumpled where he wrote it on the back of the paper Shiro forced into his hands, and the amount isn’t particularly large; they’re only halfway through the month. Shiro sets up the transfer in his banking app. HIs balance is lower than it should be; not like Keith’s work is expensive, or that the materials are unreasonable, but like his retirement payout hasn’t been transferred. Shiro frowns at the screen and thumbs back to the account history, tracking the deposits from the Garrison. There’s a gap, all right.

Iverson’s voicemails have taken on a sharper edge, one with a little panic thrown in, and Shiro’s been skimming the transcription without really paying attention. He’s had other things on his mind. But it’s starting to look like he’s not as free and clear as he assumed, and like he’s going to have to call Mitch back.

“I’m headed to the laundromat,” Keith calls from downstairs. He left Shiro to redress and transfer funds in favor of cleaning up the mess in the kitchen and collecting his usual haul of shop rags. “Want me to take the sheets?”

“I’ll bring them to you,” Shiro calls back. He huffs angrily at his phone again before locking the screen and shoving it into his pocket, then moving to strip the bed. He really needs to make a decision about the laundry machines. “There’s a roll of quarters in the Jeep. Use them.”

“I know,” Keith says, closer this time. He walks the rest of the way up the stairs, down the hall, and leans against the doorframe. Shiro makes a point of really leaning over the bed as he pulls off the contour sheet, of flexing unnecessarily as he bundles the bedding so the evidence of their interlude isn’t glaringly obvious.

“This wasn’t just for fun,” Shiro says bluntly, depositing the soiled fabric into Keith’s arms. “I like you. I like it here.”

Keith blinks a few times. His eyelashes are dense and lush, and it makes him look especially soft around the edges. Shiro likes that softness; he wants to know it better.

“I believe you,” he says, and he smiles that same little half-smile he offered up when they first met. Shiro has to kiss him again just to make sure Keith knows Shiro is accepting the gift of it, and then once more for the road. It’s fortifying.

Then, once he’s watched Keith’s truck circle off the property and head towards town, Shiro retrieves his phone and makes the call.

Chapter Text

+++

Even though Shiro didn’t have to put any money down on the place — the joy of his military service mortgage loan, otherwise it’d have cost him an arm and a leg, instead of just the arm — he’s still conscious of the inn’s total price tag. It’s in good shape, miraculously so, and the entire idea of buying the place implies that he’ll have time to slowly make the interior look exactly as he likes, but there are something that Shiro doesn’t want to put off. And one of those things: replacing the front door (it’s terrible) and some of the flooring inside the foyer. That’s the problem. Matching this kind of old wood is a challenge, Keith says. Shiro believes him. But challenges are expensive.

Shiro doesn’t mind telling Keith this, and does so while they’re shuffling through a box of wood samples Thace sent over. None of the engineered wood or laminate approximations feel right under Shiro’s good hand.

“I’m not being too sentimental about this,” Shiro says. “Do you think? The rest of the house has so much character. I don’t want to surrender the floors so early in the engagement.”

Keith nods slowly. He hasn’t said a whole lot about what Shiro should pick, but it’s clear from his mediocre poker face that he’s unenthused at the prospect of some samples more than he is with others. “I’m just trying to keep your budget in mind,” he says.

“You’re fiscally responsible, don’t worry,” Shiro says wryly. “My finance person loves you and you haven’t even met. I’ll go over your estimates again, I swear, there’s got to be something I’m missing.”

“There is another option,” Keith says. He looks up into Shiro’s face, giving him one hundred percent of his focus. Keith’s been doing this more and more ever since they started having sex, and Shiro feels a little thrill each time. Keith’s learning how to trust him.

“Lay it on me,” Shiro says, aiming for a balance between encouragement and command. He must nail it; Keith’s posture looks even better once the words leave Shiro’s mouth.

“You need lumber and you need to keep costs down, and you want the inn to keep its character,” Keith parrots back. Then, “You know where I live, right?”

“The apartment building off Plum Street?” Shiro remembers the address from when he and Keith filled out all that paperwork at the start of the project; now that Shiro runs through town and zig-zags in and out of its residential areas, he’s got a feel for where most locations on a map spring up in real life.

“That’s the one. Lower west corner, the garden unit. Meet me there after dark.”

+++

Shiro finds Keith’s place without any trouble, partly because Keith’s got his big, battered truck pulled around front and is waiting leaned up against it. He’s wearing his usual work clothes: jeans gone soft with age and wear, a flannel buttoned up over a tee shirt. His boot laces are double-knotted. It’s a normal outfit, nothing Shiro hasn’t seen Keith wearing any day he’s had the pleasure of his company. Despite the familiarity of the look, Shiro can sense something new hovering in the air, a quivering energy. Shiro generally enjoys Keith’s air of competence, and that sensation is magnified in the dark. It’s like preparing for an op, buoyed by the knowledge that Keith has a plan. Shiro’s always liked working alongside experts.

“You trust me?” Keith asks. Shiro realizes Keith is really saying that he trusts Shiro, but he’s already nodding. “Ok. Look. There are some houses in one of the older subdivisions that have gone to hell. I mean, they’re condemned, right? So the buildings are going to be knocked down eventually, right now the city council’s scrounging up the funding. They’re old houses, nothing historic, but if you’ve got eyes and hands and a truck, it’s not too hard to relocate materials from one location to another.”

“Relocate?”

“It’s not stealing,” Keith says. His expression is on the verge of being guarded, but Shiro’s used to that. In a minute, that wariness will fade away, and Keith will give Shiro that sweet, unbearably proud look he’s been cultivating: a look that asks for approval, but that doesn’t depend on it. Here it comes, unmistakable even in the shadows outside the apartment. “Like I said. No one lives there any more, the only value’s in the land.”

“Liberation,” Shiro corrects. “Good thing I brought my headlamp.”

Keith relaxes and his beautiful grin unfurls across his face. Shiro couldn’t miss it, no matter how dark it is.

“You might need a hat,” Keith says. He gestures absently towards his own forelock. “For the hair.”

Luckily Shiro has a dark beanie in his go-bag, standard equipment for any nighttime adventure. His hair graying more than just at the front — the silver is all along the sides, too, getting peppery towards the back. It makes him look distinguished, but it also reflects light when he least wants to be noticed. Keith rises even higher in his esteem, to have noticed that.

Keith drives them across town, past the nicer houses and then past some pretty nice ones, until he turns the truck around a corner and Shiro gets a glimpse of how a receding job market and growing poverty have made their mark. Not all of the buildings are falling down, but enough of them are that there’s a temporary fence strung up around some of the properties. It looks haunted in the dark.

It feels almost like being on a mission again. Shiro reaches over and squeezes Keith’s thigh in appreciation; the denim of Keith’s jeans is butter-soft. Shiro can feel the way Keith’s muscles twitch under his grasp, tense and eager; Shiro will have to coax that energy out of him. Later.

“Remind me to reward your ingenuity once we’re back at my place,” Shiro says. He takes a minute to adjust his cap and headlamp with his free hand, enjoying the way Keith twitches again, like he’s holding back the muscle movement that would spread his legs wide open for Shiro’s touch. Keith doesn’t hold back the little gasp he makes, of pleasure and anticipation.

“Later?” It’s almost a whine. Oh, Shiro likes that sound.

“Patience yields focus,” he chides. “Don’t you want me to take my time, really show you how it’s done? I don’t want be interrupted.”

“That’s laying on a little thick,” Keith says, getting ahold of himself. He still looks turned on, but his wry capability reasserts itself as he unfastens his seatbelt and opens the door to the truck. “Fine, have it your way. Don’t want Ilune and Vrek to get all the good stuff before you have a chance to go through it, anyhow.”

Ilune and Vrek turn out to be colleagues of Keith’s, after a fashion: employed by a rotating cast of contractors by day, rummaging through abandoned buildings for reclaimed materials by night. When Keith introduces them, casting his flashlight towards the floor to avoid blinding anyone, Ilune and Vrek are busy tearing out a wall of cabinets. As soon as Keith mentions they’re looking for flooring and a solid front door, Ilune brightens up. Her skin is so dark that the itinerant lighting setup in the abandoned house makes her look purple, and the shock of hair peeking out from her stocking cap is almost white: Shiro appreciates the contrast, and understands why Keith had such good instincts about Shiro covering his hair during this op.

“There’s a great door on the back of this house,” she says. “If Keith’s willing to let me have the hinges, I’ll help you load it into the truck.” She curls her bicep to illustrate how helpful she’ll be in such an endeavor; the muscles bulge commandingly. If Shiro were still trying to lure recruits to the Garrison, her thick build and capable swagger would be enough to recommend her. It’s a musculature gained on the job, practical instead of sleek.

“Depends on the hinges,” Keith shoots back. He’s not going down without a fight, not when he’s working to make Shiro’s inn a work of art. Keith is a canny defender.

Vrek snorts. “We both know you’ll let Acxa burgle your vintage stash before you ever use them. When are you gonna get a project of your own instead of working for the man, Keith?”

“I like having a paycheck,” Keith says. “Besides, if Acxa walks off with a hinge, it means she’s one step closer to inviting Romelle to move in with her and Narti. That would be pretty good for business.”

“That’s the problem with you, Keith,” Ilune sighs, and turns back to the cabinets. “You don’t have a sense of drama.”

“You don’t?” Shiro asks. He shuffles one foot along the boards of the entryway, trying to figure out what Keith is inspecting.

“Nah,” Keith tells him. “I know how to keep my head down.”

“Ask him about the time he had a big cabinet job,” Vrek tells Shiro. “Go on, ask him.”

“Cabinets?”

“Oh, that guy. It was on the mainland,” Keith says. He jumps up from his kneeling position on the floor and starts moving to another room. “Yeah, that was when I was an apprentice, before I moved here. I had to install a big order in this basement, really nice custom work — ”

“You’re a terrible storyteller!” Ilune calls.

Keith makes a face that Shiro identifies as annoyed fondness, a similar expression to the one he makes when Shiro tries to use a stud finder without reading through the directions. “So he had a wall with chains anchored into it, heavy-duty ones, but that was his business. I didn’t need to know.”

“He locked you down there while you did the install.”

Shiro isn’t sure he likes where this story is going. “He what?”

“He told me to knock on the basement door when I was done and he’d let me out. Big customer, they usually have weird demands,” Keith says, like it’s not a big deal that he was potentially held against his will. “I know the type.” He smiles at Shiro, flirting, but Shiro is unmoved.

“Then what happened?”

“I mean, I texted Ilune a photo,” Keith says. “And I installed the cabinets. That took a good minute.”

“Was it like. A sex thing?”

“Murder vibes!” Ilune calls. “Vrek, pass me that prybar.”

“Do you have any sense of self-regard?” Shiro asks.

“I’m not an idiot,” Keith defends himself. “I said to him, ‘looks like you have some hardware over there,’ and he said not to worry about it; he wanted the cabinets on the opposite wall. I told him I wasn’t worried about it, and when I was done working, I knocked on the door. He let me out, here I am, it was a long time ago.” From Keith, this is practically a monologue, and Shiro would be charmed but for the way it showcases Keith’s lack of personal safety. Or maybe not: Shiro wouldn’t worry if he were in that situation, so long as he actually knew how to install cabinets.

“Your stories have such happy endings,” Shiro settles on.

“His stories are fuckin’ unsatisfying, Shiro, if you’re gonna spend time with him you better teach him to shape up,” Vrek tells him. “Now come here and give this frame a good yank, those muscle of yours better not be for show.”

They spend a couple of hours like this, Keith alternately shrugging off Ilune and Vrek’s teasing and directing Shiro to lift this or that heavy thing. Tearing up flooring prying siding off the more intact parts of the house is gritty, satisfying work. Shiro works up a sweat in the small of his back soon enough and begins to enjoy the overworked, exhausted twinge in his shoulders and back. He’s content to follow Keith’s lead here: and Keith does lead, throwing himself at every stubborn board and heavy door, hauling his own share and more of the reclaimed lumber to the bed of the truck without waiting for Shiro to assist him.

“I thought you trusted me,” Shiro finally says. Ilune and Vrek have moved on from the cabinets to the bluestone patio out back. The stone doesn’t look blue to Shiro, but he doesn’t really care . He’s more focused on how Keith is going to catch himself on a protruding nail or lose his footing on the wobbly steps out the truck.

This stops Keith in his tracks and gives Shiro a fighting chance and shouldering more of the weight of the boards they’re ferrying to the truck. “Of course I trust you,” he says. And he does, he must: this whole operation is Keith trusting Shiro.

“Then let me spot for you,” Shiro says. “I know you can handle most of this shit, I’m probably slowing you down, but I’ve got some pride.”

Keith stares at him for a long minute. Shiro’s got his headlamp illuminated red so they don’t fuck up their night vision and the glow it casts over Keith’s face — smudged and sweaty — is like something out of a horror movie, or like a character having an epiphany in one of Pidge’s experimental anime. Either way, Shiro likes seeing him in red, even if he does look a little unhinged.

“I’ve got your back,” Shiro says again. He hefts his end of the timber meaningfully. “I’m not going to let you down.”

“You haven’t yet,” Keith allows.

Working in tandem, the rest of the materials Keith has deemed salvageable are easy to load up. Shiro likes having discovered the flow of it. There’s no need for words, just the repetitive labor of moving lumber and occasionally grunting in disgust when one of them sticks a hand through a spiderweb. Still, it’s past late and on the way to early when Shiro pulls off his knit cap and scruffs his palm through his sweaty hair.

“I can leave the truck at your place,” Keith offers during the drive back to where Shiro left his Jeep. “Give us a rest before we unload everything. I think we saved you a pretty penny though, whatcha think? A good night’s work?”

“Yeah. And it’s not too late,” Shiro says as Keith pulls up neatly alongside Shiro’s car. The wood shifts uneasily, a little unbalanced in the back of the truck, but Keith tied a red bandanna to the timbers that extended past the truck bed even though it’s too dark to see color and there’s no one else on the roads of Marmora.

“Late?” Keith’s face does something complicated as he rewinds to their earlier conversation, then he flushes and nearly fumbles putting the truck into park. “Later. Right.”

“Come inside once you’ve parked the truck,” Shiro says, unbuckling his seatbelt.

+++

Keith beats him back to the inn, is in fact waiting on the front porch in the dark like a shadow when Shiro parks his car and strides across the driveway to meet him.

“You could have gone inside,” Shiro says. “You have the only other key.”

“What kind of welcome would that be,” Keith says, and throws himself into Shiro’s arms. He’s lean and quivering from the night’s exertion, and he smells of sawdust — Shiro thinks he might make a hobby of this, of identifying the different smells of the wood that Keith works with — and a little of sweat. Not unpleasant; earthy. Shiro’s smelled much worse. This is honest, and sharp, and a very welcome assault. He kisses Keith firmly, keeping his stance wide so he doesn’t kill his neck. Shiro would keep kissing him here, in dark, except Keith digs his hands into the fabric of Shiro’s shirt and hisses, “this isn’t my reward, is it?”

Shiro has to draw him inside, after that. His reputation is on the line.

They stagger through the front of the inn and the stairs into Shiro’s bedroom. Keith flicks on the light and starts stripping off his layers, dropping his flannel and tee shirt in a puddle near the edge of the bed. His back is lovely. Shiro admires the long line of it, the way Keith’s muscles shift as Keith step about unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans down his thighs.

“Are you driving?” Shiro asks. He palms himself idly, bucking his hips a little against the pressure of his own hand. His muscles ache a little from the labor they’ve done, in a way that means he might be hurting tomorrow.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Yeah, sit down, I know what I want,” and as soon as Shiro does, Keith drops to his knees, shoves his face into the groove of Shiro’s iliac crest and whines. “You’re still dressed.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Shiro teases. He thumbs open his jeans with one hand, tangling the other in Keith’s hair. “Like this?”

Keith doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy nosing at the band of Shiro’s underwear, huffing eagerly as Shiro untucks his length. The light in the room is low, a little golden, because Shiro doesn’t see the point of daylight bulbs if he’s mostly sleeping in here. It’s bright enough to see the way Keith is pinking up with anticipation, the way he keeps licking at his lips, the way his whole body keeps hitching closer and closer. Shiro spreads his knees wider to accommodate and strokes himself once, hard, from base to tip, before he presents his cock for approval.

“Haven’t done this yet,” Keith mutters, and licks. He makes a little hmm sound, considering, the same sound he makes when he’s going over an invoice or vetoing a paint color. And he hasn’t; Shiro’s mostly the one who uses his mouth, because Keith’s too delicious not to taste.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Shiro offers. Keith raises an eyebrow up at him, skeptical, and leans even closer.

“Maybe like working a lathe,” he says. His breath is hot against Shiro’s cockhead, and then his mouth is hotter around the tip. Keith makes that humming noise again, his eyes wide as he gives an experimental suck. “I like it,” he draws back enough to announce, and licks again. It’s a shallow exploration, more wet than anything else, and Shiro bucks gently against Keith’s mouth to encourage him.

“Go on and suck it,” Shiro’s still got a hand in Keith’s hair. He’s trying to be polite, but the ache of the day is catching up to him and he wants to wallow in the pleasure Keith is offering.

Keith does suck, but tentatively. After a few sweet pulls he leans harder into the tee of Shiro’s legs, opens his mouth wider — and makes a horrible, garbled noise. Shiro makes a fist of the hand in Keith’s hair and drags him off, crooning and using his free hand to rub at the tense line of Keith’s jaw, down his neck.

“Sorry,” Keith gasps, and gags on air. “Should have know that would happen.”

“You’re sensitive,” Shiro assures him. “Take it easy, I can be patient.”

“I’m not,” Keith says. “Never sucked a cock before, it’s nothing personal — but I have to be careful when I’m brushing my goddamn teeth, I guess this is bigger.” He brings his hands up, cups Shiro’s balls tenderly. “A lot bigger,” Keith amends. He nuzzles the tip, lips pursed in a disappointed little kiss.

“So make it work,” Shiro challenges. He was hard before Keith bestowed is first little licks to his cock, and Keith’s proximity and bullheaded want has only made Shiro harder. “You’re a problem solver, aren’t you? Good with your hands?”

“I’m so good with my hands,” Keith agrees. “Hold still, I’m gonna treat you good.” He bends his head and licks up the underside of Shiro’s dick, following the line with his fingers. Keith’s skin is rough despite wearing gloves earlier, despite the careful way he’s started putting on lotion before he touches Shiro at the end of the day. It’s an incandescent kind of torture: Keith’s a little tentative, and Shiro rocks against the touch, trying to arouse that same air of purposeful confidence Keith exuded in the crumbling shell of the house where they found the lumber.

“Treat me like some of your fancy wood, huh?”

All that gets him is another shallow, suckling pull. Keith slips the tip of his tongue under the fold of Shiro’s foreskin and lets the shaft rest against his lower lip. He’s been applying chapstick, too, not just hand lotion, and the plush of his lip is impossibly smooth. “Bad pun,” he mumbles around Shiro’s cock. He’s being careful with his teeth, but Shiro wants more. He leans back a little, letting his weight sink down into the bed so he doesn’t shove past the point of Keith’s comfort.

“You can’t tell me no one’s ever made that joke before,” Shiro wheezes. “I’ve seen the way you sand rail spindles, it’s obscene.”

“Oh, like this?” And he does something, a little twisting motion with his thumbs that almost hurts, except for how good it feels. “Guess my hands are kinda like sandpaper. Should probably get some lube for you, huh.”

Shiro likes this, he realizes: he likes the effort of remaining pliant while Keith explores his body, tries licking sloppily and pressing sloppy kisses along his length. After a while he manages to coax Keith up onto the bed, mostly by virtue of lying back against the mattress until Keith protests that he can’t see Shiro’s face. They compromise, stripping off the rest of their clothes so Shiro can like on his back with his legs wide, hands clasped beneath his head while Keith polishes his tongue against Shiro’s cock. It’s a good thing Shiro’s so vigilant about drinking water throughout the day. He’s leaking enough pre that otherwise he’d worry about dehydration. “Don’t stop on my account,” he begs when Keith shifts back to look for lubricant. “Not unless you need it.”

Keith doesn’t. He can’t take Shiro deep, but he seems to like keeping his mouth on him anyway, licking and sucking and worshiping. Sometimes he uses his teeth, nipping gently and curiously until Shiro groans and throws a leg over Keith’s shoulder, pulling him so close that all he can do is mouth sloppily along the underside of Shiro’s dick, grinding the bones of his face rough against Shiro’s inner thighs. He’s focused about it, not even sparing a hand for his own dick. Shiro approves of the way Keith digs his fingers into the spread of Shiro’s legs, hot and sweaty and dedicated.

Finally, the night gets the better of them. Keith straddles Shiro’s thigh and rides the curve of his rectus femoris while pushing Shiro’s dick up flush against his abs, rocking and rocking until they both spill. It’s messy and satisfying and Keith makes another one of his thoughtful humming noises when Shiro pulls him down for a leisurely kiss, gripping at the curve of Keith’s hip with his prosthesis. Keith wriggles against the overstimulation but doesn’t protest. The sticky friction of semen drying in their pubic hair is the most persuasive way Shiro knows of convincing someone to shower with him.

“Or you could stay,” he offers when Keith bends over to collect his clothes. Keith hasn’t stayed yet, but Shiro is persistent.

Keith says he has to head home despite Shiro’s best efforts. Even the temptation of a second round isn’t enough to sway him: it’s a disappointment, but Shiro decides to take it as personal challenge to seduce Keith again, and next time to keep at him until Keith is boneless and sated. This post-scavenging encounter went beautifully. It seems like the thrill of the adventure riles Keith up in all the ways Shiro most enjoys; there’s no reason not to follow up.

They shower together in the big cast-iron tub with its handheld sprayer. They’re both filthy in more ways than one and Keith keeps octopusing his limbs around Shiro’s body in an attempt to wash his hair for him.

“Okay, Mr. Safety,” Shiro has put a stop to that, even if Keith stretching upward, slick and hot against Shiro’s front, is also a Keith who is kissably close, “you’ll slip and fall.”

“You’ll catch me,” Keith tells him. This is true, and Shiro is thrilled he didn’t have to hide how intense he feels already, the way the sex has cleared metaphorical cobwebs out of the attic. Shiro is even more determined to cultivate a space for Keith, and it seems the feeling is wonderfully mutual.

“Of course I’d catch you,” Shiro says, getting a mouthful of suds because he’s too impatient to finish rinsing before continuing their banter, “But I wouldn’t have to catch you if you showed a little more sense, now would I?”

He does convince Keith to take the Jeep at least, instead of walking back across town to his own apartment. One of these days Shiro will convince him to come back to bed, to stay the night and lie in lazy and sweet instead of getting to work on the inn’s next project. He can feel the possibility getting closer, one kiss at a time.

+++

It’s just as well that Keith doesn’t spend the night, even if he is back on the job early the next morning. If he’d stayed, Shiro doesn’t think he’d have had the fortitude to get out of bed and back to work, and that would have been disastrous.

Because the next morning, Adam strolls into town.

It must be a Thursday, every great inconvenience in life happens on a Thursday. Adam saunters into the front yard looking as tanned and elegant and poised as he ever has, all for the sole purpose of confronting Shiro while he’s pacing out plans for a new wraparound porch in the front of the inn. Since he’s simultaneously having flashbacks to what Keith looked like beneath his work clothes — did Shiro leave any marks the night before? He hopes so — it takes Shiro a minute to realize Adam’s even there. In addition to dressing so smartly that Shiro feels like a stray dog on a wet day, Adam is utilizing his gift for waiting in the wings until his presence is least convenient for those around him. It’s a skill that makes him a good consultant and a thorn in Shiro’s side.

“Hello, Takashi,” Adam says once he’s got Shiro’s attention. “Can you spare a minute for old time’s sake?”

“Adam.” Shiro is suddenly glad that he didn’t give in to his desire to kiss Keith hello this morning, that he decided to play things a little cool. He’s abysmal at it — Keith keeps looking at him with those big eyes, like Shiro has turned his world upside-down and Keith can’t believe they’re standing around taking about how to incorporate their illicit haul of historic lumber, even as Keith is clearly getting a thrill from talking about historic lumber — but at least it means that Adam doesn’t hone in on Shiro’s latest source of happiness. Adam isn’t vindictive, but he’s also not an idiot. If he sees that Shiro has ties to a new community, to a new person, he’s not above insinuating himself into the mix.

“Sanda wants you back,” Adam cuts to chase with refreshing speed, as if Keith isn’t present for this little display. “She and the rest of the higher administration are willing to treat this excursion as a sabbatical and ignore the paperwork for your retirement. It’s a good deal for you; you’ll get a couple extra years of active duty, your pension’ll be higher, and you won’t have to attend the weekly briefings. That last bit is from me, by the way. You’re looking good.”

“You’re too kind,” Shiro says. He’s only half paying attention to Adam, even though this is serious enough to warrant all of his focus. Keith has given up sketching out units of measurement and tucked his pencil back into his ponytail — Shiro’s never had opinions about hairstyles before, but now he’s enamored with this one: it shows off the shape of Keith’s face, highlights one of the little love bites Shiro left on his throat after he dragged Keith up off his knees.

“Let me be even kinder,” Adam says. “Is there anywhere near here we can get a cup of coffee?”

“You passed it on the way here,” Keith pipes up, looking wary. He glances over at Shiro, concerned; Shiro tries to think reassuring thoughts in Keith’s direction, but it’s difficult to synchronize that with staring daggers at Adam. “Back a couple streets, down the alley.”

“Thank you,” Adam says. “You local?”

Keith nods and turns away, rolling up his notes. From the slope of his shoulders, Shiro thinks he's going to go inside and do something productive and task-y that Shiro won’t notice until it feels weird to thank him for thinking of it. It’s a type of armor. Keith puts on his usefulness the same way Shiro used to wear body armor, as a form of insurance. Shiro figures it’s the kind of habit that doesn’t ever go away, even if the reception of it softens around the edges. It’s not painful to recognize it — it could be, it might be, but right now Shiro has to focus on a more present issue. Once Adam’s been dealt with, then Shiro can make sure Keith knows his value doesn’t depend on any kind of skill or service.

“My handyman,” Shiro oversimplifies as he starts walking towards the street. His focus narrows: with Keith out of Adam’s sight, Shiro knows he’ll be able to devote his full energy to the this worrying development. Fucking Sanda. “He’s the boss of me on this project. Did you want a coffee or not?”

+++

“We weren’t ever going to work out,” Adam continues beating their dead past like it’s an unfortunate horse. “That doesn’t mean I want you to be miserable. Annoyed, maybe — I’m a little petty, I’ll admit — but never unhappy, Takashi. You’re a good man. Most of the time.”

“I thought I was an asshole,” Shiro smiles.

“You were an asshole when I lived with you,” Adam says. “Before you had some extra life experiences. I assume those made a difference.”

“You mean the arm? No. I was more of a dick after that, honestly.” He’d had to be. Chronic pain aside, the new arm was a perceived weakness. It hasn’t been seen that way in Marmora, and Shiro didn’t realize how much he hated it until the feeling was at bay.

By now they’ve arrived at the front of the line and Shiro places his reusable tumbler on the counter. The barista looks him up and down, says, “Oh, you come in with Keith. Can’t believe the fuss the new order is causing,” and takes the cup without another word.

The glare the barista directs at Shiro for coming in with another man: that says volumes. Marmora’s a small town. Shiro’s pretty sure this whole semi-hostile exchange he’s got going on with Adam is going to make someone’s afternoon newsletter or something.

“Don’t tell me you’ve met someone,” Adam looks pained. “You’re terrible at fitting in, if they’re local you’ve just doomed them to heartbreak. Ugh. Well, if that’s the case, if you’re serious about keeping them, I suppose I can suggest to the powers that be that you want to live off-base, maybe work a reduced schedule — I assume taking disability is out of the question, don’t glare at me — but the main thing is, Garrison wants you back. They’re willing to make concessions, and I suggest you take them. I know what your retirement package looks like, Takashi. I used to be your beneficiary. Forty percent of base pay isn’t going to get you far in this world.”

“Lots of people make do with less,” Shiro counters. This conversation is starting to create a traffic jam at the counter and Shiro hasn’t even added cream to his coffee yet. He’s just taken the refillable mug back from the barista and turned towards to fixing station to doctor it up when Adam finally orders an Earl Grey latte with lavender syrup, just like he always ordered back when he and Shiro were together. It’s funny how Adam is going on about Shiro’s reluctance to try new things when he hasn’t even changed his drink order in ten years.

“I know you,” Adam says. He drops all his change into the tip jar — and he paid with a twenty. For all his faults, Adam is generous towards hourly workers.

“You don’t know everything.” For a start: Shiro’s not sure that Adam knows what Shiro looks like when he’s at peace. For all the years they spent together, Shiro’s known more contentment in working on the inn alongside Keith, even when he factors in indignities like getting sawdust up his nose and dropping a hammer on his toe. Shiro thinks about Keith, the way Keith looked last night in Shiro’s bed. Surprised by joy, maybe. Happy. It had felt good to pour all his energy into making Keith feel good, and to have that energy reciprocated. “I have enough savings to get by. Maybe I’ve changed — I like it here. I could make something of myself. You always said I had potential.”

“As a pilot,” Adam stresses. “You were — hell, I don’t know, probably you still are, a great pilot. But no, I can’t promise you’ll end up back in a plane. But I can do this much. I can make sure the Garrison looks after you. Take the deal, Takashi. If only to ease my nerves.”

“Now when did I ever do anything to ease your fuckin’ nerves?” Shiro asks.

“Sir? If you’re done with the creamer, I need you to move out of the way,” the barista says. She has the air of Shiro’s second-best technical sergeant after a long day: on edge, and almost hiding it. He moves away from the bar, and the line of customers grouchily meanders up to take his place. Adam follows after, clutching his disposable cup and trying not to dribble tea down the side of it. The shop uses those fancy loose leaf bags, and if you don’t know the trick of asking for an extra cup to tuck the overhang into, it’s an instant mess.

“I’m here as a favor,” Adam says. “I’m being nice. For old times’ sake.”

“I put in my resignation,” Shiro says. “They took me out of the field and shoved me behind a desk, I’m not doing anyone any good stuck inside that building. I’m through with the Garrison.”

“They aren’t through with you.”

With that, Adam turns on his heel and marches off. Shiro realizes, with some annoyance, that Adam has paid for both their drinks; it’s a small gesture, one that makes Shiro feel a little beholden despite not having asked for it.

The sourness dogs him for the rest of the morning, despite the soft smile Keith gives him when Shiro hands over his untouched traveler's mug. The barista had filled it with the house special instead of the lighter roast Shiro usually prefers, and Shiro had unthinkingly fixed it just the way Keith likes it: with a little cream but no sugar. It’s not quite the color of a paper bag, even using the heavy cream the cafe puts out.

“You remembered,” Keth says when he takes a sip. And Shiro knows that Keith has people on Marmora, that even though Keith’s on the reserved side, he still has a circle of confidants. But the thought of being the first person to remember how Keith drinks his coffee — to be the first person who thinks of Keith with his whole body, without even engaging in conscious thought — makes Shiro want to burn down the building he walked out of. How dare the Garrison infringe on this. How dare Ellen Sanda do anything that might take Shiro away from this development in front of him: a young man with clever hands, drinking coffee and looking at Shiro like Shiro hung the moon. Who trusted Shiro enough to take him on an adventure in an abandoned house, who listened when Shiro muttered about finding a way to cut costs and still maintain the aesthetic of the inn’s renovation.

“I didn’t even have to think about it,” Shiro says, which is true, after a fashion.

Keith resumes the wraparound porch plans, walking to and fro along the perimeter of the house with the barest hint of a limp. Shiro wonders if Keith’s sore from the night they spent together, or if he’s just a little stiff from crouching against hardwood floors. It feels inopportune to ask, especially since Shiro can’t shake Adam’s parting words: that the Garrison isn’t through with him. Shiro worries at that statement like it’s a sore tooth.

“I’ve got to make some calls,” he tells Keith after lunch, barely biting off his words in time to avoid saying baby. He wants to; Keith is so soft around Shiro that it feels appropriate, feels like a state of mind Shiro wants to cultivate for the rest of his life. But he can’t take that step without first making sure the door he walked through to get to Marmora, to meet Keith at all, has been closed behind him.

“I might wrap up here and place some orders back at the shop,” Keith says in response. Then, tentative: “Shiro?”

He’d have to be heartless to ignore that tone of voice. “Yeah?”

Keith leans up into Shiro’s personal space for just a second, knocking their shoulders together, before he kisses the corner of Shiro’s jaw. His mouth is so, so soft. “I had a nice time last night. We’ll have to do it again soon.”

“You’ll have to stay next time,” Shiro says. Even any, even distracted: he wants that. He wants to roll onto his side when his internal alarm clock goes off and find Keith on the other side of the bed, wants to finally get around to buying a coffee machine so they can spend the morning in the kitchen instead of taking turns running to the coffee shop. He wants to kiss Keith hello instead of goodbye.

“If you invite me again,” Keith says, “I’ll believe you.”

Chapter Text

+++

It takes Shiro three tries to get through, even though he’s dialing Mitch’s direct extension. The first time he fumbles the number and nearly cracks the screen with his prosthesis, and then Mitch sends him to voicemail — twice. Shiro finally leaves a voicemail that would put even his most scathing trash talk to shame. Shiro has a policy of never punching down, but Mitch is in a grey administrative area. He can take the hit.

“You’re the one who’s always going on about the integrity of the Garrison, Mitch,” Shiro spits into the little microphone. Smartphones are so unsatisfying. He wishes it was a clunky satellite communicator like he used to use when he was on missions, something he could really get a decent grip on. Something he could throw down at the end of the call, ideally. “So where’s that integrity now? I don’t appreciate you fucking me over, and I’m only going to listen to your side of the story for about eight more minutes, so you’d better call me back.”

That does the trick. When in doubt: Shiro can always fall back on telling someone that Shiro’s not mad, really, he’s just disappointed. Even if he is furious.

Mitch calls back on a burner phone with about five and a half minutes to spare, the coward, and he doesn’t let Shiro get a word in edgewise.

“Don’t pin this on me, Shirogane, you didn’t even give notice. No way you could just walk off campus without a succession plan in place, of course there’s a holdup with your paperwork.”

“I’m more concerned with how the Garrison seems to consider my position as current, not former,” Shiro snipes. “I retired, Mitch — and what the fuck is Adam doing here? ”

“Oh, hell,” Mitch grunts into the phone. “Shirogane, I take it back, you’re not retiring. You’re indentured or something now, what was it they did back in those gladiatorial pits? You read history, don’t you? You’re Sanda’s Champion. If she sent West to bring you in, she’s being nice. West’s a good contractor, everyone likes him over here, it’s probably an effort to pave the way —”

“Some effort, sending my ex to pull my pigtails.”

“You let your hair grow out that much from regulation already, huh? I knew you had it in you.”

“I’m serious,” Shiro protests. “Adam made enough noise that I did some checking of my own. My credentials still work, the HR site says I’m on sabbatical, and none of my exit paperwork is on file. Half my accounts are frozen, and I’m trying to build something here. I got out. I have a mortgage. The least the Garrison can do it take it on the chin.”

“I always told you you needed to make nice with Ellen at the holiday parties,” Iverson says in the same doleful tones he used to use when he had to announce the duty roster during the holidays. It doesn’t improve the message in the slightest. “You’re too big a fish to cut loose, Shiro. That’s why you got promoted out of the field, it’s why they don’t want you running around and contracting with whatever big defense firm is sniffing at our heels this week. You don’t get to just wake up one morning and go have a normal life. You’ve been in the field so long I’m surprised you even know what one looks like.”

“Well maybe I want to put my superior logistical skills to use and find out,” Shiro says. “It’s bullshit, Mitch. I deserve better — and now that I’m finally going for it, they want to put me back in the box?”

“I’ll ask around and see what I can find out,” Mitch sighs. He sounds old, like the last couple of months have turned him into a man with a bad back and bum knees, too tired to get invested in Shiro’s crisis. “But if they’ve sent West — Shiro, did you ever consider that’s the Garrison’s idea of being nice?”

“If they’re counting on me to play fair, they don’t know me very well,” Shiro says. “If I have to take a hit on this — I’m holding you responsible.” He swipes out of the call and disconnects, huffs angrily and considers the merit of punching a wall — but that would just be a way of punishing himself. And of punishing Keith, who just painted that wall.

Shiro had opted to make this call from inside the house, even if all communications that piss him off this royally have traditionally taken place out of doors or in the wreckage of an op that did not go according to plan. The mess is of his own making, he knows, but that doesn’t change how furious he is about it, how much he wants to set his jaw and start a brawl. Shiro won’t do either of these things. He trained himself out of gritting his teeth fifteen years ago after a dressing-down from the Garrison’s dentist, and he hasn’t started a brawl in at least that long (finishing brawls: another matter entirely. Shiro believes in technicalities, and this one matters).

He self-soothes for a few minutes: pushups, of course, and some squats, and then he sweeps the stairs going up to his room and finds one of Keith’s perennially missing hair ties on the landing. Keith is scrupulously tidy about his tools and the worksite, but he can’t keep track of his hair ties for love nor money, Shiro thinks. He pockets this one — neon orange, a hazard color, probably from one of those snag-free multipacks sold at the drugstore. He’s seen Romelle at the coffee shop hand one over alongside Keith’s order if he’s looking particularly disheveled.

“You did it to yourself,” Shiro says aloud, unhelpfully. He loops the hair tie around a couple of fingers, plays with the stretch of it, considers keeping it on his own wrist. Maybe next time Keith needs to pull his hair back, Shiro can offer it back to him. The band is too tight, though, so he ends up threading it through a loop on his multitool so it doesn’t get lost in his pockets. The only other option is to loop it around a finger on his metal arm, which isn’t plagued by limitations like the human circulatory system — but the soft weave snags on the joint when he tries. “You did it to yourself, but if you know how to do one thing, Shirogane, it’s to come out on top anyway.”

The only way to do that is to bring out the big guns. Whenever Shiro’s stuck on a problem, he can rely on a Holt to get him out of it (even if they might make it worse at the start). Since this disaster involves money, a call to Pidge is in order.

Pidge in the middle of a sculpture when he calls, which Shiro can tell by the way she keeps on speaker. Normally she’s more security conscious, but when inspiration strokes, all bets are off. Also, judging by the noise, she’s spot-welding.

Shiro’s feeling short on charm at the moment, so he lays the situation out in bleak terms, adding at the end, “I’m looking for insurance. I know you can help with that.”

“I’ll text my dad,”she agrees, “this’ll really get his goat, you know how he feels about justice and the sanctity of pension plans. But I gotta ask, what’s so interesting about Marmora, anyway?Don’t tell me you followed through on taking up sailing.”

“I haven’t had time to try sailing, I’ve been too busy with getting the house in order. But I’ll say this: the views are nice,” Shiro tells her, thinking back to how Keith had looked in his bed. “You know how it is. Right place, right time.”

“Oh,” Pidge says, in tones of fascinated disgust. “You met a boy. Well, regardless. Houses cost money and my mother raised me to wring every cent out of the Garrison just on principle. You should still call Dad yourself, though — he can help you coordinate a smear campaign if you need capital right away.”

Shiro’s subsequent call to Sam Holt (“the goddamn paterfamilias,” Pidge says. “He’ll right some wrongs.”) — who at least has the decency to answer him on the first try — does little to contain Shiro’s rising ire. As always, though, talking to Sam gives Shiro a few reminders of how to focus his destructive energies. Sam’s administrative weight is legendary. Everything SHiro has learned about patience, about playing a long game, he learned from Sam Holt. Sam is the gentle-seeming sort of person who can wax rhapsodic about his wife’s garden and his daughter’s burgeoning career as a scrap metal sculptor, or about his son’s AI sex surrogate startup with equal fervor. But he’s a decorated officer with a hefty CV of publications who has gone toe-to-toe in meetings with Sanda and the rest of the Garrison brass and walked out victorious. His administrative scuffles are legendary, possibly because he always leaves them in the same distracted, smiling way he has when he’s talking about visiting eels at the Garrison’s research labs, and also didn’t you know that there’s a leash law in this neighborhood?

That’s the trick: don’t let them see that you’re about to hit them where it hurts. Shiro knows how to be subtle, but in this case, Sam agrees that blunt force is a better option. The PR alone would be a nightmare for the Garrison if it got out that they’re withholding from a decorated veteran who just wants to support his local economy.

“But make sure you’ve got a backup,” Sam adds before distracting Shiro with questions about the inn: oddly, he’s most interestested in the color scheme. “That’ll really get stuck in Sanda’s craw, especially since she’ll never retire — the woman doesn’t know how to have hobbies, let alone build something new.”

So on top of the unwelcome discovery that he’s still a kept man (so to speak), Shiro realizes he’s forgotten to pick up a flat of paint samples from the hardware store, something he’s been meaning to do for over a week. He drives the Jeep into the center of town in a huff, aware that he won’t find a parking place and that he should have just walked. It might have taken the edge off his bad mood.

Adam’s rental car is in the visitor space outside the village hall. Adam, too, is there, handing off a suspiciously fat folder to the current chair of the Community Development Committee.

A chill runs down Shiro’s spine. He’s always fought his battles with careful attention to detail, but instinct has played its own role in his continued survival. The Community Development Committee is about as powerful as God and the tides on an island like Marmora. In the short time he’s frequented the area, Shiro’s become deeply aware of Thace’s constant griping about the stress of pulling permits for different jobs, or for applying for permission from the historic preservation trust. Who knew the design of an exterior front step was cause for a three-hour open meeting? Not Shiro. He’s escaped war zones with fewer ill effects. Local government could teach the bureaucrats back in the military a thing or two about torture, tedium, and tenacity.

And yet: the pettiest public servant on Marmora is laughing at Adam’s jokes.

Shiro doesn’t know what’s inside that folder, but he has a sinking feeling it’s going to make his life a whole lot worse before it gets better.

Adam waves to Shiro. “Don’t worry,” he calls. “I’m getting out of your hair. Just wanted to check in with Mr. Trothrod here — safety is so important, don’t you agree? Never start a project without preparing for the worst.”

“It’s the only way you can hope for the best,” Trothrod says, and tucks the folder beneath his arm. “Especially when historic buildings are in the mix — the character of Marmora is at stake. Thank you for your attention to detail, Mr. West. Marmora is lucky you were passing through and that you have an eye for construction liability.”

“Indeed,” Adam says. “It’s important to make sure you have the right people for the job. The right credentials. The right… paperwork. Of course, any licensed contractor would know how to cross the i’s and dot the t’s, now wouldn’t he?”

+++

If it hadn’t been for Ulaz peering out of the hardware store just as Adam slammed the door to his rental car and sped off — and if Chairman Trothrod hadn’t turned and walked back into the relative safety of the village hall — Shiro isn’t sure what he might have done next. Operating in a blind rage isn’t so much out of character as it is out of place. He’s in marmora. He’s retired. He can’t fight this problem with brute strength or battlefield tactics, not when he’s unfamiliar with the terrain.

Fortunately, the sight of Ulaz reminds Shiro of what’s really important: paint samples. Well. Paint samples, inasmuch as that’s a stand-in for Keith and all the things Shiro would like to remain free to do with him. He’s got to act with purpose. Ulaz is an ally.

“My old job wants me back,” Shiro mutters after he’s been herded into the hardware store and made to sit down in the back office.

Ulaz makes an encouraging noise and offers him a cup of cocoa made from one of Thace’s emergency packets.

“This is no time for bravery,” Ulaz says when Shiro makes a move towards the coffee from the percolator Thace keeps going at all times. “You should stick with the chocolate.”

Shiro accepts; he’s had a shock. No need to strip his taste buds on top of every other disaster going on at the moment.

“They’re going after Keith,” Shiro continues. “I can’t prove it, but — Adam, the consultant the Garrison sent to convince me to come back, he’s my ex. I don’t know anyone who’s got better attention to detail. He can bullseye paperwork from across the room, and the folder he handed over to that committee member… I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Relax,” Thace says, coming over from the front of the store, where he’s presumably manning the register. “Even if Adam uses a fine-tooth comb, he’s just going to find out that Keith’s doing everything by the book.”

“Keith doesn’t strike me as a ‘by the book’ kind of guy,” Shiro protests. He sips at the cocoa and promptly burns his tongue. “That’s what I like about him. He knows how to maneuver around obstacles.”

“Planning permission and permit filing are two things he doesn’t extemporize on,” Ulaz consoles Shiro. “It’s a small island. If Keith didn’t handle his projects with care, he wouldn’t get new bids. And if he weren’t ass over teakettle for you and your midlife crisis, he’d be swimming in work. Community Planning might hem and haw and hold a public hearing, but Keith’s work speaks for itself. The only thing he lacks is a piece of paper saying he passed some tests and has a contractor’s license — lots of handymen don’t see the need for it.”

“And you’re forgetting something,” Thace adds. He removes his work apron and hands it over to Ulaz, who folds it neatly over one reedy arm. “Keith’s got me. I’ve been working with the historic preservation committee for over twenty years. I can vouch for every renovation Keith has done on and even off the island. He’s got reinforcements.”

“Then if you two can watch his back…” Shiro squares his shoulders and nods sharply. “I need to take a trip off the island. There are some bridges I need to burn.”

Ulaz and Thace exchange glances that speak volumes, though neither of them says anything out loud for a moment. It’s a look that has the weight of decades and considerable mileage attached to it.

“Are you planning to leave without saying goodbye?” Ulaz asks. He’s neutral about it, too neutral. It’s the kind of question that has, as its subtext, the followup: aren't you forgetting something?

The thing is: Shiro is not forgetting about Keith in the slightest. He just doesn’t want to call him and tell him bad news without having a plan of attack to offer alongside it. Perhaps this is why the Garrison is so determined to have Shiro back. His problem-solving skills are legendary.

Shiro doesn’t care what the Garrison wants; he would rather focus all his energy on keeping Keith safe from harm. “I need to hit the road. The longer I wait, the more ammunition my old employer will be able to assemble.”

“At least stop by the village hall and record a statement before you go,” Thace says. From the look on Ulaz’s face, that is not the important thing that Shiro is forgetting. “What! He’s a current client and half the committee members will swoon over his testimony. You’ve made a splash on the island, Shiro. Press the advantage.”

Shiro knows a thing or two about pressing an advantage. “If it’ll help Keith, I’ll do it,” he says. “Would a video work? It’s a long drive to the Garrison and I don’t know who they’ll send if they think Adam wasn’t enough of a disruption.”

+++

Keith’s concerned by Shiro’s sudden disappearance from the worksite — and, well, the distance is jarring. Keith didn’t realize how much he yearned for those moments in the slowdown of the afternoon, when Shiro would reach out to him and just touch him, like he couldn’t help himself where Keith was concerned, until today when Shiro stepped back and became one with his phone. Shiro has barely looked at it since he moved to the island, Keith knows, so the change is abrupt. Is it odd to say he’s lonely, Keith wonders? He’s used to working on his own, used to bring himself between the layers of a project and not touching base with a client until the whole shebang is complete. It’s astonishing how quickly having Shiro’s companionship became something normal. Something Keith wants to keep.

Still, he’s determined to finish the day’s projects and tidy up the workspace before starting a manhunt. He does check his phone more than usual, even going so far as to turn on the text notifications sound effect so he’ll hear if Shiro reaches out to him. When the phone rings — actually rings, not buzzes with a text — Keith nearly drops a cordless drill in his haste to answer it.

The person on the other end is not Shiro.

“You’d better pack up at the inn for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the week,” Acxa says. She never calls Keith. Both of them are dedicated texters, usually loath to speak over the phone unless it’s absolutely necessary. “Thace is already doing damage control with the Community Planning Commission, but you need to get all your paperwork in order. Someone lodged a complaint about your work, alleging that you don’t have the permits to work at the inn.”

Keith is speechless for a moment before he asks, very politely, “what the fuck?”

“Don’t ask me for gossip,” Acxa says. “Ulaz just told me to get ahold of you. I can bring my truck over if you need to move any of your bigger tools.”

There’s a chopsaw that’ll give him trouble if he tries to walk it back to his place, and Keith is concerned about his oversize toolkit if the Commission is involved. His permits are up to date — just because he didn’t pull any when he redid the tile in Acxa’s bungalow doesn’t mean he’d be so reckless with a historic building, especially one with the scrutiny the inn has already garnered with its out-of-town purchaser — but this sounds serious. Keith wonders, in an absent, heartbroken way, if Shiro is involved. If he decided to cut his losses on such an expensive enterprise — but that doesn’t match what Keith knows about Shiro, about the way Shiro dedicates himself to everything he touches. Wood, and inns, and even Keith’s own body.

“I could use a hand,” he tells Acxa. He hasn’t unloaded all the scavenged wood from his truck bed yet. There’s no room for his tools.

“Fine,” she says, and hangs up. Her truck pulls alongside the exterior of the inn a short while later and she moves silently to help him load his tools into the bed, even walking through the upper level of the house to make sure Keith hasn’t forgotten anything inside.

She emerges empty-handed and sporting a lewd grin. “Had a little fun in the upstairs bedroom?”

“Shut up,” Keith tells her. He’s not ashamed of what he and Shiro did together, but — it’s private. Keith doesn’t want Acxa to make any jokes about it, not when the memory of Shiro’s hands on him is so fresh and tender. “I’ll buy all of your drinks tonight, but please, shut up.”

“You’re in luck,” Acxa says. “Narti’s in town. I’m not leaving the house tonight. Do you need me to drop this stuff off at your place?”

“The storage locker would be better,” Keith says. He’s been using the portable storage hut Ulaz and Thace set up behind their house just to manage his tools better, especially since his studio apartment isn’t big enough for him to keep anything in good order. One day he’ll have the right space for himself. He just hasn’t started looking. “Narti bring her cat?”

Acxa’s girlfriend works at the big research university just across the state line and commutes home on the weekends, usually with her disconcertingly oversized sphinx cat in tow. Acxa hates cats, but Keith knows she’s built a little highway for the animal that runs through the house. Love is a strange and galvanizing force.

“More like the cat brought Narti,” Acxa sighs. “She likes the vet out here better, it’s time for the annual visit.”

“No way she likes the vet as much as she likes you,” Keith says. He’s teasing a little, mostly to get Acxa back for poking him over the rumpled sheets and discarded condoms she saw when she did her walkthrough. Doesn’t make it any less true: Narti’s cat could have any kind of preference in the world, but Narti would still come home to Acxa.

“Oh, go clean up your mess,” Acxa tells him. But she helps him unload his equipment onto Ulaz and Thace’s front stoop, even if she doesn’t offer to help shift it the rest of the way to the storage unit. She’s the best friend Keith has ever had, and he didn’t realize until he met Shiro that Acxa was lonely when Narti was away, that the careful dance between Acxa and Romelle every time they met at the coffee shop was a negotiated endeavor.

Keith’s lonely without Shiro, too, and he’s known him for less time.

He puts his tools away, because a handyman is only as good as his tools. Then he walks into the house, where Ulaz is waiting for him. The kitchen table is littered with legal-sized pads of paper and a number of oversized manila folders. An overlarge mug of coffee, no doubt microwaved within an inch of its life, dominates the scene.

“Plan review?” Keith asks.

“Formal complaint,” Ulaz answers. “Thace is at the village hall now, the big hero. He’s got a list of character and business references a mile long. I think he has a scrapbook of all your jobs, actually, it’s quite touching. If this is anything to go by, I imagine he’ll be insufferable should we ever have children. Well. Another child.” He means Keith, even though Keith didn’t meet them until after he was an adult.

Ulaz has good bedside manner. It comes from his years in community service — before he ran the hardware store alongside Thace, he worked in public health outreach. Even Keith, skittish in the face of authority, can be gentled by the way Ulaz peppers expository statements with color and humanity. It’s a grounding technique. Keith’s glade of it in an abstract way, because the fact of the matter is that a plan review could mean the end of his career. If Keith’s casual business fails — if he loses work because the local government decides he’s not qualified to work in his field — he’ll have to leave Marmora. The island is home.

“This wouldn’t be an issue if I had my contractor’s license,” he realizes. It’s hollow. He could have sat for the exams at any point in the last five years, and he knows that Thace and Ulaz would have helped him come up with the money he’d need for the initial insurance investment.

“Maybe so,” Ulaz says. He’s kind, but he doesn’t sugarcoat it. “But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think this setback is really about you. From what I’ve gathered, Shiro’s previous employer is determined to get him back by any means necessary. You, my boy, appear to be collateral damage.”

“It’s not his fault,” Keith says, automatic. He’s sure of it. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Care to share your plans with the troops?” Ulaz sips unflinchingly at his coffee. Keith can smell the brew from where he’s still hunched in the doorway, and feels, for a moment, that the bracing scent of stewed grounds is all that’s keeping him in the present moment. It doesn’t matter that Keith hasn’t felt like he’s ready to take that leap until now; for a minute, all he can think of is how he hasn’t moved fast enough to stay ahead of this curveball.

“Thace is fighting for me?”

“To the bitter end. Your young man’s gone to scorch some earth as well. Between the two of them it’s almost like having a private army.”

“Then I’ll fight, too,” Keith decides. “I’ll — I’ll sit for my contractor’s exams, that’ll show good faith, won’t it? And if that’s not enough, it’s an election year. The council terms are up, right?”

“For the loudest opponents you’ll face in the community development office, yes,” Ulaz says.

“Maybe I’ll buy a house,” Keith says. It’s reckless. It feels like he’s running up along the bluffs at the far edge of the island, preparing to leap off the rock into the water below. “Even if I have to wait to get a license issued, it’ll give me something to do. I’ve hogged the storage unit in the back for long enough, it’s about time I got a place of my own.”

To his credit, Ulaz doesn’t talk Keith down off the ledge. Instead he nods, acknowledging that despite the speed at which Keith has come to this conclusion, it still has merit. “I don’t think the permits are going to work against you in the long run, but having a project will be good for you. You do so much for the people around you, Keith; it’s important to make space for yourself.”

“I didn’t think I needed that, before,” Keith says. He means: before Shiro. In a way, now that he’s met Shiro and fallen in love with him, Keith needs a space of his own even less. But he also can see the value of cultivating something that belongs to him, that he owns. As much as he enjoys the puzzle of reconfiguring the inn into Shiro’s dream space, Keith knows that a large-scale project like this has boundaries and strange edges, precipices where Keith will need to call in other professionals who have experience he lacks. Shiro could decide he doesn’t want to be retired; Shiro could decide he doesn’t want to live on an island. Keith knows that Shiro is thinking about the kinds of work he can do from the island, ways to earn a paycheck and keep from getting bored. They’ve had sex a few times, and had a million intimate conversations outside of the bedroom, enough that Keith has faith in the groundwork between them. But: he thinks he’d like to bring something of his own to the partnership, if a partnership is what coalesces. Aside from his skills and his admittedly robust collection of tools, Keith has always lived lightly. If he buys a house of his own: that’s as good as making a promise.

It also won’t hurt his standing with the Community Planning Committee. Keith knows from listening to Thace’s interminable complaints about the Committee’s open forums that residents who have invested in Marmora, through taxes and years lived and property owned, are more favorably received than outsiders with cash. Keith trusts Ulaz’s assessment of the situation. If — when — Shiro comes back and they dig into the meat of the inn restoration, Keith can do more good by enhancing his ties to the island. It’s not like he doesn’t already love the place. It wouldn’t be a hardship.

If he gets a house of his own, he could get a dog.

“Let us know if you need money,” Ulaz tells him.

Keith hums in response. “I could use some help, more than cash,” he admits. “I need to keep busy. Do you know anyone who’s selling? I don’t mind a fixer-upper.”

“I can make some calls,” Ulaz tells him, as if taking on a major renovation project while studying for a contractor’s exam is a normal thing. It is, in a way; Ulaz collects design hobbies the same way some people collect stamps. He said once that it’s the most reliable way to keep himself humble. “Keith. You make us proud, you know.”

“You made me feel welcome first,” Keith says. He feels warm with gratitude, even though the pall of the situation still weighs on him, as does his silent phone. He wonders if Shiro will text him soon, but decides to leave well enough alone. Not out of self-pity; out of trust. “Guess I’d better go find my laptop and start filing paperwork, huh.”

The paperwork is halfway done by the time Thace storms into the house, energized in the way he always is when he’s got a cause to crusade for. It’s why he’s such a fixture in the small business community. “Keith!” He bellows, then modulates his tone when he sees Keith and Ulaz sitting at the kitchen table, each with a laptop open in front of them. “Huh. I didn’t know you knew what a laptop was.”

Keith is mildly scandalized. “I do CAD renderings for you at least twice a month!” But Thace has an Instagram channel or whatever it’s called, and his videos are pretty popular. He’s always making fun of how Keith doesn’t spend enough time connected to Marmora’s social landscape.

“Anyway, I got the Committee to agree to an open forum. Your Vanderbilt was there for a minute — pretty passionate for a retiree.”

“Shiro’s not a Vanderbilt,” Keith sighs. “He’s exploring his career options.”

“Well whatever he’s doing now, he’s clearly had some experience as a motivational speaker. I thought old Jorne Trothrod was on the verge of tears at one point, and he’s basically made of stone. He made the complaint!”

“Trothrod needs to let new blood on that Committee, he’s been on it longer than some of the historic buildings have been around,” Ulaz mutters. “Keith, I’ve got a few leads on a property. It’s the far side of the island — how do you feel about rebuilding staircases?”

Keith feels nervous about designing interior stairs, to be honest. But he’s willing to learn.

“I need a minute,” he tells his family. Thace looks disappointed, likely because he was gearing up to deliver a blow-by-blow of the meeting he just emerged from, but Ulaz makes a husband gesture, reaching up and settling his fingers in the crook of Thace’s arm. Without exerting any visible pressure, he beckons the big man closer.

Keith slips outside, pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket as he goes. He thinks about that husband gesture as he scrolls to Shiro’s number in his contacts list and taps the display to dial it.

“It’s me,” he tells the machine when it kicks on. It’s been hours since he got a panicked text from Shiro, since Keith heard the buzz about his permit status, and in the meantime three of his contracting buddies have called him from the coffee shop to say that Shiro had been arguing with another man in public. That’s a lot of scandal and hubbub for one day; Marmora is not a large island. “Listen. I’m fine. So take the time you need, yeah? I’ll be here where you get back.”

Keith thinks about Shiro handing him coffee, or putting his hand in the small of Keith’s back when they walked up the stairs of the house into Shiro’s bedroom. Not a husband touch yet — not enough history behind it — but there had been a promise in the way Shiro moved around Keith, had responded to him. Shaken by the events of the day, a little skittish at what lies ahead of him, Keith clings to that memory. Touching Shiro is already like having a conversation, something ongoing and hopeful. Keith misses him already.

Chapter Text

Shiro doesn’t call Keith for hours, long after he’s crossed over the big bridge that connects Marmora to the mainland. He realizes that not calling is an actual mistake almost immediately after leaving the island without saying goodbye. Shiro hates himself a little for making that decision, even if it is tactical, even though he knows he needed to get moving right after making his statement to the Community Preservation Committee. It’s still a disappointment. It still feels like a wound, like something shameful. Shiro didn’t kiss Keith properly today and he was in a bad mood for most of the time they had together. Instead of taking Keith back to the upstairs bedroom, instead of learning how to fit the reclaimed wood into the worn spaces in the inn’s floors, Shiro is driving through an evening snarl of traffic.

Talking to Keith before leaving would have helped Shiro feel more settled, more focused on how to solve this problem. That’s a harder realization than just admitting to a mistake. Shiro wants to do things right; he wants to come to Keith with hands empty except for the key to the inn. To do that, he needs to head into one last war zone. He plans say all of this to Keith once he actually makes the call — Shiro is learning his lesson about ignoring phone calls, m he won’t put this one off —, except:

He sees a voicemail notification from Keith on the Jeep’s handsfree dash and hits redial instead of listening. It’s a rookie mistake. His right hand might be malfunctioning, might not be calibrated finely enough for the haptic feedback triggers to work on the car’s touchscreen. By all rights, Shiro should be gathering more information before circling back. He should hang up before Keith can answer.

But he needs to merge, so he doesn’t disconnect the call, and braces himself for ire.

“I heard about what happened in the coffee shop,” Keith says as soon as the call picks up. No salutation, just right to the point. At least he won’t make Shiro wait for the inevitable conflagration. “And Ulaz told me that city council’s getting involved.”

“Sorry, baby,” Shiro says. He’s overflowing with feeling, but hopefully his tendency towards emotional repression means that his voice doesn’t shake over the connection. “I should have called sooner. But I wanted to make sure I was working on a plan. It’s not fair of me to put you in a position like this without an exit strategy. I’m working on how to save your business reputation, I swear.”

“Thace and Ulaz told me everything,” Keith says, and — forgives him.

Shiro talks until he goes hoarse and Keith listens, making little noises occasionally to indicate that he understands or that he wants Shiro to go into more detail. Keith has sort of mediocre phone manners — he’s obviously got the phone jammed between his chin and his shoulder while he’s attending to something with his hands, not switching to his earbuds. He always runs out of charge by the end of the day. The result is a beloved, twisted ASMR. Shiro can hear Keith breathe and sigh, can hear the wet sounds of him drinking from a water bottle. The car fills with the lived-in noises that have become one of the layers Shiro likes most about working on the inn every day: the domestic symphony of another person.

“You should sleep,” Shiro says after a couple hours of this. He feels s\talked out and a little hungover, the same way he always felt after he finally decompressed from an operation. Telling Keith about Adam — about the argument, yes, but also about the way living together had pulled them apart at the seams, about how Shiro wondered for a while if he was too unyielding to be lovable — makes him feel like an open wound. It can’t be much nicer to listen to it, and he knows that Keith has work to do in the morning. “You’re not gonna be safe to operate a saw if you don’t get some rest, and I have a vested interest in those fingers of yours.”

“I’ll sleep after you pull over,” Keith says. “You’re good company.”

“Yeah, my breakup stories are a real hit at parties.”

“I hate small talk.” Keith pauses and thinks over the words. “But talking to you isn’t small, Shiro. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I want to hear what you decide to tell me.” He’s chewing and the sound makes Shiro remember that he hasn’t eaten anything since he last stopped for gas. Do gas station coffee and beef jerky count as eating? His stomach disagrees.

Eventually, Shiro pulls into Pidge’s driveway. He’ll stay with her tonight and face the Garrison in the morning. “I’m gonna hang up in a minute, Keith,” Shiro says once he’s turned off the car and switched the call from handsfree to the same old-fashioned intimacy Keith has been modeling during their conversation: held up to his ear. “I made it back in one piece.”

Keith yawns into the microphone. “No you haven’t,” he says. “Nothing about this is one piece. It’s more like flat-pack furniture. It’s all pieces.” He hasn’t extended any probing questions or recriminations, but Shiro knows how Keith feels about Ikea. Just because they’re on the same page, just because they both want to work this out — doesn’t mean Keith likes it. Oddly, the realization, the sign of Keith’s unvarnished edges, makes Shiro feel better. It makes Shiro want to tell Keith everything he hasn’t managed to articulate during the hours they’ve already invested in Shiro’s house.

“Can I call you later?”

“Call me any time,” Keith says. “I’ll keep my ringer on.”

The morning —the daylight, really — comes soon after. Shiro untangles himself from where ’s crashed in a disreputable recliner and joins Pidge at her kitchen table. It’s a nice table, butcher block laid out over eight welded legs from when Pidge was sculpting cephalopods at every opportunity; Shiro thinks, though, that it lacks the charm and intimacy of the ersatz table made out of sawhorses that Keith had set up in the inn’s kitchen, where he and Keith had discussed plans and consumed thermos after thermos of coffee. What he’s up to now isn’t nurture work in the same way; it’s all about cutting ties with the past.

Pidge doesn’t drink coffee and Shiro doesn’t feel up to foraging in her cabinets for the stuff. Instead, he settles in for her intense mix of financial acumen and intense roasting. It’s something he has to gird his loins for. Shiro can function on four hours of sleep. He doesn’t like it, but it’s not a hardship. What is a hardship: facing down Pidge’s gleeful stare as she lays out a pile of financial documents. This is his punishment for keeping all of her texts on read.

“This is amazing,” she’s saying, abuzz with three cups of iced tea. She keeps mason jars of it in her fridge, and Shiro has never believed her when she says that green tea has left caffein than coffee — it can’t be true, not at the rate she goes through it. “It’s better than the time Matt lost a filling on a piece of Laffy Taffy.”

“An awful lot of commentary that isn’t related to my net worth.”

“Your net worth is fine. Or it will be, once Dad and I get done with it. Did you get through to Iverson? I’d call for you, but he’s been avoiding me ever since I lost the bid to design the exterior sculpture for the Garrison’s south atrium.”

Iverson isn’t answering calls — a taste of Shiro’s own medicine — but he has sent a Calendly link via his official email, which is more legitimacy than Shiro was expecting out of the gate. “We have an eleven o’clock.”

“Sanda takes lunch at eleven-thirty,” Pidge informs him. The Garrison doings are like a soap opera for her; it’s what came of growing up on base, flunking out of the flight program, and going to art school before she hit twenty. “You better show up early.”

As if Shiro’s some kind of rookie. He had been in line for a promotion before he’d quit. He knows how these appointments work. Still: he appreciates the work she’s done to organize his financial documents, how she’s highlighted every inappropriate deduction and withholding on the Garrison’s end. “Was the collage really necessary?”

“It’s a mood board,” Pidge corrects him. “I needed to get into the right mindset for this, finance is an art. Go get ‘em, Champion.”

+++

In the end, the negotiations to settle Shiro’s retirement package take almost three weeks of shouting back and forth, supplemented with triplicate copies of all of Shiro’s service records. Keith has never spent so much time on the phone with anyone, not even with social services organizations and government offices — and he’s doing a lot of that himself, since he’s determined to make headway on his license and on the house he wants to buy. He hasn’t shared too much of this with Shiro during their calls, mostly because Keith is enjoying the ways Shiro regales him with the high-low drama of the human resources department.

“I feel like I’m in an epistolary relationship,” he confesses one night. He’s got Shiro on speaker, which Shiro is tolerating with true grace; but it’s the only way Keith can make time for the call. Between studying for his exams and submitting detailed plans to the Community Preservation Committee, he’s barely had time to meet his obligations at the hardware store. Right now Keith is refinishing the door to one of Thace’s storage cabinets — not an obligation and probably not as important as finishing the monthly inventory of hand tools, but it’s a gesture of gratitude for the hours Thace has put into bullying the local committee members into dropping the actions against Keith’s building plans, and it’s a thank-you for the capital Ulaz has fronted for the insurance Keith will need once he begins working as a certified contractor.

“Epistolary?” Shiro snorts. “I’m not sending you letters. My handwriting is terrible.”

“I mean that you’re talking to me,” Keith says. “I like hearing about your day.”

A pause, where Keith wonders if he’s said something too ridiculous or needy; but then Shiro starts speaking again, sounding pleased.

“Then have I got a story for you,” Shiro says. “Today I brought up the unremitting gall of Sanda to send my ex to Marmora — I’m still seething about that, he had no fuckin’ right to mess with your work — and she was really proper about it, said something noncommittal about how she couldn’t comment on what Garrison contractors do when they’re not working on a specific assignment, as if Ellen Sanda’s career was not entirely crafted from unnecessary comment. And you know what Sam said?”

“I need to send Sam a coffee table after this”

“He’d love it, a Keith original. You’ll have a fan for life. Anyway, Sam pipes up with this meandering anecdote about the time he and Colleen went to Ohio to visit this food hall where one of Pidge’s sculptures washing installed, offered up a recipe for making strawberry ice cream with liquid nitrogen, and then capped it off by saying that Adam was moving to Cleveland. Cleveland! Then Mitch chimed in with some kind of contract rider about my arm and I had to pay attention instead of watching how puce Sanda got.”

Keith is far enough from the microphone that he has to vocalize, has to continue the conversation instead of allowing it to wash over him. Being deliberate with people still feels new, for all the practice he has living in a small town. He’s glad it has a practical application. “I feel like I should open a forty and celebrate.”

“Grain alcohol, nice,” Shiro says. “I’ll introduce you to the good stuff when I get back. If the conversation goes the way I think it will, I’ll have enough cash to pay for the good tile and to treat you right. Before this, I would have just treated you right.”

“The Habitat for Humanity Re-Store has good tile for cheap anyway,” Keith promises. “I know a guy who handles overstock there.”

“You complete me,” Shiro says. He isn’t joking. Keith flushes at the words, pleased by them. Pleased, and full of belief in what Shiro is saying. “It won’t be enough to live off of forever, though, so I’ll need to lean on your local smarts. Figure out the logistics for that adventure business we talked about.”

It’s an easy transition.They move from kvetching to figuring out the economy of Shiro running adventure training for guys running startups on the mainland. It’s a solid plan, one that utilizes the idea of the inn as a destination and keeps Shiro active. It also aligns with the Chamber of COmmerce’s plan to diversify options for tourism; the sense of stability is exciting. It makes Keith feel even more invested in his own plans, the ones he wants to make a little more headway on before he shares them. He trusts Shiro to wait for the announcement.

In the meantime, he cleans up the sawdust and sandpaper he’s been using on the cabinet and switched from handsfree to his earbuds. They have just enough charge for him to speak to Shiro, if only for a few minutes.

“Hey,” Shiro says right away. “I can hear the difference. I’ve got you to myself now, huh?”

“All yours,” Keith agrees.

+++

The ultimate meeting is somewhat anticlimactic, as all bureaucratic showdowns tend to be. Sanda and Iverson meet him at the door to the human resources department only to be elbowed cheerily out of the way by Sam Holt, who outranks both of them. Weeks of frustration and anxiety become a polite, seething mask of wait just a moment while we check our records and please sign these forms and so sorry for any inconvenience.

“If you’re satisfied with the terms of separation, you can leave your guest badge at the exit!” Iverson is making expressive eyebrow movements in Shiro’s direction; it’s time to wrap things up.

Shiro leaves the Garrison with as much energy as he’d gone into the administrative building with, though the target and the sentiment is somewhat altered. With Sam and Pidge’s help, Shiro’s retirement package is more than generous — better, even, than what he’d assumed he’d have to work with when he left the Garrison for the first time. Now, too, the back of the Jeep is laden with housewarming gifts from his old trainees: buckets of cleaning supplies, new laundry baskets, a gift card for window treatments (the last from Iverson, who apparently has connections in the textile industry. “You won’t ever get laid if you don’t demonstrate basic home decorating skills, Shirogane; minimalism is a young man’s game. And hem the goddamn curtains so they don’t touch the floor.” Getting laid wasn’t the problem, Mitch, but Shiro will ask Romelle about the curtains when he finally makes it back to the coffee shop on Marmora). It’s clear that his old team is capable in ways Shiro can only dream of reaching toward.

The first few days aside, Shiro’s worked hard to keep connected to Keith. Talking on the phone is a challenge, since Keith’s almost always in the vicinity of a whining power tool, and he’s an intermittent texter — but Shiro thinks that both of them are trying. Their late night calls have felt restorative, even when it’s a short one where Shiro lets off steam and Keith describes building code specs.

He’s used to proving his worth, underscoring his abilities at every turn, and Keith’s faith in Shiro is a jarring and unconditional experience. Knowing that Keith believes in him gives Shiro a competitive edge when he’s negotiating for his release, one that Pidge finds a way to translate into numbers. Shiro doesn’t give a shit about the money at this point — it’s blood money, the Garrison is just trying to hold him hostage — and that makes him dangerous. His victory is sweet and a little unsettling, because deep down, Shiro knows that he likes fighting. He’s good at it. He’s hoping to build a life where he feels this bloodthirsty about integrated pest management in the garden he wants to plant.

He has a hopeful feeling about his return to Marmora, and wants to ask Keith what his thoughts are on getting serious. Staying sterious. Shiro has felt all-in nearly from the start, and now that his future is truly unburdened, he’s on a roll.

“I’ll be home soon,” Shiro croons into Keith’s rapidly-filling voicemail box. “Leave a light on for me, won’t you?” Then he texts Thace and Ulaz to let them know he’s on his way back, though with more restrained language. It’s nice, having more than one person know his whereabouts at a time. Shiro thinks he could enjoy having an address that does not require top-secret clearance to obtain, though when he expressed this sentiment to Pidge, she made a face and asked him his opinion on mass mail and door-to-door solicitation. Girl Scouts aside, she might have a point. Shiro supposes civilian life is made up of efforts to find a happy medium.

Shiro drives almost straight through from the city in order to reunite with the object of his desire. Not directly to Keith’s place, though: Shiro stops to shower off the stink of the drive, change clothes, and (he lives in hope; he’s spent his whole career being prepared, no reason to stop now that he’s free) to tuck a few supplies into his cargo pockets.

When he finds Keith’s little garden-floor studio, though, the door is wide open and Keith is busy loading cardboard boxes into the bed of the truck they used to liberate wood from the old house, all those weeks ago. He’s familiar with the neighborhood Keith lives in, but hasn’t ever been inside Keith’s place. It always made more sense for Keith to come to him.

Shiro wonders if this is a failing; if so, he’s going to resolve the issue immediately.

“Hey,” Shiro says, waving to catch Keith’s attention in case he’s got the volume turned up too high on his headphones. Is Keith — leaving? Not now, he thinks; not when Shiro is finally free to stay. Keith’s mentioned that he’s working on a new project during their nightly phone calls, but surely he would have told Shiro if he were leaving. Keith’s thoughtful that way (and I’m not, Shiro thinks in horror. He hates getting a taste of his own medicine).

Keith promptly drops the box he’s holding (labeled bedding + towels in messy Sharpie, so that’s fine — nothing fragile) and lunges at Shiro. Ever responsive to changes in his environment, Shiro opens his arms wide to catch him. Three weeks without Keith have taken a toll on him, and Shiro realizes all of a sudden that he is starved for human touch. For this human touch: for the way Keith presses hard against Shiro, until there’s no space at all between them.

Keith’s body is his reward for driving straight through and only stopping for gas, Shiro thinks.

“You’re here,” Keith says, somewhere into the crook of Shiro’s neck. “’S good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Shiro tells him. God, Keith smells good. Not clean: but like wood shavings and Windex and the earnest tang of hard labor. Shiro rubs his hands over Keith’s back, solidifying the reality of Keith’s body with his horny, heartfelt memories. He yearns slip his hands under the fabric and rediscover this territory. “Was I going to miss you? What’s all this?”

“I’ve been busy while you were away,” Keith says proudly, drawing back a bit so he’s not talking into Shiro’s clean shirt. “Thace talked the planning committee out of taking action against my work on the inn. Had a lot of public meetings to attend to get that squared away.”

“You survived,” Shiro marvels. Local government makes him feel leery; give him a bigger bureaucracy any day. “I’m so sorry about that, baby, Adam — my ex — he always knew what buttons to push, that’s why the Garrison sent him out here. I never thought they’d try to mess with you. I made a statement before I left. I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

“It’s all right,” Keith says. “It wasn’t fun, yeah, but — it was a push. I did it — you’ll be proud — I got my contractor’s license, Shiro. The committee can’t argue with that, I passed all the exams and got the insurance bonds in order. It was like flipping a switch. Now they keep asking me to bid on projects.” He makes a face, as if astonished and a little disagreeable at how appealing he is to the wider network of movers and shakers on the island.

“You’re amazing,” Shiro tells him. He punctuates the proclamation with a firm kiss, pressing his mouth so hard against Keith’s that he gets a brief, bruising sensation of Keith’s teeth. Shiro’s lips are dry because he didn’t bother drinking water on his long drive, and the bottom one splits a little — not enough to bleed, but enough to feel raw and sensitive. Enough to rev the engine, so to speak; not nearly enough to tide him over. He’s been starved for Keith ever since he left to lay siege at the Garrison. He thinks he was starved for Keith even before that. The little tastes he’d had weren’t enough to survive on. “But why the boxes, baby? Those aren’t tools.”

“I bought a house,” Keith says. This with reluctance — he’s eying Shiro’s mouth, like he’d really prefer to table the conversation and spend some time on dedicated reunion-kissing. At the very least. “It’s on the far side of the island. Kind of run down, but. I wanted a project of my own, you know? It was time. If I get moved out by the end of the week I don’t have to pay another month’s rent, and I can sleep anywhere while I fix my place up. You know how it is.” His smile is knowing.

Shiro thinks back to his first night in the empty inn, his spine protesting the original wood flooring. He doesn’t know what Keith is like when he wakes up in the morning. Does he feel stiff? Do his joints protest until he gets moving? Keith works hard, applying himself wholeheartedly and physically to any task put in front of him. Keith shouldn’t sleep on a bare floor. It’s not sustainable. Shiro doesn’t want that for him.

“You could move in with me,” he offers. It’s not tactical. And it is: Shiro has been dreaming of waking up next to Keith, though he thinks he’ll have to make sure Keith knows it’s not just a matter of convenience — not just because Shiro has a space and Keith needs one. This is an opportunity for Shiro to communicate.

“That’s right, you’ve got, what, five bedrooms? At least two of ‘em are even en-suite.”

“I don’t want you in a spare room, Keith,” Shiro says. “I came back to Marmora as fast as I could. It had nothing to do with the house and everything to do with missing you.”

There’s a moment where Shiro waits for his words to penetrate Keith’s skull. There’s no tension between them; Keith is relaxed in Shiro’s arms, still focused on Shiro’s face, still looking like he did a moment ago when Shiro was sure Keith was about to initiate a kiss.

“I waited for you too,” Keith tells him. “I didn’t just twiddle my thumbs — “

“No, you went and bought a house.”

A raised eyebrow; Shiro subsides, letting Keith finish. It’s true that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to buying homes with minimal consideration.

“Right, I bought a house. But Shiro, I did it so that you’d have a place to come back to, too. I don’t care where we stay. I’ll tear the inn down to the studs and then build it back up, then do the same with my new place, which is a lot smaller, just in case you were wondering. Marmora’s been my home for a long time. I was happy to wait.”

There’s a lot to unpack from Keith’s shambling confessions, but most important matters first: Shiro kisses him. Nothing perfunctory: it’s the kind of kiss that brings luggage along with it, a kiss that settles in for the long haul. It’s a kiss with intent. It’s a kiss that has filled out a change-of-address card and come home to meet the parents.

Keith kisses like he’s on the verge of losing his breath. It’s objectively a little flattering: Shiro knows he’s more experienced than Keith is in just about every way sexual experience can be measured, and teaching Keith how to turn his head — adjust his jaw — swallow and inhale, gasp and moan — makes Shiro feel giddy. He doesn’t regret the partners that have come before, because everything he learned up until he met Keith is now a skill that Shiro can apply to keeping Keith sated and feeling good. He draws back from Keith’s hungry mouth so he can kiss softly along Keith’s cheek, then dip down and suck at his neck. Shiro likes leaving marks and he’s been gone long enough that the few he’d bestowed during their last tryst have faded.

Keith isn’t passive, either. His enthusiasm is unbridled and responsive. Everything Shiro does, Keith mirrors back, arching up so he can suck teasingly at Shiro’s lower lip then lick hopefully at Shiro’s gums. It’s a kiss, invasive and familiar, maybe sort of gross without the veneer of arousal guiding them back to each other again and again. Soon enough Shiro commits to the kiss in a way that involves his whole body: he presses Keith up against the doorway. The moving box is still there, in the way, and Keith has to widen his stance to avoid tripping over it; Shiro slouches down to meet him, because the spread of Keith’s legs has made him too short to kiss from a standing height.

“I’m falling in love with you,” Shiro confesses. “I’ll stay as long as you want me. You move in with me, and then once I get my shit figured out, once I start leading tech bros on wilderness adventures, I’ll move in with you.”

“Already beat you there,” Keith says back. He’s smiling so wide that it’s hard to get him to purse his lips again, so Shiro settles for kissing the rest of him, forehead and cheek and chin and even the tip of his nose.

“I’d like to take this further,” he confides, slipping one hand beneath Keith’s shirt. He’s missed the feeling of Keith’s skin, which is soft under his clothes: a secret from anyone who’s shaken Keith’s calloused hands and assumed that’s all there is to him. “But judging from the label on the box here, the bed might be off limits. And I want to get comfortable; you know how I like to take my time.”

“We can go somewhere,” Keith offers. “I’m almost packed up — I need to finish, Shiro, please, I’m so — “ he yelps in pleasure when Shiro rubs firmly across a nipple, then slips his hand back down to play at Keith’s naval, to plunge lower still. The angle’s awkward, but that’s the benefit of having a fancy prosthetic. Shiro’s wrist is not about to develop a cramp.

“So we’ll wait,” Shiro concedes, though he doesn’t remove his hand from beneath Keith’s clothes; just leave sit there, warm, to take the sting out of the time between now and later. “I’ll help you load up the truck, do whatever you need to do to lock up here. Get everything settled. Have you eaten?”

“Have you?” Keith likes taking care of Shiro in return. That’s another thing Shiro has missed: reciprocity.

“I could eat,” Shiro says. It’s only half of an innuendo, he means it in more ways than one. “Had something on the road,” not mentioning that it was an energy bar, “and I stopped to shower at the inn before I came here.”

“Help me load up the truck,” Keith pants as Shiro squeezes his fist around Keith’s dick, eye closed, head back, lovely as anything. Shiro wants to hug him and cling, but it’s not time yet. He settles for a slow, dry stroke. “I’ll do the last run. The cafe three streets over from the hardware store has a decent takeout menu if you want to get us something, and I can meet you back at your place?”

“Stay for dinner?”

“We just talked about this, of course I’ll stay if you want me,” Keith says, squirming. “This time I’ll stay all night.”

“I want that. You.” Shiro takes pity and pulls him away from the doorway, back into his arms, even if it means retrieving his hand from its safe, hot place between Keith’s legs.

They hold each other for a bit, calming down despite the renewed proximity. It’s comforting. Keith nuzzles close and sighs happily when Shiro strokes his back, enjoying the little patches of damp where he’s sweat through his t-shirt. In turn, Keith rubs at the stubble on Shiro’s jaw, letting his thumbs climb up the sides of Shiro’s face until he reaches Shiro’s ears. No one’s ever rubbed at Shiro’s ears before. It feels silly and alien and kind of nice, like Keith’s warding off a headache or trying to keep Shiro warm.

And then: they part, and Shiro helps load the box of bedding into the truck. There are four other boxes that follow, plus a plastic storage tub. Then he does a last walkabout while Keith drives the load across town.

By the time Keith’s back with the keys and a copy of his lease, ready to photograph the place before handing in everything at the office, Shiro’s used one of his spare tee shirts and a bottle of all-purpose cleaner to wipe down the rest of the apartment.

“Always helps to give it one more once-over,” he says with the assumed expertise of someone who hasn’t actually lived in a leased or rented apartment since before he signed up with the Garrison. But it doesn’t matter. Shiro likes putting things to rights, and running a sponge over the empty bathtub and cleared-off counters makes him feel like he’s giving Keith a clean break from the little compartment of his life. Not that Shiro has any feelings of ownership about the apartment; this is the first time he’s ever been inside it. All of their interactions have really taken place at the inn, on Shiro’s own territory. It’s a good thing that Keith is so assured of his own expertise, Shiro realizes; knowing that Keith has a home of his own, has projects that don’t revolve around Shiro, means that Keith is choosing to be with Shiro. It’s not just a job or an assignment, there’s been no contract between them since Shiro demanded that first invoice. It’s the start of a life.

Chapter Text

“If this is what retirement looks like,” Keith says, watching Shiro wrestle with the packet from the Community Planning Committee onboarding session, “remind me to keep working until I die.”

“We all make sacrifices for love,” Shiro tells him. He’s just gotten a paper cut because he never remembers to shuffle through the packet with his metal hand. This is exactly why he didn’t want to go into an administrative role at the Garrison. “This is mine. You haven’t had a single challenge to a permit you’ve filed since I ran for the caucus and got appointed to the committee. Admit that I’m paving the way for you and your many labors.”

“You joined the caucus because Ulaz put you on the nominations ballot without telling you, and then you found out it got you a dedicated parking spot.”

Shiro can’t lie. The parking space is the best part of his surging local influence. He hasn’t had to parallel park in months. Still, he feels called to defend himself. “Don’t split hairs,” he lectures. “You love Marmora; I love you. I’m making sure I support our chosen community. We have a dependent to think of.”

The dependent in question — a mixed breed puppy they adopted shortly after Shiro got back from the Garrison, this time actually retired — raises her head from her luxury dog bed, set atop a kitchen chair between the two of them so no one trips over her. Keith and Shiro are always getting up to fill a mug, or find a stray pencil, or just to go and see if anyone remembered to bring in the day’s mail; keeping the dog elevated is a safety measure. She does enough tripping on her own, anyway. Her tendency to get underfoot is akin to teleportation. Cosmo (short for Lady Cosmonaut, because Keith wouldn’t let Shiro name her Lucy) is small, but her enormous paws indicate that she’s going to outgrow her bed and become even more of a spatial menace.

Seeing that the reference to her existence is unlikely to yield a treat, Cosmo goes back to ignoring Shiro’s public service career.

In truth, local government has been a useful arena for Shiro to demonstrate his many talents. His charisma has become legendary, his biceps even more so. Ulaz, who has always attended the meetings because otherwise he wouldn’t see Thace at all during the planned sessions, reports that attendance at public forums has increased by at least seventeen percent since the new caucus was sworn in (Ulaz has a spreadsheet dedicated to attendance. Thace spills coffee on it every chance he gets, but Shiro’s pretty sure that’s just because he’s jealous that he’s not as much of a draw at meetings as Shiro is).

More pragmatically, it’s a networking opportunity. Shiro’s given himself a deadline of two years to get his leadership-slash-adventure training camps off the ground and they’re almost to the halfway point. The time’s gone slow and fast, not just because they’re renovating a house and training a puppy. It took nearly a month after Shiro got back from wrangling with his old job for the two of them to actually move in together — right into the inn, which Shiro had decorated an entire room of in anticipation of the event. The inn is almost complete now and between that project, Keith’s own house, and the slow increase of job Keith’s taken on around Marmora now that his contractors license is finalized, Shiro appreciates that the minutes are slipping through their intertwined fingers. Now that he’s settled into the cerebral parts of setting up his new life, Shiro has a tendency to feel adrift.

That’s not a feeling he expected to have, not once he got his home in order, not once he moved Keith into that home, not once they got a dog. Instead of waking up for missions or meetings, or even scheduling his day around teaching a drop-in fitness class at the community center, Shiro wakes up in the middle of the night because he thinks he’s going to lose this; that he’s got to save the time before it gets lost. When that happens Shiro creeps out of bed and into one of the empty bedrooms Keith has turned into an office so he can read or brood without waking Keith with his old-man book light, even though Keith’s the kind of mutant who can think to himself, I want to sleep through the night and wake up at five a.m., and then do so without setting an alarm. Keith says that the light doesn’t bother him, that Shiro should stay in bed if he wants to brood or read — but Shiro gets a weird sort of pleasure out of accommodating Keith in a way that isn’t necessary. So what if Shiro’s reading light doesn’t bother Keith; Shiro loves him, so he acts like maybe it could. Keith deserves to be cared for.

The dog helps. She loves Keith best, but she’ll still follow him into the office and lay atop Shiro’s feet during his waking fits, a soft reminder that there’s someone waiting for him. An added bonus: now that Cosmo’s getting heavier, she cuts off the circulation to his feet if he wallows too long, which is as good a reminder as any for Shiro to go back to bed after a night of interrupted sleep. Sometimes this return to slumber coincides with Keith’s wake-up time. It could be disappointing, to go back to bed only to see Keith getting out of it, to see Keith leaving instead of staying — but it isn’t. Those sleepy moments, where Keith rolls out of their bed so Shiro can nestle himself in the warm sheets, feel like medicine. Every time it happens, Shiro knows he’s getting better at living like a free person. He feels like a plane coming home to its hangar.

“I got asked for a bid off the island today,” Keith changes the subject. “They saw pictures of the inn on Romelle’s blog, I guess Narti shared the link around.” Romelle and Acxa and Narti have solidified their relationship into some kind of polycule, but it’s mostly incomprehensible to outsiders. Shiro is fascinated by them and demands as many updates as he can get. He’s luckier than most of Marmora’s residents in this respect because Keith hears about it by way of Acxa borrowing tools for whatever project Romelle thinks will bring their shared home to the next level; and yet he never offers as much detail as Shiro would expect from someone who so clearly has an eye for it when it comes to selecting lumber. It really puts Keith’s murder cabinet story into a finer light.

“Another one?” It’s the third off-island RFP in the last week. Shiro knows how Keith feels about taking work outside of Marmora: he does it, because the island’s too small to support his contractor work year-round, even with the shifts Keith still picks up at the hardware store. But Keith doesn’t like leaving home more than he has to. He doesn’t sleep well when he’s away from the waterfront — or when Shiro’s not beside him, which Keith has griped about on numerous occasions: how can he have slept alone perfectly well for twenty-nine years, only to be ruined by a prolonged tryst with an older man? Shiro likes to say it’s a sign of Keith’s mature tastes. “Will you submit the proposal?”

Keith huffs out a cranky sigh. “Already did. It’s one of those hotel developers who buys houses that are adjacent to historic neighborhoods.”

“Oh, so you could actually design something that’s up to code for once.”

For that comment, Shiro receives a napkin thrown at his face. He catches it in midair and drops it down over his coffee mug, as if it were an amorphous tea cozy. “All of my non-code projects have been exceptions, thank you very much,” Keith scolds. Shiro does know this, very well indeed: it’s the thesis of at least three public hearings that he’s attended but hasn’t spoken at because of the conflict of interest. The old buildings have been grandfathered into the permits for the purpose of maintaining historic character, but Shiro likes to tease. “I didn’t do it to cut corners.”

“You’ve got the discipline for projects like that now.” Shiro says. “You’re a success story. It’s good to see you broaden your scope, and — this might sweeten the deal for you — I’m thinking about picking up some consulting work on the mainland. If we play the calendar right, we could schedule our business trips to coincide. I want you to be challenged in your work, but I’m selfish. I want to spend as much time with you as I can.”

“When you say it like that you make it sound like you have a terminal disease,” Keith tells him. He’s blushing though, the way he does when Shiro drives home how mutual their regard for one another is. Keith blushes a lot now, like even with constant affirmations he hasn’t grown immune to the rush.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this,” Shiro says, smiling as wide as he can, “but none of us are getting out of here alive. Existence is a terminal condition.” At the heart of Shiro’s plan for the future, even more important than staying active and pursuing joy, is the determination to be the kind of partner who serves as a foundation for Keith. Even if Shiro’s not involved in any of the work Keith does, just knowing his presence will galvanize Keith to greater heights — Shiro likes this kind of invincible feeling. It’s steadier than the thrill of jumping off a cliff, or exploring an underwater cave, or even vanquishing the paperwork he’s had to fill out for his small business plan.

“I’d better get the job if you’re talking like this,” Keith muses. “You’ve been watching too many cerebral miniseries, if we go to the mainland you’ll at least get some culture.”

“I’d settle for decent Mexican food.”

The expression on Keith’s face becomes serious — like he’s about to make a vow. “I’ll go for Mexican with you any time you want, Shiro. As many times as you want.”

Shiro has to kiss him then. It would sound like a silly vow to anyone else, probably, but sometime during their last vacation off Marmora, the lack of quality dining in Keith’s light had become apparent. Now that he too has loved and lost a meal at Shiro’s favorite taqueria on the mainland, Keith understands what Shiro gave up in order to make a life here.

“You know it’s not even a trade off, baby,” Shiro says once he lets Keith up for air. He gives Keith’s ponytail a little tug; the sting serves as a reassurance. “But I appreciate the effort.”

+++

It’s Friday night, date night, so Keith drops the dog off with Thace and Ulaz.

“Our grandchild!” Thace crows, and Keith resigns himself to getting Cosmo back with a belly distended from too many treats.

“What time should we expect you to pick her up?” Ulaz asks. He’s better at setting boundaries, but the question feels less limiting than it might if he weren’t on his knees on the floor, taking Cosmo through their little routine of paw shakes.

“Usual time,” Keith answers without answering, because he doesn’t wear a watch when he’s working on his own house. There’s no clock there: it’s all work that points towards the future, so there’s no point in tallying. It takes the time it takes.

“I know that look,” Thace says. “Have fun.”

With that incomprehensible blessing ringing in his ears, Keith goes to meet Shiro at the project house. It was dilapidated when Keith bought it, but through a series of Friday night work sessions and a couple of long weekends, the dwelling’s good bones are shining through. Tonight Keith wants to finish laying the tile at the front entryway, a job he’s forbidden Shiro to assist with in the interest of preserving Shiro’s kneecaps. After a protracted negotiation, Shiro agrees to take point on cutting tile to fit the design with the wet saw while Keith does the dirty work.

“You didn’t complain the last time I went down on my knees with you,” Shiro chides before taking the saw outdoors.

“There was a throw rug,” Keith protests, flushing at the recollection. “You surprised me.” Even a year into their relationship, even as devoted and yes, horny, as they are for each other, Keith is still so new to sex that every interaction feels memorable and monumental. Shiro bemoans that it took them so long to get around to blowjobs, but Keith hasn’t had any complaints with the pace of their relationship — and now he’s awash with the memory of stepping out of the bathroom after showing off the day’s grime, Shiro kneeling before him and gently unwrapping the towel from around Keith’s waist. The way he kept hold of the towel the entire time, using it to harness Keith close to his mouth, pinned and directed. Not that Keith had wanted to pull away, or had even had the capacity to think of doing so.

Afterwards, licking his lips in an ostentatious manner, Shiro had re-wrapped the towel around Keith’s waist and directed him to go put on his sleeping clothes. He’d patted Keith’s ass as he walked away, and the swagger he’d had — Keith was over the moon, unmoored.

According to Shiro, it hadn’t been a spectacular performance. Keith doesn’t care. Even with the practice he’s been getting in, Keith doesn’t feel remotely skilled at oral sex and he hasn’t given up on hoping to reciprocate.

But the task at hand, the night unrolling before them: Keith’s only made more hot and bothered by watching Shiro manage the fiddly business of cutting tile. He’s patient with the job, maneuvering each piece with his dexterous hands, and wipes them completely dry before laying them out on the towel Keith’s checking his pattern on before setting them into the entryway. Keith’s used to being competent, but seeing Shiro take to power tools and home repair so as to support Keith the way Keith has supported Shiro — well, it matters.

He lays the tile in record time, even going so far as to tidy up the grout lines with a toothpick. It’s going to be his home, so it’s worth the extra effort. Not that he wouldn’t do a good job for anyone else, but Keith knows he deserves this level of precision. Shiro reminds him of it at every opportunity, sure, but so does everyone else on Marmora, whether they realize it or not. This is Keith’s place and he’s putting in the sweat equity for it.

Shiro’s packed up the saw before Keith’s done cleaning up the grout, but that just means he’s had a chance to lay out a picnic on the kitchen floor. Furniture is a ways off in this house, except for the mattress Shiro had delivered shortly after Keith had revealed the purchase. It wasn’t even livable at the time — there had been a hole in the roof and none of the doors had hinges, because of course Ilune had visited before the papers had all been signed.

Not that it mattered. Shiro had cleaned up the most intact room and waited at the house all day, just the sign for the delivery. Keith had gotten a tour after it was installed upstairs. “Just in case,” Shiro had said insinuatingly. And, well, Shiro has good taste in mattresses, always makes a point to talk about he’s old enough that he can choose to sleep on a comfortable mattress because he’s experienced all the lesser options the world has to offer. The mattress has been a soft place to land more than once. Keith’s hoping to make use of it again tonight.

But first: the shower hasn’t been fully installed yet, even though the house has running water, so Keith hunches naked over the laundry room drain and splashes himself with water from a bucket, hoping to sluice off the worst of the sweat and grime. Once he’s nominally clean he goes after the little tub of emollient cream Romelle handed over the last time he sanded down the butcher block counter at her coffee shop: it’s the only thing he’s tried so far that smooths out the roughness of his hands, even better than the stuff Ulaz gives him for the holidays. Shiro has commented about this new cream, positively and at length, which is the greatest encouragement Keith has ever encountered for maintaining a habit. There’s some excess. He slicks his palms down the tops of his thighs until he has enough traction to button the fly of his spare jeans. They’re his least favorite pair: the denim has worn so thin it’s practically white between the thighs and along his knees, and Keith just knows they’re going to rip on him at the least helpful moment. He’ll be damned if he gets rid of them before then, but it’s still like dancing on a knife-edge.

“Looks like I missed the fun part,” Shiro says from the doorway. There’s no door here, and no telling how long he’s been watching Keith’s reverse-striptease.

“I wasn’t ready for you yet!”

“Keith,” Shiro walks to him, hands outstretched, and intervenes before Keith can tug a thermal shirt over his head. “Embrace spontaneity. Now bend over, get these back off; I noticed you missed a spot. Let me rub that lotion in for you.”

“Yeah?” Keith feels ravenous, and it has nothing to do with what he’s eaten today, with the dinner Shiro’s already fed him. “How do you want me? I might need an example. I’m a common laborer, remember?”

“Nothing common about you,” Shiro disagrees, but he responds to Keith’s fumbling tease by leading the way to the bed. Their clothes on the floor are the only clutter, familiar and soft in the new space.

Shiro’s body is fantastic. His muscles are functional and impressive, and Keith has spent many pleasurable hours admiring them both on job sites and in the privacy of their own home. But Keith likes best how Shiro looks when he strips down and lies diagonally across the mattress, like a human starfish. Shiro is relaxed then, and even his abs lose definition when he’s supine and at ease. Shiro’s still dense and powerful, but he’s softer like this: Keith can creep along the mattress and curl up alongside Shiro like a bracket. He can rest a palm across Shiro’s belly and scratch at the line of hair that descends purposefully towards Shiro’s groin, rub at his obliques and kiss the dip of his naval. Keith loves how Shiro’s body mass is purposeful, that he’s grown infinitesimally softer and leaner since leaving the Garrison. The intimacy of exploring Shiro’s body, of watching the changes it undergoes while Shiro plans his next career, makes Keith feel a sense of elation and wonder. He never expected to have something like this: not a partner, not a bedmate, not even an advocate. And now Keith has all of these things, all wrapped up inside one tremendous person; no wonder he had to buy a house. His life has become so full, one dwelling place is not enough to contain it. Not even all of the inn’s five bedrooms have enough built-in storage.

“Finished your checkup?” Shiro asks, voice deep and fond. There’s still another hour or so before they’re supposed to retrieve the dog from Thace and Ulaz; the tile and grout went down fast and Keith ended up dozing for a few minutes after his ersatz bath, after the way Shiro casually commanded Keith to lie down so Shiro could rub his back.

He weighs the thought of sleeping a little more against the ever-present compulsion to bury his face between Shiro’s pecs and chase a couple of orgasms. The dog has started sleeping through the night and Shiro always takes her out for a quick run at first light so Keith can spend a few minutes reviewing the previous day’s project documentation in absolute silence. Their lives are full to bursting, and the gifts keep on coming.

“It’s a perennial process,” Keith answers, squeezing happily at the little overlap of skin that pads the edge of Shiro’s iliac crest. In any other position, Keith wouldn’t be able to get his hands into it because Shiro’s skin is so beautifully laid over his body’s foundation. Lying together like this, limp and anticipatory: it’s like glimpsing the structure of a house before all the bells and whistles have come into play, even though Shiro is probably the closest human embodiment of turnkey that Keith will ever encounter. “I like touching you. I think with my hands.”

“And what are your hands thinking of doing this evening?”

Honestly, cleaning up the grout has left Keth’s hands feeling kind of sore. He’d really just like to lie in bed and fondle Shiro’s chest for a while, but the prospect of wasting an hour of time that could be spend in more active appreciation of Shiro’s body — Keith values Shiro as a whole person, but it must be said: he’s a very enticing specimen.

So Keith stalls, settling his palms against Shiro’s chest and hooking a knee over Shiro’s broad thigh. “Do you need warming up?” Shiro’s nipples are pebbled beneath Keith’s fingers. Not from the cold. Keith rubs against them, seeking out the silky friction of Shiro’s chest hair. It’s a good feeling, grounding and uncomplicated, and he knows that Shiro likes it. Win-win.

“Hey,” Shiro interrupts Keith’s ministrations. “If you’re tired…”

“I’m not,” Keith protests. “Let me, Shiro, please.”

But Shiro rolls them both over, keeping Keith’s thigh trapped between his own. His mass squashes the breath right out of Keith, effectively silencing his complaint. “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” Shiro reminds him. “Haven’t I convinced you yet?”

“You’re very convincing,” Keith promises, wriggling ineffectually. He’s starting to warm up.

“Your hands are bothering you,” Shiro says, observant as ever. “You’ve had a long day. It’s okay if you’re too tired to fool around.”

“A long day isn’t enough to slow me down, I’m not an old man!”

“You’re a growing boy,” Shiro agrees, and he rocks his hips down hard against Keith’s pelvis. It’s enough to make Keith choke out a moan. “I can help you build up your endurance, I’ve got years of experience training hotshots like you how not to burn themselves out. The goal is sustainability, sweetheart.”

“I’m a quick study,” Keith says. “C’mon, Shiro, let me touch you.”

“Slow and easy does it,” Shiro says, as if Keith hasn’t spoken. “I’ll start with an easy lesson. I’ll let you sit up for a minute, get comfortable. Put your hands over your head. Can you do that for me?”

Keith can. He will; he wants.

It takes a few false starts but Keith does manage to get his hands up over his head, shoving them beneath the pillow so he has something to hold on to. Past experience indicates that once Shiro takes that masterful tone with him, Keith loses all sense of direction and has to be manhandled back into position. They don’t have the time for that kind of foreplay tonight, not if Keith’s going to pick up the dog on time and take out the recycling once they get back to the inn.

Shiro kisses him, keeps kissing him. Gets a hand on his face, thumbs his jaw open wide so he can lick in deep, tasting him. It’s a prelude, and it still feels like being fucked open. It’s relentless.

Keith’s jaw is loose and sore and wet from all the kissing, but he can’t fathom wanting to stop.

Sometime after Shiro jerks him off but before Shiro flips him over to rut his cock between the rounds of his ass, Keith manages to say, “I love you.” He says it with all the inappropriate intensity that comes with articulating that emotion during sex. Before he can even question himself — he’s said it before, but not often, and in some lizard-y part of his brain, Keith wonders if that’s a mistake — Shiro responds.

“I’m so glad I fell in love with you,” Shiro tells him. There’s no hesitation, only joy. Later Keith will remember this as yet another gift Shiro has given him, how since coming back from the Garrison he doesn’t make Keith wait for reassurance. His generosity is profound.

Unfortunately, instead of letting Keith bask in the declaration, he keeps talking: “do you get it, sweetheart? Inn love? Because it brought us together.”

The pun is so terrible as to make Keith flail and try to push Shiro off him. Keith’s had an orgasm and a nap before that; Shiro can sit in the wet spot and take care of himself, if he’s going to make awful puns. Love can only extend so far. Shiro’s got to live with the consequences of his actions.

That’s when Shiro flips him onto his belly and starts jerking him again while he ruts lovingly against Keith’s ass.

“You’re terrible,” Keith wails. He’s unconvincing. He’s on his hands and knees despite the ache in them from tiling the entryway, hips pushed up high to meet Shiro’s cock. Shiro is clenching his prosthetic fist hard around the tip of Keith’s dick, rocking the textured overlay of his palm back and forth, and the stimulation is enough to bring tears to Keith’s eyes. He’s so happy. It’s ridiculous.

“You love me,” Shiro tells him. “You just said. It feels good, baby, doesn’t it? Come on, one more time, let me hear you. I’ll take out the recycling when we get home, I know you’re tired.”

“I do love you,” Keith pants. “But if you forget, mm, to sort the plastics again, Nyma at the plant, — nng, that’s good, keep touching me! — will have my head. No way you’re taking care of the recycling.”

“But you do so much for me,” Shiro wheedles. “Let me take care of you. Let me have my fun. Ca’t get enough of this, fuck, your ass is the nicest view on the whole island. Gotta make sure you know that.” He shoves harder, the force of his hips and the squelch of the lube making his cock catch and bend in Keith’s crease. It’s obscene, a tease. He’s big and blunt and blood-hot against Keith’s ass. It’s ruinous.

“You’re not relaxing,” Shiro chides him. “You’re all tense, baby, settle into it.” He withdraws his touch from Keith’s dick, settles his hand wet and heavy against Keith’s nape and presses him down, down, until Keith feels his shoulders slump, chest flat against the messed-up sheets and his lower back protesting at the deepening arch. It feels too good to complain, feels too much like what Keith wanted even when he wasn’t sure if he could take getting on his knees again tonight. At least his sore hands aren’t bearing his weight any longer, at least the mattress is soft; Shiro doesn’t cause bruises unless Keith asks for them.

“I’m sore,” Keith whispers, but he pushes back into Shiro, chases the sensation, and opens his mouth wide so he can bite the sheets.

+++

Keith’s still lax against the mattress, overheated and boneless, but Shiro is up and pacing again. His bare feet make soft scuffing noises against the wood floor; if Keith didn’t have an inflexible shower and strip before entering policy for this room alone, he’d worry about Shiro catching a toe on a stray tool or perhaps cutting himself on a forgotten nail. At least he’s up to date on his tetanus booster.

Usually Keith gets out of bed first, because Shiro makes a exaggerated point of lying back and putting himself on display, encouraging Keith to relax into the afterglow. But right now Shiro’s moving with purpose: he has his phone pressed against one ear, the other hand grasping a glass of water. There’s a little light coming in through the uncovered window; it just serves to cast a shadow around Shiro’s body, so he looks like a pillar of strength. Like a framing stud, holding up the structure of a house.

“It’s been a long week,” Shiro’s saying. “I can come pick up Cosmo if you don’t want to keep her overnight, but Keith’s dead on his feet. I don’t want to wake him up just to drive him across town and put him into another bed.” A pause. “Thanks, Ulaz. We’ll get her in the morning. Ah, should we bring coffee? Just checking. I know. Bye.”

Keith closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing, on examining the way his body feels in the wake of Shiro’s manhandling. His eyes are still closed when he feels the mattress dip under Shiro’s weight, and Keith rolls into the movement so that SHiro can scoop him up and drape Keith against his chest.

“Take a drink,” Shiro says, and Keith obeys. The water class is wide-rimmed and dribbles liquid down Keith’s chin, cool and faintly pleasant. Shiro wipes away the excess with the corner of the sheet. “Coming back down to earth?”

“You’re the pilot,” Keith manages. He’s almost always on the ground, unless he has to climb a ladder. Shiro’s the one who soars above the clouds. “I’m an anchor.”

“You’re the foundation,” Shiro corrects. “You’re my landing place.” He’s sappy like this sometimes, and Keith can’t get enough of it. “Want to sleep here, or can you roll over so I can put down clean sheets? You smell like me.”

“I smell like sex.”

“Mm, yeah. Setting the stage for a little midnight delight.” He rubs his flesh hand across Keith’s chest, then down between his legs, beneath his balls so he can rub at Keith’s hole. “Think you could fall asleep on my dick? Wake you up later with a little treat?”

“You calling yourself a snooze-fest?”

Shiro retaliates by showing two fingers in, twisting in a way that makes Keith bite his tongue. Like a key fitting a lock, pulling him open. “I’m in charge,” he reminds Keith. “That means you answer my questions so I know what you can take.”

And Keith — wants to take this, wants to warm Shiro’s cock while they sleep and ride it when they wake up, even if the only way they can manage to do so without interruption is to use one of their limited please watch the dog overnight passes Thace and Ulaz have extended. It’s an expansive universe. How did he get so lucky, to have so many choices in front of him?

“Shiro,” he says, and Shiro accepts it as an answer. He withdraws his fingers, strokes soothingly down Keith’s chest again, murmurs encouragement in Keith’s ear. It’s a relief. Keith feels too raw and tired and sappy for another round, wants to wallow in their messy second bed until he really does have to get up and change the sheets, has to go pick up the dog and beg Nyma at the recycling center to accept a late turn-in. She owes Keith a favor; he’s reasonably sure he can get her to acquiesce.

“Glad I could get you to stay the night,” Shiro says. He sounds smug.

“It’s my house.” And Keith has spent almost every night with Shiro, barring business trips, since Shiro got back from the Garrison. His habit of fleeing the scene of their unions is long broken, for all that Shiro likes to joke about it.

“Yeah, but you need practice.”

Huh. Maybe it isn’t a joke. Maybe Shiro needs the practice too, or the reassurance of Keith’s body alongside his own, or just the promise of what’s mine is yours. They haven’t talked about that. Keith wonders if they should. Maybe Keith needs to start staying in bed when Shiro returns to after a sleepless night, maybe he needs to change the way he’s chasing after a career that could take them outside of the place they’ve built for themselves — the possibilities are endless, but they aren’t insurmountable.

“I love you, “ Keith says. It’s quiet this time, unadulterated by pleasure and sweat. He feels a little surer for having said it. It makes the air around them feel cleaner, the same way it feels cleaner after running a shop vac through a workspace. “You’re my family now, you know. I’m not going to leave you.”

“For the rest of our lives?” Shiro huffs a breath against Keith’s neck and presses close. It feels like he’s smiling into Keith’s skin, or maybe kissing him. “I’m going to make you so happy,” he promises. “Just you wait.”

“Okay,” Keith agrees.

+++

They pick up the dog a little after dawn, exchanging travel mugs of coffee for Cosmo on a leash. ULaz scolds them for coming so early, actually; Thace seems to agree, if his disheveled hair is anything to go by. Maybe Shiro can convince Keith to revisit his stance on Shiro taking him apart when Cosmo’s in the same building. Cosmo is unfazed by everything except the prospect of her morning run, and also Keith’s breakfast pastry. Shiro distracts her with a milk bone because he doesn’t know if apricot is bad for dogs.

Nyma does accept the recycling, and she does give Keith shit for not separating out the plastics. It’s Shiro’s fault. But Keith steps up to take the roasting she offers, because Keith loves Shiro enough to protect him from the consequences of his actions.

“You really do love me,” Shiro marvels.

“I won’t if you make any more puns about the inn,” Keith tells him. “C’mon. Let’s go home, okay?”

It’s a Saturday and usually Keith is booked solid, too busy to linger in the inn’s finished kitchen, too busy to talk to Shiro while he wrestles with the raised bed garden he’s trying to establish. The berry brambles won’t bear fruit for another year or two, but that’s fine. They have time; and while they’re waiting for the bushes to bear fruit, Shiro’s not above using them in an obstacle course.

It’s a warm day and he’s on the verge of taking his shirt off while he shovels compost if he can remember where he stashed the sunscreen. Keith is sitting a few feet away on the porch steps, occasionally throwing sticks that Cosmo chases after and does not bring back. At least they haven’t ended up in the raised beds; Shiro’s not sure if Cosmo would ever vacate them once she realized they offer a better view of her surroundings, and she does like to be on a pedestal. The inn is looking more majestic than it usually does on a Saturday when Shiro is working instead of forging a new hiking trail along the beach cliffs, or chasing a vague understanding of what his homeownership or his local government position entails. Pidge sent a message informing him that she was coming out to see the place soon, and he thinks even she will be impressed by it. It’s the most solid project Shiro’s ever been involved with.

“Didn’t know it could be this nice,” Shiro comments.

“What, the raised beds? I used cedar, what’d you expect them to be like? Not nice?”

“I’m not talking about the garden, Keith.” He’s not even talking about the inn. Shiro’s not usually such an expansive person, but he wants to throw his arms open and wrap them around the whole entire world, and wants to share his growing sense of determination and delight for what’s to come.

In a way, Shiro can. Keith is sitting within reach.

“Thanks for sticking around today,” Shiro mutters once he’s got his face buried in Keith’s messy hair. Keith doesn’t respond with words, just hugs Shiro right back.

“You too,” Keith mutters at last. He’s clinging. He keeps a tight hold even when Cosmo barks and butts against Shiro’s thigh, begging for attention. “Good to have the reminder.”

“Of how we got started?”

“Of where we’re going.”