Thread by @eledritch

I know it’s a popular fandom hc that Shiro can’t cook but...what if, after the arena, after voltron, he learns to cook bc it’s calming, a way to ground himself & slowly but surely improve at something with tangible (& tasty) rewards. It’s silly, but it makes him feel human again.

In his junior officer days, Shiro’s tragic cooking skills were smth he was often teased for by his friends & by Adam. They didn’t mean any harm by it, but Shiro’s not perfect — his pride was more than a little wounded — so now, he’s wary about trying again, and failing.

He doesn’t tell anyone he’s even attempting it, except for Hunk, who he swears to secrecy. Hunk thankfully doesn’t know Shiro’s reputation as Master Chef Of Setting Shit Aflame, & is excited to share his culinary expertise. They start simple: snickerdoodles.

It’s a disaster.

“Wow,” Hunk says, staring at the burnt, lumpy, overall sad excuses for cookies. “I didn’t even know this was possible.”

Shiro’s heart sinks. “Ha,” he says, “yeah. Guess baking isn’t my thing.”

They laugh about it, but Shiro kind of wants to cry.

After that he decides if he’s gonna do this, he has to do it alone. It was nerve-wracking, struggling to measure out ingredients correctly with Hunk hovering around him & his new arm misbehaving, his fingers so shaky he’d almost spilled flour everywhere. Nobody needs to see that.

But Shiro can’t work up the courage to attempt cooking or baking again for a while. He throws himself into work instead, & ignores the fact that it doesn’t make his joints any less stiff or his moods any less unpleasant. He knows the work he does as Admiral is important, but...

...there’s part of him that hates how easily he’s fallen into the role, back into work at the Garrison as if nothing really changed after Voltron. Sure, there are more aliens & Shiro has far more authority than a junior officer, yet he feels stuck.

But this is all he’s good at.

It’s either this, or fighting for the Galra in a gladiator arena, & that skill isn’t exactly in high demand these days.

Shiro’s sure he was good at other things, before. He must’ve had hobbies. Right? But his mind & body can’t remember them. He forgot them in favor of survival.

His brain just hasn’t gotten the memo that he doesn’t need to just survive anymore. He finally has a chance to live and — and he’s wasting it. Every day feels the same, meeting after meeting, & Shiro worries about how much sanity he has left, if he had any left to begin with.

The other paladins are adjusting well to life back on earth, Shiro observes with a kind of detached curiosity. They all have their things — their anchors, he thinks. Hunk has his restaurant & engineering. Pidge has robots & their weird podcast. Lance has family & scuba diving.

Allura loves music — she’s learning to play the violin — & design. Even Coran has developed an intense passion for fungi, which is weird, but the guy loves mushrooms.

& Keith — Shiro’s not sure about Keith, actually. He draws a lot, that’s for sure, tho he never talks about it.

Keith also spends a lot of time with Shiro. That’s not new, but it’s..something. Shiro thinks it’s a little sad that his only thing even remotely resembling a hobby is a person, but he’ll take it. Sometimes they just sit together in quiet; Shiro reading reports & Keith sketching.

Keith never accuses him of having no life outside work, even if that’s the truth. The other paladins certainly notice it, & occasionally try to lure him away from his duties w “fun” outings, but Shiro always has an excuse. Secretly, he worries he’s forgotten HOW to have fun.

He’s slogging thru translating a missive from the Narithians, who speak in infuriatingly vague metaphors, when Keith shows up in his office holding a box full of stuff, barely held together with duct tape.

“This is yours,” he says. Hesitates. “From...before you, uh, left.”

Shiro stares, uncomprehending. After Kerberos, the Garrison assumed he was dead, & disposed of all his stuff — or so he thought.

Taking his disbelieving silence as disapproval, Keith hurries to add, “I meant to give it to you sooner, but then everything happened, and —“

Shiro shakes his head, standing & reaching out, willing his hands not to tremble as he takes the offered box. His hands brush Keith’s, & Keith steps back hastily, spine stiff and gaze uncertain. “It’s not much,” he mutters, “just everything I could carry. I took it when I left.”

“You stole it,” Shiro says, studying the box, his heart full for the first time in a long time. Keith winces, but Shiro smiles, small & helpless. “Thank you, Keith. It’s — I thought I lost all of this.”

“I thought I lost you,” Keith whispers, & Shiro’s gaze snaps to him.

“You didn’t.” Shiro sets down the box on his desk & steps closer, bc the things in that box are just things, replaceable & material — but Keith is everything, & maybe he shouldn’t be, but it’s how Shiro feels & all at once, painfully, powerfully, he needs Keith to know that.

Shiro stops short when Keith glances away. Keith looks pained, & Shiro never wants him to hurt. “Anyway. Maybe you’ll find something useful in there — I tried to grab things that looked important.”

Shiro forces himself to breathe & turns back to the box, opening it with care.

Many of the contents he expected: his old leather jacket, some photos, a rolled up star map, & a little carved cat Keith gave him back in the day. He turns it over in his palm & smiles. Keith’s ears turn red.

Then he sees it at the bottom — a battered green spiral-bound book.

It’s his grandma’s cookbook. Her name is on the inside cover in precise characters, the ink as black as the day she wrote it. Shiro picks it up, memories flooding him in fragments of senses: the warm scent of rice cooking, the sizzle of dumplings, katakuriko dust on his fingers.

& as Shiro remembers her, looking at him over a steaming pot of sukiyaki with equal parts intense concentration & an easy happiness she so rarely expressed, he thinks that maybe the point of cooking is not perfection, but the process itself — & the company.

He looks up at Keith.

“Do you know how to cook?” Shiro asks. He can hear the giddiness in his own voice. He can’t remember the last time he was so excited about something. But, that’s the thing — for once, he can REMEMBER.

Keith blinks at him. “Uh...yeah, I can do some stir fry, chili, fry bread...?”

Shiro beams, & Keith looks more confused. Shiro can’t blame him; this is probably the most he’s emoted in weeks (& that’s definitely not healthy, but 1 thing at a time). “How about fried rice?” Shiro asks. “Yakisoba? Do you like fish?”

Keith peers at him. “Sure. I like fish.”

Keith pauses. “I like fishing, too, there’s a river near where my dad & I —“ He stops himself with a cough & scratches the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Do you like fishing?”

“Never tried it,” Shiro admits, “wanna teach me?”

Keith smiles. His eyes crinkle up at the corners.

Then he stops, frowns. “But you’re busy,” Keith says, quiet, trying & failing to hide his disappointment.

Nope, for Keith, he isn’t. “I’m the Admiral,” Shiro corrects, leaning forward across his desk w a grin. “I can do whatever I want.”

It’s a relief to say it, true or not.

They leave early the next morning on hoverbikes — Shiro has no idea where Keith got them, but when he opens his door at dawn to Keith standing with a challenge in his eye, hair tousled & tied back, wearing a leather jacket that almost matches Shiro’s, he doesn’t ask questions.

They ride across the desert as the sun creeps above the horizon, stopping only once. Keith brakes on a cliff, & Shiro pauses beside him, a question on his lips which falls away into silent awe at the sight of the river below them, snaking thru the canyon, painted gold by sunrise.

“I missed the sun,” Keith admits, tipping his head up to the sky, all pink & orange glow, casting its brilliance over his warm skin, across the dark fall of his hair, within his wide indigo eyes.

Shiro hadn’t realized it, but he missed the sun, too. Not just the one in the sky.

He might as well just say it. “I missed you,” Shiro offers, bracing himself for Keith to tense & look away, or even to leave him in the dust.

But Keith’s lips just curve in a gentle smile, & he nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, rough & quiet & overwhelmed. “I missed you too, Shiro.”

The sun shifts, & Keith turns away, but he’s still smiling, & the fullness in Shiro’s heart returns, clinging to that smile with stubborn, desperate hope.

“Cmon,” Keith says. “Best if we get there while the trout are still sleepy.”

“Do fish even sleep?”

“Oh my god, Shiro.”

The fishing spot is secluded, surrounded by mesquite & desert willows, with finches & wrens chirping in the branches. It’s early enough that the water is still dark & shaded, & Shiro watches in fascination as a green tail flicks, breaking the water’s surface. Time is slower here.

Keith rummages in the bags he brought, strapped to the back of his hoverbike, & Shiro turns his gaze upon Keith as he puts the fishing lures on the hooks with a practiced hand.

“I never knew you were into fishing,” Shiro admits, chin in hand. “Makes sense, somehow.”

Keith glances up, eyebrow raised, the brass lure flashing bright in the morning sunshine. “How so?”

Shiro shrugs. “I could see you as some kind of — rugged survivalist guy.”

Keith snorts & shakes his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before, but — thanks? I guess?”

Shiro eyes him. “Really? What have you gotten, then?”

Keith’s cheeks dust pink & he coughs into his fist. “Nevermind.”

“No, really —“

“Mostly people peg me as, uh, pretty boy, brooding artist type,” Keith admits gruffly. “Something like that.”

“Pretty boy,” Shiro repeats.

Keith scowls at his fishing hook. “Don’t,” he says, but it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

Interesting.

Shiro shrugs & leans back. “So, how about the brooding artist? You do carry that sketchbook around everywhere. You’ve got it now, don’t you?”

Keith huffs. “Maybe.”

“Did you have it when you were a paladin?” Shiro asks. “I never noticed it...not that I can remember, anyway, which means there’s a 50/50 chance I’m wrong.” He smiles ruefully.

Keith hands him a fishing pole & sighs. “No. I wish. I left it in the shack. We left in a hurry.”

Shiro tilts his head. “Another memento from your dad?”

“Nah. I got it for 3 bucks at a gas station.” Keith looks out across the water. “But it kept me sane, I think. When everything was bad, it was...something to hold on to.”

“I’m glad you had it, then,” Shiro murmurs.

Keith keeps looking at the water when he asks, “Did you have something to hold onto, after Kerberos?”

Shiro pauses. They’ve never really talked about the arena, his imprisonment, any of that...but here in the soft gold morning w Keith, the idea of doing so isn’t so terrifying.

“No,” Shiro says, honestly, & Keith does look at him then. “I didn’t really have anything except — living, I guess, & even then, there were times...” He stops himself. “What I became in the arena wasn’t something that needed sanity, Keith. It just needed to win. And I did.”

Keith’s brow creases. “You didn’t become anything. You’re Shiro. You’ve never stopped being Shiro.”

Shiro gives him a look. “I stopped being something.”

Keith holds his gaze. “You’re different but that doesn’t mean you’re not you. You laugh just the same as before. I remember.”

Shiro looks away. “You might be the only one who remembers,” he admits.

Keith makes a soft sound. He picks up the net & his pole & stands with Shiro on their little rock along the bank. “My sketchbook is good for remembering,” he says. He eyes Shiro. “Watch.” He casts his line.

It takes a few tries, but eventually Shiro figures it out. They stand side by side, watching the slow current tug their lures along.

“Shouldn’t we be spaced out?” Shiro asks. “Like, find different fishing spots?”

Keith shrugs. “I like being with you. & there’s lots of trout.”

Lots of trout or not, it takes a while before anything bites. In the interim, they fall into easy quiet, broken only when Shiro says, “Have I ever told you about my grandparents?”

Keith shakes his head. “Not really, but — they raised you, right?”

Shiro nods. “I owe them a lot.”

“What were they like?”

Shiro closes his eyes. He has to, when he wants to remember their faces. Their voices are all but gone. “Quiet,” Shiro says. “Strict, but kind. My grandma loved cats. My grandpa loved art.” Shiro remembers his little studio upstairs & the scent of wet ink.

But it was hard to keep up a time consuming hobby with two jobs, & especially towards the end of his life, Shiro’s grandpa’s hands always shook, & he would never dare to ruin the expensive silk with his unsteady hands. Shiro tells Keith these things — he’s never told anyone else.

He tells Keith about his grandpa’s strange ways of showing his affection — he would tuck little haikus into Shiro’s school lunches, some of them serious & others whimsical. He tells Keith about the lunches, bento boxes painstakingly prepared by his grandma each morning.

On Shiro’s worst days, the days after doctor’s visits that left him exhausted emotionally & physically, or the days when he came home early & could only lie in bed, furious at his useless body, his grandma would tuck a mochi treat into his lunch — sakuramochi, chimaki, or dango.

“You know,” Shiro says after this, as Keith looks at him with a line between his brows but no pity in his face — Shiro’s always appreciated that about him — “they never really told me they loved me, but I knew. They made sure I knew. & sometimes that’s more powerful than words.”

Keith’s brow furrows. “Yeah,” he says. “But sometimes it’s good to hear it.”

Shiro swallows & looks back at the water, suddenly aware of how close they are. “Yeah,” he agrees, barely audible. “It is.”

It’s then that Shiro’s line jerks, & he almost drops it — the only reason he doesn’t is because Keith lunges w lightning fast reflexes & steadies his hand, his gloved hand warm over cool metal. Shiro blinks stupidly at him. Keith lets go as if burnt & shows him how to reel it in.

Keith watches Shiro grapple with whatever very angry thing is on the other end of the line. When it finally comes into view, Keith whistles, hands on his hips. “Nice. That’s a good-sized one, thirteen inches easy.”

Shiro does not make a dick joke; it takes all of his willpower.

Shiro wishes he could say he got the fish off the line and into the cooler easily, but instead what happens is a very splashy, undignified struggle between him & the hefty brown trout trying to flop its way to freedom. This is also the moment Shiro discovers trout have teeth.

Keith doesn’t help. Mostly he just laughs, giving Shiro a pat on the shoulder when he at last wrestles the thrashing fish onto the ice.

“Very impressive, Admiral,” Keith tells him, eyes innocent but smirk wicked.

“Thanks,” Shiro says dryly, river water dripping into his face.

Then Keith stops laughing as his line jerks, & Shiro stops being irritated bc it is really truly unfair that anyone should look so good fishing as Keith does, the corded muscles in his arms bulging & flexing as he reels in an even bigger trout, shooting Shiro a triumphant grin.

Once they’re both on ice, Shiro thinks they’re done, but then Keith turns to him & declares. “Now we catch some crawdads.”

“Excuse me,” Shiro says. “We do what now?” He loves the outdoors, but he’s a city boy, & he’s not sure he wants to know what a crawdad is.

Keith brings his fingers together like a crab pincher. “You’ll see. Find a big rock.”

Bewildered, Shiro wades into the shallows & approaches a sizable rock. “Pick it up,” Keith suggests. Shiro does.

Under it are the meanest tiny lobsters Shiro’s ever seen. He drops the rock.

“No,” Shiro says. “WHY.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “You saved the universe & you’re afraid of getting pinched? Cmon, just grab one. Here, I’ll show you.”

Keith wades out to him, & he’s within reach when he trips, arms pinwheeling as he falls straight into Shiro’s chest.

“Ah,” Shiro says, or maybe just thinks very loudly, “shit,” & then they both fall into the river, Keith heavy on him, face smushed right up against Shiro’s increasingly translucent gray t-shirt. He looks stunned. Shiro hopes he didn’t hit his head. It seems well-cushioned enough.

“Are you okay?” Shiro manages, lifting his head out of the water with a wince. The Altean hand is thankfully waterproof, & he gingerly pats Keith’s back w it to make sure he’s still alive.

Keith wheezes affirmatively. Then he holds up his right hand. He’s holding two crawdads.

Keith climbs off of him and gives Shiro a hand — the one without crawdads, both of them eyeing each other for a few long moments before bursting into embarrassed laughter.

“So, I’m assuming that’s NOT how you’re supposed to catch crawdads —“

Keith covers his face. “Uh — no.”

They manage to get their shit together & stop laughing for long enough to catch a bucketful, & Shiro only gets pinched once, which is a solid victory.

But he feels even more victorious looking at the line of Keith’s back thru his shirt, wet fabric clinging to his narrow waist.

He stops looking as Keith sets the crawdad bucket aside & takes the fish out, drawing his knife from his belt to slit their gills & bellies in the shallows. The water runs red & Shiro’s body tenses, the red filling his vision for a moment of shocked memory. He sucks in a breath.

As he closes his eyes, trying to steady himself, another memory emerges — with his grandma at the market, standing in front of a tank of swirling silver fish, nose pressed to the glass as she picks one out. Shiro forces himself to breathe. He’s out, he’s escaped, Keith is here.

“Hey.” Shiro opens his eyes; Keith has put the filleted fish back into the ice box & is looking at him steadily. “Everything okay?”

& for once, Shiro thinks — it is. Or it could be. He reaches out & touches Keith’s shoulder w his left hand, fingers curling into his wet shirt.

Keith inhales, sharp & surprised, at the touch. Shiro thinks about their conversation earlier. Has he ever told Keith he loves him? Keith told him — when Shiro was trying to kill him. He softens his grip, hand lifting to brush his thumb against Keith’s cheek where droplets cling.

“You —“ Keith stops, his breath hitching audibly, throat bobbing with a swallow. “Shiro?”

Shiro’s thumb brushes the scar across Keith’s face, an ugly thought bubbling up. “Are you ever afraid of me?” he whispers. “Is that why you spend so much time w me — to keep an eye on me?”

Keith stares up at him, & when Shiro’s fingers slip back down to the hollow of his throat, he feels Keith’s pulse beat, so fast he half-fears Keith will turn heel & run at any moment.

But instead Keith lowers his gaze, leaning into Shiro’s touch. “You know I never feared you.”

“Then, why, after what I did...?”

Keith frowns, glancing up w an intensity that pins Shiro in place, tho he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. “Being able to keep my best friend, after Kerberos, after Voltron, after the astral plane — it’s the best thing I’ve ever done, Shiro.”

Shiro blinks stupidly. "I'm your best friend?"

Keith snorts, shaking his head fondly, & squeezes Shiro's shoulder. "Yes. And one of the most clueless, self-sacrificing people I know, sometimes."

Shiro eyes him. "That sounds like someone else I know."

Keith's lips part. "Hey!"

“You’re my best friend too.” Shiro pats his shoulder awkwardly. Amusement glitters in Keith’s eyes, but he’s smiling, so Shiro doesn’t think he’s misstepped. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“I don’t think it was luck,” Keith murmurs. “We saved each other. We did that. Not luck.”

Shiro hesitates, then says it before he chickens out. “When I escaped,” he says, “from the arena, from Haggar — I did it thinking of you.” Keith’s eyes widen. “I needed something — to focus on. I was so afraid, so desperate to get out but I couldn’t panic, so I thought of you.”

Keith swallows. “Thought of me — how?”

“I thought of coming back to you,” Shiro says. “I missed you like I missed the sun. Without it — without you — I didn’t really feel fully alive. You woke me up, you — you got me home, Keith. & I can’t ever repay you for that.”

Keith looks like he’s about to protest, then takes a breath, voice low as he says, “Shiro, you repay me for that every moment I’m with you. You don’t owe me anything, ever, but if you feel there’s a debt between us — just promise me you won’t leave again. That’s all I want.”

“I won’t leave,” Shiro whispers. “Keith, I never wanted to leave you.”

Keith nods, breaking his gaze and stepping away. “You’re here now,” he says firmly, “and — shit! The crawdads are making a break for it!”

The crawdads are indeed climbing out of their bucket triumphantly.

“NO!” Shiro cries with maybe too much horror, but those little fiends were a pain to catch & he’ll be damned if their hard crawdad-wrangling work goes to waste.

He & Keith make a dive for the bucket, scooping up the escapees & getting pinched plenty for their troubles.

“Well,” Keith pants, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes, “that was intense.”

“We survived,” Shiro says, wrinkling his nose at his muddy, more or less ruined shoes & pants. “Most of us, anyway.”

Keith grins. “So — you ready to get in the kitchen & make your grandma proud?”

“I don’t know if proud is the right word,” Shiro chuckles. “She’s probably rolling in her urn right now at the thought of me attempting her recipes.”

Keith shakes his head, eyes so soft Shiro doesn’t even think of arguing. “She’s proud of you, Shiro. I know she would be.”

Their ride back to the shack across the desert isn’t quiet like the first leg of the journey — they chat over the dull roar of the revving hoverbikes, & Shiro eyes the crawdad bucket on the back of Keith’s bike, half expecting them to figure out how to claw it open. (They don’t.)

When the shack comes into view over the next rise, Shiro’s breath catches — it looks the same as he remembers, just older, worn wood & dusty windows & a porch that freaks & sags under them as they unload the bikes.

It’s a comforting place — because it’s Keith’s place.

(it’s been a long day but I’m doin my best here’s more softe)

They bring the cooler and crawdad bucket inside & Shiro does a double-take, surprised by the changes Keith’s made to the place since he was last here. It’s still sparsely decorated, but it looks...lived in. Homey.

On the wall above the coffee table Keith turned into a desk is a bulletin board, but the map of red thread & scribbled notes is gone, replaced by photos &...drawings. Portraits. “Are these yours?”

Shiro steps towards it, crawdads forgotten, & Keith sucks in a breath. “Uh—“

There are many sketches, of many people, but — at least a third of them are of Shiro. He takes a step closer. In some, his hair is black, in others he has the white forelock, in others he has the current silver — there are so many Shiros, from all the years Keith has known him.

Shiro can’t tell if they were sketched from life or memory, but there is a tenderness in the strokes of pen & graphite, a softness in Keith’s art that Shiro had never anticipated. In each piece, the eyes are dark, expressive, gazing at something — or someone — just out of reach.

There are so many other people, too — lots of Allura & Hunk, some of Pidge & Lance running or posing with Rover & Kaltenecker, Coran w uncharacteristically serious expressions, several of Krolia deep in thought or smiling softly.

“Keith,” he whispers. “These are so beautiful.”

Keith clears his throat loudly and sets the cooler down on the counter with a loud thud. “Thanks. They’re just old sketches.”

Shiro eyes him in disbelief. “Cmon, Keith, these are amazing. I didn’t know — I mean, I knew you were GOOD, but this-“

Keith has a violent coughing fit.

Shiro backtracks. “Right, well, cooking?”

“Cooking,” Keith confirms, and flings open the old fridge with an alarming creak. It’s full of food. Shiro blinks. “I went grocery shopping.” Keith shrugs. “I never know what to do with what the Garrison pays us, anyway. So I got lots.”

Shiro opens his mouth & Keith gives him a look. “You’re not paying me back. See if you can find what you need for the recipes in there, I got a little of everything.”

“Wait, what are we making?” Shiro asks nervously.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you want.”

“That’s too much power,” Shiro jokes, taking the cookbook out of his backpack & gingerly leafing through it. “Um — how about uosuki? It’s like, uh, fish noodle soup. We can probably put some of the crawdads in there too...”

“We’re gonna need to cook more than a few crawdads.”

“Yeah, I know...”

Keith peers over his shoulder & slams his thumb down on a page before Shiro can turn it. “What about this? Shrimp gyoza? Bet we could substitute shrimp with crawdads.”

Shiro looks at him in horror. “You want me to make DUMPLINGS?” he whispers. “FROM SCRATCH?”

Keith looks unfazed. He is brave, but he is also a fool. “Yeah,” he says. “How hard could it be? Besides — it’s not just you making the gyoza.” He hipchecks Shiro as he walks past him to the fridge & Shiro wonders if he imagined it. “We’re a team, right?”

The uosuki goes smoothly enough. They manage to find most of the ingredients in Keith’s overflowing fridge, & chop shiitake, leeks, tofu, & mitsuba together as the fish marinates in the dashi with some unfortunate crawdads Keith put on ice before shelling. It’s...almost relaxing.

After a while, Shiro suggests they put on some music, & Keith gives him an apologetic look.

“What?”

“Uh...” Keith wanders over to the record player in the corner, hidden under stacks of dusty records. “Your choices are basically AC/DC, Metallica, Queen, or My Chemical Romance.”

Shiro grins. “I’d expect nothing less, b—“

Babe. He almost called Keith BABE. Shiro takes a moment to stare at the shiitakes & wonders if they’re poisonous while raw.

Keith, THANK FUCK, hasn’t noticed. He blows dust off the records & smiles. “Hard to go wrong with Queen.”

‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ is blasting through the shack in no time, although Shiro thinks maybe someone SHOULD DEFINITELY STOP HIM, bc he’s getting too comfortable, on the verge of slipping past the point of no return. Keith’s hand brushes his. He’s humming along, & smiles up at Shiro.

“What?” Keith says, tilting his head, a strand of black hair falling into his dark eyes. Shiro’s fingers itch to brush it back. “Something on my face?”

“No,” Shiro says, & wets his lips. “I just — it’s good to see you like this.”

Keith’s face warms. “Like what?”

“Relaxed,” Shiro admits, & allows himself to smile back, to lean a little closer. “Happy. I mean, you seem happy, anyway. Are you?”

Keith hums, finishing off the leeks & tossing them into the bowl where the dashi, trout, & crawdads await. “I think I’m still in shock,” he admits.

Shiro raises an eyebrow & Keith smiles again, but this time it’s tinged with sorrow. “I still can’t believe we survived,” he admits. “& I forget people see us as heroes, & I don’t...I don’t know. I don’t feel like a hero. I’m just Keith, & I’m definitely not the Black Paladin.”

Shiro’s smile falls. “Of course you’re the Black Paladin...” At Keith’s expression, he stops.

“You’re the leader, Shiro,” Keith says, a quiet, painfully honest accusation. “You’ve always been the leader. Not me. I know you wanted me to take your place — but it was YOUR place.”

Shiro swallows. “Oh.”

“You said, if you didn’t make it out of there, you wanted me to lead Voltron.” Keith’s brow creases. “Shiro, I never wanted to lead if it meant you lost something...if it meant I lost you. There wouldn’t be a point. That’s all.”

Shiro is quiet. He tosses the shiitake into the pot & struggles to form an apology.

Then Keith says, “You seemed so ready to...to leave.” Hurt shines in his eyes through the rising steam of the simmering soup. “But I was never ready to let you go..not for Kerberos, & not Kuron.”

“I was never ready to die,” Shiro snaps, his fierceness startling them both; Keith takes a half-step back. “I spent most of my life trying to be ready & then I met you & -“ He falters. Keith’s eyes widen. “Then I wasn’t sick anymore. & I don’t know what to do w myself, Keith.”

Keith searches his face. He’s so close, Shiro swears he can feel the warm feather of his breath. “Anything,” Keith whispers. “Whatever you want, Shiro.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, voice dropping low, barely audible. “I’m trying. That’s why I’m here.”

Keith blinks. “& are you happy?”

“I’m with you,” Shiro says, half without meaning to, half because he means it with every fibre of his being.

Keith’s lips part. “Oh,” he breathes, tiny, uncertain, impossible to decipher.

Shiro could kiss him. He wants to, aches to. But they’re just here to cook together.

And yet...Keith leans in, so slightly Shiro could be imagining it, his lips parted though no sound comes out. Distantly, Shiro hears the music change. He almost laughs. It’s “You’re My Best Friend.” A classic.

But do best friends look at each other the way Keith looks at him?

“Keith...” Shiro starts. “I...stop me if this totally off-base, but —“

Keith’s eyes widen in horror & Shiro flinches back. Oh, god — he’s fucked it up. He’s fucked everything up —

But Keith’s looking past him at the crawdad bucket. “Shiro, they’re escaping! It’s a jail break!”

The crawdads are in fact crawling out of the bucket, led by the biggest, a hefty fossil of a crustacean with serious pinchers.

Shiro narrows his eyes at it & with singleminded fury, his right hand zooms across the room to scoop up the bold escapee in a metal grip.

Keith lets out a woop of surprise and victory when Shiro holds up the squirming crawdad & manages to toss it back into the bucket along w the others — tho not before the big one gives Shiro’s thumb a powerful pinch.

He winces as he closes the bucket lid. Keith tilts his head.

“I didn’t realize you could get pinched,” Keith says, furrowing his brow at Shiro’s right hand as it returns to him, free of crawdads.

“Huh?” Shiro says. “Yeah, it has, uh, sensory input.”

“Oh...” Keith blinks, then suddenly lays his hand over Shiro’s. “You can feel this?”

Hell yes, Shiro can feel it. He stares stupidly & nods. “Uh-huh.” He thinks it’s a little ridiculous how overwhelmed he is by the realization that Keith isn’t wearing his gloves. Of course it makes sense — they’re cooking. But feeling it, a warm, calloused palm against his own —

Shiro should move his hand away. He should definitely do that before the heat in his face spreads lower & grows into something he can’t stop. But Keith is still looking at his hand, gaze soft, curious. Shiro’s fingers curl around Keith’s hand without meaning to, & Keith inhales.

“What were you going to say?” Keith whispers, & Shiro goes cold, his gaze darting up in panic. “Before we were...interrupted?”

“I —“ Shiro draws in a breath. He can’t think, w Keith so close, within his grasp yet light years away. “It, it’s not important.”

Keith bites his lip.

“It sounded important,” Keith whispers, “to you. & anything that’s important to you is important to me, Shiro. So...”

“I just...” Shiro forces a smile, shakes his head. He can’t risk it. Even now, after everything — no. ESPECIALLY now, after everything. “Don’t worry about it.”

Keith’s brow creases. He looks...sad. He pulls his hand away, though he doesn’t break Shiro’s gaze. “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t sound okay. “Okay, Shiro.”

Shiro hesitates. “You know I —“

“OH, NO YOU DON’T,” Keith hollers as the crawdads pop the bucket lid open a second time.

This time, the crawdads are harder to wrangle back into the bucket, and by the time they’re done they’re both panting & red-faced.

“We’d better make that gyoza filling before these little bastards revolt again,” Shiro wheezes, holding the lid down for good measure.

“Sounds like a plan,” Keith agrees, though he doesn’t meet Shiro’s gaze.

They use Shiro’s grandma’s cookbook to make the filling, w some touches of their own. Shiro is pescatarian & believes all creatures are deserving of life, but boiling the crawdads is deeply satisfying.

They make the dough for the gyoza wrappers together while the rest of the crawdads cook, slowly turning red in the steam. It’s a deceptively simple dough: salt, flour, hot water, cornstarch — & Shiro chops cabbage & ginger for the filling as Keith kneads the dough, eyes downcast.

They have to let the dough rest in the fridge for a while, & Keith helps him finish with the filling, still quiet.

“Did you and your dad ever cook together?” Shiro ventures to ask as they chop more crawdads.

Keith’s shoulders tense & hunch up, defensive. He shakes his head.

“Just fishing,” he mumbles. “Sometimes stir fry. But not — like this.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. Nevermind.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro murmurs, troubled by Keith’s pained expression.

“No,” Keith sighs, suddenly. “I wish we had, yknow? I wish I had those memories w him.”

“He would be proud of you, if he could see you know,” Shiro offers, & Keith pauses mid-chop.

Keith gives him an odd look. “Hm,” he says. “No, I think he would give me a talk about communication skills.”

Shiro blinks. “Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just chop the ginger, Shiro.”

By the time they’ve finished the filling, the dough is ready to be rolled out, though Shiro still isn’t emotionally ready to take on the challenge.

He tried to warn Keith of the dangers of homemade gyoza wrappings, but Keith is undeterred...until they start rolling it out.

They use a rolling pin and a mountain of cornstarch. There must be an easier way to do this, but they don’t know it, & halfway through, after the dough rips for the third time, Shiro thinks that defeating the Galra had nothing on making gyoza from scratch.

Somehow, they manage.

At least, Shiro manages until they get to wrapping up the gyoza. He remembers this as being the most difficult part as a kid — the dough is so thin & the filling makes it easy to tear before frying.

And that was before Shiro lost an arm. He knows this isn’t going to work.

But he tries. God, he tries. He focuses with every fiber of his being on making every touch light and delicate as possible, painfully aware of how big and clumsy the metal fingers feel against the fragile dough, which is beginning to stick, making everything ten times worse.

Beside him, Keith is wrapping the gyoza with ease, like he's done it a million times. He makes it look easy.

It is NOT easy. Shiro is beginning to regret ever agreeing to this. Not bc he's competitive, but bc he hates feeling so helpless & useless.

Then the gyoza rips, ruined.

Shiro stares at it, heart in his throat. Objectively, it’s very stupid that he’s getting so upset over a ripped gyoza wrapper.

But as the filling sadly spills out & Keith neatly seals a fourth dumpling in the same amount of time it took Shiro to destroy one, his breath hitches.

But maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He knows what he’s good at, and it isn’t making good, beautiful little things with his hands, not like his grandparents, and not like Keith. Maybe he could do that once, but not anymore. He takes a step back, eyes stinging.

Keith finished his gyoza & pauses, gaze sliding to the mess Shiro’s made of his, & then to Shiro. His brow creases. “Hey,” he starts, but Shiro doesn’t think he can hear whatever Keith’s going to say.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro admits, bc he is. “I know this was supposed to be fun.”

Keith’s expression shifts from confused to one so soft & open it takes Shiro’s breath away. It’s not pity; no, this is something deeper, something more, something only someone who knows Shiro better than anyone else could express.

Keith steps away from the gyoza & towards Shiro.

“It’s okay,” Keith says, & somehow Shiro believes him. If Keith says it, it’s real. He feels like he’s watching the scene from a point beyond himself when Keith takes his hands, both of them this time, & squeezes gently. They stop shaking in his grip. Keith smiles up at him.

“I’ve got you,” Keith whispers, so quiet yet earth-shattering. “Yeah? I’ve got you, Takashi.”

Shiro nods. It’s all he can do. Keith hums & guides him back over to the counter. “You can do this,” Keith promises, hands still curled around Shiro’s. “It’s not life or death anymore.”

And he’s right. It isn’t. But the thought of losing Keith in any capacity — even via something as simple as his disappointment in Shiro’s inability to make gyoza — makes Shiro feel like he’s back in the arena all over again, & that terrifies him.

As if reading his mind, Keith nudges him & says, “Hey. Stay with me, yeah? I’m not going anywhere.”

Shiro swallows. It takes him a moment to form words. “Thanks,” he croaks. It feels painfully inadequate, but Keith just smiles, & it gives him the courage to add, “Neither am I.”

Keith pauses, eyes flickering, & for a moment Shiro sees a scared kid again, doubting himself every step of the way, convinced he would never — should never, in fact — amount to much of anything at all.

But neither of them are scared kids now. They made it. Slowly Shiro relaxes.

Keith is a warm weight at his side, leaning into him as he coaxes Shiro to try a new approach with the gyoza. Instead of starting from scratch, he promises they can salvage the torn one — & somehow, bit by bit, they do. Shiro forgets fear. His world is narrowed to Keith.

It’s such a simple act when Keith leans forward to show him how to dip his fingers into the little bowl of water and smooth the dough into a shape that behaves, neatly sealing the dumpling with the rip patched up. It isn’t the prettiest thing, but it’s whole. Keith grins at him.

Shiro smiles back, or thinks he does. It’s hard to control his expressions, with Keith. It’s strange — with everyone else, everywhere else, Shiro’s perfected a mask of calm control, of a man well-adjusted to life back on Earth, of a stable leader, an ex-Paladin who’s moved on.

But he knows he’s never going to move on from Keith. Maybe he’s always known, it’s just been too much to admit. Or maybe he hoped Keith already knew this. But he can’t assume — bc if Keith doesn’t know, then Shiro has to at least TRY to tell Keith what he means to him, truly.

“Shiro?”

Shiro peers down at him. Keith points to a new circle of dough, waiting to be painstakingly shaped into gyoza. Well, it’s just going to have to wait.

“Keith.” He clears his throat. “You asked what I was going to say. Before the, uh...” His metal fingers mime pinchers.

“Oh.” Keith tilts his head. “Yeah, I did ask. You said it wasn’t important...?”

“It is important,” Shiro blurts. “It’s important because you — YOU are important, & important to me, Keith.”

Keith pauses. He wets his lips, eyes dark. “Oh,” he breathes. “I...so are you, Shiro.”

Keith blinks in slow confusion & more than a little disbelief as Shiro turns away from the gyoza & fully towards him, aware all at once of their closeness, of Keith’s hitching breath, of those indigo eyes Shiro once thought he’d never see again.

“So important,” Shiro whispers.

Keith swallows hard. The record has stopped playing, & in the silence, Shiro counts his heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four.

He’s not nervous, somehow. Not even when he leans in, sees Keith’s pupils dilate in surprise.

Shiro’s tired of trying to use his words.

“Shiro,” Keith says again, and then, barely a whisper, “Takashi...”

Shiro cups Keith’s cheek with his right hand, & the scar on Keith’s face is evidence enough of what harm he is capable of, but even after that, Keith’s still here, not pulling away, never leaving Shiro behind.

Maybe Shiro should say something, anything. But he has no words that will express the tangled, desperate longing and deep bloom of affection he feels for the man before him.

So instead Shiro just kisses him. Keith’s lips are warm & chapped, & yield to him with a shocked gasp.

Shiro braces himself for Keith to pull away. What he doesn’t expect is for Keith to slump back against the counter as if in relief, arms wrapping around Shiro tight, one cradling his waist & the other looping around his neck as if to say, I’ve got you now, I’m not letting you go.

Shiro doesn’t let go, either. He tilts his head, kissing Keith deeper, breathless & when Keith kisses back it’s not really a surprise. It doesn’t feel like something unexpected, unbelievable. It just feels like coming home, at long last. Keith’s solid against him, real & perfect.

When Shiro’s left hand settles on Keith’s hip, dragging him closer, Keith shivers, falling into him with a groan caught between them, his hands clinging tighter to Shiro. On a breath as they both pull back for a moment, Keith gasps, “Shiro, the gyoza —“

“The gyoza can wait,” Shiro retorts, aware now that they’re both getting flour and cornstarch all over each other — yet not really caring.

Keith blinks up at him, dazed, a little wild. “I love you,” he says. Shiro stares & he turns pink. “Just — so you know. Um.”

Shiro smiles, helpless & flooded with happiness. “Yeah,” he whispers, stroking Keith’s jaw, unable to stop touching him. “I love you too. For a while now, I think.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “The gyoza can wait,” he agrees, strangled, and tackles Shiro with another, much messier kiss.

They end up on the couch, kissing and touching with frantic urgency until Shiro slows, realizes they have time now, for once, they can savor the good things for as long as they like, & so he hums & coaxes Keith into something slower, softer, taking him apart w his hands & tongue.

Keith attempts to wrap himself around Shiro, & mostly succeeds, both of them cackling breathlessly when Keith elbows Shiro right in the gut while hastily unzipping their jeans. Shiro has to take a second to lean his forehead against Keith’s shoulder, chuckling, breathing him in.

“I was worried about you, you know,” Keith whispers against the roughness of Shiro’s jaw, lips ghosting over flushed skin.

Shiro hums, questioning, palm sliding down Keith’s belly, taut muscles flexing under his touch. “Worried I didn’t feel the same, or...?”

Keith shakes his head, pauses. “It was more...worried you’d keep trying to deal with everything, to heal, all on your own.” He lifts Shiro’s right hand to his lips & kisses each metal knuckle. “I’ve tried that, Shiro. It’s no good trying to live like that, you against the world.”

Shiro’s fingers dip under the waistband of his boxers & Keith draws in a shaky, determined breath. “You taught me that,” Keith adds. “You taught me how to ask for help & how to trust it would be given.” He nuzzles into Shiro’s palm, eyes soft. “We’ll always be a team, Shiro.”

Shiro draws in a sharp, overwhelmed breath. “Keith...Voltron is over, you know you don’t have to...” He exhales. “You have your own life, your own future.”

Keith smiles, presses a kiss to the center of his palm. “I do,” he agrees. “And I want you to be in it.”

“I want to be in your life, too, if you’ll let me,” Keith continues. “Whether it’s cooking or fishing or riding hover bikes into the sunset — I’ll be right there with you, Shiro.”

Shiro clears his throat, eyes misty, hand down Keith’s pants. “God, when did you get so cheesy?”

Keith huffs. “I learned from the best.” He nudges his nose against Shiro’s, a gesture so familiar it makes Shiro’s heart ache. “Wanna teach me some more things?”

“You — are awful,” Shiro informs him thru breathless laughter, but it’s not an offer he could ever refuse.

They forget about the gyoza and the uosuki for a little while. Or a long while. Time ceases to matter when he’s with Keith, & matters even less when they’re skin to skin, everything sloppy & sweet & so good it almost hurts. Almost — bc w Keith, Shiro forgets what hurt feels like.

And when Keith traces Shiro’s scars with his lips & Shiro holds Keith close in the cradle of his body & sucks a violet collar of tender bruises into his skin, he knows that no matter what happens, what they have together isn’t something that can be broken.

***
They do, eventually, finish making the uosuki & gyoza. As it turns out, it is both easier & harder — literally — to cook w someone you love. Either way, it’s not scary to shape the rest of the gyoza into delicate crescents & fry them in sesame oil that smells like nostalgia.

As they’re waiting for the dough to brown and crisp, Shiro leafs through his grandma’s cookbook, noting his favorite recipes, recipes he can share with his new family. They won’t be perfect, but maybe that’s not the point — if it was, his grandma never would have cooked with him.

They started at dawn, & the sun is setting by the time they finish, but clearly neither of them is in a hurry. They have nowhere else to be, for once. Keith ladles the uosuki into chipped bowls & Shiro piles the gyoza atop warm rice from Keith’s ancient but trusty rice cooker.

They make do with a pottery saucer for soy sauce, & Keith surprises him with a bottle of sake — it looks like the fancy kind, too.

“You really planned this, huh?” Shiro asks as they clink their garish Arizona souvenir shot glasses together on the porch, watching the sunset.

Keith shrugs, but the corner of his lips pulls up. “Maybe I was sorta hoping we would finally get our shit together. Not sure I expected the marathon sex, though.” He shoots Shiro an amused look, & Shiro rolls his eyes fondly & downs the sake. “Not complaining,” Keith murmurs.

“Rain check on the marathon sex,” Shiro retorts. “That was like, four hours.”

Keith’s laughing at him with his eyes. “Not that you were keeping track.”

“Good to know you’re still a spitfire.”

Keith grins & leans against him. “You love it.”

“I do,” Shiro agrees. “I really do.”

Shiro doesn’t know what happens next, but maybe not knowing is okay. Maybe that’s part of the adventure.

He does know two things — 1, Keith will be with him every step of the way, & 2, his grandma would definitely be proud of their gyoza.

the end 💖🥟

(This will probably be on ao3 sometime in the future bc it’s just long af 😅 I hope u enjoyed, I’m just forever soft for Shiro remembering & honoring his family with his new family, & especially with his best friend & love of his life 🥺)