Archive of Our Own ^beta

The frigid wind whips across Keith’s face as he zips his jacket up as far as it goes, hunching in on himself and shoving his hands into the front pockets.

Whoever said Southern California had three hundred and sixty five days of sunshine a year lied—or at least withheld the whole it’s freezing in the mornings, then so hot your balls get sweaty later part.

Lance cheerily told Keith the whole overcast and freezing in the morning thing this time of year was called June gloom and as far as Keith’s concerned is a perfect name. It is gloomy and cold as fuck and Keith hates it.

Born and raised in the desert and therefore used to dry, sweltering heat there’s nothing Keith hates more than being cold. Well that’s not true, he hates crowds more which is exactly how he ended up on the nine a.m. lifeguard shift which no one else wanted.

Keith’s only been certified to be a lifeguard for three weeks now but it's been long enough for Keith to learn there’s a world of fucking difference between being a lifeguard at the local high school pool every summer, and being a lifeguard at one of the most popular beaches in the entire county.

The biggest adjustment for Keith hasn’t been the difference between a chlorine filled swimming pool and an unpredictable ocean, or the difference between sand beneath his toes instead of cement (though fuck knows Keith hates sand). No, the biggest adjustment is the people. People fucking everywhere.

The town Keith grew up in had fifteen thousand people on a good day. They had one grocery store and the year before Keith left for college they even got a dollar store which was about as exciting as it got. For three years Keith worked at the local high school pool when it opened every summer. The crowds when the temperature hit three digits in the summer were something to behold but it was nothing compared to what he’s seen since moving to the West coast to finish his B.A.

Technically he doesn’t start college for two more months, but eager to escape the doldrum of small town life, he’d left town early much to the confusion of his supportive but nervous parents. They’d paid for Keith’s flight and rent but Keith was determined to get a job of his own to cover at least some of the rent and anything his academic scholarship won’t cover come the fall semester.

Despite his mediocre work experience, Keith knew there was always a job for someone willing to do the labor no one else wanted, but Keith wasn’t exactly looking to wash dishes or work retail. He’d been unsure exactly what to do when he saw the advertisement for a lifeguard position while playing the tourist—eating soft serve and strolling the boardwalk.

Up until a week prior, Keith had never actually swam in the ocean but with his love of swimming, physical prowess and actual lifeguard experience somehow made the job seem like a no brainer.

Of course becoming certified to be a lifeguard in the ocean was a hell of a lot different than the basic CPR requirements he’d needed to work at the pool but Keith wasn’t afraid of the physicality of the training. If anything he relished it. It was more grueling than he initially expected but he loved the exhaustion in his bones at the end of the day and the thrill of pushing his body to new limits. He didn’t necessarily love the sunburns or the sand in his ass, but they were a small sacrifice to have a job that didn’t require him to wait tables or be nice to rude customers all day and which allowed him to be outside.

Amazing as it was, there was one part of the job which Keith hadn’t factored in—the people.

Keith had done so well in his training that he’d been offered a summer position at the most popular beach—a coveted position if what the other lifeguards said was any indication. And also a position that came with dealing with insane crowds that started Memorial Day weekend.

Every single afternoon, the beaches gradually become more and more crowded until the shoreline is covered in so many bright umbrellas and pop up privacy tents you can’t even see the sand—people from the surrounding inland cities swarming the coast to escape the oppressive heat.

Which is exactly why Keith volunteered for the early morning shift.

Less people and more of nature’s beauty was Keith’s idea of a good day. Add in being paid and Keith didn’t understand why every other lifeguard had looked at Keith like he had two heads when he volunteered for the shift.

He understands why now.

Mornings at the beach are fucking horrible and its no surprise the beach is sparsely populated.

So far he’s seen two people walking their dogs while dressed in fucking parkas and a few hardcore surfers dressed in full body suits who’ve been hanging out near the jetty fighting over a few measly waves. Compared to the crowds that are sure to be here by lunchtime it’s practically deserted; and while the solitude is nice Keith almost regrets agreeing to take this shift the entire week if it means he’s going to be this cold all week.

Keith needs someone to give him a fucking manual for how to dress here. He never knows if he’s going to be hot or cold. He’s just glad they gave him a sweatshirt as part of the uniform and that he was smart enough to pack it today just in case. His damn bathing suit was definitely not cutting it.

It’s probably stupid but somehow Keith just assumed there was always nice weather at the beach. He blames the stupid TV shows he watched growing up.

At least he’s got the sweatshirt though, something he’s grateful for as he tugs on the hoodie then leans against the railing of his lifeguard tower to gaze out across the horizon. As much as Keith dislikes the fog, he can’t deny there’s something beautiful in the quiet of the morning. There’s no screaming kids or loud music and without the steady buzz of voices he’s grown accustomed to the last few weeks, he can really appreciate the soothing crash of the waves and the wind whistling across the surface of the water.

As his eyes track down the barren coastline he notices a person in the distance—a moving person. On a logical level Keith knows there are people who actually run for fun but it doesn’t stop Keith from experiencing mild disbelief every time he witnesses it. Keith hates running. He’d rather be hiking or doing kick boxing or swimming or anything besides running really. Especially on the beach when it’s cold as fuck.

His disbelief grows when the person, a man, gets close enough for Keith to notice what he’s wearing. Or perhaps a more accurate description would be what he’s not wearing.

The man is dressed in nothing but a pair of tiny running shorts that barely look big enough to contain the man’s massive thighs.

Keith can’t stop himself from leaning over the railing to try and get a better look, his tongue stuck in his throat as the man gets closer. He’s fucking gorgeous—hair the same color as the white caps in the ocean—and a body that makes Keith weak in the knees. Keith’s not shy about admitting he has a type and that type is big. Keith’s not shallow, he likes a guy with a good heart and some substance but he’s also human and knows exactly what type of physique makes his heart beat faster.

This guy looks like he walked—or ran—right out of one of Keith’s wet dreams.

Torn between complete and unabashed thirst because of the guys unreal level of sexiness and disbelief at how the fuck he’s not fucking freezing, Keith can’t stop staring.

He tugs his hoodie up higher, embarrassed at his own reaction to watching the man’s massive pecs jiggle as he runs. He simultaneously wants to never look away or and give in to the temptation to run into his lifeguard tower and scream. It’s too early to see a man this beautiful.

Keith is either a masochist or an idiot because he doesn’t avert his gaze and instead continues to stare at a man so far out of Keith’s league he might as well be in another fucking solar system. There’s no harm in admiring him from afar he tells himself, unprepared for the stranger to catch Keith staring.

To his complete shock and embarrassment, the man flashes Keith a frankly devastating smile before lifting his prosthetic arm in a half wave as he runs past the lifeguard tower. Cheeks burning and mouth hanging open, Keith is still unable to look away. Especially now that he’s got a view of the guy from behind including the man’s gloriously muscled back and shoulders and what is hands down the nicest ass Keith’s ever laid eyes upon. Keith has always been an ass man and this guy's ass is out of this world—firm and round and on full display in his obscenely small running shorts.

It’s a beautiful sight and despite his embarrassment, Keith allows himself to watch as the man travels down the shoreline toward the massive rock jetty. When he gets to the end of the sandy beach he doesn’t turn around and run back towards Keith, he turns and runs directly into the ocean.

The idea of someone going into the water this early while it's still so cold sends a chill up Keith’s spine. It’s bad enough watching the surfers in their full body wetsuits, but the hot runner guy is practically naked. He’s got to be fucking freezing, Keith sure is.

Just when he thinks he can’t be more shocked, the guy doesn’t stop when the water is waist deep and instead dives head first into the oncoming wave. Keith leans against the railing, eyes focused on the spot where the guy disappeared waiting for his head to pop back up.

It doesn’t.

Years of working at the pool taught Keith that people can stay underwater longer than you’d think and be fine, but this isn’t a pool it’s the ocean—as unpredictable and dangerous as it is beautiful. Still Keith doesn't worry right away, the guy was clearly comfortable with the ocean.

Two minutes later when there’s still no sight of him, Keith worries a little.

Heart rate increasing, Keith grabs his rescue buoy off the hook before leaping off the lifeguard tower—feet slamming into the sand as he lands gracefully.

“Normal people use the ladder,” an all too familiar voice pipes up.

“”Shut up...there’s a guy in the ocean.”

“Usually that is where swimmers go, yeah,” Lance says.

“Oh fuck you, you know what I mean. He was running and then he just went into the ocean.”

“Again, perfectly normal behavior for someone wanting to swim,” Lance says in an obnoxiously smug tone.

“He’s still in the ocean,” Keith says, ignoring Lance as he takes several quick paced steps toward the shore, narrowly avoiding a tar ball. “He’s been under the—what the fuck.”

“What?” Lance says, following Keith.

“How the fuck did he get all the way down by the pier?”

“I mean if I had to guess I’d say by swimming,” Lance answers.

“How are you always this annoying?” Keith grumbles. “I’m serious. He went in way down there by the rock jetty and I’ve been watching, he didn’t even come up for a breath. And now he’s all fucking way down there.”

“Probably just a good swimmer,” Lance says, completely unphased. “Here, you look like you need this.”

Keith turns his head to see Lance holding out a thermos to Keith.

“Is that what I think it is?” Keith asks.

“If you think it’s coffee from your best friend then you’d be correct,” Lance says. “If you can call what you drink coffee that is.”

“Black coffee is literally the definition of coffee,” Keith grumbles, accepting the thermos and unscrewing the top. Steam billows out of the small hole and Keith cradles it close to his face, inhaling the bitter aroma as the wind blows away the steam.

“Yeah, old man coffee. No one in their right mind would drink it black when things like sugar and dairy exist.”

Keith grunts, sipping the steaming hot liquid and sighing as the warmth fills his belly. “I like it dark.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re so cranky you seriously need to get a big D.”

“Fuck you, my sex life is none of your buisness.”

“God damn, I meant a donut but now that you mention it you need some dick too. Maybe it’d make you like one tenth less—how should I put this...difficult.”

“Oh,” Keith sighs, shoulders tense. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I know you’re emotionally constipated and cranky,” Lance chirps. “Besides you’re the only idiot who signed up for the morning shift on purpose. I saw this coming even if you didn’t.”

Wrapping his fingers around his thermos, Keith takes a too big chug of scalding hot coffee to silence anything else he might say. Lance isn’t entirely wrong, and while the near deserted beach is calmer than the late afternoon shift; Keith neglected to factor in how much he is not a morning person.

The coffee is helping though. A lot.

“That guy though,” Keith says a minute later, his eyes scanning the horizon near the pier for another glimpse of him. He’s nowhere to be found and Keith can only assume he got out of the water while he was busy being surly.

“Listen, people here are different. The beach is a way of life for a lot of them. I realize being a desert gremlin makes this hard to believe. but some people find the chilly ocean refreshing.”

“It’s weird.”

“Everyone in So Cal is a little weird,” Lance laughs in the way only someone born and raised here can. “You’ll get used to it.”

Lance has been saying this same thing since they met in lifeguard training a few months ago and Keith’s still not sure if it's true. For reasons unknown to Keith, Lance decided they were friends the first day and despite Keith’s general antisocial tendencies and inability to make polite small talk, Lance still thinks they’re friends.

“By the way,” Lance says, interrupting Keith’s thoughts, “you stepped in tar.”

Keith groans, looking down at his feet. Sure enough on his right heel is a black spot from a tar ball. This is something Keith is sure he will never get used to and he doesn’t care how many times Lance tells him it’s normal here and that it’s not just from oil spills but also natural seeps; Keith will never see tiny devil balls of sticky tar that stain his feet and ruin his bathing suits as normal.

“Here, try this,” Lance suggests, pulling a small plastic container out of his pocket. He untwists the cap before passing it to Keith who gives it a whiff, nostrils overwhelmed by the intense scent of coconut.

“Why do you have coconut oil in your pocket?” Keith asks.

“The real question is why don’t you since you’re always stepping in tar,” Lance snorts. “Honestly, one of us was definitely not a boy scout and it shows.”

Keith grunts, making his way back to his tower to lean on the stairs as he scrubs the tar off his foot with Lance’s coconut oil and a beach towel. As he scrubs at it, Lance takes the opportunity to tell Keith every single thing he did the day before in minute detail and pushes every thought of the mystery man from Keith’s brain.

The next morning Keith’s more prepared for what his early shift will bring, and comes prepared with his own thermos of coffee and, though he will not tell Lance for fear of hearing I told you so, a tiny container of coconut oil just in case.

It’s another quiet morning, just a few die hard surfers out near the pier and a few random people spread out walking their dogs up and down the shore.

For the most part it's quiet, and cold, and Keith spends the first hour of his shift wishing he had a bigger thermos and pacing his tower. Then he catches sight of someone on the horizon who makes heat flood Keith’s body.

The man from yesterday.

Once again he’s running across the sand with ease, giving Keith flashbacks to his teenage years spent watching old Baywatch clips on YouTube. Except this isn’t a cheesy tv show, this is real life, and the sexiest man alive is once again running down Keith’s beach practically naked.

He’s wearing another pair of tiny running shorts—white today. Fucking white.

Keith very nearly gets out his first aid kit to check if he’s having a heart attack. The guy looks fucking unreal in white—his equally pale hair blowing in the wind as he jogs down the shore without a single bit of fatigue on his face.

“Morning,” Shiro yells when he gets near Keith’s tower, lifting his metal hand in a curt wave.

“You too,” Keith says, only realizing what he’s said when the guy laughs and continues to run past Keith’s tower.

Unsure if he wants to throw himself off his tower or into the ocean, he settles for staring at the guy's backside as he slows to a jog—his back muscles rippling and his ass jiggling as he goes.

Keith is sure the guy won’t run into the ocean today, not with it being even colder than the day before, but he does—not even flinching as the water splashes around his calves and thick thighs.

Deeper and deeper he goes until the water is waist deep—waves crashing against his stomach and splashing his face. It’s then that he dives forward, plunging himself beneath the icy depths. A shiver courses through Keith’s body at the sight of him disappearing beneath the waves. This guy has nothing on and Keith absolutely cannot understand how the fuck he’s not freezing.

Again Keith waits for his head to emerge from the waves but there’s no sight of him. Even though Keith saw him do the same thing the day before, it still sends Keith’s heart rate through the roof to watch someone dive beneath the water and not come up.

As the minutes tick by Keith finds himself reaching for his rescue buoy, climbing down the stairs and digging his feet in the cool sand as his eyes scan the horizon. Just when a prickle of worry begins to work its way into Keith’s mind he sees a flash of white hair off in the distance, maybe twenty feet from the pier bobbing out of the water then disappearing again. A deep sense of relief floods Keith—because this is my job he tells himself.

The next day he doesn't have the same worry when he watches the hot running guy disappear into the sea. He does however hold his breath, because watching someone stay under the water without coming up for a single breath for so long is a lot for a lifeguard to handle, even if he’s seen him do it twice already and is relatively confident the guy will eventually reemerge.

By Thursday Keith can admit he’s maybe, possibly developing a crush.

What he also has is growing sense of wonder about how the hell this guy swims so fucking far without coming up for a breath.

The next day Keith brings his stopwatch with him to work, his curiosity about just how long the guy is actually holding his breath damn near staggering. He knows the guy is holding his breath for a long time but he doesn't fully appreciate just how long it actually is until he times it—mouth falling open when he pauses the stopwatch at nearly eleven minutes.

On Friday Keith brings the stopwatch again, hand twitching inside his pocket as he paces in front of his tower waiting for the guy to show up. He doesn’t have to wait long. At exactly five after nine a shock of white hair appears in the distance.

Even though Keith’s watched him approach five days in a row now it never gets less incredible—the ease and speed he displays as he sprints across the sand is impressive, the way his pecs and thighs jiggle as he does is damn near heart stopping.

It’s a good thing the beach is mostly dead this early because Keith is sure his staring is obvious not but he literally can’t look away from the sight of the guy—his movements so graceful and light he barely leaves a footprint in the sand as he races across the shore.

It’s enough to make Keith unzip his jacket as heat creeps up his neck. It only gets worse the closer he gets. If Keith didn’t know better he’d swear the guy was getting more attractive. No stranger to thirst spirals, Keith acknowledges his own raging attraction to hot running guy content in the knowledge that he will likely never actually speak to him because it would require Keith to go outside of his comfort zone, something he very much does not enjoy doing. Besides, sometimes it’s better just to look. A man this fucking beautiful, is likely just that—pretty on the outside, vapid on the inside. He’s probably self centered and arrogant. Anyone that attractive would have to be.

Whatever he’s like as a person is irrelevant. For now he’s pretty to look at and his insane water abilities are giving Keith something to focus on during his long and boring morning shift.

It goes on and on like this.

Hot running guy exists, Keith thirsts. Hot running guy swims, Keith times him.

It’s not weird, Keith tells himself, it’s just curiosity.

As a lifeguard and lover of the water, Keith is merely appreciating another person's incredible skill set and physical prowess. If Keith once again volunteers for the morning shift the next few weeks, it’s solely because he enjoys the quiet mornings and not because of the hot running guy.

It would be sort of nice if Keith knew his name, or maybe even came up with some other nickname to mentally refer to him as, but both of these options feel way too intimate. Keeping it at hot running guy offers Keith the guise of emotional distance he needs to keep his crush at a purely physical level.

In the second week, hot running guy seems to realize that it’s always Keith at tower seven, and takes to slowing his run to a jog and letting his gaze linger as he waves. The first time it happens Keith drops his stopwatch off the edge of his tower. The second time he’s more prepared and wears it around his neck so he doesn’t look like a fumbling idiot when a pretty man gives him a bit of attention.

He’s just being polite Keith’s brain reminds him, which is another thing entirely to unpack.

The idea that he might possibly find Keith attractive is too far fetched to even imagine, but the alternative idea that the guy has noticed Keith’s regularity at tower seven and is being both friendly and polite is a little too much for Keith’s sleep fogged, horny brain to handle.

Hot guys with no heart are a dime a dozen. Nice guys who look like this are fucking unicorns, or mermaids maybe—definitely a fantasy either way.

The long days of June bleed into July, taking with them the June gloom and gracing Keith with the kind of sun kissed mornings he expected when he moved to the west coast. Still they’re nothing compared to the beauty of watching hot running guy speed across the shoreline under the glow of the early morning sun.

It’s during the third week of July that he makes the mistake of mentioning his tiny crush to Lance, which results in Lance rocking up to the beach during Keith’s shift every fucking day for two weeks to try and figure out who it is Keith is watching.

Luckily for Keith, Lance manages the duality of being both hyper intuitive but also blind as a bat and doesn’t realize who it is Keith watches day after day. After a few days of pestering Keith he gets bored enough that he abandons his nosy endeavors to spend his mornings off with his girlfriend instead leaving Keith to admire hot running guy in private.

By the time August rolls around Keith’s accepted that his crush is fucking ridiculous, and also that he’s probably never going to do anything about it.

At this point in his life, Keith’s basically an expert at keeping his own feelings buried down deep and this is no exception, especially once summer gets into full swing and Keith barely has time to oogle his crush with the way the beach fills up earlier and earlier every day.

Along with the increasingly large crowds come other changes too, namely to Keith’s social life. Despite his own tendency to be a bit of a homebody when he’s not working, Lance insists he needs to learn to live like a local and makes it his mission to drag Keith out every weekend he’s not working—to street fairs, farmers markets, a very unsuccessful surfing lesson, and even an avocado festival.

Before moving here Keith thought food festivals were just something they had in movies but sure enough on a blistering hot day the second week of September, he’s being dragged from booth to booth to try avocado ice cream, fried avocado, three kinds of guacamole and an avocado smoothie.

Before the festival Keith did not enjoy avocados. By the time they leave he hates them as much as he hates Lance and his stupid avocado shaped hat.

“That was fun,” Lance says on the way home, the backseat of his kia filled with ten pounds of haas avocados, an avocado t-shirt, avocado lotion and even avocado blossom honey.

“I mean, fun is subjective,” Keith says, turning up the air conditioning and sinking back into the seat.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t have fun. I saw your foot moving under the table when we had nachos.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith lies, refusing to admit that he enjoyed himself. The food was all disgusting and Keith never wants to see another avocado again, but the atmosphere was, well—not so bad. Everyone was in a good mood and the ocean breeze made the oppressive heat just bearable, and the music—Keith’s always loved live music.

“I knew it,” Lance crows, slapping his hands on the steering wheel. “Fucking victory. I knew I’d make a local out of you yet. This is fantastic. Wait until I tell Allura.”

“Just because I didn’t hate it doesn’t mean I’m a local yet,” Keith protests, unsure exactly why Lance is so vested in this.

“As your best friend I think I know you better than you know yourself.”

“We’re best friends?” Keith asks.

Lance slows to a stop at the red light, turning to Keith the most incredulous look ever. “Obviously.”

“Oh, ok,” Keith mumbles, unsure how to respond to that. He’s never had a best friend and even though Lance makes him insane sometimes—he’s also kind of cool, sometimes.

“I think, what you mean to say is Lance, you’re the greatest person I’ve ever met and I’m so grateful to know you. Of course you’re my best friend.”

“I would literally never fucking say that,” Keith laughs.

“Well you should,” Lance says, turning his attention back to the road as the light changes. “Also you’re going to need to be at the beach next Saturday at nine am sharp.”

“Wait, why? I’m not working then. Did they change the schedule?”

“No, they didn’t. It’s not for work, it’s for California Coastal Cleanup Day. Allura helped organize the one going on at our beach, so of course I promised her we’d both be there. The event doesn’t start until nine, but she needs us to help get everything set up and organized. So actually, yeah we shouldn’t probably be there at like seven not nine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Keith sighs.

“Excuse you Mr. lifeguard, don’t you care about the ocean?”

“Of course I do, asshole. But seven in the morning? Really? That’s not even a real hour.”

“Seven a.m. isn’t even that early,” Lance protests. “Besides, you wouldn’t say no to your best friend would you?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, you’re really gonna do me so dirty? Think about the marine life that needs your help. Have a heart.”

Keith sighs. He’s never been much of a do-gooder or the volunteer type but the more time he spends here the more respect he has for the wonder of the ocean.

“Fine, I’ll do it. Just know I’m agreeing under duress,” Keith tells him.

“”Noted,” Lance says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

When Saturday rolls around Keith deeply resents agreeing to help. He knows he should care about the trash on the beach and the impact it has on the ocean, but it’s hard for Keith to care about anything when he was forced to wake up at six thirty.

It’s an ungodly fucking hour to be awake and Keith fills his twenty four ounce tumblr with Stok cold brew, chugging half of it in one go before refilling it to take with him. He intends to bring the tumbler with him to sustain him through the long morning but somehow by the time he makes it through early morning traffic, across town and halfway down the beach to the designated meet up spot he’s over half an hour late and his cold brew is gone.

There’s no time to worry about the amount of caffeine he’s ingested on an empty stomach or how he wishes he had more, because Lance spots him almost immediately—waving at him like a maniac as if Keith could miss him and his practically neon blue swim shorts.

“Wow, about fucking time you showed up, mullet,” Lance yells, dragging a massive pop up sun shade through the sand. “Thought maybe you’d abandoned us.”

Keith frowns, patting at his hair. He doesn’t have a mullet he has a, well he’s not sure what he has. He cuts it himself and just sort of whacks at what he can reach with his knife but it’s not a mullet. At least he doesn't think it is.

“I believe what Lance means to say is good morning, Keith,” Allura chimes in, looking effortlessly gorgeous despite the early hour. Keith still has no idea how Lance landed a girlfriend like her but it gives him hope that if someone can see the best in someone as obnoxious as Lance, then someone might one day do more than tolerate Keith. “Thank you so much for coming today and helping me set up. The extra hands are invaluable, especially since my right hand man seems to have disappeared.”

“We don’t need him anyway. I’m as strong as he is, look,” Lance says, struggling to lift the sunshade above his head. He manages but not without visible strain.

Keith doesn’t get a chance to ask who it is they’re talking about because one second Lance is gloating about his own strength and the next sand is falling out of the folds of the sunshade and directly into his open eyes. Leading to a very loud and chaotic fifteen minutes, during which Lance insists he’s going to end up needing eye surgery.

Eventually, Allura does manage to calm him down and flush the sand from his eyes with a bottle of water, at which point they get a bit too tactile for Keith’s comfort and he makes his way over to the other volunteers to help set up informational tables and a few more sunshades. By the time the community volunteers begin arriving close to nine, the sunshades are all set up and the different cleaning stations have been established.

For some reason Keith assumed beach clean up was just walking around with a trash bag picking up visible litter but he quickly learns there’s a lot more to it as he watches huge shovels of sand being loaded into a massive sifting spinner which filters out micro plastics. Those who aren't close enough to the large one take small trays, kneeling in the sand to sift out more plastics and trash.

After a good twenty minutes watching volunteers disperse to different areas—helping ensure everyone has a job—Keith grabs his own sifting tray. He has no idea where Allura or Lance ended up, but he’s here now and watching everyone else work together has Keith itching to join in, not because of obligation but because he wants to.

Somehow Keith’s expecting it to take a long time to fill up his own bag. It doesn’t. In less than an hour Keith has filled two trash bags. It’s both incredible and horrifying to realize how much plastic is hidden beneath the sand. Always one to hyper focus, he loses himself to the rhythm of filling his own tray with sand over and over again, shaking it to unearth trash.

Keith stops paying attention to the people around him, or even the direction he’s going, moving further and further down the beach as he collects trash. It takes him a long time before he realizes that he’s no longer working near the majority of the other volunteers and at some point made his way three quarters of the way down the beach.

A quick glance at his watch shows it’s nearly noon—almost six hours since Keith woke up and he still hasn't had breakfast. The excessive caffeine and lack of food is definitely starting to get to him, especially combined with the sun burning on the back of his neck. He’s starting to get a little dizzy and nauseated and should probably head back and find Lance so he can get some food.

Probably.

Except there’s still more beach left. Beach the other volunteers won’t get to.

He glances down at the new trash bag he just opened and the tray dangling from his left hand. He’s this far already, another half hour without food won’t kill him but it will get more plastic off the beach.

Resolved to only spend another twenty minutes cleaning the beach, he drops to his knees and sets about sifting through the sand.

An hour later, he’s rounded the rocky corner of the seal rookery and crossed into the secluded beach on the other side. It’s not pupping season so this part of the beach isn’t technically closed right now, but it’s usually sparsely populated since it takes so long to get here and involves a bit of a trek through the tide pools and over some uneven rocks.

Sometimes after his shift is over he walks down this way and sits and watches the waves. Keith likes this part of the beach because it’s usually empty.

It’s not empty today.

Twenty feet or so from Keith there’s a man.

A man with hair as white as the sea spray on the cresting waves and an unmistakable physique.

A man Keith would recognize anywhere.

A man carrying a fucking seal.

Dropping his trash bag and sand sifter Keith takes off at a sprint, his own training kicking into high gear. There’s no marine rescue and Keith doesn’t have time to run down the beach and get someone else on duty to help, there’s only him.

Keith is fast and it only takes a few seconds before he’s close enough to the guy to realize that he isn’t taking the seal out of the water, he’s carrying it back into the ocean. He’s saving it.

Struck stupid by the absurdity of seeing his crush cradling a hundred and fifty pound seal in his arms like a baby as he walks it into the sea, he stops moving—immobilized by the sight before him. The crash of the waves is thunderous today so Keith can’t hear what the guy is saying, but his lips are moving and he’s definitely talking to the seal as the water slams into his tiny waist.

Once he’s deep enough he bends down, gently lowering the seal into the water. The seals head bobs in front of him for half a second before he disappears before the crashing waves leaving Keith to gape open mouthed as hot running guy turns around—his white t-shirt soaking wet and clinging to every inch of his muscled body, dark nipples and itty bitty waist on full display.

It’s disarming as fuck, especially after Keith just watched him single handled rescue a beached seal.

The guy scrubs a metal hand over his face, shaking the hair from his eyes as he walks back to the shore and Keith can see the exact moment he realizes he’s not alone—his pale grey eyes widening in surprise and a pale flush rising on his cheeks.

“Oh, hello,” he says, walking directly towards Keith who seems to have lost both the ability to speak and walk. “Are you alright?”

Keith is not alright. He’s alone with his crush who is apparently some kind of fucking prince charming and rescues fucking animals in his free time. He’s also so wet—his shirt clinging to the muscles of his stomach and his dark brown nipples erect and visible through his shirt.

The guy is talking again and Keith is absolutely sure he should be responding, but the sun is so hot and Keith’s head feels full of sand.

One second he’s opening his mouth, intending to insist he’s fine and the next second he’s swaying on his feet about to fall face first into the fucking ocean. He can see the sand and water approaching but can’t seem to make his arms or legs move to buffer his fall. He’s going to faceplant and embarrass himself; he just knows it.

He’s going to fall, he’s going to—oh.

“Easy,” the guy says, leaving Keith to crash face first not in the sand but in between a set of firm, soft pecs.

Words fail Keith who can only grunt out something unintelligible as big hands find purchase on his biceps.

“Steady, I’ve got you. Let’s get you back out of the water,” he says.

It’s easy to let the guy guide him, both because Keith’s head is spinning too much to walk on his own and because his big, strong hands are cool from the ocean and feel fucking amazing on Keith’s overheated skin.

Rather than stopping the second their feet make contact with warm, dry sand the guy guides Keith towards a shaded spot near the rocks easing Keith down into the cool sand.

“Good job,” he says, as if Keith did more than let his ass fall down. “Just take a few slow deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth. Some deep diaphragmatic breathing will help the blood flow to your brain to decrease the dizziness.”

Keith complies, eyes a little unfocused as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, over and over until the cloudy, fuzzy feeling in his brain dissipates.

“Feeling any better?” he asks a minute later.

Keith nods. “A little. I uh...I’m a lifeguard so I’m CPR certified and everything so you don’t need to like worry about me or anything. I’m good.”

“Well even heroes need a little help now and again, huh?” the guy says, grinning at Keith in a way that feels painfully earnest.

“Not a hero,” Keith mumbles. “Just an idiot who had too much coffee and forgot to eat.”

“Now that I can help with,” he says, reaching a hand into the pocket of his shorts which are just as short as the ones he runs in every morning, pulling out a protein bar. “It’s uh, well wet because of the ocean, but it’s sealed and I promise I didn’t sit on it or anything.”

He holds it out towards Keith, their fingers brushing as Keith accepts the protein bar.

“Um, thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, licking his lips as he squats down in front of Keith which is possibly the most distracting thing he could do—the hem of his tiny shorts riding up his gloriously thick thighs as the material stretches tight.

It’s like there’s sandpaper in his mouth as he rips the protein bar open and takes a huge bite without bothering to look at the flavor, inwardly groaning as he realizes it’s peanut butter. Keith hates peanut butter.

“So you’re volunteering with the coastal cleanup? That’s really good of you.”

Keith hums out something noncommittal, tempted to protest that he’s really not as nice as this guy seems to think. Unfortunately his mouth is full of peanut butter protein bar and his brain is full of thoughts of the guys’ thighs.

He’s not really sure how he’s supposed to function after finding out that the guy he’s been lusting after the last few months is more than just a nice body; that he is apparently a good guy who rescues beached seals and random idiots who forget to eat.

“I’m Shiro by the way,” the guy says, running metal fingers through his hair. “Probably should’ve said that earlier.”

“Keith,” he mumbles though his mouthful of protein bar, finally swallowing it down.

He takes another bite despite his displeasure at the flavor, oddly compelled to make sure Shiro doesn’t realize he dislikes it. It was so kind of him to offer it and he’s just so god damn handsome and Keith is a fucking idiot who can’t handle such a beautiful man staring at him.

“Nice to finally meet you, Keith. I uh...recognize you from my morning runs. You work over on tower four right?”

Keith nods, wishing he hadn’t taken such a big bite. Somehow the knowledge that Shiro recognizes him makes him feel flushed all over and not from the sun. Sure Shiro has waved to him enough times that this shouldn’t be a surprise, but Keith worked really fucking hard to convince himself otherwise; to convince himself that it was just a friendly little wave Shiro gave everyone he passed and that he wasn’t paying any attention to Keith in particular.

Apparently Keith was wrong.

“So how long have you been a lifeguard?” Shiro asks, dropping down all the way to the sand. He leaves his legs spread wide, digging his feet into the warm sand as he tips forward—every ounce of his attention on Keith.

It’s disarming as absolute fuck.

“A few years,” Keith answers once he’s swallowed. “Well, pool lifeguarding anyway. I grew up in New Mexico and we definitely didn’t have beaches there. To be honest we didn’t have anything except an old movie theater on main street that they sometimes used for city meetings and a dollar store. Growing up the most exciting thing that happened every summer was watching tumbleweeds.”

Keith breaks off, suddenly aware how off track he got.

“Sounds kind of charming,” Shiro says. He doesn’t look bored but just in case Keith turns the conversation back to the question he was actually asked and not a detour of his childhood.

“It was alright but I used to get bored, you know? But um I always liked swimming at the local pool so I got certified as soon as I was old enough. I liked having something to keep me busy and the spare money was nice too. When I moved out here it just seemed like a natural progression to lifeguard at the beach too. But uh...it’s different. The ocean is not like a pool.”

Shiro doesn’t laugh at him for stating the obvious, instead he tilts his body forward just enough to block the sun that's been in Keith’s eyes as he asks, “Good different or bad different?”

“Both?” Keith answers, maybe more honestly than he should.

A soft smile takes shape on Shiro’s face as he rests his forearms on his knees. “I’m glad there’s at least some good, Keith.”

The sound of his name falling from Shiro’s lips sends goosebumps up Keith’s spine. Never in his life has someone said his name like that.

Keith’s heart pounds in his chest as he licks his sun chapped lips, thoroughly parched. Whether its from the heat or Shiro he has no fucking idea.

He’s never been good at this kind of small talk but the prickle of nervousness he feels about attempting to talk, or flirt if he can manage, is nothing compared to the longing he feels to get to know something—anything—about the man in front of him.

For so long Keith’s ignored the flutter of attraction he feels watching Shiro run across the shoreline and into the ocean, sure there was nothing beneath his attractive exterior. Now Keith knows better.

Shiro isn’t just the sexiest man alive, he’s also possibly one of the sweetest, and the knowledge is absolutely life-ruining. Keith is never ever going to be able to go back to lusting after Shiro in peace. Not now that he’s gone and caught fucking feelings.

“What about you?” Keith asks, praying he sounds moderately normal and not as squeaky and awkward as he feels.

“What about me?” Shiro asks sweetly, tiling his head back to blow some of the hair out of his eyes.

“Did you uh, grow up here?” Keith asks, unsure if that’s an appropriate thing to ask someone you just met. “You just seem really comfortable in the ocean and apparently with marine life.”

“Oh yeah, you could almost say I was born in the sea,” Shiro grins. “My grandpa—”

“Holy fucking shit, Keith, there you are,” Lance screams, running across the shore with his arms and legs waving like one of those inane giant blow up people in front of car dealerships. “I thought you died! We were looking everywhere for you and—Shiro, what the hell are you doing over here? Allura has been looking for you for hours!”

“Hey, Lance,” Shiro says, clearing his throat and sitting up a little straighter. Something shifts in his demeanor, and though his smile doesn’t falter it feels as if Lance’s arrival has brought with it an invisible wall between them. “Sorry, I got distracted. I should go let her know I’m fine and see if she needs any help.”

Lance hums, waving his hand. “Sounds good. Make sure to let her know I saved Keith.”

Shiro nods, rising up and dusting the sand from the back of his thighs and ass. He pauses, towering above Keith like some kind of Greek god—his form silhouetted against the scalding midday sun—as he stares down at Keith.

“It was really nice to meet you, Keith.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “You too, Shiro.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Shiro if he can see him again when Lance steps in front of Shiro.

“Keith, you look like fucking shit what happened to you? Do you need me to call an ambulance? Did you faint?”

“Oh my god,” Keith groans, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

“I think he’s just got a little bit of heat sickness,” Shiro says, peering over the top of Lance’s head to smile at Keith. It’s a little less confident than before, but no less sincere. “Nothing too serious I don't think, but he needs some real food, some hydration and to get out of the sun. I can help if—”

“Well there’s no one better equipped to save someone than me,” Lance interrupts, hands on his hips like some kind of wannabe superman. “You can leave, Shiro. Don’t worry about Keith. I’m more than capable of taking care of this idiot. I do it most days already. He’s sort of hopeless but I took him under my wing and he’s learning to adapt to So Cal. You could say, I'm kind of his hero.”

Keith groans again, embarrassed and annoyed and also unsure why Lance is posturing like a fucking peacock in front of Shiro.

“Uh huh,” Shiro hums politely, fighting back a smile as he continues to stare. “I guess I’ll get going then since Keith is in such good hands.”

“Damn right he is,” Lance agrees, bending down and holding a hand out to feel Keith’s forehead.

Keith grunts, swatting Lance’s hand away. “Your hand is hot, stop touching me.”

“Wow you’re really fucking cranky. I wonder if that’s a symptom of heat sickness.”

It’s a symptom of my annoying best friend just cockblocked my conversation with my crush, is what Keith thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud unwilling to let Lance know that Shiro is the guy he’s been watching. Especially if Lance somehow knows Shiro, which raises an entire set of questions all on it’s own.

“Do you think you can walk or do I need to carry you? I’m incredibly strong but you’re sort of heavy as a fucking anchor so its a crapshoot whether I’ll drop you and—”

“Lance, how do you know Shiro?” Keith interrupts.

“Huh? Shiro? He’s the co-chair on the coastal cleanup crew—wait a minute,” Lance says, cocking his head to the side. “Why did you say his name like that?”

“Like what?” Keith asks, trying not to blink under Lance’s intense glare.

“Nicely.”

A weird heat rushes Keith face as he attempts to school his features into something nonreactive. “I didn’t say it any special way, asshole.”

“Oh boy,” Lance grins, plopping down into the sand and sending a flurry of it flying into Keith’s lap. “You like him.”

“I don't like him, he was just friendly is all,” Keith lies. “He’s um, you know...nicer than I expected from just watching him every—”

Immediately Keith slams his mouth shut, realizing what he’s said but it’s too late because apparently Lance has realized it too.

“Oh my fucking god, you’ve been lusting after Shiro.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Keith groans, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in them. He cannot handle looking at Lance right now with his stomach feeling like he’s dangling upside down on a roller coaster.

He is not emotionally prepared for this right now, still dizzy from the sun or the caffeine or just Shiro. He desperately wants to go home and crawl under his covers and never come out again. Or at least not come out until he can find some way to emotionally recover from meeting Shiro.

“Holy shit, I figured whoever you were crushing was out of your league but I didn’t realize just how much. Shiro is basically So Cal royalty. He owns a ton of beach front property up and down the coast, and when he’s not working with Allura on the coastal clean up, he does all kinds of other charity projects with the local marine rescue center. I heard he takes his own boat out to clean up the ocean on weekends, for fun. He was even on the cover of Southern California Life Magazine last year. He’s basically the most eligible bachelor in So Cal.”

The last bit gets Keith’s attention as he lifts his face up off his knees.

“So uh, he’s single then?”

Lance splutters. “All of that information and that's what you choose to latch on to? What part of sexy and rich and do-gooder did you not understand?”

“I heard you,” Keith says, purposely ignoring Lance’s incredulous tone. “So if he is in fact single, by any chance is he um...into guys?”

“He’s gay if that’s what you mean,” Lance says, eyes narrowed. “Did you hit your head by any chance?”

“Fuck you,” Keith snorts. “I’m serious.”

“You know what, let’s get you back to the tents and make sure you’re actually okay. Then we can talk about it, buddy.”

Too out of sorts to argue, Keith allows Lance to give him a hand and pull him from the sand. He draws the line at being carried though, stumbling in the sand as he dodges out of Lance’s grasp. There’s not a chance in hell he’s letting Shiro, or anyone else for that matter, witness Lance carrying him. Not even when he’s dizzy, feels close to vomiting and walking through the sand feels more difficult than ever..

“I’m gonna text Allura real quick,” Lance says.

Keith waves a hand in his direction, gritting his teeth as he trudges through the sand unsure why it feels like someone tied weights to his ankles.

It takes all of Keith’s concentration to make it down the beach on his own. So much that he doesn’t notice the ambulance pulled down onto the sand until they’re only ten feet away.

“Oh shit, did someone get hurt,” Keith says, hand on his hip as he surveys the crowd in front of them trying to parse out who it is that needs the ambulance.

“You could say that,” Lance mumbles, clearing his throat before cupping his hands around his mouth and screaming, “he’s over here.”

There’s all of two seconds for Keith to try and make sense of what is happening before the paramedics are rushing over. He has just enough time to catch sight of Shiro watching him before he’s corralled to the back of the ambulance having his pulse and temperature checked while the other emt asks Keith to follow his finger with his eyes.

Keith obliges but not without making it clear he is unhappy about the entire situation and none of it is necessary.

“This is just his normal disposition, don't worry,” Lance pipes up with. “He broke both his arms when he was twelve jumping off the back of a moving truck and told his parents he was fine. They didn’t know his arms were broken for three days so you guys can’t trust him.”

The emt’s share a knowing look before one of them pulls out a pulse oximeter.

I’m going to kill you, Keith mouths at Lance.

Unbothered, Lance shoots him dual finger guns.

In the end they don’t get to talk about Shiro and his relationship status. They don’t get to talk about anything because the stupid fucking EMT’s insist on taking Keith to the hospital for his abnormally high heart rate. He knows they’re just doing the job and he respects that, but he’s also hungry and cranky and embarrassed at having a crowd of strangers including his crush, watch him be loaded into the fucking ambulance when there is nothing wrong him. Or at least nothing life or death.

“I’ll bring you flowers if you get admitted,” Lance screams.

Keith flips Lance off, waiting until the doors shut to throw his head back on the gurney and let out a muffled scream.

The next few hours are spent in the emergency room of the local hospital hooked up to an ECG and an IV, tugging down his too-small hospital gown as the ER doctor uses him as a teaching example about excessive caffeine and sun exposure. The monitor beeps in time with his rapid heartbeat as a small group of med students peer at him, making Keith wonder exactly how much embarrassment he can handle in one day before his system shuts down.

By the time he makes it home and plugs in his now dead cell phone there’s a dozen messages from Lance. He uses the last of his energy to text Lance back and assure him he’s not dead, shower off the pungent hospital smell that clings to his skin and inhale an entire family size box of frozen macaroni and cheese.

Exhausted, embarrassed and frustrated he crashes on his couch and scrolls through Netflix until he finds a movie he’s seen half a dozen times, eyes falling shut before the intro has finished—mind full of thoughts of Shiro.

Keith wakes up and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

The inside of his left arm which was a little sore yesterday is now purple all over from the multiple jabs for the IV since he was so dehydrated, his neck hurts from falling asleep on the couch and he’s sticky.

Keith hasn’t woken up from a wet dream since he was sixteen and still coming to terms with his sexuality, and the fact that he was equally turned on by the football captain as the cheer captain. Or at least the idea of them anyway, come to think of it Keith didn’t actually want to date either of them but both their uniforms had provided plenty of fodder for what he got up to with his right hand when he was home alone.

He supposes that waking up like this is not actually that surprising, since the last thing Keith remembers before falling asleep was thinking about the way Shiro looked with his hair blowing in the wind and his hair sparkling in the sun.

Still, it’s one thing to admit to himself he’s got a raging fucking crush and another to wake up with his boxers full of come.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall above his t.v. lets him know it’s only seven in the morning, yet another reason to be grumpy. He’s not even scheduled to work today so being awake this early is offensive, especially combined with the whole sticky underwear and bruised arm (and ego) bullshit.

Worse, Keith can’t even try to go back to sleep in his bed because he’s so sticky he needs a shower but once he showers he will be awake awake, and no matter how tired he is there’s not a chance in hell he will be able to fall asleep again. Normally when this kind of thing happens he consoles himself with a shit ton of cold brew but after all the trouble that got him into yesterday he’s too scared.

Instead he settles for making his way into the kitchen and chugging a huge glass of water before making his way to the bathroom for his back up method of getting over being cranky—jerking off. It’s not coffee, but it’s something that always helps loosen the tension in Keith’s body and relieve a sour mood.

Refusing to be subjected to a cold shower after the audacity of his body subjecting him to a wet dream, he flips the water on and lets it warm while he tugs off his sleep shirt and shoves down his boxers—kicking both of them into the corner to deal with later.

The shower floor is cold as ice and Keith shivers as he steps inside, hurrying beneath the warm spray of water. The second the hot water hits him he lets out an audible sigh of relief, tipping his face up beneath the water. Keith fucking loves a hot shower.

Second by second the water warms his cold body and washes away his sweat and stickiness, leaving him feeling decidedly less grumpy—and also more turned on. Sometimes Keith wonders if other people can just flip a switch the way he does, but he’s always been good at compartmentalizing and right now he wants to get off. Especially to thoughts of Shiro’s jiggling pecs and gloriously thick thighs.

Just thinking about Shiro’s thighs has Keith’s cock thickening as he skims his hand down his stomach to wrap it around his growing length.

Shiro, basked in the early morning sunlight.

Shiro squatting down to talk to Keith, thighs as wide as his smile.

Shiro, rescuing a beached seal like some kind of fucking marine rescue superhero.

Even for Keith the speed at which he becomes fully erect is fast and he has no desire to slow it down. For months he’s watched Shiro from afar, refusing to ever let himself fantasize about him or imagine a world in which they might interact. Yesterday changed everything and while it ended in a flurry of embarrassment and chaos, nothing can dwindle the flare of desire within Keith from actually meeting Shiro.

“Fuck,” Keith groans, thunking his forehead against the shower wall as he curls his fingers around his cock and strokes—firm, fast strokes that have his heart racing and his shoulders tensing.

Everything about Shiro is big and bold and bright and Keith aches to see him again—wants to hear the honey sweet lilt of his voice when he says Keith’s name and maybe even get close enough to touch.

Touch. Fuck, he can only imagine how plush and squishy Shiro’s pecs are. Keith wants to shove his face in them, wants to suck at the dark pink nipples until they’re erect as he sucks and bites. Keith fucking loves a nice chest and Shiro’s is the nicest he’s ever seen.

It’s easy to imagine the way his own lips would look around one of Shiro’s nipples, and the way Shiro might whimper Keith’s name. It’s a ridiculous, salacious thought but what Keith thinks about in the privacy of his own shower can’t hurt anyone.

What it can do is bring him some relief—his cock aching as he speeds up his strokes.

Unusually Keith likes to drag it out, likes to work himself up slow and sweet—fingers in his ass as he teases himself before finally giving his cock the attention he’s been longing for. This is not like usual.

Right now Keith aches for relief, to be touched in a way that is so visceral he can hardly breathe. Slamming his eyes shut he lets himself get carried away, imagining the way Shiro might touch him.

Keith, Shiro might whisper as he dragged his big hands down Keith’s side.

Eager to feel that touch, Keith brings his free hand up to his belly, spreading his fingers wide as he rubs his hand over his abdomen. It feels so good to be touched, the sensation of being caressed while he jerks off enough to make his cock leak precome.

He knows he’s close, can feel the way his own breath catches and the way his heart rate speeds up as he rubs a thumb over his sensitive slit and pretends it’s Shiro touching him.

Most of the time Keith’s perfectly happy to touch himself. He fucking loves jerking off and has never minded not having a partner to do it for him. He’s got a really good when he wants to, and has spent countless nights fingering himself or stroking his own cock to a faceless body.

This is not a faceless image—it’s Shiro—and this changes everything.

It’s not some random person from a movie or a magazine he thinks about.

It’s a person he knows, a person he likes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Keith curses, twisting around and accidently slamming the back of his head against the shower wall as he arches into his own hand.

His movements turn sloppy as he increases the speed of his strokes, desperate for release. It feels so good he can hardly breathe, thoughts of Shiro making his heart skip a beat as his cock slides through the circle of his fingers.

He’s so fucking close it almost hurts, his cock aching and his legs beginning to tremble.

He wants to come.

He needs to come.

That’s it, Keith. Come for me, he imagines Shiro might say as he encourages Keith to let go.

Shiro is so kind and gentle, it’s easy to imagine he might be that way with Keith.

Let go. I’ve got you. Good boy,, Shiro might say.

Just imagining that last bit is all it takes to tip Keith over the fucking edge as Keith wails, unable to tamper down the cry of pleasure that rips through his chest as he comes hard and fast—his release washed away by the spray of the shower.

“Shiro,” he whines, stroking himself through his release until his cock is over sensitive and his legs shake.

It takes a minute for Keith to come down from his post orgasmic high, but when he does he hurries out of the now cold shower and dries off and gets dressed in clean clothes. Or as close to clean as he can get since he didn’t get to do his laundry yesterday and has to settle for wearing something off his too dirty to wear to clean to be in the hamper pile.

He gives the shirt a sniff, shrugging his shoulders as he makes his way into the kitchen. It’s clean enough for the big day Keith has planned including a big ass breakfast and hours of Netflix.

Keith has half a dozen missed calls from Lance and even a few from some of the other coworkers he’s moderately friendly with. He’s not sure how any of them got his cell phone number, though Lance seems the most likely suspect. Either way he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, or see anyone for that matter.

His pride is still smarting from yesterday and he needs to spend the entirety of today figuring out how the fuck he’s going to save face when he works tomorrow and has to come face to face with the beach Adonis he now has a name for.

Shiro.

Just thinking about him makes Keith’s face hot. He never jerks off to people he knows, partly because he’s never really actually liked anyone and—well no that’s it. Keith’s always been a little jaded in the people department. He knows there are plenty of good people in the world, like his parents, but he’s met so many shitty ones and seen so much unkindness in the world it always felt easier to stay single and enjoy his right hand, rather than face the daunting prospect of trying to date.

Not that he thinks Shiro will date him. Fuck, after yesterday Shiro has probably already picked up a new running route. Or worse, maybe he will keep running past Keith’s tower every day but stop waving because Keith was such an idiot who not only went and got himself over caffeinated and heat sick. He didn’t even flirt properly or get to ask for Shiro’s phone number and now he’s ruined things before there was even a chance of there maybe, possibly being something.

Perfectly aware he’s spiraling and fast, Keith walks himself to the kitchen and to the fridge. What he needs is food and lots of it.

When in duress, the answer is usually food and after not eating enough yesterday he’s absolutely ravenous.

He’s also out of food, something he becomes painfully aware of when he opens his fridge and finds the empty carton of milk he didn’t throw away, a half drunk bottle of purple Powerade he didn’t like but didn’t want to waste, and a box of leftover chinese food of questionable origin.

Fuck.

He was supposed to grocery shop yesterday. He always does his grocery shopping on his day off. Keith might not look it but he’s still a growing boy and he goes through enough food that by the end of the week his fridge and cupboards are painfully bare. Meaning if he skips grocery day he’s well and truly fucked.

A quick check of his pantry reveals a pitiful amount of hot Cheetos which are also stale, less than a quarter cup of uncooked rice, and a canister of plain rolled oats that Keith bought when he was feeling like he might want to make healthy breakfast choices. He doesn’t want to.

He wants a giant fucking breakfast burrito or a pound of bacon and some eggs.

As unpalatable as plain oatmeal sounds, it’s better than nothing so Keith grabs a bowl and dumps in some oats and water, eyeballing the measurements. This turns out to be a bad idea because halfway though the microwave cycle there’s an explosion and Keith’s oatmeal ends up on every available surface inside his microwave, except the inside of his bowl.

Unwilling to risk the same fate twice, Keith dumps the oatmeal bowl in the sink and shuffles to the front door.

He might not have budgeted for a breakfast burrito this week but fuck it all, Keith deserves a god damn burrito even if it means a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner later.

His stomach grumbles loudly making the decision even easier. If Keith doesn’t get a decent meal soon there’s no telling what he might do. Something dangerous and stupid probably, though whether that something stupid would involve trying to bug Lance for Shiro’s phone number or caving and chugging the second half of his quart of cold brew he’s unsure.

The one thing he knows for certain is that he needs a burrito from the rundown market across town. Lance introduced him to it on his second weekend in California and gave him a rather terrifying lecture on authentic mexican food which was apparently not from restaurants but from the corner markets and the food trucks. The lecture was a little bit intense but the burrito was out of this world and Keith is not ashamed to admit he’s basically obsessed now.

He can practically taste the burrito already—a warm tortilla bigger than his head, perfectly scrambled eggs, double serving of carne asada, thick refried beans made with lard, whole fire roasted jalapenos and the ghost pepper salsa hot enough to make his eyes water.

Fuck he’s hungry.

With more speed than he normally displays before eight am he hurries to put on his shoes, grabs his keys and heads downstairs to the carport. This early there’s no real traffic and he makes it across town in fifteen minutes. He’s even lucky enough to get a parking spot near the front door.

His luck continues as he heads inside and finds that the market is relatively uncrowded for a weekend since it’s still so early. Usually, if Keith comes here it’s not until ten or so and by then there’s a line outside and around the building. It’s almost enough to make Keith consider becoming a morning person. Almost.

Without the usual Sunday crowd Keith is able to get his burrito and pay in under ten minutes. He heads outside, halfway to one of the shitty white plastic chairs out front to inhale his burrito when the wind shifts, sending a burst of salt air his way. He didn’t come to the market because it was near the beach, but now that he’s here, it seems a shame to not enjoy his burrito by the beach. He’s waited this long to eat, he can manage five more minutes.

Paper bag clutched in hand he bypasses his car and crosses the street, speed walking the quarter mile to the pier. This too is basically deserted and Keith decides to do something he’s never done and eat at the end of the pier. He only passes one person on the way, who appears to be packing up their fishing pole to leave which means that he has the pier all to himself.

He bypasses the tables near the taco shack and goes all the way to the end, dropping down to dangle his legs over the edge as he finally pulls out his burrito. Keith’s never seen the pier empty and the novelty of listening to the waves crash against the pilings beneath him in the quiet morning sends a little thrill through Keith.

For a boy who grew up in the desert, the ocean calls to Keith in unexpected ways.

Keith wastes no time ripping open his paper bag to use as a makeshift plate, unrolling his burrito from the foil wrapping. It’s so big he has to use both hands to hold it, and the first bite of warm tortilla with meat and eggs is practically orgasmic. Keith barely chews, inhaling two more bites off the top before retrieving the little cup of extra salsa and dumping it all over the top, uncaring that it drips down the sides of his tortilla and leaves his hands and the front of his shirt covered in salsa.

Nothing in the world could distract Keith from his burrito right.

It’s so fucking good he almost forgets how embarrassed he still is about the way yesterday ended. Shiro seems like such a nice guy, maybe he won’t judge Keith too harshly for being a fucking moron who can’t take care of himself. Maybe he will—be in the ocean.

Momentarily forgetting how to chew Keith splutters, nearly choking on his burrito as he narrows his eyes and continues to stare into the distance. It’s not the time Keith would normally see Shiro swimming if he were on duty, but that flash of white hair he just spotted is unmistakable. Or at least he thinks it is.

Keith rises up, burrito clutched in one hand and bits of salsa and meat spilling down onto his shoe as he leans over the wooden railing and eyes the horizon. For several minutes there’s nothing except the choppy spray of seafoam and seagulls dive bombing the surface.

His hope rises when something breaches the surface but it turns out to be a dolphin's fin, followed by several more. For a few minutes Keith loses himself watching the way they splash and play, occasionally turning his head to try and see if he can spot Shiro.

Just when Keith has all but convinced himself he hallucinated, he catches sight of Shiro’s hair breaching the surface, in the middle of the fucking pod of dolphins.

If Keith didn’t know better, he’d swear Shiro was part fish or something. Never in his life has he seen anyone as at home in the sea, or any water for that matter, as Shiro.

Impressed and maybe a little jealous, he watches Shiro twist in the ocean turning his face up to the sun as a dolphin leaps over him. It’s the single most unreal sight he’s ever seen and without meaning to, Keith loses his grip on his burrito, the second half falling down into the sea with a splat.

The disappointment he feels at losing the second half of his burrito is diminished entirely by the sight of Shiro joyfully swimming with dolphins. The sight is so surprising and so fucking unbelievable that it takes Keith longer than it should to realize something is wrong..

Twenty feet or so from the end of the pier Shiro has suddenly stopped swimming, his arms moving as if he’s climbing some kind of invisible ladder as he remains in one place. Even more alarming is the fact that his head is so low in the water that his mouth is at water level.

Both of these are telltale signs someone is drowning, and while it doesn't make any sense considering what an incredible swimmer Shiro is, it doesn’t need to make sense. Keith’s training has taught him to recognize the signs of someone in duress in the water.

Adrenaline courses through Keith’s body as his eyes dart from side to side. There are no lifeguards on duty for another forty minutes and the rest of the pier is still entirely deserted.

There’s no one to rescue Shiro, no one except Keith.

A bubble of unease rises in Keith as he eyes the water. Since he’s not on duty today Keith didn’t bother reading the tide forecast . He’s not sure what the currents are like today, and if he were on duty he never would’ve eaten half a pound of burrito in five minutes flat before jumping into the water. All of these things are a combination for disaster but there’s no time to get help.

If Shiro is in trouble, which it sure as fuck seems like he is, then Keith is going to save him.

There is no fear in Keith as he dives off the end of the pier, only sheer determination. As expected the water is freezing this early in the morning and it sends prickles of pain through Keith’s body as he’s submerged headfirst into the depths of the sea.

During training, they’d spent a lot of time learning to understand the movement of water, learning the tides and currents and knowing how to use the movement of the water to their advantedge in a rescue. None of his training prepared him for his current predicament though; swimming against an unexpectedly strong tide on an uncomfortably full stomach while wearing jeans and tennis shoes.

Even with the odds stacked against him, Keith struggles forward towards Shiro. He’s a damn good swimmer and a fucking lifeguard. Nothing is going to keep him from getting to Shiro.

Nothing except a riptide Keith is entirely unprepared for.

A riptide that swiftly propels him the opposite direction he’s going, away from Shiro and directly beneath the pier. It’s a horrible fucking place to be with the current weather—wind making the waves crash into the pilings and sending sea spray into his face.

With a mouthful of salt water Keith continues to swim against the current, desperately trying to move his body out of its grip. It takes an unexpected amount of strength for him to stay away from the pilings and no matter how hard he swims he doesn't seem to be getting out from under the pier.

In fact, he’s slipping further backwards into the maze of pilings—long tangles of seaweed curling around his ankles where his pants have risen up.

Keith wishes he was wearing anything but soaking wet jeans and converse, wishes he had a rescue buoy to help keep his head above water, wishes he hadn’t inhaled half a monster size burrito that feels dangerously close to coming back up and he wishes he wasn’t sleep deprived and still recovering from his heat sickness.

Mostly he wishes he wasn’t fucking stuck under the god damn fucking pier while Shiro might be drowning. He’s a goddamn lifeguard. This is his job. Saving people is what he does, but right now he’s struggling in ways he did not foresee.

Even with the churning in his gut and his clothes weighing him down, he doesn’t give up. Shiro needs him.

Shiro. Thinking about him provides Keith with a burst of unexpected strength—enough to make his way towards the end of the pier. He’s so close he can practically taste the wide open sky.

He can do this.

He will do this.

“I’m coming, Shiro,” he screams, aware that Shiro can’t hear him, but needing to say the words just the same.

With every ounce of strength he propels himself forward, choking on the spray of seawater that ricochets off the piling and into his face.

For Shiro, he thinks, taking a shuddering breath as he slips beneath the sea. He squints his eyes open, moving towards the light that streams down through the surface to guide him out into open waters.

He’s nearly there too when he realizes something is wrong. He’s moving forward alright, but too quickly and at an angle taking him dangerously close to one of the pilings. Keith wants to scream. He knows fixed structures like jetties and piers always have a strong, fixed riptide. He thought he was careful enough to avoid it but apparently not.

The safest way to get out of the riptide would be to swim parallel to shore, but this far under the water Keith can’t fucking tell which way is parallel. Before he can breach the surface to figure it out, the current swiftly moves him through the sea, and try as he might to outstubborn the sea he is unsuccessful.

Panic floods Keith’s veins, not for himself but Shiro.

He’s supposed to be saving Shiro. Instead he can feel himself being carried through the water like a ragdoll, entirely unprepared for the pain that lances through his body as he’s slammed into one of the pilings.

Every bit of air leaves Keith in a sudden, unstoppable gasp of pain as he lets out a scream that’s silenced by the sea. His hands scramble to curl around swirls of slimy seaweed that slip through his grasp as the water carries him backward, then back against the piling once more. His stomach is spared another blow but at the expense of his left shoulder being dragged across the jagged wood—shirt ripping as splinters of wood pierce his skin.

The sunlight above him begins to fade, though whether he’s sinking to the bottom of the sea or simply losing consciousness he can’t tell.

Everything is dark and everything hurts, there’s no air in his lungs and he’s going to die.

Keith is going to die.

It’s a strange knowledge that plunges Keith into darkness as his consciousness fades. The next thing Keith knows he’s on the shore, choking on acrid bile and salt water as he expels the water from his lungs..

“That’s it, get it out,” someone tells him, their big hands rolling Keith onto his side.

The movement allows more water to leave Keith and every forceful cough brings out more water but with a cost—pain. There’s a ringing in Keith’s ears as he gasps for breath, confused about why he isn’t dead.

“Breathe,” they repeat, a hand resting at Keith’s back. The voice is familiar but Keith can’t place it with the energy required to bring air into his lungs.

The stranger is talking but Keith can’t focus on the words with the pounding in his head as he gasps for air. Every breath is painful, until it’s not. Until blissful, wonderful oxygen fills Keith’s veins, and his lungs.

It’s only when his breathing has returned to normal that he feels his body being rolled onto his back and Keith finally opens his eyes and is met with the sight of the underside of the pier. He turns his head to the right and sure enough, he’s on the sand hidden between two large wooden pilings.

The hand at his side disappears and Keith reacts on instinct, body flying into a seated position to try and figure out what’s going on. Before he can get all the way up, big hands are on his shoulders guiding him back down and the most beautiful sight in the world appears in front of him—Shiro.

“You were drowning,” Keith croaks, voice raw.

“You,” were drowning,” Shiro corrects, cradling the back of Keith’s head as he guides him down to the sand, but not before Keith gets a glimpse of Shiro’s lower half.

He’s not wearing his normal itty bitty running shorts. He’s not wearing anything, because instead of legs he has a tail.

An honest to god fucking mermaid tail—gorgeous, iridescent white scales shimmering as he moves.

“Am I hallucinating?” Keith says, every word painful.

“You almost drowned,” is what Shiro says. It is not an answer at all. “There’s no blockage in your airways and I don’t think you broke any ribs. It’s hard to know the—”

“You have a tail,” Keith interrupts, reaching down to touch Shiro.

A shudder courses through Shiro’s body as Keith drags his fingers over Shiro’s belly, feeling the place where skin becomes fin. It’s firm but smooth and Keith doesn’t stop to think about propriety, mostly because he’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating.

Mermaids aren’t real.

“I’m dead,” Keith mutters, letting his hand roll down over Shiro’s hip and into his lap.

Shiro lets out a whimper, tail kicking up a large cloud of sand as he says, “you’re definitely not dead, Keith.”

There is no possible response to that, mostly because arguing with his own hallucination would be pointless. Keith has clearly died and his brain is affording him the little mermaid rescue fantasy of his teenage dreams as consolation for losing his life. It’s the only possible explanation.

Bolder than he would be if he were alive, Keith splays his fingers wide and feels every dip and curve of Shiro’s tail. Or at least the parts he can reach. To his surprise, when he moves lower there’s a slit in the tail, but before Keith can explore it Shiro’s letting out a strangled sound and curling fingers around Keith’s wrist to gently move his hand away.

Keith blinks, the sensation of Shiro’s metal fingers on his wrist so visceral he’d swear he wasn’t dead.

It’s only when Keith drags his attention away from the way Shiro’s long, thick fingers look wrapped around his wrist and up to Shiro’s face that another horrifying possibility hits Keith.

“Shiro, am I dead?”

“No, Keith. You’re not dead,” he says, gently lowering Keith’s palm to his belly.

Keith swallows, throat sore as he takes in the deep red flush across the bridge of Shiro’s nose.

“Am I...hallucinating?” he dares to ask once more.

The response is not immediate, something painful and almost scared flashing across Shiro’s face before he finally shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

Experimentally, Keith tries to roll onto his side but immediately stops, the pain in his back intense. He looks down at his shoulder, bleeding and riddled with splitters as his blood stains the sand.

He’s in too much pain to be dead and if he were hallucinating he sure as fuck wouldn’t have picked to imagine himself looked like a beat up drowned rat. Which can only mean one thing—Keith is not not hallucinating and he is not dead.

But if these things are true, then what’s in front of Keith must be real.

Shiro is a mermaid.

A mermaid that Keith just touched without asking for consent. A mermaid who Keith just fondled.

Shame and panic rise in Keith, along with the remainder of his burrito. Before he can warn Shiro, it’s all coming back up in a disgusting, embarrassing mess of sickness.

“Sorry,” Keith chokes out.

“It’s okay, get it out. Breathe,” Shiro says, helping Keith balance on his side as he finishes puking in the sand.

It’s disgusting.

Keith is disgusting.

Keith is an idiot.

If he wasn’t in so much pain he would cry. Instead he wallows. Shiro wasn’t drowning because mermaids don’t drown. He was swimming, and Keith is an idiot who jumped off the pier to save someone who didn’t need saving and ended up needing rescuing himself.

Between yesterday and today, Keith can only imagine what Shiro thinks of him.

Confirming Keith’s worst suspicions, Shiro begins to shuffle backwards and away from Keith. Before he can think better of it, he makes a pitiful noise hand flying out towards Shiro’s wrist.

“Please don’t leave me,” he begs.

“Oh, no I wasn’t...no, Keith. I wasn’t leaving. Just um...the thing is I can’t change back on land.”

Keith blinks, clearly not following along.

“My tail,” Shiro supplies. “I can only change in the water. Which I’m going to guess you saw if you thought I was drowning. I didn’t realize there was anyone on the pier. I’m usually more careful.”

Shiro is a mermaid. Shiro is also a human. These are two facts Keith was not aware of, but hearing Shiro speak about it so freely makes him feel as if he’s hallucinating all over again.

He grew up hearing fairy tales about mermaids, he just never thought they were real.

There are so many things Keith wants to say, apologies to make and questions to ask, but all that comes out of his mouth is another pathetic sound as Shiro inches backward.

Everything hurts and Keith is exhausted and confused and he doesn’t want to be alone.

Shiro pauses, leaning forward to cradle Keith’s hand between his. “I’ll come right back, Keith. But I can’t get you off this beach and get you the care you need if I can’t walk. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Keith whispers.

Whatever doubt and confusion he holds, it is not about this. He might not know Shiro well but what he does know—not because he’s been told, but because he can feel it in his gut—is that Shiro is someone he can trust.

“Good, then trust me now. I’ll come back, Keith. I promise.”

Keith nods, biting back any sounds of his displeasure as Shiro lowers his hand once more and slips away.

Arching his neck to the side, Keith is just able to catch a glimpse of Shiro rolling himself towards the sea, eventually stopping and using his substantial arm strength instead to pull himself through the shallow waves until it’s deep enough for him to swim—entire body disappearing beneath the waves.

It’s impossible to mark the passage of time, but Keith tries—counting the seconds as he takes slow, deep breaths. The waves crash loudly against the pilings, the wind whistling through the beams and sending a chill through Keith who feels his body begin to shake.

All alone he once again doubts his own sanity. Maybe he hit his head and didn’t realize it. Maybe he really is hallucinating.

When Shiro was here it was so easy to focus on the rich timbre of his voice and the kindness in his eyes. Something in his countenance made it easy to accept the whole mermaid thing even if it sounded fucking insane. But Shiro is gone now and Keith is left with nothing but his thoughts and the painful lub dub of his heart.

He tries to sit up, but between the sharp stab of pain in his back and weakness in his limbs he can’t manage. Instead of moving upright he ends up flopping back down into the sand with a painful thud that has him digging his fingers into the sand and choking back a sob.

Alone.

Keith is alone.

Shiro promised to return, but it didn’t occur to Keith to ask how long it might be. He has no fucking idea how long it takes to transform from a human into a mermaid. Just thinking that thought has Keith unsure if he wants to laugh or cry.

As the seconds tick by, confusion and doubt rise in Keith like the coming of the tide. He feels as if he’s losing his mind, and it’s only the pain in his body that centers him enough that he at least knows he isn’t dead.

Soon water is lapping at Keith’s ankle, making him jump. High tide is coming and Keith needs to move, but he can’t.

For as long as Keith can remember he’s been the kind of guy who trusted his gut. It didn’t matter what people told him or didn’t tell him, he always had an uncanny ability to sense when something or someone was worth trusting. He was so sure Shiro was one of those someones, but as the tide rises, water soaking Keith’s jeans once more, Keith begins to doubt.

The thought makes him uncharacteristically emotional and Keith slams his eyes shut as he breathes through his nose desperately trying not to cry.

Keith doesn’t cry. Ever.

He wants to cry now.

He’s confused and hurting and wet and cold. His entire life has been defined by his stubborn independence and refusal to let anyone else take care of him. Right now Keith would give anything to have someone hold him and tell him everything is okay, to reassure him that he’s not losing his fucking mind or actually dying.

He wants, fuck—he wants Shiro.

He wants—

“Keith.”

The sound of Shiro’s voice breaks through Keith’s mental anguish, piercing his heart like the first beam of sunlight that forces its way through the clouds on a stormy day.

There is no fight left in Keith, no ability to question what’s happening. There is just Shiro and his honey sweet voice. Shiro and his big, strong arms that are scoping Keith up from the sand like a fucking baby and cradling him close.

A lump forms in Keith’s throat as he tries to recall the last time someone held him like this, the last time he let someone hold him. He feels like he should be trying to hold himself up or apologize for something, but all Keith can do is settle into the strength of Shiro’s arms as he lets his head tip sideways onto Shiro’s shoulder—pressing his face into the crook of Shiro’s neck.

Despite the chill of the ocean Shiro’s body is warm and when Keith breathes in deep he can smell the salt on his skin, can practically taste it. Shiro’s chest is so firm, his entire presence solid and safe. If Keith closes his eyes he can feel the beat of Shiro’s heart against his side—the slow, steady lub dub lulling Keith into a state of complete compliance.

Normally Keith would fight against someone else carrying him, insisting he was fine.

Keith is not fine.

He just nearly died and his crush is apparently a fucking mermaid. Keith is confused and in pain and so tired. But Shiro? Shiro is warm and safe and for the first time in his adult life Keith simply lets himself go, body going lax as he exhales a heavy breath.

Shiro is here and it’s nice to be held, to feel safe. So damn nice.

“That’s it, Keith, rest your head on me,” Shiro tells him as he starts to walk. “I’ve got you now. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s exactly what Keith needs to hear.

Letting someone else take care of him seems like the single greatest idea he’s ever heard.

“Just...no hospital. Please,” he grits out, unable to bear another half a day being poked and prodded and stared at.

“Okay, if you’re sure. I can patch you up. My house isn’t far.”

Unable to muster the strength for words he merely nods. It's enough for Shiro who begins to walk. Breathing in the salt air and the scent of Shiro, Keith remains still as Shiro easily carries him across the beach and towards an almost hidden set of steep stairs that lead up the rocky cliff. Before Keith can point out he’s in no shape to climb them Shiro takes the first step, securing his hold on Keith.

“I won’t drop you, I promise.”

“Didn’t think you would,” Keith says, surprised at how raw his throat feels.

“Good,” Shiro says, making his way up the steep set of stairs.

As they rise over the last few steps, Shiro’s house comes into view and Keith can barely contain his small gasp of surprise. The property is expansive, covering half the bluff with a beautifully landscaped yard and a two story house with what seems like nothing but windows that overlook an impressive stone pool and the seaside. It’s fucking gorgeous and Keith wishes he were in a better state so he could actually appreciate it.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Shiro says, crossing the yard towards a door. “And your wounds tended to.”

This Keith has enough energy to respond to.

“I’ll get it dirty,” he protests, imagining blood and sand all over Shiro’s nice house. If the outside is anything to go by it's definitely not some place someone like Keith belongs, especially not in his current condition.

“I don’t care about my house getting dirty,” Shiro scoffs. “I just care about taking care of you.”

Keith blinks, unsure how to respond to that.

It’s not what he expected to hear. Not at all.

“I’ve got my first aid kit in the downstairs bathroom which is good because I think we need to clean you up. Both because I’d feel better if I could get your wounds clean and because I think you’d feel better if there wasn’t seaweed in your hair.”

A frown forms on Keith’s lips as his hand flies up to his hair, pain lancing through his shoulder. Sure enough, tangled in his hair is a glob of seaweed.

Keith fucking hates seaweed.

When he looks up it’s to find Shiro looking down at him with a curious expression, a bit of pink highlighting the scar across his nose. It makes heat flood Keith’s body, suddenly reminded that he’s in the arms of the man of his dreams. Granted, its under really fucking shitty circumstances but that doesn’t change the fact that Shiro is holding him.

As they cross through the door and into Shiro’s house, Keith is unable to bother looking around to admire the decor, not when there’s someone as nice as Shiro to look at.

“You’re flushed, are you feeling okay? Wait—that’s a stupid question, of course you’re not okay,” Shiro says.

“M’fine,” Keith lies, mesmerized by the sharp line of Shiro’s jaw. He’s even more beautiful up close, and apparently even more kind than Keith thought, which is saying something since he was already pretty sure Shiro was the nicest man he’d ever met.

“Oh you’re one of those,” Shiro grins, kicking a door open with his foot and turning them sideways to slip through a doorway.

Before Keith can ask what that means, Shiro balances all of Keith’s weight on one arm so he can flip a light on to reveal what is easily the nicest bathroom Keith has ever stepped foot in. Once, when he was thirteen, his parents took him to Las Vegas for vacation. At the time Keith thought it was the height of luxury. Shiro’s bathroom puts it to shame. The entire thing is white but rather than feel cold or sterile it manages to feel serene.

“So uh, I'm going to need to come in the shower with you. Are you comfortable with that?” Shiro asks, turning them so that Keith can catch sight of the massive walk in shower that takes up half the bathroom.

“Are you naked?” Keith blurts.

“Oh, no,” Shiro blushes. “I keep a waterproof bag of clothes hidden under the pier for this kind of emergency. Well not like someone almost dying kind of emergency. More like transforming back into a human and in need of clothing kind of emergency.”

“Too bad,” Keith says, unsure if nearly drowning broke his brain-to-mouth filter.

“I know, I’m so sorry you got hurt,” Shiro says, misunderstanding him entirely, something that’s likely for the best since Keith doesn’t need to add embarrassment to the list of shit he’s currently feeling. “Why did you jump off the pier anyway?”

It’s an innocent question, asked as Shiro settles Keith on the massive tile seat as he flips on the water. An innocent question that Keith answers too honestly.

“To save you.”

“But I wasn’t—oh. Oh no. Keith I’m so sorry, shit I’m so sorry,” Shiro says, spinning around so swiftly he goes under the spray of the shower head.

Water cascades down his head—plastering his pretty hair to his face as it drips down the swell of his pecs and soaks his tiny swimming shorts. If Keith weren’t in so much pain the sight would make him horny, or amused. As it is, Shiro looks like a puppy someone kicked and Keith hates himself for revealing the truth when it’s not Shiro’s fault that Keith is a fucking idiot and apparently a horrible lifeguard who can’t even tell when someone is drowning or not.

“You’re not a terrible lifeguard,” Shiro says. “Keith, you’re amazing. Most people would’ve died after being swept into that riptide. Not to mention the bravery you showed jumping off the pier to save me.”

“But you didn’t need saving,” Keith mumbles, unable to slow the sudden rush of emotions crashing into him.

Now that he’s saying it out loud, he feels stupid all over again and the shame makes his own physical pain even harder to bear.

“You didn’t know that,” Shiro says, stepping out from under the water. You’re a hero, Keith. My hero.”

Keith huffs, too exhausted to argue even if he doesn’t quite share Shiro’s rose colored view of the situation.

As if sensing Keith’s emotional constipation, Shiro smiles squatting low enough that he’s eye level with Keith.

“Given your level of lucidness, I’m confident you don’t need to go to the hospital but I’d feel better being absolutely sure which will require me to clean you up and get a better look at your injuries as well as do a basic check up. I’ve got a small med kit in here that should be good enough for that. Does that sound alright?”

Keith nods.

“I’m going to need to take your clothes off, well most of them,” Shiro adds. “You should be okay leaving your underwear on if you’re more comfortable but um…I can also help you wash the sand off that might have gotten in any uncomfortable places, if you’d like.”

“Are you offering to wash sand out of my ass?” Keith asks, unable to suffer the extra effort it might take to be less blunt.

“I mean…yes,” Shiro says.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Shiro echoes.

To Keith’s surprise Shiro drops to his knees, lifting Keith’s leg into his lap as he undoes the knots in Keith shoelaces with more finesse than Keith expects. He removes the shoe first then peels off the wet, sand filled sock. He’s gentle as he lowers Keith’s leg before moving on to the next one, his fingers skimming over the delicate side of Keith’s ankle bone as he pries off the second second.

Wet sand and little bits of seaweed fall onto Shiro’s lap, dirtying his thighs where his shorts have ridden up. He doesn’t seem to care.

“Shirt next,” Shiro says, shuffling forward on his knees until he’s between the spread of Keith’s legs.

He looks good there.

“I’m going to get your good arm out first, then lift it over your head so we can hopefully get this off without moving the injured side too much. It might be uncomfortable, so if it gets to be too much and you need me to stop you tell me and if words are too hard give me a squeeze, okay?”

Keith nods in agreement, unsure what to do with the reality of being tenderly undressed by the man of his dreams under the world’s worst situation. His shoulder aches and burns and it feels like someone slammed a baseball bat into his back, but he can’t even be sorry about any of it watching the way Shiro rises onto his knees and pushes Keith’s shirt up.

A shudder rolls though Keith when Shiro’s warm fingers skim over his belly lifting up his soaking wet t-shirt. He does his best to help Shiro get his good arm through the hole, gritting his teeth as he lifts it over his head.

“You’re doing so good,” Shiro tells him, as if Keith’s done something besides lift his damn arm for a few seconds. The praise is entirely underserved and also fucking amazing, soothing the raw edges of Keith’s emotions. “Head next.”

Keith closes his eyes as the shirt is pulled off, squeezing them shut tight to stave off tears as his arm is jostled. He has a really fucking high pain tolerance and this is testing it. Turns out being slammed into a pier piling and having an arm full of splinters is more than even Keith can handle.

He continues to hold his breath as the shirt is lifted over his head, grinding his teeth to stop from screaming as Shiro moves his arm to get the shirt off. This proves difficult since there seems to be a splinter that pierced his shirt and is keeping it on which requires Shiro to leave the shower for a pair of tweezers as he pries the long splinter out.

By the time he’s done, Keith’s heart is in his throat and his head is spinning.

“You did amazing,” Shiro praises.

Too uncomfortable to even mentally refute the praise, Keith sags as Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s middle and lifts him into a standing position.

“Think you can stand up for a few seconds while I get these off?” Shiro asks.

“Yes,” Keith grits out, willing to do anything to get rid of the feeling of wet jeans and sand filled boxers.

“Remember to give me a word or a squeeze if you need a break.”

“Okay,” Keith agrees, positive he won’t do either. He’s always been a rip the band aid off fast kind of guy, and he’d rather get this whole undressing thing over with as quick as possible. Being naked in front of Shiro would normally be a dream, right now it’s anything but. Not that Keith is uncomfortable being naked around Shiro, but he can only imagine what he looks like right now.

Keith braces for the inevitable pain of being lifted—surprised when rather than lift him around the middle like Keith expects, Shiro braces one hand under the armpit of his uninjured side and slides the other under his ass managing to get Keith in a standing position without him having to use any of his own strength.

“Fuck.”

“Sorry, I’m sure it still hurts,” Shiro apologizes. “I’ll make this quick so you can sit again.”

The fuck was less ouch and more fuck you’re strong I like it, but he isn’t about to share that distinction and settles for trying to remember how to breathe as Shiro sinks to his knees in front of Keith once more.

Even in some of the worst pain of his life Keith has eyes, and those eyes appreciate the way Shiro looks on his knees, head tipped up to Keith watching for any signs of discomfort as he pops open the button on his jeans.

Despite Keith’s over-active imagination about why Shiro is in his current position, the reality is quite the opposite. There’s nothing sexy about having your clothes taken off after jumping into the sea. Keith’s jeans—which were tight to begin with—cling to his body, making it damn near impossible for Shiro to pull them off.

“Here use my head for support,” Shiro says when Keith sways, physically moving Keith’s hand into his hair. Even wet it’s soft and Keith finds himself slipping his fingers into it, gripping it tightly as Shiro’s nose presses into his belly while he attempts to roll the jeans down Keith’s hips inch by inch.

Shiro’s breath is warm against belly, his nose brushing against the dark patch of hair above Keith’s boxers.

“”Sorry they’re just a little stuck but I think—yes, got it,” Shiro says, voice unmistakably filled with pride as the jeans slip down to Keith’s knees.

Whether Shiro meant to do the boxers at the same time or they simply got stuck Keith isn’t sure, all he knows is that one second Shiro’s trying to pry the jeans down and the next second Shiro’s face is inches from his soft, sand covered dick. To make matters worse, there’s a piece of motherfucking seaweed stuck to the slit.

Keith isn’t sure if he wants to scream or cry because the entire situation is both a dream and a fucking nightmare rolled into one.

Everything about this situation is horrible and embarrassing and painful, but then there’s Shiro down on his knees.

Shiro, who removes the offending piece of seaweed without a word, before helping Keith step out of the soggy jeans and boxers until he’s completely naked.

Shiro who towers over Keith, murmuring words that stop making sense as grabs the handheld showerhead, pulling Keith against his chest for support as he begins to clean him off.

Somehow, even though everything is horrible, Keith has never felt safer.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Overwhelmed and oddly vulnerable, Keith closes his eyes and rests his weight against Shiro as the sand and seaweed is rinsed from his body. To his surprise Shiro doesn’t stop there, tenderly shampooing his hair and using a washcloth to gently wash away the sand and sea from Keith’s skin with a body wash that smells faintly of pine.

The gentleness doesn’t stop there.

Once Keith is clean, Shiro all but carries him out of the shower, seemingly unbothered by the way Keith drips water all over his floor as Shiro grabs a towel off the shelf above the toilet. Unlike Keith’s bath towels which are rough as fucking rags, Shiro’s towels are plush and thick and the material easily soaks up the water as Shiro meticulously dries every inch of him.

It’s a level of care and gentleness that leaves Keith entirely wrongfooted. It’s not bad, the opposite really, but it leaves Keith hyper aware of his own current physical limitations and the reality of what he just experienced.

Once he’s dry, Shiro gets a fresh towel then proceeds to wrap it around Keith’s waist before helping him sit on the closed toilet. At this point, Shiro’s taken seaweed from his dick and rinsed sand from his ass so he’s under no need for modesty but the consideration moves Keith just the same.

In all things Shiro is thoughtful, gentle—kind.

He’s the kind of man who rescues beached seals and cleans up the oceans and saves drowning lifeguards. He’s a good fucking man and Keith is entirely unprepared for the depth of feelings this knowledge supports.

With his heart in his throat, Keith watches as Shiro makes much quicker work of drying himself off before squatting down to rummage under the bathroom counter. When he turns around it’s with a fairly large first aid kit held between his hands.

“That’s big,” Keith observes.

“Ha, yeah,” Shiro grins, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck as he sets the kit down. “Holdover from my time in the coastguard. Gotta be prepared for anything you know? Besides I uh...encounter my fair share of injuries in the sea. Some of which would be impossible to explain to an emergency doctor. Imagine going in like hey doc I need some stitches in my dorsal fin.”

Keith blinks. “You’re a fucking a mermaid.”

“Um, yes,” Shiro says tentatively, eyes on Keith as he unzips the medkit. “Though that’s uh not exactly common knowledge.”

“How many people know?” Keith asks quietly, the burning in his shoulder increasing as he shifts to try and get more comfortable.

“Including you?”

Keith nods.

“One.”

“Why?” Keith asks, unable to keep surprise from his voice.

“Oh, a lot of reasons,” Shiro says, pulling various ointments and bandages from the medkit and laying them out on the floor. “Why did you try to save me?”

“Because it was the right thing to do,” Keith answers, surprised at the questions being turned around on him.” Anyone would’ve done it.”

“Why were you cleaning the beach?”

“Lance made me.”

Shiro hums, pulling out a pair of tweezers and moving to squat at Keith’s side. “I’m going to take these out. There’s just a few, you should only feel a little pinch.”

“Okay,” Keith exhales, preparing for the first but distracted when Shiro speaks again.

“So uh, Lance made you continue scouring down the shore hours past when the other volunteers were cleaning up the beach, huh?”

“Oh, well no,” Keith mumbles. “I mean, I only came because he made me but then I saw the work everyone was doing and it just seemed like, well—”

“The right thing to do,” Shiro finishes, and to Keith’s surprise there’s a large splinter in the tweezers which he deposits on the counter. He didn’t even feel it come out, too distracted making small talk.

“Yeah,” Keith agrees.

“Sounds like you care a lot about the right thing to do—about taking care of places and people. You’re a protector.”

Heat floods Keith’s face as he averts his gaze, unable to handle the intensity of Shiro’s stare. Once again Shiro thinks far too fucking much of him.

“I dunno about that. I’m just me,” he shrugs. “Just Keith.”

“Can I tell you something?” Shiro asks, removing a second splinter. There’s a small sting this time but it’s not as bad as Keith expected.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I like just Keith.”

“You—oh,” Keith exhales.

This is more than being just a little wrong footed. This is Keith’s entire life being turned upside down. Guys like Shiro don’t like guys like Keith, and that’s not even factoring in the whole mermaid thing, which is something Keith is hardly sure how to make sense of.

Raised by two leftist, hippie parents in the desert he’s always been someone to believe in the unbelievable. He just didn’t know the unbelievable would turn out to be six foot four of perfect man who was also a mermaid. Or merman. Mer fucking something. He’s too emotionally compromised to think about the specifics of Shiro’s apparent dual species existence.

“I’m going to use some antiseptic now. You’re going to feel cold but that’s all,” Shiro tells him.

Keith nods, grateful he’s not expected to hold up the other end of conversation. Something cold is wiped over his shoulder but true to Shiro’s word it doesn’t hurt. When he’s done he throws the wipe away, returning to his position beside Keith.

“I got all the splinters out and the wounds are clean and thankfully none of them are too deep. A few steristrips and this should heal nicely,” Shiro says, waiting until the site has dried before applying the bandages. “I’m going to check your back out next since I noticed some bruises in the shower.”

“Yeah got uh...slammed into the piling.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t get there in time,” Shiro tells him. “I didn’t realize you were there until it was almost too late.”

“It’s not your fault,” Keith mumbles, unable to handle the look on Shiro’s face when he has literally nothing to be sorry for.

“You only got hurt because of me,” Shiro says, smoothing his human hand over Keith’s lower back. His fingers are so warm and even with the rise of soreness the touch brings, the act of simply being touched has Keith sagging.

With slow, gentle movements Shiro moves his hand across Keith’s back, tracing his palm up the line of Keith’s spine.

“Fuck,” Keith winces, sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth.

“That’s gonna be sore for awhile unfortunately, but it doesn’t feel like anything is broken which is good because it means you won’t need a hospital. I uh...have something that can help with the bruising and pain. It’s not exactly from the med kit though.”

“What is it?” Keith asks, eyes watering from the pain.

“Hang on, it’s in my room,” Shiro says, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

Keith watches him walk away, and he’s in so much pain he can’t even fully appreciate the jiggle of Shiro’s ass. He’s only gone a minute, returning quickly with a small glass jar filled with some kind of strange translucent pale green goo.

“What is it?”

“Secret recipe,” Shiro grins, giving Keith a wink. “My grandmother taught me how to make it before she passed away. It’s been passed down in my family for generations. Let’s just say it's an old maritime cure for the ails that befall you in the deep sea.”

“Do you get hurt a lot?” Keith asks, unsure why the idea makes him feel so sick to his stomach.

Shiro shrugs, dunking two metal fingers into the goo. “I’ve had more than my fair share of injuries. The ocean is incredible, but dangerous too. Especially the places you need to go to get the ingredients for this.”

“You should save it for you then,” Keith objects, seconds before Shiro’s smoothing the goo over his back.

“I can always make more.”

“Yeah, but...oh,” Keith breathes, unprepared for the sensation of Shiro's metal fingers smoothing the goo over his wounds. It’s thick and cold and makes Keith’s skin tingle. He expects it to hurt like hell having it rubbed into the most tender part of his body but instead it feels so good he nearly sobs, his head falling forward and his spine curving as he forgets how to breathe.

“That’s it, relax,” Shiro soothes, spreading the salve over every inch of Keith’s bruised back. “This can’t take away all the pain but it’s going to help and fun fact, the natural antimicrobial properties will help speed up the healing.”

“Wow.”

“It’s absolutely incredible what lies beneath the surface. Humans have just barely begun to uncover one tenth of the wonders it holds. Sometimes I wish they would, so they might take care of it better. And other times I’m terrified of them realizing what's down there. I just...I want to protect it.”

Keith turns his head sideways to peer at Shiro through the hair in his eyes. “You’re a protector too.”

“I guess you’re right,” Shiro grins, dipping his fingers into the salve . This time he spreads some on Keith’s left hip, rubbing it into the tender bruise. “How’s this?”

“Amazing,” Keith murmurs.

“It is, isn’t it?” Shiro says, unaware that Keith is referring to him.

“When I was little, just learning to manage my tail, my grandma used to sit on the shore and massage this into my tail. I was always swimming too far and too deep, getting too close to the jetties. My grandma said I liked to test boundaries but the truth was I just want to swim.”

“Have you always been a mermaid?” Keith asks, unsure if that’s a stupid question.

“Yes, and no. It runs in my family, down the matriarchal line. My mother was a mermaid, my father was a marine biologist who saved her on a deep sea dive. They died when I was little in an accident and my grandmother raised me. She was a mermaid too, as was her mother and her mother’s mother. I can trace my lineage back hundreds of years to the Sea of Okhotsk before the great mer migration of 1839.”

Keith blinks, entirely unprepared for the level of honesty Shiro is affording him.

“That’s incredible.”

“Yeah?” Shiro says, as if surprised. “You’re not uh...freaked out or ready to turn me over to science to be locked up and studied?”

“I would literally fight anyone who tries to lock you up,” Keith asserts, surprised at the ferocity of his tone and the truth in his words.

He barely knows Shiro yet he already knows he would die to keep him safe.

Shiro inhales sharply, something in his eyes softening. “I knew I was right to trust you, Keith. You’re a good man.”

Keith still isn’t sure he’s worth the immense trust Shiro is placing in him, but he wants to be. He wants to be so fucking much.

“But uh, shit where was I? Right matriarchal lines,” he says, mostly to himself. “I grew up watching my mother and grandmother in the sea but I never thought it would happen to me.”

Shiro pauses, fingers resting at Keith’s side as his voice goes low.

“I was six when I nearly drowned. My parents had just died and I was angry and confused and I didn't listen to my grandmother when she told me to stay out of the sea during a storm. I was just...so angry. One second I was in the small boat I’d borrowed from the harbor and the next second I was sinking down into the sea. The next thing I knew, my grandmother was looming over me singing and I had a tail. My grandmother says the spirit of my mother lives in me, of all the strong women in my family. I don’t know why they chose me, all I know is that I’m the last Shirogane left. The last of my kind.”

“You’re alone,” Keith observes.

“Yes,” Shiro confirms, gaze lowering as he absentmindedly smooths his fingers over Keith’s lower back. There’s no salve left but something tells Keith this touch is more for Shiro than himself. “I’ve been alone for a long time.”

Physical expressions have never come naturally to Keith, but he’s overcome by the sudden urge to pull Shiro into a hug unsure if it’s him or Shiro he thinks needs it. He doesn’t, if only because he’s unsure how the action would be received.

Still, the need to touch Shiro is nearly overwhelming and Keith can’t help but inch his own hand sideways to cover Shiro’s prosthetic hand with his own. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep your secret safe, I promise.”

“I know you will,” Shiro says. “Sorry, for getting too personal. I uh, didn’t mean to say all that. I’ve just never been able to tell anyone.”

I’m glad you did,” Keith says, about to say more when his stomach rumbles loudly.

“Hungry?” Shiro asks, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Thoughts of his burrito now lost in the sea come to the forefront of Keith’s mind, as does the half he managed to eat then promptly threw up. Hungry doesn’t even begin to cover it and now that Shiro’s got him clean and some of the pain is dulled, he’s acutely aware of the way his stomach is trying to eat itself.

“Maybe a little,” he acknowledges, unsure why he can’t be truthful about just how hungry he is.

Shiro’s already had to rescue his ass from the sea and bathe him, admitting he needs to be fed is the least embarrassing thing that's happened to him today yet somehow Keith can’t find the words.

“Why don’t we get you in something clean and more comfortable than a towel and then I’ll rummage up something for you to eat.”

“I don’t have any more clothes,” Keith says.

“No, but I do,” Shiro smiles in a way that makes Keith’s heart leap into his throat. “Anything I have will be a bit too big on you but I’m sure I can find something with a drawstring that would work. If you’d like?”

“I’d like.”

“Great, just stay here,” Shiro tells him, once again disappearing through the open door.

Keith listens to the sounds of Shiro’s footsteps until they’re too far away before rising to stand. He has to balance against the bathroom counter with his good arm to manage it, frustrated at how weak and shaky he feels.

Since he was old enough to walk, Keith was the kid that ran. Whether it was baseball or track or simply sprinting through the desert as fast as his legs would carry him. Keith has always felt deeply connected to his body and what it is capable of, which leaves him acutely aware of his own physical limitations now.

He can’t help but wonder how much blood he lost because the lightheadedness he’s experiencing now reminds him unfavorably of how he feels after donating blood. With a frown he turns to look at his shoulder, unable to contain a wince. Shiro did a good job patching him up but it doesn’t look great.

Judging by the size of the bandages Keith can at least tell his own emotional state is likely more to do with shock than actual blood loss which is at least some comfort. He turns, trying to catch sight of his back but twisting his body to see proves too painful and he abandons the attempt with nothing more than a glimpse of his skin going an unattractive purple where it’s bruised the worst.

Keith’s face is pale, his eyes dark and his hair hanging half dry and limp around his face. He looks like shit. He feels like shit.

“I brought a few options,” Shiro says, starting Keith so badly he jumps, hand slipping off the edge of the counter and depriving him of the support he needs to remain upright.

“Fuck,” Keith curses, scrambling to regain his balance as his head spins and he feels his body fall toward the ground. Instead of slamming into the floor, he falls against a strong, soft chest as Shiro’s arms come around to support him.

“Easy, Keith. I got you.”

“Sorry, dizzy,” Keith mumbles, once again overcome by the feeling of Shiro’s chest against his body.

At some point while Shiro was gone getting clothes for Keith he also changed, now dressed in a thin white tank top and a pair of loose grey joggers that do nothing to settle the strange feeling in Keith’s chest. He’s never been so aware of his own heart, that beats harder and faster than normal in a way that leaves Keith breathless.

“Lets just sit you down real quick,” Shiro says, retrieving something small from his med kit which he proceeds to put on the end of Keith’s pointer finger. “I’m just gonna do a quick vitals check. Lightheadedness after what you experienced is entirely normal but I still wanna get your readings just to make sure you’re in safe range okay.”

Keith opens his mouth to say okay but the words won’t come and instead he finds himself taking a slow, deep breath as he tries to slow the speeding of his heart.

“The pulse oximeter is gonna give me a pretty accurate reading of your heart rate and oxygen levels but there’s always a margin of error with technology,” Shiro tells him sweetly, wrapping warm fingers around Keith’s wrist.

He settles them so his fingertips press into the pulse point at Keith’s wrist, silently mouthing numbers as he counts the beats. Keith’s had doctors take his pulse, done it himself a million times in various situations during his lifeguard training and work, but none of those experiences can compare to how overwhelming it is to watch Shiro pay attention to every single beat of his heart.

He doesn’t need to be told his heart rate is high, he knows it—can feel it slamming into his chest the same way the waves slammed into the pier. It’s strong and unstoppable and it only gets faster having Shiro’s fingers twined around his wrist.

“Fast,” Shiro murmurs, removing his fingers from the pulse point but leaving them wrapped loose around Keith’s wrist as he pulls off the pulse oximeter and reads it. “Your O2 levels are at 97% which is really good. Your heart rate is a 117 which is pretty close to the count I got. High but not unreasonably so given your trauma.”

“I don’t have trauma,” Keith automatically replies.

“You nearly died,” Shiro objects, pulling the oximeter off the end of Keith’s finger. He sets it back in his med kit before returning his attention to Keith, pulling Keith’s hand between his. “How are you feeling?”

Tired.

Emotional.

Weak.

Cared for.

Affected.

Hungry.

Vulnerable.

“I feel a lot,” is what Keith ends up answering, unable to put a name to the storm of emotions raging inside of him, each one clamoring to be felt.

“That makes sense,” Shiro says in a tone so understanding it makes Keith’s throat wobble. “Hopefully some food will help. My grandmother used to say there was nothing a full belly couldn’t fix.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I could eat,” Keith says, stomach rumbling once more.

“Good, let's get you dressed and then I’ll get you food.”

Keith nods, a bereft feeling filling his chest when Shiro releases his wrist to retrieve the pile of clothes he dropped to the floor in favor of saving Keith from falling. He returns to his place directly in front of Keith with a pair of sweats not unlike the ones he’s wearing, dropping to the floor and carefully helping Keith get a foot into each hole. His fingers smooth up the inside of Keith’s ankle as he lifts the soft cotton.

He lifts them up further, the insides of his wrists skipping the outside of Keith’s thighs and hips and knocking the towel to the floor as the sweats are brought to his waist.

“Definitely too big,” Shiro laughs, holding them up with one hand as he pulls the drawstring out and loops into a large bow. “There, better.”

“Thank you,” Keith whispers, staring down at Shiro on his knees.

The sight of Shiro’s sweats on his body is a strange juxtaposition of comfort compared to his body's current physical discomfort. Strange but nice.

“So for the top I brought a few choices. I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to stay topless because of the bandages or if you’d be more comfortable with something on so I brought a t-shirt and my old coast guard hoodie. They’re both gonna be, well—huge on you. But they’re clean and warm. What do you think?”

What Keith thinks is that Shiro is a god damn fucking angel. He’s too kind to be real and the strength and calmness in his demeanor has Keith affected as fuck.

“Oh, you’re shaking. Are you cold?” Shiro asks, blinking up at Keith with wide eyes.

“I don’t know,” Keith whispers, looking down at his hands surprised to see them trembling.

“How about we try the hoodie? You think you can get your arm in there for me?”

“Yes,” Keith answers, fully prepared to do fucking anything for the man in front of him.

Growing up, his parents spent a lot of time teaching Keith to trust his gut, and what his gut is telling him right now is that Shiro is someone that Keith wants in his life for a long damn time.

“Good,” Shiro says, gentle as ever while he helps Keith slide his bad arm into the sleeve.

Biting back a whimper, Keith closes his eyes as he lifts the arm enough that Shiro can get the hoodie over his head then easily maneuvers his good arm into the other sleeve. Shiro was right, the hoodie is big on him, and Keith loves it. It’s worn thin, the cotton soft and loose blanketing Keith in comforting warmth. Even better, it smells like Shiro.

“Wow.”

“What?” Keith asks, suddenly self conscious as he looks down at himself.

“Just looks good on you,” Shiro whispers, head tilting down towards Keith as he reaches out and lifts the long bits of Keith’s hair stuck around Keith’s neck out, his fingers lingering.

Something in his tone has Keith swaying, letting his body fall forward until his chest is pressed against Shiro’s.

“Hey there,” Shiro grins, letting his hand rest at the back of Keith’s neck. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Keith says, unsure why it doesn’t feel true.

“You look a little pale, I think we should get you laying down.”

Keith blinks, the words feeling hard to understand around the sudden buzzing in his ears as the sensation of water flooding his lungs unexpectedly assaults him.

It hits Keith now for the first time what Shiro has been saying since he rescued Keith from the water.

“I nearly died..

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, not sugar coating it. “But you didn’t. You’re okay now.”

“You saved me.”

“Yes.

“I almost died,” he repeats, unsure when he started to cry.

“Let it out, Keith. It’s okay, you’re safe now. I’ve got you,” Shiro soothes, cradling Keith’s head against his chest as silent, painful sobs wrack Keith’s body.

He has no idea why he’s crying. He knows Shiro is right. He’s fine. All things considered his injuries are minor compared to how bad things could’ve been if Shiro wasn’t there.

The what if weighs heavy on Keith’s heart.

“Shhhh,” Shiro hums, lowering his right arm down Keith’s back towards his ass before lifting him off the floor.

It’s surprisingly easy to curl himself into Shiro’s embrace, to let Shiro carry him towards the couch.

Shiro speaks in soft words—inconsequential chatter about the weather and a fish he saw earlier with purple scales. It’s easy to focus on the rich timbre of Shiro’s voice as he’s set down on Shiro’s oversized black couch.

“I don’t normally cry,” Keith mumbles, hoodie hanging over his fists as he scrubs at his eyes.

“Probably don’t usually nearly drown either,” Shiro counters, bending his body over Keith to straighten the cushion beneath. When he’s finished he stays there, hovering above him as he darts a hand out to smooth the hair back off Keith’s forehead. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Keith whispers, unsure if he means the couch or the touching.

A smile tugs at the corner of Shiro’s lips, his demeanor softening. “And if it’s not—if you change your mind—you’ll tell me.”

“Uh huh,” Keith hums, face tingling where Shiro’s fingers made contact.

“Good. And Keith, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

“You”, Keith answers, only realizing he’s spoken aloud when it’s too late. “Shit, sorry.”

“I’m not,” Shiro smiles, tipping even lower so that Keith can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek with the next words he spoke. “I want you, too. Have for a while now. But first you need something in you.”

Images of Shiro carrying Keith with entirely different intentions flash through his mind as he imagines all the uses Shiro’s strength might be put to use. Still, as incredible as those thoughts are Keith’s shoulder throbs painfully, reminding him that fucking is probably low on the list of approved activities in his current state.

“Think I’m a little too out of it for you to fuck me right now but um, I would like that later if you’re still interested when I don’t feel like death warmed over. Assuming this is more than a one time thing or you know...yeah,” Keith mumbles, trailing off when the tips of Shiro’s ears begin to turn bright red.

He hopes he hasn’t been misreading everything.

“You...oh. Oh,” Shiro splutters. “Full of something. Oh shit.”

Shiro clears his throat, bracing his hand on the back on the couch behind Keith’s head as he groans. “I meant food.”

Food. Of fucking course he meant food.

“Maybe I should go jump off the pier again,” Keith mumbles, yanking Shiro’s hoodie over his head and tugging the drawstrings so it cinches around his face, leaving only the tip of his nose and mouth visible.

“Keith.”

“Keith isn’t here right now, please try again later.”

There’s some shuffling before the side of the couch dips with what feels like Shiro’s knee. He’s careful not to jostle Keith but the contact of their bodies touching, especially after what Keith just said, makes his entire body flush with heat.

“Damn that’s such a pity, because if he was here I was going to ask him if I could give him a kiss before I cooked for him.”

This gets Keith’s attention, breaking through his wall of embarrassment.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

“Uh huh,” Shiro agrees, seconds before his long fingers are slipping into the cinched hole of the hoodie. “This okay?”

“Yes,” Keith croaks, his belly quivering from the simple touch of Shiro’s fingers against his cheeks as Shiro slowly loosens the drawstring to reveal more of Keith’s face.

When Shiro pushes the hood back off Keith’s head his fingers slip through Keith’s hair. Whether it’s intentional or not Keith has no fucking idea; all he knows is the sensation of Shiro’s strong fingers against his scalp is the single greatest thing he’s ever felt. It’s a touch so unexpected that Keith doesn’t even stop to think about censoring himself as his eyes slip shut, a soft whimper falling from his lips at the contact.

“Do you like that?” Shiro asks, repeating the motion even though there’s no hood to push off this time.

There’s no point in denying what Shiro already knows so Keith nods, eyes still shut as he arches his head back into Shiro’s palm.

“Good, you need to relax. You’ve had a long day,” Shiro says, smoothing his hands through Keith’s hair until Keith’s entire body is damn near boneless.

“You said...something,” Keith starts, pausing to catch his breath when Shiro’s fingers rub over the shell of his ears.

“Something,” Shiro echoes, the past of his thumb smoothing over Keith’s forehead.

“Yeah,” Keith grunts, using all of his energy, and his bravery, to open his eyes. “About a kiss.”

His bravery is rewarded tenfold when a sweet, almost shy smile appears on Shiro’s face.

“That I did.”

“Did you mean it?” Keith asks, feeling braver somehow seeing the way Shiro reacts to the question.

“I mean everything I say, Keith.”

He’s so earnest Keith’s stomach swoops. God Keith likes him so fucking much its unreal.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Shiro tells him, slowly moving his hand into Keith’s hair to cradle the side of his head as he leans over him. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”

“Not fucking likely,” Keith says, wishing he weren’t in so much pain so he could yank Shiro down and feel the weight of his body atop his own.

He settles for appreciating the sensation of being this close to someone—to being close enough to see a tiny freckle on the side of Shiro’s neck or see the flutter of the pulse point in his neck.

Shiro is so fucking handsome it almost hurts to look at him, his pale white hair falling into his eyes as he lowers himself down towards Keith’s. There’s something steady in his countenance—though his cheeks are flushed pink—the confidence in his movements has Keith’s mouth falling open as Shiro brings their lips together.

All at once Keith is undone. The slow slide of Shiro’s soft lips against his own as a steady hand cradles his head, is enough to render Keith speechless.

Shiro doesn’t deepen the kiss, but he does let it linger long enough that Keith can taste the minty hint of toothpaste alerting him to the fact that Shiro must've brushed his teeth when he went upstairs to change.

It’s unbearably sweet to imagine Shiro might’ve been hoping—maybe even planning—for this moment. Affection and longing swell within Keith like the rising tide, and with every breath they share his heart is swept away.

Shiro pulls out of the kiss first, resting his forehead against Keith’s. “Wow.”

The sound Keith makes in response to this is somewhere between a grunt and a hum, his mind unable to form any thought besides Shiro. Shiro kissed me. Shiro’s a good kisser. Thankfully Shiro doesn’t seem to make the lack of response.

“Damn you’re sweet,” Shiro murmurs, angling his face down for another kiss.

This one is just as chaste, but it still sends goosebumps across Keith’s arms.

If a kiss this innocent is enough to affect Keith like this he can only imagine what it might feel like to kiss Shiro when he’s not recovering from near death and can do more than just lay here. At least one of his arms is uninjured though and he uses that one to reach for Shiro—tentatively sliding his own fingers around the back of Shiro’s neck.

“Oh,” Shiro exhales, the couch dipping as he climbs over Keith.

It’s easy to tell that Shiro is holding himself back, none of his body actually touching Keith’s beside the hand in his hair. He’s got his left hand braced on the edge of the couch above Keith and out of his peripheral vision he sees the arm begin to tremble when Keith skims his nails over the back of Shiro’s neck.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, managing to make his name sound like something fucking precious. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What?” Keith asks, a frown maring his own face when Shiro lifts his knee up and over Keith’s hip and instead sits on the edge of the couch with his hands folded in his lap.

Disappointment and something viscerally more painful slam into Keith’s gut at the sight of Shiro moving away from him.

“I’m sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. You’re injured and—”

“I don’t mind,” Keith asserts, unsure what’s happening but needing to be sure Shiro knows where he stands. “I, uh, liked it. A lot.”

“I just don’t want you to feel indebted to me or like you owe me anything because of all this. I’m sorry I didn't wait until you were healed to make this advance, and instead made it while you were under duress.”

Oh.

“Shiro, are you worried you took advantage of me?”

The way Shiro’s ears go bright red is all the answer Keith needs.

“I meant to wait. I was going to patch you up and wait until you felt better and then ask you on a date, whatever you want my treat. But um...you’re just so pretty and I got carried away—”

“You’re rambling,” Keith grins, inching his fingers out so he can rest his hand over Shiro’s.

Somehow it settles the racing of his own heart to witness Shiro so nervous. He’s been so calm and self assured, but perhaps they’re equally matched in worrying about fucking things up. It’s reassuring, and sweet as hell that Shiro is such a gentleman.

“Little bit,” he mumbles, looking abashed.

“You think I’m pretty, huh?” Keith asks, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Shiro’s knuckles.

“Obviously,” Shiro huffs, ducking his head. “I mean damn, Keith, have you looked in a mirror?”

“I have and I look like fucking shit,” Keith laughs.

“You’re hurt, and you have no idea how much I wish I could take every single one of those cuts and bruises away. But not one of them makes you less beautiful. That first day I saw you standing out on tower seven I nearly fell face first into the sand. You were just standing there staring out at the waves with your dark hair blowing in the wind and you were the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen. Then I finally met you and not only were you gorgeous you were decent and kind hearted too? Keith, you’re incredible.”

“Well fuck,” Keith whistles, his entire body flooded with heat at the praise.

“Too much?”

“No,” Keith is quick to answer. “Just um, not used to anyone thinking so highly of me.”

“Get used to it,” Shiro grins, turning his hand over so that Keith’s fingers smooth over the warm flesh of his palm. “I mean...if you want to. I meant what I said, you’re under no obligation here and—”

“Shiro.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“Yes. Yes, I can do that,” Shiro laughs, rising back up to rest his weight on one knee as he leans over Keith and presses their lips together in a sweet kiss.

Expecting a third chaste kiss like the ones before, Keith’s entirely unprepared for Shiro’s tongue to swipe across his bottom lip. When his mouth falls open on a low groan, Shiro dares to go further, licking into Keith’s mouth with a confidence that offers no hint to the verbal stumbling. Apparently, Keith’s words were convincing enough to leave Shiro in no doubt that this is exactly what he wants.

When Shiro pulls back a few moments later his lips are kiss swollen and his eyes are wide as he moves his hand towards Keith’s chest, settling it over his heart.

“Pretty sure I was supposed to be helping you relax, not getting you worked up.”

“You can do anything you want to me,” Keith tells him, shocked to find his dick halfway hard. He thought for sure nearly dying would be enough to stave off an erection but turns out Shiro’s existence is pretty damn powerful, especially when his dick is concerned.

Shiro groans, lifting his prosthetic hand to his mouth as he groans. “You’re going to kill me.”

The idea that just a few words from Keith could have this kind of effect on Shiro is a lot for Keith to handle. He’s been told he had a mouth on him before, he just never realized exactly how he could use it.

“Were you still going to fill me up,” Keith says, fighting off his own smile as Shiro’s cheeks go a pretty pink. “You know, food.”

Twenty minutes ago Keith was sure that was something he would never live down. Yet somehow it’s easy to make a joke of it, partly because being around Shiro is easy and partly because Keith might not be able to do much physically but he’s not above teasing Shiro a little bit. Especially when he looks so pretty when he blushes.

“The mouth on you,” Shiro grins.

“You should put something in my mouth so I can’t talk.”

The pink on Shiro’s cheeks deepens, the coloring continuing down his neck and below the low v cut of his white t-shirt, leaving Keith to wonder if he blushes everywhere.

“I need to uh, do something.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, feigning innocence.

“Yes,” Shiro says, rising up and tugging on his joggers. Judging by the bulge in the front Keith’s not the only one affected. “Cooking, yes cooking. That’s what I need to do.”

“You’re gonna cook for me?” Keith asks, somehow surprised. When Shiro mentioned food he kind of assumed something out of a package like he normally eats at home—maybe a granola bar or some fruit.

“What do you want to eat? I did my grocery shopping yesterday so I’ve got a little of everything. I could probably make just about anything you wanted right now—spring rolls, sushi, ramen, or maybe you’re more of a burger kind of guy.”

The options are a little overwhelming and Keith blinks. Misunderstanding his silence, Shiro continues.

“If none of that sounds good you can just tell me what you want and if I don’t have stuff to make it I can order in, or run to the market downtown and get anything you want.”

“That’s too much trouble for me,” Keith protests.

“Nothing would be too much trouble for you, Keith. You need to eat and I like to cook. I uh...haven’t really had the chance to cook for many people. Usually it’s just me, and well you can only eat so many leftovers.”

“You um...you want to cook for me?”

“So much,” Shiro admits. “I know it’s silly but when I was little I’d help my grandmother cook. It was her way of taking care of people and I just...I feel kind of helpless right now.”

“That’s not silly, it’s sweet.”

“I miss her,” Shiro says quietly.

“What was her favorite thing to cook?” Keith asks.

Shiro looks surprised by the question. “Oh, uh...anything really. She loved to cook too but her favorite was gyoza. I remember her teaching me how to make them. When I was first learning, the filling in mine used to always leak out but she pretended they were perfect anyway.”

“I’ve never tried them before,” Keith confesses. “Will you make some for me?”

“You want gyoza?” Shiro asks, something in him brightening. Whether it's from the food itself or simply having a task to do Keith’s not sure, but it makes his heart beat faster seeing Shiro’s eyes light up like this.

“Yes, please.”

“Yes,” Shiro says quickly, rising up to stand quickly. “I can make them for you. I’ll try to hurry.”

Keith can’t help but smile, charmed by Shiro’s sudden nervous energy.

“I can wait,” Keith says around a yawn.

“You wanna nap?” Shiro asks. “I can get you a blanket.”

“I don’t nap,” Keith says, but his protests are half hearted at best and diminished by his massive yawn.

“Okay, well rest your eyes then,” Shiro suggests, retrieving a small throw blanket off the opposite end of the couch and draping it over Keith so his bare toes are no longer sticking out. “You’ve had a long morning.”

“I suppose I could just close my eyes for a minute,” Keith mumbles, the comforting warmth of the blanket triggering his brain's desire to close his eyes. “Not gonna sleep though.”

“Whatever you say,” Shiro agrees ,smoothing the blanket over Keith’s side.

The side of the couch dips as Shiro leans down once more to stroke fingers through Keith’s hair. It’s such a simple touch but the single most comforting thing Shiro could have done and Keith is helpless to stop the weight that settles in his limbs as his brain begins to go hazy.

“Just close your eyes, that’s it,” Shiro soothes, palms of his fingers lightly scraping over Keith’s scalp.

“M’not...tired,” Keith protests, slurring his words. The last thing he’s aware of is warm lips pressed to his forehead before the world goes dark.

The next thing he knows he’s stirring, the alluring scent of food alerting his stomach that it’s time to wake up. He opens his eyes just in time to see Shiro returning to the living room with a huge wooden tray held in front of him.

“Oh you’re awake already, good. The food is ready,” Shiro tells him, depositing the tray on the coffee table.

“Fuck, that looks as good as it smells,” Keith says, eyes widening as he takes in the plates piled high with food. He uses his good arm to lift himself into more of a sitting position. It’s painful but worth it to get a better look at the spread Shiro brought out. “Um, this is a lot.”

“You don’t have to eat it all,” Shiro hurries. “It’s just that delicious as it is, gyoza isn’t usually a full meal on its own. While they were steaming I just made some stir fried bok choy with sesame seeds and chili oil and then rice because yeah, rice is always good.”

He’s rambling again, clearly nervous, and Keith wishes he weren’t too sore to get up and pull him into a kiss. He settles for offering Shiro what he hopes is a grateful smile.

“Thank you for cooking for me, Shiro. It looks amazing.”

“Oh, you’re so welcome. It was nothing,” Shiro says, the very tips of his adorably large ears going red. “Can I make you a plate? I didn’t want to serve it up until I knew what you might want. I left the seaweed and oils on the side in case you didn’t like them.”

“I’m not picky, I just love food,” Keith grins. “Will you make mine the same way you’d make yours?”

This seems to please Shiro who takes one of the plates and piles it high with mounds of fluffy white rice which he tops with some kind of seaweed powder and extra sesame seeds from tiny little ceramic bowls on the tray. Next he adds a generous serving of the gyoza, setting a tiny dish of dipping sauce beside the dumplings before filling the last bit of space on the place with the bok choy which he drizzles in a bright red chili oil that has Keith’s stomach rumbling and his mouth watering.

“I hope you like it,” Shiro says, passing Keith the plate. “Oh, uh chopsticks or a fork?”

“Fork. I’m not sure I should be trusted on your white couch with chopsticks. I’ve never been able to figure out how to hold them without all my food falling off.”

“Maybe next time I cook for you, once you’re all healed up, we can have a chopstick lesson,” Shiro offers, holding a fork out for Keith before serving up an identical plate for himself.

It takes Keith a few seconds for the words to process, a strange fluttering sensation in his chest as he stares at the gyoza speared on the end of his fork. He swallows, wrongfooted by the kindness of the offer and the casual way Shiro says next time.

“It’s good in the sauce,” Shiro says, managing to hold his chopsticks with ease even though his hands are twice the size of Keith’s—delicate little gyoza held between them which he dunks into the dipping sauce before putting the entire dumpling into his mouth.

Keith copies him, sort of, stabbing his own with his fork and dipping it in the sauce before shoving it into his mouth with far less grace.

Flavors explode on Keith’s tongue—the crispy bottom of the gyoza, a delicious counterpart to the perfectly steamed center which is filled with pork and vegetables. It’s easily one of the most delicious things Keith has ever eaten and he barely finishes chewing before eating a second.

He looks up to see Shiro watching him. He ducks his head immediately when he’s caught staring, filling his mouth with rice.

Keith isn’t usually one for attention, or being watched, so it’s more than a little surprising to realize just how much he likes having Shiro’s eyes on him.

He tries the bok choy next, impressed by how good it is.

“If all vegetables were this good I would eat way more,” Keith says, scooping up another huge bite.

“The secret to vegetables is how you cook them. So many people just microwave or boil them and they’re horrible. You’ve got to really treat them with love, prepare and season them the way you would any other entree.”

“Don’t hate me if I tell you the only time I eat vegetables is when they add them to my takeout. I like yours though....a lot.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep cooking for you,” Shiro grins, his confidence returning with every bit of praise Keith throws his way. It’s a little heady and Keith shamelessly continues.

“You’re an incredible cook.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, chest puffs up with pride. “Oh by the way I talked to Lance while you were asleep.”

“Lance? Why?” he asks before filling his mouth with rice.

“He said you were supposed to meet him for coffee and didn’t show up. He tried to call but there was no answer and he said when he went to your apartment you were gone. He decided that meant you were missing or dead and called to see if he could borrow my boat for a search party.”

“Well shit. He’s so dramatic.”

“In Lance’s defense you were in fact in trouble,” Shiro points out. “I let him know you were here and resting and I managed to stop him from coming over to check. Unless you uh, want him too. Lance said you could stay with him for a few days. I’m sure you’d much rather recover with someone you know better.”

“Not like I have much of a choice,” Keith says, pretty sure he won’t even be able to make it up the stairs to his own apartment. At least not yet. “I mean don’t get me wrong Lance is great but he’s a lot.”

“You could stay here, if you want,” Shiro tentatively offers, poking his vegetables with his chopsticks. “I’ve got a guest room and you’re more than welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I could um, you know—take care of you.”

“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition,” Keith says.

“You wouldn’t,” Shiro insists. “The company would be nice and it’s not exactly a hardship to take care of you. But you don’t need to decide right now.”

As much as he wants to say yes, he can’t shake the nagging fear that allowing Shiro to see him at his worst for a prolonged period might ruin things before they even get a chance to start. Keith knows himself and he’s not always the easiest person to be around, especially when he doesn’t feel good.

They lapse into companionable silence after as they make their way through the rest of the food. Shiro taps out at a second plate but Keith manages three, finishing off the gyoza with relish. It’s only when Shiro’s cleared the plates and returned to the living room with Keith that he gets the courage to say what’s been on his mind for the last half hour.

“So you’re really a mermaid.”

“I’m really a mermaid,” Shiro confirms. “Or merman. I’m not too bothered with which one you use though.”

“This is insane,” Keith laughs. “And fucking amazing.”

“You think?” Shiro says, looking genuinely surprised by Keith’s reaction.

“Hell yeah I think.”

“I’m not sure most people would react like this,” Shiro says, lifting Keith’s legs and depositing them in his lap so he’s got enough room on the rest of the couch to lean back versus the awkward perched on the edge of the couch thing he did while eating. “This okay?”

“It’s good,” Keith says, unsure why the weight of Shiro’s palm against his ankle feels both settling and affecting. “And just for the record I’m not most people.”

“No, you most definitely aren’t.”

“Can I ask you something, Shiro?”

“Anything, Keith.”

“Do you ever wonder where you fit? Being half and half I mean. I grew up in the desert and as much as I loved it, it never felt like home the way it does for my parents. Now I’m here by the sea and as much as I love it, I’m not sure I’ll ever fit in here either.”

He stops talking, pulling the blanket nearly up to his chin. He hadn’t meant to say something so revealing.

“I used to,” Shiro answers, not missing a beat. “Growing up it was normal for me to see this duality; of human and mer. It was all I knew so it wasn’t until I went to school and had to keep my family's secret that I truly understood how different my life was from everyone else. But I had my family, or my grandmother at least. She did everything she could for me, teaching me the old ways while trying to make sure I had what I needed on land. But she was old and the transformation is hard on the body. Usually with my kind, when that time comes towards the end of life...a mer would choose to spend the rest of their days in the sea but not my grandmother. She wouldn’t leave me, even though her life below the water would have been easier.”

Shiro pauses, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over Keith’s ankle as he takes a slow breath.

“Even though I grew up knowing about the existence of mermaids, it took a long time to accept that duality in myself. I think I have now, mostly. But there are still times when it’s hard not to have someone to talk about it with or share my culture. Humans are by nature social creatures, mers even more so.”

“Are there a lot of mer here?”

“Not as many as there once was. With climate change and rapidly changing ocean landscapes, so many of my kind have disappeared, migrated or taken refuge in the human world permanently. I don't think there’s another mer within a 100 miles of here anymore. Between that and most mer’s apprehension about a male... well, let’s just say it has been lonely since my grandmother passed.”

Something about the ease with which he says it makes Keith’s heart clench.

“No one should be alone.”

Shiro turns his face towards Keith, offering him a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I don’t want you to think poorly of my kind. They have faced many hardships. I don’t begrudge them clinging to what they know. So much of our history and culture has been lost and then there’s me. A male merman with no matriarch and no chance of continuing the Shirogane line because I’m gay. My existence threatens them.”

“But you still fight so hard, to protect the ocean and them even though you aren’t welcome? I don’t understand.”

For a long second Shiro is quiet, thoughtful, as he watches Keith.

“My grandmother used to say water will always take the form of the vase it fills. I can’t change the water, but I can do my part to change the vase you know?”

“You’re amazing.”

Shiro shrugs. “Average at best.”

“There is literally not a damn fucking thing average about you,” Keith retorts.

Color rises on Shiro’s cheeks as his fingers slip under the blanket so that his bare fingers brush against the delicate inside of Keith’s ankle. “Says the most extraordinary man I’ve ever met.”

“Maybe you hit your head rescuing me,” Keith grumbles, completely unable to handle this level of praise. It makes him feel squirmy all over.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re cute when you blush?”

“No.”

“Well you are,” Shiro continues, looking immensely smug when Keith’s blush deepens.

“You’re a menace,” Keith huffs, so hot now he needs to throw the blanket off. It’s an act that has him wincing in pain, suddenly reminded of how battered and bruised his body is.

“Shit, I forgot your Advil,” Shiro says. “Don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Keith says, annoyed at how breathless he feels just from adjusting himself.

Shiro is slow as he untangles himself from beneath Keith’s legs, hurrying to the kitchen. He returns a minute later with water and pain meds which he passes to Keith.

“Is there anything else you need?” Shiro asks. “Or just something you want? Anything?”

You he thinks.

“I don’t know,” he lies.

Shiro hums, squatting down so he’s eye level with Keith. “No?”

“Well...maybe,” Keith mumbles, unsure how the fuck Shiro can get him baring his secrets with just a word or a smile.

“Maybe huh,” Shiro echoes, reaching out to smooth the hair off Keith’s face.

“Iwanttocuddle,” Keith says in hurry, unsure why admitting this feels more embarrassing than having Shiro wash sand out of his ass.

“What was that?” Shiro asks, voice pitched extra low. “Not sure I heard you clearly.”

Mustering his courage he opens his mouth again. “I want to cuddle. You. I want to cuddle you.”

The answering smile on Shiro’s face is all the reward Keith needs. “Oh, you like to cuddle?”

“I mean...I don’t really have experience with this. Dating I mean. But um, yes. I think so? Or at least I know I want to um, do it with you.”

“Shit you’re sweet,” Shiro murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to Keith’s lips before standing upright. “I think given your back injuries, our best bet might be me under you with you laying on my chest. Consider my pecs your pillow. That sound alright?”

It sounds like absolute fucking heaven, and Keith’s pretty sure he’s had at least one fantasy of his face buried in Shiro’s chest. It’s something Keith says out loud without even meaning to, earning him a look from Shiro that’s enough to send his own heart skyrocketing.

“Sorry, that was inappropriate.”

“No you’re good,” Shiro insists, smoothing a hand over the front of his joggers. “Just um, you know, trying to think of really horrible boring things like sea cucumbers and watching paint dry so I don’t make you uncomfortable when I lay down.”

“Oh, oh. I um, don’t mind. I’m sorry I got hurt and now it’s ruining things.”

“You’re not ruining a damn thing,” Shiro insists, leaving no room to argue.

He uses his impressive strength to manhandle Keith onto his stomach while simultaneously sliding under him on the couch. Shiro is gentle and steady as he helps Keith slot himself between the spread of his leg, head pillowed nicely over his right pec. Every inch of Shiro’s body is solid and warm and Keith’s nerve endings light up with pleasure.

Beneath the discomfort from his injuries is something he’s never felt before—a stillness in his mind that’s never been there. Laying atop Shiro, one of Shiro’s hands rubbing circles on his lower back and the other in his hair he finds it impossible to do anything but relax.

Shiro’s touch is gentle, his presence soothing, and against all odds, given what he went through today, Keith feels a sense of peace overtake him.

“This okay?” Shiro asks, fingers toying with the hair at the back of Keith’s neck.

“Mhmm,” Keith hums. “Softer than I thought it’d be.”

He blinks once he realizes he’s said it out loud but rather than be shocked or offended Shiro merely laughs. “That’s a common misconception about male chests but they’re um, jiggly. Unless they’re flexed of course.”

“Good to know,” Keith croaks, thinking back to the way they’d jiggled while Shiro ran across the shore. He should’ve known they’d be so plush, but not even his shower fantasies prepared him for the heaven that was rubbing a cheek into Shiro’s tiddies. “Very good.”

“Glad to know they’re satisfactory,” Shiro laughs again, finally slipping into Keith’s hair and rendering him stupid.

“Fuck, I need to stop talking,” Keith mumbles, afraid of what he might inadvertently blurt out loud next. “Your turn.”

“For the record I really love when you talk, but I don’t mind taking a turn if you’d like to rest.”

“I just napped,” Keith objects, but the protest is half-hearted at best. “But I suppose I could be persuaded to just lay here and listen to you.”

“Is that so?” Shiro says, and even without seeing his face Keith can hear the pleasure in his tone. “And what would you like me to talk about?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Everything might take awhile,” Shiro says seriously.

“Good thing I’m not going anywhere,” Keith shoots back, feeling somehow braver with the steady lub dub of Shiro’s heart in his ear. “I mean, if that offer to stay here still stands and you don’t think you’ll get sick of me.”

Between the pain meds, Shiro’s amazing hands and the sound of his voice, Keith finds himself fully relaxing.

True to his word Shiro starts talking and he doesn’t stop, regaling Keith with stories. He talks about everything from the first time he breathed water or what it's like to watch a blue whale being born. Shiro talks about his childhood and the sea in such detail Keith closes his eyes and can nearly taste the salt water on his tongue, and can feel the love Shiro holds for the ocean in every word he speaks.

Shiro talks until his voice goes raw and the sun hangs low in the horizon, casting an orange hue throughout his living room.

It’s only then that Shiro grows quiet, his hands resting on Keith’s back and his breathing slow.

“I could...show you sometime. Take you out on my boat and you could see what I look like,” Shiro says, the offer so unexpected Keith doesn’t respond right away. “I mean only if you wanted. If that’s too soon or too—”

“It sounds amazing,” Keith interrupts, turning his face up towards Shiro.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Keith assures him. “Thank you, for trusting me.”

“That’s easy,” Shiro smiles, ruining Keith for anyone else ever again.

Keith knows then that the next time Shiro goes into the sea, he will follow.

Whatever the tide might bring, they will face it together.