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*** 

Here, skinny strips of pavement snake through wilderness, like faded white and yellow lines on cracked asphalt can bring order to the endless spread of evergreens and the rise of mountains into the sky. The peaks have names, they must, but perhaps the language naming the Mentasta mountains is ancient like the land itself; words richer and older than googlemaps can readily reproduce. Ahtna Athabascan people have lived here for time immemorial, alongside caribou and moose and dall sheep, with their snowy coats and elegant, curved horns. Tributaries from the mighty (and far off) Yukon river flow over this wide, wide land— water cool and clear as if untouched by modernity, or, often, frozen, as if untouched by time itself. Alaska is called by some ‘The Last Frontier’ and this town, here, is her gateway. 

The town is called Tok (rhymes with ‘poke,’ Shiro read from some tourist-y blurb online, boxes already packed to move). Well — if it can be called a ‘town,’ some 300 miles away from Anchorage, and more than 200 miles away from Valdez and Fairbanks both, and with a population less numerous than his university’s graduating class. Difficult to imagine, though, the zealous pilots with whom he learned to fly— sharp toothed and hungry for the future, all of them, himself included— grounded here. Shiro stomps his feet to get his blood flowing, and his new boots threaten to bite blisters into his heels. It’s only August, but it’s already so cold. Well. To him. To him it’s cold. 

Shiro pulls his gaze away from the mountains in the distance and the cold, clear sky overhead. And instead, sets his eyes on his destination: THREE BEARS OUTPOST. It’s a squat, brown building that looks more like a house than a store, though the cages outside housing propane tanks promise commerce within. The sign boasts sporting goods and fishing licenses. Fishing, huh? The closest Shiro has been to fishing is sashimi in a bay-area restaurant.

If the winter doesn’t kill him, maybe the culture shock will. 

“One can only hope,” Shiro opines, and strides inside. 

He takes his time finding the object of his journey— the smoke detector in his new-to-him apartment is devoid of batteries, so he needs a 9-volt— browsing through the aisles stacked with everything from bath towels to garden hoses. By the check stand, there’s a bag of Sour Patch Kids that looks like it’s been hanging there since the early-aughts. Intrigued, Shiro adds it to his total. 

The cashier is a teenager and her utter indifference to everything about the transaction is familiar, at least. She’s back to scrolling through her phone before he even folds the receipt into his wallet. 

Once again outside, Shiro finds that there’s a truck in the parking lot next to his employer-paid rental. The truck is red, mostly, but mud colored around the wheels and cracked varnish across the hood. Peering through the window, the cab is neat, though worn, but the truck bed is completely full. Large containers secured with red and black bungees, and innumerable bags of…something. But that’s not why Shiro stops—

Shiro’s preliminary google search about his new residence revealed another tidbit: the story goes that the town, Tok, is named after a husky. Long ago, the dog belonged to one of the construction workers building the highway here, the place where newcomers would enter this vast wilderness, this gateway into the last frontier. Their camp became a town, and the beloved dog became a namesake. 

Two glassy blue eyes look down at Shiro from the bed of the pickup truck. The dog is huge, white and dove gray markings reminiscent of a wolf, and a thick coat built for the winter to come. Shiro blinks up at the dog, and the dog looks back. He can’t resist:  

“Hello there,” Shiro says, friendly. 

“Hi.” 

Shiro turns around and is met with the sharp edge of a glare. Narrowed eyes under dark brows and messy, shoulder length hair. Jaw tight, mouth set. The features are delicate— delicate like the thin bevel of a razor, that kind of delicate— and the person’s build is slight, such that it might be difficult to immediately place them confidently on either end of the gender spectrum. Clothes certainly wouldn’t help there; Shiro has seen more women in hiking boots and shapeless Carhartt in the last 48 hours than most will in their entire lives. But the voice is decidedly masculine: 

“What are you doing?” the man asks, and his voice is rough like he’s swallowed a lifetime of cold air. A gravel all its own. 

As off-putting as the locals have been, Shiro didn’t take on this new position because he thought it’d be swell to make friends in Alaska. He takes the man’s bluntness in stride, matching his glare with a tongue-in-cheek kind of smile. A not-totally-unironic tilt of his head. “I’m introducing myself to your dog.” He turns back around and affects solemnity: “Nice to meet you,” he tells the husky. “My name is Takashi Shirogane. You can call me Shiro.” 

Enthused, the dog stands up in the bed of the truck, fluffy tail curling like a backwards ‘C.’

The man clicks his tongue and the dog easily joins him at his side, jumping down in a motion so smooth it must be well practiced. He looks at the dog at his side and the dog looks back; Shiro can only assume some kind of wordless exchange takes place—the dog stands and approaches the cab door as the man pushes past Shiro to open it. The dog jumps inside the truck first, and the man follows. 

“Do I get a name?” Shiro asks before the man can pull the door shut. 

“Kosmo,” the man returns, frowning. He starts the truck with a brisque turn of his wrist and the thing sputters before wheezing to life, the engine’s hacking breath ending any further conversation. The man shuts the door, gives Shiro one last confused look, and throws the vehicle into reverse. 

“I would have preferred yours,” Shiro decides aloud, watching the truck exit the parking lot. 

*

The following day, Shiro arrives just a few minutes earlier than intended to his new workplace. 

A monoplane— an instantly recognizable aircraft: a small plane with the propeller at the nose, cockpit just large enough for the pilot and a passenger, one set of wings directly over their heads, and tricycle style landing gear fixed in place— is painted on the broad side of the building. “If you're looking for a ride to somewhere far past where the pavement ends, you need a lion,” Shiro reads aloud the phrase painted over the mural. Well, if it were all up to him, he might have gone with something with a bit more punch, but he’s not here to wax poetic or devise slogans for the airport. He’s here to pilot. 

LION AIR SERVICE is humble in person. There’s nothing about the collection of barn-like buildings around a strip of asphalt that suggest that these planes can take passengers just about anywhere. Charter flights for everything from mountaineering expeditions, to hauling cargo to the remote wilderness, to film crews for documentaries, to hunting expeditions, to research teams… the list is as impressive as it is varied. 

Shiro puts a hand— his prosthetic— over his eyes to shade them from the cool, crisp sunshine, and watches as a monoplane crests over rolling mountains to make its way across the sky to him. It’s not just any plane, it’s the model that Lion Air Service is known for: the Piper Super Cub. These planes are light, and small, and relatively slow, but their ability to take off and land in extremely short distances makes them unmatched for getting in and out of the trickiest of locations. No matter a glacier, a tiny clearing in a sprawling forest, an icy mountain summit— these planes can land there. They’re legendary. 

Of course, it’s not just the aircraft itself that makes the difference— there is the matter of the pilot. The plane gets closer and Shiro takes a step back instinctively, back against the wall, watching it come in. More than a decade of flight experience— and several related degrees— would suggest that the pilot has miscalculated. But Shiro isn’t known for doing anything ‘by the book,’ and it’s more interest than fear that keeps his eyes glued to the landing. He knows that he could make it— 

And he whistles when this pilot does too. “Goddamn,” Shiro swears, impressed, when she sets the plane down in no more than 400 feet, right next to the hangar. “Alright, then.” 

‘She’ — because the one flying this plane is the woman who hired him, and the owner of Lion Air Services: Allura Alfor. 

The propeller slows to a stop and the chugging roar of engine dies. Allura removes her headset, still shaking out her braids as she hops down from the cockpit. She’s taller in person than she seemed in the zoom interview— nearly a match for Shiro’s height. Her acrylic nails are long, her lips are glossy, her skin is perfect. Shiro means it when he returns her firm handshake and says, “Ms. Alfor, it’s a pleasure.” 

“Allura. Please.”

“Allura, then. A first impression like that makes me feel like I’m in the right place. Hell of a landing.” 

Her smile is closed mouth and sly. “You’re already hired, darling. But, thank you. Flattery will get you everywhere.” There’s a laugh in her eyes when Shiro snorts at the remark. “Follow me. Tea first, then the tour.” 

The electric kettle glows blue and Allura murmurs to herself while she explores a fridge in a clean, but small, kitchen directly attached to a room with the front desk. “Hmm, yes, I think so…” A bottle of ‘Caramel Macchiato’ flavored coffee creamer sloshes in one hand, and ‘Peppermint Mocha’ in the other. Alarmingly, the fridge contains several others: everything from Hazelnut (reasonable) to Pumpkin Spice (expected) to Snickers (why) to Cinnamon Toast Crunch (what madness has science wrought). She must sense Shiro’s apprehension as she pours an ungodly amount of flavored creamer into a cup of black tea. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” she confesses, prim, while she takes the first sip from her monogrammed thermos. “Would you like a cup?” 

“Maybe later,” Shiro says, ever the diplomat.

The hot pink thermos and Allura lead him around the campus: 

First, and most importantly, the aircraft hangars. Five planes— Lion Air Service’s fleet— are housed in three different buildings. One is more suitable for cargo drops, another has a spacious cockpit for tourists, another has skis instead of bushwheels, meant for accessing glaciers for skiing and snowboarding trips. All of them, impeccably maintained. Stylishly painted too, with a bold line of color skating the length of the plane— one bright red, another blue, and so on. There’s also a pair of snowmobiles in the hangars, and ATVs, a salt encrusted snowcat, and a motorcycle with a pink pinstripe that Shiro suspects is Allura’s personal toy. She sips her tea and gives Shiro an abbreviated history of the planes, including the long-and-short of their specifications. The woman is as brilliant as she is beautiful— and she clearly knows her way around aircraft. 

Back inside, the office building is warmer than the chilly hangars, but not, perhaps, winning any awards for interior design. Low ceilings hang over worn carpet. The front desk has a clunky computer terminal perched on one side, as if an afterthought to the large paper calendar over the desktop. The clock on the wall looks dusty, and the wood paneling looks like it would be at home in the police station where they tried to figure out who killed Laura Palmer. 

The ‘conference room’ is no less Lynchian with a smattering of brown leather chairs, red curtains, and a large topographic map pinned to the wall as the sole decor. Well, and a single plastic plant. 

“Cozy,” Shiro tries. 

Allura sighs. “I can’t bear to change anything. It was my father who started this business.” She sits on one of the leather chairs and directs Shiro to do the same. “And we do quite well, aesthetics aside.” 

That’s obvious. Shiro was hired on a year-long contract, with a generous salary and handsome benefits. He’s here for escape. Recovery. Another shot at his dream. Adventure. But, even so, he’d accept nothing less than ‘generous.’ A man has standards for living to attend to, afterall. 

“I’d loooove a pink velvet sofa,” Allura shares, conspiratorially. She touches Shiro on the arm, “Oh, can you imagine?” 

“Hm.” Shiro manages to conjure some Elle Woods fascination in his mind’s eye. “Well.” 

“Yes, you’re right,” Allura admits. “Our clientele would certainly balk. The dog sled teams and a pink couch! My!” 

“Dog sled?” Shiro blinks. He really isn’t in SoCal anymore. “Like… Balto?” 

He says it half as a joke, but it’s true: 

“We offer flights to follow the Iditarod and Yukon Quest from the air.” Allura tells him. “Very busy time for us. We fly checkpoint to checkpoint, follow the racers from the air, stop trail side— it’s quite the event here. It’s also common for us to drop supplies at checkpoints for the racers themselves.” She toes off her shoes so that she can get comfortable in the chair and pull up her feet to sit cross legged. Her socks have pink love hearts on them. “The next race is the Yukon Quest in February, so I imagine you’ll have plenty of time to adjust to the idea. Now. Your flight for this afternoon,” 

“This afternoon,” Shiro repeats. 

“Oh, Shiro,” Allura grins. Girlish. Predatory. “You may be hired, but there’s a very explicit discretionary clause in your contract. I intend to see if you really are as good as they say.” 

“Is that so?” Shiro has long since been challenged in earnest. At the height of his career—  tragedy, the accident which took his arm. Since then, he’s been all but grounded, practically working a desk job. Allura is giving him a chance that few others would even consider. Shiro doesn’t intend to waste it. A spark of interest reignites. “Tell me more.” 

An hour later, when Shiro is looking out over the long horizon, and seeing the snow capped peaks from above— when he’s truly flying again— Shiro knows that this new adventure will give him more than his spark. He laughs, giddy. Forget the spark. There’s a whole fire within him. 

*

There might be a whole fire within him , but his oven?

Not so much. 

“Beautiful,” Shiro decides, noting that each of the four range burners does not work, nor does the oven itself. “Wonderful. Stunning. Perfect.” Resigned, he returns the ingredients for his proposed dinner to the fridge and contemplates. He can starve or take corrective action— those are the choices. He shrugs on a coat and grabs his keys. He didn’t expect to go out tonight, but since his oven has downgraded itself from functionality to decor, now is as good a time as any to check out Tok’s lone diner. 

Well— that’s not true. There is one other fine dining establishment, a lodge called ‘Fast Eddy’s,’ which specializes in such local cuisine as pizza, cheese fries, and milkshakes. Understand that Shiro doesn’t have anything against beer battered fish sticks, per se, it’s more so the dining hall full of people seeking respite from the RV campsite nearby that urges him to seek out other options. Shiro only needs to see one child put crayons up their nose at the table next to him before he’s simply seen enough. 

The local place is smaller, less flashy (if Fast Eddy’s is the standard for ‘flashy’ here on the edge of wilderness) and far enough out of the way that Shiro considers the likelihood of the satellite GPS playing a trick on him en route. But, sure enough, nestled among white spruce and a smattering of trailers, cabins, and homes that are not quite either, a green, hand painted sign directs him off the road. It simply reads: ROMELLE’S. 

Romelle’s may or may not be open based on looks alone. But Shiro is hungry and the door isn’t locked, so he goes inside. 

“Hm. Lights are on, but nobody’s home,” Shiro satiates himself with a bad joke, looking around at the empty booths— two on one wall, one against the other. In between them, there’s a single free standing table, and a small bar area, and— oh, wait a minute, 

There is someone here. 

There’s a person sitting at the bar on one side, nestled up against a refrigerated display case that contains an almost-gone cherry pie and nothing else. The person is looking over their shoulder at Shiro coming through the door, but immediately pretends not to be as Shiro spots them. He sees a hint of profile before they turn, eyes widened in surprise, and then it’s hunched shoulders and messy dark hair. 

It’s the hair that gives him away. ‘Kosmo’ — or the human belonging to Kosmo. The man from the parking lot with the red truck. 

Before Shiro can make another attempt at introduction, the man slides off the barstool. His back is to Shiro, arms and shoulders tense as if attention makes them lock up. Shiro watches as he takes a leather wallet out of his back pocket— movement awkward and stilted, like he’s purposefully trying to pretend that he doesn’t know Shiro is here— and a few bills get unfolded and counted, then fanned and recounted. He sets them on the counter next to his empty plate. 

“You—” Shiro clears his throat. He doesn’t make it any further than that: 

The man stands up on his tiptoes to reach over the bar, leaning forward to grab something on the other side, and words fail Shiro as he immediately takes note of the perfect curve of ass previously hidden in the world’s most basic pair of Wrangler’s.

Turning, the man looks at Shiro with serious, dark eyes. If he notices that Shiro was staring, he doesn’t comment on that. “She’ll be back in soon,” he tells Shiro in the same gravel voice, and hands Shiro the menu he retrieved from behind the bar. 

“Thank you,” Shiro takes the slightly sticky laminated offering and finds that he has a growing appreciation for the men of the last frontier.  

With a curt nod, the man walks past him and out the door: a vision in medium wash jeans and flannel with tangled hair. He smells, faintly, Shiro notices, of dog. Outside, the red truck heaves to life with an asthmatic huff of engine, and the man drives away. 

What can Shiro do but peruse the menu handed to him? As if in a daze, he selects a booth and reads through the entrees. 

“Okay, who are you ?” 

Meatloaf, pot roast, and the loaded baked potato special all take a backseat to the girl who walks in and demands his attention. Shiro puts the menu down. “New in town,” he says easily, taking in her iridescent eyeshadow and y2k style spiky buns. From his booth, he looks up at her. “And who are you?” 

“Romelle,” she says, flicking her hand as if this should be obvious. Her nails have glitter polish on them, and she’s wearing an impressive amount of rings on her fingers. “You can call me Romi.” 

“Romi,” Shiro says. Well, it’s not the introduction he was after, but it’s something. “You can call me Shiro. Should I talk to you if I’d like to order?” 

She shrugs. “Go ahead.” A notebook with magazine cutouts of lips taped to it appears in her hands, as well as a fluffy pen. Shiro orders and she bounces out of sight on platform Crocs. 

When she returns— not long after— Romi sets down the plates of food in front of him and then promptly slides in the side of the booth opposite Shiro. “So why are you here?” she asks him before he even has a chance to take a bite. 

“Pilot for Lion Air Service,” Shiro says, sending turkey gravy tumbling out of mashed potatoes with his fork. He lets her digest this while he works on the food. His meal is surprisingly delicious. He hums, enjoying the company too. Shiro nods at her slinky lime green top. “I’m assuming you’re here because someone had to bring brat summer to Tok.” 

She grins at him, tooth gems catching in the light. Her eyes take on that glimmer that people have when they realize they’ve just met someone who understands them. 

No one else enters the diner for the duration of his meal, but Romi doesn’t seem to care one way or another. She grabs the last piece of pie out of the case and eats it across the table from him while Shiro eats his dinner. Shiro learns, over the course of the meal, that Romi’s parents are the ones who own this place; they named it after her (“They love me,” she sighs, tragic, fond, and places the flakiest bite of pie crust into her mouth without disturbing her brown-y-nude lip liner) but she only waitresses here from time to time. “I’m an influencer,” she shares. “Beauty and fashion content.” 

She seems genuinely interested in Shiro’s experience with the area so far and proves to be a good resource for learning more about the pilot whom Shiro replaced at Lion Air. Joey Zarkon, Romi tells him. A real jerk. “But don’t stress though, ohmigod. He’s gone. By the time Allura Alfor was done with him, that dude’s balls were so busted. Don’t do anything stupid or yours will end up the same way.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shiro says, gravely. She wags her finger in mock severity. 

“Next time you come in, pay in cash,” Romi orders when Shiro presents her his card at the end of the meal. “The credit card machine is a real pain in the ass.” 

Shiro agrees. When he leaves Romelle’s, it’s with her number saved in his phone, and her standing in the doorway, blowing him air kisses like they’re old friends. 

*

Thus bolstered by a warm meal and conversation, Shiro almost forgets that his oven is broken in his new-to-him apartment. He soon remembers though, when he’s walking up the two steps to the back door, and his foot goes completely through the first one. He stumbles and twists and bangs his limbs on various surfaces until gravity has her say. There’s some colorful cursing involved and bruises acquired. It’s not a pretty sight. 

“You know,” Shiro tells the moths fluttering around the bulb of the porchlight, “I’m already down one limb.” He hoists himself up. Gingerly pulls his foot out from the rotted wood and considers the date of his last tetanus shot. “I’d like to keep the other three intact.” 

He adds the porch step to his mental tally of problems. Oven. Porch step. Not knowing the man in the red truck with the dog named Kosmo. 

As he lays in bed that night, listening to the lack of traffic, it occurs to him how fortunate it is to have a list of problems that have actionable solutions. A welcome change of pace. 

*

“Breaker one-niner, we got a real wiggle wagon coming down the pike so cheeeeeeck your forty— idiot island put the hammer down what-four!!” 

Shiro does his best not to break composure. He’s steady at 15,000 feet and has three passengers in the cockpit with him. 

“Matt,” he says, sweetly, “I’m new to the area but I’ve been made to understand that Alaska is an ideal place for disposing of bodies. There are podcasts about it.” 

“...” 

The couple behind him catches his eye in the rearview mirror and Shiro smiles at them. More quietly, he hisses into the headset, “I’d rather not personally contribute to the statistical average of 7.8 homicides per 100,000 people annually.” Shiro considers this. “But I will.” 

“Roger that.” A pause. “Over.”  

With a resigned set of his jaw, Shiro turns the comms channel down for the time being. He’s starting to get the swing of things— though he’s far from an expert, he’s landed at this particular ski camp twice now— but he doesn’t know if it’s even possible to understand the humor of Matthew Holt. The man seems to have a million jobs around Lion Air Service: he’s handling everything from aircraft maintenance to social media, from air traffic control to cleaning the bathroom. And yet. Matt still finds time to devise elaborate double-blind Skittles taste tests, whine about cryptocurrency, and text his long distance girlfriend who may or may not actually exist. He’s an anomaly. 

Shiro turns the comms back on to radio in their landing coordinates, and, for the most part, Matt does what he’s supposed to do. Shiro lands without issue and helps his passengers deplane onto the glacier with all their gear. 

They have an enormous assortment of things to survive their expedition: special arctic sleeping bags, cooking equipment, skis with touring bindings and poles, head lamps and rigging and an ice axe— it’s extensive. Shiro looks out over the glacier while they discuss. The snow here is fine, almost a mist as the wind whips down from higher peaks to lift the glittery white over the ground. From this altitude, he can look out over the endless roll of earth, the dark greens and purple that dapple towards the horizon. It’s a beautiful day; in the sky above, white clouds dust over the limitless blue just the same way snow is dusting the shoulders of his parka. 

Turning, Shiro finds that the couple have stopped their discussion and taken off their face coverings for the time being— they’re caught in a kiss. The third member of their party, their guide, is taking a photo for them against the glacier’s majestic backdrop. This expedition is their honeymoon. Shiro is of the opinion that he’d prefer to celebrate new marriage with luxuries such as heat and plumbing. But, as he watches as they end the kiss, smiling, caught in their own world, he can’t deny that it’s sweet. It’s sweet to be in love. 

“Congratulations,” he tells them once more before departing. It’s early, and they’ll want to make use of all the daylight they can. 

“Thank you,” the man says, cheeks already rosy above his auburn beard. 

“We flown with Lions before,” the woman says, eyes crinkled and happy behind ski goggles,“But we haven’t met you before today. Are you new?” 

“I am,” Shiro confirms. He thinks about his prosthetic— conveniently concealed at the moment— and reassures them, “Not a rookie though, by any stretch.” 

They all grin at that because Shiro flies as easily as he breathes, and even if he didn’t, no one green could do this job. 

“We’ll see you again, I bet,” the woman adds on, fixing her husband’s glove when he wordlessly holds out a hand towards her. “We always try to make it up here for the Yukon Quest, and this year especially we couldn’t miss it.” 

Their guide chimes in, “Kogane is going to give Sincline a run for his money, that’s for sure.” Sensing that Shiro doesn’t follow, or, more likely, eager to mansplain, he adds on, “Kogane has placed in Iditarod since he was a rookie, but this is the first time he’ll be racing against Sincline in the Yukon.”

“Of course,” Shiro says, “The anticipation is killing me.” He has no idea what the difference is between the races, or the identity of any of the participants. He wouldn’t recognize this ‘Kogane’ if he ran right into him. 

*

That evening, Shiro sits up in bed, his phone in hand. He’s run right into him! 

After scrolling through the front page of the Yukon Quest website, past the ticking countdown to the race’s start, there is a page with the race participants. Shiro squints at the screen. He zooms in on the photo of one Keith Kogane— the first ‘musher’ listed in the contestants Yukon Quest Alaska run. 

“....no.  

….

Really ?” 

Yes, really. 

The man with the red truck and the dog named Kosmo is none other than Keith Kogane .

Kogane, who is, evidently, some kind of local legend in the making. 

Shiro reads: 

“For Keith Kogane, the sport of dog mushing is not just a hobby but a way of life. His dedication to his dogs, coupled with his special strategic approach to training and competition, makes him a formidable figure in the sled dog racing community. Now a two time champion of the Iditarod, Kogane prepares for his next challenge: the Yukon Quest Alaska. This race is more than a competition, it is an homage to the SPIRIT and HISTORY of mushing itself. 

Currently, Kogane lives in Tok, Alaska. He juggles his professional life in Construction with his unwavering dedication to his kennel, Keith’s Kennel . The kennel has become a beacon of excellence in the mushing community, check out the website where enthusiasts and supporters can follow the journey of his team of sled dogs.

His journey is supported by such local sponsors as Knives of Alaska, Blade Tow and Auto Repair, TK Pawn, and ATLAS Inc. Thank you, sponsors! 

Every day he gets to enjoy the solitude of the trails, travel through pristine wilderness, and work with the best dogs in the world! With a spirit driven by ambition and resilience, Kogane is more determined than ever to surpass his previous achievements.”

Initial shock waning in favor of renewed curiosity, Shiro scrolls up to the photo above the supremely awkward autobiography and studies it more closely. It’s absolutely the same man as he saw in the diner, but the photo really doesn’t capture him. In real life, the man is sharp angles, the crackling energy that comes with intensity. In the professional headshot, none of that energy translates. Keith looks almost startled by the idea of having his picture taken, and rather than a smile, his lips are pulled back in a kind of half grimace that is far from flattering. 

Shiro clicks on the hyperlink to the ‘Keith’s Kennel’ website. Besides the extremely literal name, the same paragraph of information is listed under the ‘About Keith’ section. There’s also a tab for ‘Donation’ and ‘Become a Sponsor.’ Shiro is interested in the gallery. 

There’s a picture and a lovingly transcribed description of every dog— and it looks like Keith has upwards of twenty— and innumerable action shots of the dogs playing and training together. So many pictures of Kosmo. But, finally, Shiro is rewarded for his efforts: a photo of Keith. Unlike the headshot, this photo seems to be candid, and Keith looks much better for it. He’s grinning, features softened by happiness. He’s obviously dressed for the elements, dark hair covered by a hat, and several layers of parka jackets that make him look sweet and warm. His cheeks are bitten red in the wind and there’s a brightness to expression that speaks to passion realized. All the sharpness in him is bowed, like the ice of harsh winter thawing into something lush and alive. 

One last blurb skates along the bottom of each page: To Learn More Contact at [email protected] . Or Visit Keith’s Kennel! Free Tour Every Second Saturday August - January. Starts at 11 a.m. Wear Warm Clothes and Boots That Can Get Muddy. 

Drumming his fingers over his mouth, Shiro considers. He just so happens to have Warm Clothes and Boots That Can Get Muddy.

Well. 

Something to think about…

He considers.

Contemplates. 

Ruminates, even. 

He decides: “My life is one absurdity after another.” 

Shiro taps to his calendar application. Tomorrow is the second Saturday of the month, afterall— he adds an event, starting at 10:30 a.m. so he won’t be late. Life choices made, he sets his phone down on the charger, and settles back into bed. 

*

“Well. Uh.” Keith surveys the group of people standing in the gravel driveway of Keith’s Kennel. He looks somewhat taken aback by the audience— though perhaps, Shiro is starting to understand, this muddle of annoyance and confusion is just his default expression— and if Shiro weren’t flanked by families of tourists on either side, he would certainly feel like he was randomly trespassing on Keith’s property rather than arriving at the advertised time for a free tour. “Can everybody hear me alright?” 

There’s a few nods and agreement from the small crowd. Keith’s gaze seems to trip on Shiro; for just a moment, the two of them make eye contact, and Shiro thinks that there’s recognition in the steely look. But then, Keith moves to the other people on the tour, the slip of connection vanishing as quickly as it came. 

“Okay,” he mumbles and stuffs his hands into the pockets of a brown jacket he has on over a sweatshirt. He clears his throat, “Follow me!” 

The air outside is on the bitter side of cold— the temperature has been flirting with true negative digits for the past week, and flurries scatter through the air— but as they enter the building, it’s warm. The building itself is a wood cabin, painted red on the outside, a slanted roof overhead, already covered in snow. Here, it’s almost muggy with the thick smell of animals, though it’s organic, comforting rather than fetid. Kosmo lopes from elsewhere to fall into step with Keith, and Keith’s shoulders settle, and Shiro feels at home. 

“So, uh, right now, we’re housing 44 dogs,” Keith begins. “Nineteen of those are my main sled team, and the others are training, or close to retirement, or puppies.” 

“Puppies!” One of the children interrupts with a shriek, but rather than look annoyed, Keith grins. 

“Yeah, we’ll definitely get to play with the puppies today,” he tells the kid, “But we gotta save that for the last part of the tour, or else you won’t want to hear about anything else.” He pushes hair behind his ear, and smiles at the kid. “They’re really, really cute.” 

Shiro thinks that Keith has ‘cute’ covered well enough on his own. That being said— he’s not a monster. He wants to see the puppies, too.  

Keith continues through the building, but he’s leading them through it; they aren’t staying inside. They pass a room with gear and supplies and there’s an area that must be for veterinary care, but the dogs are nowhere to be found— after all, they aren’t made to live in a place like this. Keith throws the back door open and Shiro can’t help but feel a sense of awe— it’s as if the whole of Alaskan wilderness is just beyond this building, right here. Snow covered ground and forest encroaches at every side. Mountain peaks climbing in the distance. The wide, wide sky stretches perfect, brilliant blue overhead. At the presence of guests, the biting cold air is filled with yaps and barks and happy howls; all the dogs bound around the limits of their space, collars and leashes clinking with their excitement. The area is enormous— it would have to be, for this many animals— and each dog is tethered to their own personal miniature cabin. 

“With other kennels, you see barrels with straw inside for the sled dogs,” Keith says, “That’s fine because it keeps them warm and they have their own personal space. But, uh, I like to build stuff, so I kinda did my own thing with their houses.” Each cabin has a carved wooden placard with the dog’s name hand-painted on it. Keith clears his throat. “Okay. Um. First thing— the dogs are always the main priority here. They’re the athletes and the hard workers on the team, so it’s my job to make sure that they’re taken care of so that they can live their best lives. I’m here for them.” 

He strides through the rows of the mini cabins towards a racing sled with the ganglines already laid out on the ground. “Best way to explain is just to show,” he says, warm breath clouding in the air before it disappears. He begins to talk about the basics of sled dog racing. Keith is so serious and detailed about the parts of the sled and how it works that Shiro gets the feeling that he should be taking notes. It’s a stark difference from the three words the man strung together in the parking lot or the diner. Clearly, this is his passion. 

Starting from the very front of the lead, Keith begins selecting dogs to harness onto the sled to build the team. “These guys in the front are your lead dogs,” he says, stopping to snuffle his face into the top of one very excited dog’s head. The dog barks and licks his face and stands still while Keith very gently gets it into a racing harness. “Good girl, good girl,” he croons, walking it over to the front. “This is Pepper; she’s finished the Iditarod with me four times now,” he says as an aside. Pepper’s brother, Salt, is already retired and living a relaxed life as a house dog, not so far away. 

Behind the two lead dogs in front— they listen to the musher’s commands and direct the rest of the team— there’s the swing dogs. “Johnny and Cash— they’re brothers from the same litter. They’re gonna make sure everybody else listens to the leaders.” Then the team dogs are next, the one who maintain the sled’s speed. Finally, just in front of the musher and the sled, there’s the wheel dogs. “These guys are the big boys of the group,” Keith says, and Shiro swears that Keith looks directly at him before returning his attention to the dogs. “They’re pulling the most weight from the sled, so they should be the strongest ones you got.” He points to a golden colored husky and another one, more white and gray. “Yellow and Mr. President.” 

“Why are they all so skinny?” One of the tourists, a blonde woman in a beige parka and enormous white earmuffs, raises her hand and asks. 

Keith nods. “You’re used to Siberians, or even part Malamute like Kos here,” he says patting Kosmo’s head at his side. It’s true that Kosmo is much bigger and bulkier than most of these dogs. “These are Alaskan huskies— bred for speed. They love running more than anything. Right guys?” 

All around, the dogs bark and shout and howl. Keith grins. 

He’s serious again, though, when he begins a detailed and thorough breakdown of their specialized diet and rigorous meal schedule. Afterall, they consume only the highest quality protein to be strong, and they need enough calories to run, and the timing has to be perfectly correct, or else they could get sick if they eat too close to running. The woman looks like she regrets asking by the end. 

Just as the kids are starting to get as antsy as the barking sled dogs, it’s puppy time. 

“Hardee, Wendy, McDonald, Jack, and Arby,” Keith introduces the newest litter of Keith’s Kennel. His explanation is drowned out by the happy exclamations of the tour group descending on the pen of puppies like the famished on food. It’s true— the puppies are adorable. All paws and sweet yips and bright energy. “Racing dogs in their prime are usually between four and five years old— their muscles are strong and developed by then and they’re fully trained. These guys are babies, just born over the summer—- annnnnn’ nobody’s listening anymore.” 

Shiro, falling into step with Keith and Kosmo, surveys the chaos. “You were correct…there’s no coming back from this.” 

Keith ducks his head, not quite a smile playing over his mouth. “Always happens,” he says, gruff. “Can’t blame ‘em.” He shouts over the bustle: “There’s a hand washing station and hot chocolate over there,” he says, pointing to the building. “I’m available for questions. Thanks for coming!” 

With this, the tour is officially concluded. 

However. Shiro has not yet achieved his objective: a proper introduction. 

“Kosmo,” he says, grave, “Good to see you again.” Shiro sticks out his prosthetic, and he’s delighted when the large dog lifts up a paw in return. “Glad to be on a first name basis with at least one of you.” 

It’s not Shiro’s imagination, is it? The ruddiness of Keith’s cheeks deepens into a blush?

“Keith,” he says, extending a hand as well. He must wear gloves while he races, but at the moment, his hands are bare. Red with cold. The skin around his knuckles is chapped, and dry between his fingers, but his handshake is solid. 

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, the name warm and easy in his mouth. “Thank you for sharing your passion with us.” It didn’t escape Shiro that there wasn’t any point throughout the tour during which the man talked about himself. “It’s inspiring to learn from someone so talented.” 

Red lights up Keith’s cheeks. “I—uh.” He swallows and pulls his hand away, “I’m— you’re welcome? Yeah, um,” his fingers twitch at his sides. “I better—” he points in the direction of the puppies with a jut of his chin. “Okay.”

Charmed, Shiro watches as Keith trots over to the pen with the puppies and promptly starts telling the group about how they get started with basic commands and trail walks from an early age. 

The envelopes of hot chocolate powder beckon, and Shiro makes himself a paper cup of sugary warmth to sip. There’s an acrylic lockbox with a wooden placard hanging over it that reads ‘DONATIONS.’ A little husky is carved into the sign beside the word. Before anyone can see him, Shiro takes some cash out of his wallet and folds it to slide through the slot on the top of the box. 

Eventually— and Shiro does get a moment with the puppies, their velvet ears and wiggling, happy energy a balm that can cure all wounds— it is time for the tourists and Shiro to leave Keith’s Kennel. Afterall, these sled dogs have a big race to prepare for in the coming months. There’s no time to waste! 

“Shiro.” Keith stops Shiro on his way out— and the sharpness is back in his expression, cold wind lifting his hair before he brushes it out of his eyes— “One thing before you go.” 

Intrigued, Shiro lets Keith herd him away from the tourists getting into their cars, likely heading back to the RV park or perhaps to Fast Eddy’s for a bite to eat now to beat the dinner crowds. 

“What’d you do to your foot?” Keith demands to know, apropos of nothing. 

Shiro blinks, at first unsure that he heard correctly, then processing. He manages a smile. “I’m sorry…?” 

“You’re favoring one side,” Keith explains, crossing his arms across his chest. He juts his chin again. “You weren’t limping like that the last time I saw you.” 

Ah. The porch step debacle. Shiro wasn’t aware that the slight injury was noticeable. “I got into a disagreement with the architecture of my rental.” 

Keith squints. 

“Namely,” Shiro explains, “I’m of the opinion that the porch steps should be structurally sound. They beg to differ.” 

The squint deepens. Keith frowns. 

“The steps to my door,” Shiro further explains. “One of them broke. I was, ah, stepping on it? The wood must have been rotted.” Shiro holds up his hands, placating. “Nothing serious. I swear.” 

Enlightenment dawns. Keith looks relieved, then angry, then thoughtful. 

“I’m surprised you noticed,” Shiro says, cataloging the expressions. He’s wonderfully animated— every thought seems to transform his severe features into something new. 

“It’s my job to notice,” Keith returns. Serious. “Wrap your ankle to walk tomorrow. And today you need to elevate it when you get home. Fifteen minutes ice, fifteen minutes heat, alternating. Rest until it gets better and see somebody about it if it doesn’t.” 

Shiro isn’t sure if he should be offended or delighted by the idea that Keith has placed him in the same mental category as the dogs he stewards. No injury left unnoticed or unaddressed. “I’ll do that,” he promises. 

“Good.” Keith nods. “Okay. See you.” He nods again and hunches his shoulders and stalks back to the cabin. 

Shiro looks at Kosmo. 

Kosmo seems to smile back.

“Your dad—” Shiro begins. 

Keith whistles and Kosmo bounds after him before Shiro can complete the thought. 

*

The next day, Shiro returns to his apartment after work and finds that there is a familiar truck parked in front of his door. 

“Huh.” Shiro steps down from his car— and he followed directions, by the way, his ankle is wrapped with an ace bandage— and takes in the piece of lumber sticking out from the open truck bed, and the handsaw lying nearby. The sawdust over slush and snow. “Well.” 

The offending porch is at the backdoor of the unit. Shiro circles the building and finds Kosmo running around the barebones courtyard, getting energy out by jumping around and snapping at the gently falling snow. 

Keith, on the other hand, is working. 

He’s already rebuilt the bottom step and added a handrail to the side of the stairs. Currently, he has a paintbrush in hand. He dips it into a can of deck sealant and coats methodically along the wood. 

“Keith.” 

At his name, Keith jerks out of the intense focus. He shakes his head— not unlike a dog— and stands up, running a hand through tangled hair. “Shiro. Hey.” 

“Do you mind explaining what you’re doing?” 

Keith tilts his head. He blinks. “Like…in general or technically?” 

Shiro has a vision of Keith delivering an extended monologue about lumber. It doesn’t seem that far-fetched, especially as Shiro takes in the weighty tool belt around Keith’s waist— he has a hunting knife strapped to his thigh and a hammer hanging there too, amongst numerous other things. It seems excessive. “The first one.” 

The squint is becoming familiar. “Fixing your step?” 

“Why?” 

“‘Cause it’s broken?” 

Lifting his eyebrows, Shiro considers this. “Keith—” 

“And it damn sure wasn’t the tourists who left me three hundred bucks in twenties in my donation box on Saturday.” 

“Ah.” Shiro winces. He has a tendency to come on strong. ‘Moderation’ is a quality he lacks. It was helping in establishing his career as a pilot of cutting edge, experimental aircraft. Less so in romance. “About that.” 

Keith looks smug. He nods as if the conversation is over and goes back to painting. The rail is already stained, so he’s squatting to finish up the step. He doesn’t look over his shoulder at Shiro as he adds, “Thank you, though. For the cash. The kennel can always use it. Cool of you.” 

“My pleasure.” Shiro, sensing that this is a one man job— provided the man is Keith— resolves to keep him company rather than get in his way. It seems he’s almost done, anyways. “I enjoyed the tour.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Shiro leans to the side to catch a glimpse of Keith’s smile. Close-mouthed and sweet. He’s adorable. Shiro exercises some of the ‘moderation’ he mentioned earlier and does not add that he mostly enjoyed the tour guide . And that, in his opinion, it would certainly be pleasurable to continue to enjoy the tour guide in other capacities. Instead, after a moment, he asks, “Can I get you anything? Coffee…it’s getting late… a beer, maybe? You’re welcome to come inside to warm up.” 

“Nah,” Keith shakes his head. He stands and looks at Shiro— in close proximity now, close enough for Shiro to note his crooked incisor and that his eyes are a shade of blue so dark it doesn’t seem possible. A hairline scar, thin and white, that crosses over the cut of his jaw. Keith has the can of sealant in his hand, paintbrush across the top of it, held just so under the spread of his hand over the lid. “Gotta head back.” 

“Another time,” Shiro murmurs. 

Keith ducks his head and mumbles something unintelligible that ends in, “....Kos!” 

The husky perks up from sniffing around and rushes to Keith’s side. Shiro puts his hand out and Kosmo butts his forehead against Shiro’s palm, requesting pets. “Good boy,” Shiro says, doting. “So good!” 

Fingers of his free hand twitching at his side, that flush is sitting on Keith’s cheeks again. “Thanks again, Shiro. Glad your ankle seems alright. That’s good— I mean. I’ll— yeah. Uh. See you.”

Shiro thinks, as he watches Keith escape to his truck, that as much as he enjoys this barest hint of flirtation, perhaps next time he’ll do more than flirt. Shiro is a patient man, but patience only takes one so far. 

*

First though, some research: 

Shiro favors the direct approach. His text to Romi cannot be misinterpreted: 

Is Keith Kogane single?

Romi texts back immediately. No

A crushing disappointment implodes within Shiro’s chest, all kinds of young, hopeful, light feelings caught in the collapse. 

He has like 50 dogs 

….

Romi, Shiro texts, warning. 

Is Keith single???????? Do bears shit in the woods?

You’ll remember I’m new to these particular woods , Shiro implores. Smiling now that the disaster in his chest is starting to unfold. Perhaps this light, excited interest is stronger than he knew. 

Let me fill you in 

The answer is yes 

god 

seriously 

god 

what

Who would

Wait 

Shiro

SHIRO?!?!?!?!?!

Grinning, Shiro watches as various gifs start appearing on the screen, all of them incomprehensible and barely moving thanks to his lackluster internet service. 

Thanks for the info, he texts back, and a bunch of kissing faces. 

*

In the past, for Shiro, piloting was a culmination of years of desperate hard work, a hunger for more than what was offered in other careers, ambition, security, a future. A desire to prove himself, the rush of adrenaline, skirting the edge of danger on his own wit. Conquering, mastering, excelling— there was a pride in flying, and a sense of being apart. 

Now, today, he’s flying with someone else. 

Allura’s voice is honey smooth and lilting in Shiro’s headset. He can see her to the right of him, up ahead. She’s piloting the cub with the broad blue pinstripe through the body, and the plane looks perfect in the sky, sunlight kissing the wings as it glides. 

“Oh, I never get tired of this,” Allura sighs, interrupting her explanation of the technical— they’re working through a trial run for an upcoming flight— to bask in the landscape. There was heavy snowfall overnight, and the majestic views are blanketed in it, pristine and lovely. 

These small aircraft each have their own personalities and quirks: Blue is generous and easy.  Red is fast but temperamental. The black one with a white stripe, the one Shiro has taken to favoring, is the oldest of the bunch, and feels like flying in a piece of history— almost like the Piper Super Cub has a mind of its own from so many journeys through the years. The stories she could tell! It’s a stark difference from the sleek, cutting edge technology Shiro used to fly. Black’s engine rumbles around him and it’s comforting— like being in the belly of a purring cat. 

Shiro agrees with Allura, asking about the land below. Not for what he could gather from the spread of instruments under his hands, things like altitude and latitude and longitude and wind speed and so on, but the intricacies of the rolling forest and climbing peaks, the veins of black water spreading over valleys only to disappear. She’s a skilled pilot, there’s no doubt about that, but when she talks about her home, Shiro imagines her girlish smile and the warm, sweet smell of tea rather than jet fuel. She loves this place. 

“Shiro— look, just there,” Allura tells him, giving direction. 

Adjusting accordingly, Shiro looks: 

From above, it looks perfect, like it could be a miniature in an old fashioned Christmas village: a tiny team of reindeer attached to a sleigh skirting over the pristine snow. But though caribou call Alaska home, these aren’t reindeer, nor is that a sleigh… the neat little line is pairs of dogs, running together, pulling a sled.

Shiro breathes out some sound of appreciation mixed with surprise. It’s been almost a month since he was face-to-face with the sled at Keith’s Kennel tour, and he thought he had a solid understanding of the practice. But, it’s one thing to see the set-up for the sled and another to see it in action from above. The team is moving quickly, as if the dogs are a single entity, banking to the left through a clearing of trees, then forward, fast, fast enough that a smooth spray of snow flies from the wake of the sled. The sled is a flash of red— bright, cherry, bold red— in the snow, and the musher too is wearing a red parka. 

“He’ll be going further and further out to train now that the race is getting closer,” Allura says. The mushers for the Yukon Quest are wholly self-sufficient for the duration of the race, camping in the wilderness to rest between their long slogs of racing the trek of nearly one thousand miles. For now, Keith is headed back into town, it seems, all but flying over the snow. 

They climb higher and Allura soon is back to the business of their flight, but Shiro watches the dog sled team as long as he is able. 

*

Back on the tarmac, Shiro checks his messages. Romi has given him some very direct orders: 

Come to the diner tonight 7:35 don’t be late 

Shiro sends back a saluting emoji. It’s not as if his evening is bustling with social activity. If anything, this will give him an excuse to escape whatever strange experiment Matt has dreamed up for the evening. 

(Today, it turns out to be an insanely elaborate, morally questionable, and legally ambiguous ‘intelligent’ computer program. Shiro eyes the software running on Matt’s laptop— developed to somehow rig gacha pulls in the game to which Matt is currently addicted. “Couldn’t you do something useful, like…” Shiro considers, “Erase student loan debt?” 

Matt just shrugs— he’s looking at Shiro’s phone like he’s hungry for another source of rigged gacha madness. “Maybe next week. You’re sure you can’t stay?” 

Shiro stows his phone and his text from Romi out of sight. “Apologies. I have plans.” 

Snorting at this ridiculous answer, Matt returns to texting his [increasingly dubious] long distance girlfriend and gambling for pictures of anime women.) 

Regardless, Shiro is indeed standing in Romelle’s diner at 7:35 p.m. sharp. He knocks the snow off his boots at the door, and unwinds the scarf from around his neck. It is, once again, empty save for her. 

“Why the exact timing?” Shiro wonders. 

Romi rolls her eyes under freshly bleached brows. “Sit,” she commands, drumming her sparkly nails on formica tabletop. “He’ll be here in five minutes. You’re buying. Don’t leave until you and me have a chat.” 

Mystified, Shiro watches as Romi retreats to the kitchen, this time on silver cowgirl boots instead of platform Crocs. 

Exactly five minutes later, the door opens again and the diner’s warm air rushes out. In walks Keith. 

He’s wearing a beanie over his hair— black spills out of it at the bottom, curling around his neck in a mess of static and silk as he shrugs out of a cherry red parka. It takes him a moment to notice that anyone else is here. “S-Shiro!” he says, starting with surprise, when he eventually spots Shiro at one of the diner’s few booths. 

Shiro lifts his hand, indicating that Keith should sit with him. “Wow. Remarkably good timing,” he says, half wry. “I just got here.” 

Keith looks like he’s wrestling with indecision— mouth set and fingers twitching at his sides— “Uh, um—” 

“I don’t bite,” Shiro promises. “Except for situations of extreme duress or, I suppose, explicit request.”  

The chill of the outside and the warmth of the diner pull color into Keith’s cheeks. “Hh—”

“Keith!” Romelle barks. “You’re dripping water on the floor!” 

Keith jumps at the sound of his name. His shoulders come up to his ears and a scowl folds his features into grumbling anger. “Jesus, Romi, you’re loud.” 

“I’m literally not,” Romi disagrees. She stalks out of the kitchen with a loaded plate in each hand. Evidently there’s no need to order— she’s already decided their fate. Shiro gets the feeling that Keith is a man of habit— it’s likely that he always comes to this diner on this day and eats this meal. So perhaps it’s just Shiro’s fate that Romi is deciding. Shiro, typically one to defy the predetermined, finds himself intrigued. Both plates of food get set down on Shiro’s table. She leaves no room for argument: 

“Give me your coat before you drip anywhere else, then sit down and eat.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Keith hands her his coat and slides into the booth opposite Shiro. He ducks his head, then lifts his eyes to give Shiro a sheepish smile. Fingers play over flatware, a fork unfolded from a paper napkin. “So. Hey.” 

“Hey, yourself.” Shiro watches as Romi hangs Keith’s coat up and theatrically blows Shiro a kiss from behind Keith’s head. He smiles before returning his attention to the man in front of him. “Good to see you again, Keith. My step is holding up famously well.” 

“Yeah?” Keith asks, wasting no time in shoving an enormous forkful of meatloaf into his mouth. The specialized diet of his hounds does, perhaps, not apply to him. He chews. “It’s good?” 

“It’s excellent,” Shiro corrects. “Not only does it allow me to reach my back door, it also holds my body weight and does not threaten me with communicable diseases.” 

Keith tilts his head and lifts a brow. “Oh…kay.” 

“Almost like it was built by my favorite dog sledding champion.” 

Snorting, Keith shovels mashed potatoes in his face with wild abandon. He looks pleased and embarrassed and like he doesn’t know what to say. “Oh c’mon,” he manages. 

Delighted by this response, Shiro takes a more conservative approach to his meal— or at least one that wouldn’t get him sidelong glances in a typical dining establishment. He waits until he’s finished chewing before he tells Keith: “I was flying over the Tanana River region, northwest bound, and I happened to see you on your way back from your run.”  

“I saw the Lions overhead,” Keith nods. He asks Shiro about piloting with Allura. It seems he’s not good with eye contact, directly. Though he’s mostly looking down at his plate or somewhere off to the side behind Shiro, his dark eyes do flick to Shiro’s at intervals, piercing, listening with intensity as Shiro speaks about his first few months with Lion Air Service. 

It’s electrifying in a way, that intensity. Shiro watches Keith pick at the dry skin around his nails after he finishes scraping his plate clean in record time. Alaska has a reputation for attracting a solitary kind of people— the self-sufficient eccentric, the ones who want wide open spaces instead of neighbors. Shiro doesn’t know if that’s entirely true, but he does know that no one in the lower forty-eight has ever listened to him like Keith is now. Those eyes land on Shiro’s again, and it’s dangerous, the way a man could get addicted to having Keith Kogane’s attention. 

“Your run today went well?” Shiro asks Keith, giving himself a reprieve from that intensity. 

Keith clears his throat. “Just over two months to the race. Sixty seven days. The dogs are ready— my team is set. Now it just comes down to me: gear, strategy, mindset.” 

“And how are you feeling?” 

He grins, “I can’t wait. But,” Keith wets his lips, “There’s always something that comes up. So I have to be diligent.” He tells Shiro about the last race— a race he won, though Keith leaves that detail out— and how, just an hour beforehand, the zipper to his jacket snapped. “First rule of racing,” Keith says, deadly serious, poking a finger down on the table for emphasis, “You never go out in untested gear. It had to be that jacket. That was the jacket I trained in. That was the jacket I tested.” 

“What did you end up doing?” Shiro asks. 

“The zipper was busted and I couldn’t get an exact duplicate that close to the race. I sewed the closure shut,” Keith says, matter of fact. He nods. 

Shiro imagines Keith sitting in the trailer at the starting line, mouth screwed up in concentration, a pack of dogs howling around him while he sews himself into a parka. Teams racing the Yukon Quest can face blizzards, gale force winds, temperatures that sink so low beneath freezing that they are virtually unsurvivable. Inadequate outwear—a broken zipper— could be a death sentence. “Impressive,” he decides. 

“Aw, nah,” Keith mumbles, fingers twitching before he hides them under the table. “Just…taking care of it.”

Romi brings them both a slice of cherry pie. Again, something they did not explicitly order. “One check or two,” she asks, the picture of a demure waitress. 

(She gives Shiro a significant look.) 

“One,” Shiro says, and enjoys the way Keith’s body freezes and his eyes go wide like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“I have money,” he says, a protest, 

“Good luck to ward off broken zippers,” Shiro tells him with a wink. Per Romi’s order, he brought cash this time.  

“That doesn’t even make sense…. ” Keith mumbles under his breath, squinting and looking off to the side. “Thank you, Shiro,” he says, shaking hair out of his face. Bashful again. He eats his pie. 

“Will you go out with the dogs again tomorrow?” Shiro asks to distract him. The cherry filling is brighter than he expects, so tart it coats his mouth, jammy and rich. “Wow— this is amazing.” 

“The best,” Keith agrees. “No, not tomorrow.” He’s following a detailed training regimen, both for himself and the dogs. Tomorrow is a rest day, though that still comes with a lengthy list of tasks to complete. His schedule seems to be an endless list of dog related tasks...that he loves. Once again, his dedication to this topic cuts through any awkwardness. To Shiro, it’s as satisfying as the tart cherry tempering the decadence of a flakey, buttery crust. Keith is more relaxed with a full stomach and a familiar subject of conversation. Shiro enjoys his dessert. 

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” Keith asks, at the door, snapping buttons over a carefully repaired zipper. 

Shiro lifts a finger to the ceiling, indicating that he’s at the mercy of a flight schedule, but he’ll certainly be flying overhead. Keith will see him. “You’ll see me. I hope to see you,” he says. “Sooner, rather than later.” 

“Yeah,” Keith nods, mouth bowed into not-exactly-a-smile, but close enough. “Bye, Shiro.” 

“Take care, Keith.” 

The door opens and the cold air bites and Keith steps out into the bitter dark of it. Shiro listens for the start of his truck and the crunch of gravel under tires. He stacks the plates neatly on the table, and counts out more cash for a tip. Despite the heavy food and the dark and the cold, Shiro feels light with the bouncy, airy feeling that comes with enjoying a crush. It seems that Keith is easily persuaded into talking, given he likes the subject. Shiro smiles to himself, mouth pressed into his knuckles, feeling ridiculous— how long has it been since he felt like this— and happy. Keith is so fresh, unlike anyone he’s met before—

Shiro can’t wait to see him again— 

Silver cowgirl boots appear in Shiro’s line of vision. 

“Romi.” Shiro looks up at her. 

Metallic lipstick purses into a knowing smirk. “He’s here the last Friday of every month. Always the same time.” 

“I appreciate—” 

She continues, “But, he pretty much disappears from town the rest of the time, especially when he’s this close to a race.” Romi pauses, looking at Shiro significantly. “I bet it would be nice if you had a reason to run into him again. Right away.” 

“It would,” Shiro says slowly….

Romelle places a brick of a phone onto the table in front of Shiro. 

She must have taken it out of his jacket when she hung up his coat . She has stolen Keith’s cell phone.  

“Romi, you can’t— why would you— I don’t— he needs this !” 

“Yeah. Obvs. That’s why I’m sure Keith will be super grateful when you bring it back to him.” Romi smiles. She leans down to look Shiro in the eyes. “Tonight.” 

Now, that’s a thought. 

Generally, Shiro is a man who values integrity. Honesty. Creating his own good fortune through hard work and practiced skill. As stated before, he’s patient. 

However. 

Shiro is also a man who values the way Keith’s ass looks in Wrangler jeans. And a month is an awfully long time to wait to see him again.  

Shiro reaches for the phone. 

Romi puts her hand on top of it. She looks at him.

Shiro sighs. “Name your price.” 

“I want to go dancing ,” Romi says, eyes shining. 

Shiro doesn’t know what kind of nightlife there is in Anchorage, or in Fairbanks, but he’s certain that can be arranged. “I’ll—” 

“In L.A.,” she says, fingers pressed into the phone. 

“You know I only know gay clubs, right?” Shiro deadpans. “And that it’s been years since I actually spent a Friday night bar hopping in West Hollywood?” 

Romi drums her fingers over the phone. 

“But. Hm.” If Romi is intent on going clubbing in L.A., she’ll be safer with Shiro tagging along. Shiro’s sigh turns into a smile. His life might look a little different than it once did, but he’s confident that those clothes in the far reaches of his closet will still fit. “I can think of a few spots you might like. Sure. I’ll take you dancing.” 

“Promise?” 

“I’m a man of my word,” Shiro promises. 

“Soooo you and Keith are super cute together,” Romi tells him, handing over the cell phone. 

“Soooo this is the first and last time you will steal other people’s personal belongings on my behalf, Romelle,” Shiro tells her. He takes the phone and places it carefully inside the inner pocket of his jacket. Very secure. (Very heavy.) 

She laughs, scritching the top of his head affectionately— Shiro does not like that, by the way— and grabs the plates to bus the table. “Hurry up,” she nods to the door. 

Shiro is not a man who hurries . 

He does, however, sometimes make exceptions. 

*

They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Shiro is not sure if his intentions could be classified as purely ‘good’ — considering this stolen phone plot— though he does mean to treat Keith with graciousnss and respect and, provided that the man is wholly amenable, sleep with him— and the road leading here wasn’t strictly paved — the cabin where Keith lives is on a gravel road a few miles beyond ‘Keith’s Kennel’ — but, surely, this is hell. 

“I—” Shiro swallows, and looks at the rifle pointing distinctly in the direction of his chest. 

The rifle which happens to be in the hands of an angry woman. 

The rifle which happens to be in the hands of an angry woman standing in the doorway of the house he just approached. Unannounced. At night. 

“I was hoping to speak with Keith,” Shiro says, reaching into the depths of his soul to speak with a calmness usually reserved for when his aircraft is experiencing catastrophic failure at 50,000 feet. He’s proud that his voice does not come out as a sob. There is a high likelihood that he is about to be shot at point blank range. 

Kosmo appears— that likelihood feels like it decreases. Marginally. 

Undeterred by the woman’s crackling rage and drawn firearm, the enormous dog snuffles past her, towards Shiro, tail wagging and nose going. Rooo rooo rooo, he says, boisterously greeting Shiro with husky enthusiasm and husky volume. 

“Kosmo. You know this man?” 

“I—”  

The sharp look that the woman gives Shiro is somehow identical to Keith’s— though Shiro likes it much less in this context. Her glare is a razor. Shiro shuts his mouth. 

“Kosmo knows you,” the woman decides after a moment of Kosmo excitedly borking and prancing about and smelling Shiro. (Shiro has never loved dogs more than he loves Kosmo in this exact moment.) She does not, exactly, lower her weapon, but it does feel like she is less likely to use it. She looks at Shiro on her porch, mouth set. “Explain.” 

“Keith and I had dinner together at Romi’s just now,” Shiro says, getting straight to the point. “He left his phone there by mistake so I came to return it to him.” 

She accepts this with silence, eyes boring into his. 

Shiro holds her gaze. 

(Respectfully.) 

“Takashi Shirogane. Known as ‘Shiro.’” She lowers the gun. 

“That’s right.” Shiro’s mouth is dry. He has no idea how this woman might know his name. He manages, “And you are…?” 

“Krolia. Keith’s mother.” 

The rifle is no longer pointed at him, but somehow this information makes Shiro feel similarly close to death. “O-oh.” Shiro’s voice cracks. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

Krolia’s face remains impassive. “You will come in and have a seat.” She steps aside, opening up the doorway. Kosmo trots inside. Shiro follows. She shuts the door behind him. 

A fire crackles merrily in the fireplace. 

Krolia tilts her head in the direction of a couch, and Shiro sits. There’s a crocheted blanket slumped over the back of it, a pattern of red and orange and brown, and another over the seat in shades of blue and purple. The room is small but warm, and full of photos in mismatched frames and furniture that looks old. Worn— but worn in the way that furniture used to grow old, real wood that’s made to last decade after decade, the kind that’s repaired rather than replaced. The rug over the wood floor is patched and soft with time. The coffee table has a bowl of change and keys sitting next to a paperback romance novel, and some of the heavy clasps that Shiro recognizes as ones that harness the racing dogs to the sled’s ganglines. 

Kosmo lets out a big, satisfied huff and settles back into a dog bed in front of the fireplace. 

Krolia settles back into an armchair and picks up her phone. She pokes at the screen. Based on the sound, Shiro thinks that she’s playing Candy Crush. 

“I—” 

Her eyes flick to him. 

Shiro decides that it’s better to stay quiet for now. 

With nothing to do but sit up straight and remain quiet, Shiro notes that Keith really does look just like his mother. Her skin is a deeper tone than his, and she is taller, but the high cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the cut of jaw— even the way her dark hair falls is like his. Like Shiro’s first impression of Keith’s masculinity, she is not distinctly feminine— a handsome woman, the same way that Keith is a striking man. 

It’s not long before Shiro hears Keith moving out of sight. Judging by his brief view of the exterior, the cabin is not large, by any means— beyond this room with the fireplace and the couches, there is a tiny kitchen with a humming white fridge and plaid curtains over a small window. Likely just a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom down the hall. Out of sight, Keith is singing, low, under his breath, the thick gravel of his voice coloring the lyrics richer. The words become more distinct as he walks from the hall into the kitchen, though Shiro is no longer focused on identifying the song—

In fact, Shiro is not sure that he’s even able to hear anything at the moment. He’s not processing much of anything, save for Keith’s bare skin. 

Keith is clearly fresh out of the shower. He wanders into the kitchen barefoot and wearing only boxer shorts. He’s all supple skin, Dial clean smell. His hair is wet and combed away from his face, revealing dark brows, a pretty slant of forehead. Shiro wonders— eyes trailing through the hair over his chest and down, lush and dark over his stomach— how he could have, even for a moment, failed to place Keith as a man? Though, the bulky outerwear Keith is always wearing hides the lithe line of his hips and minimizes the pretty set of his shoulders, the swell of muscle in his arms,

Shiro swallows. 

“Want a peanut-butter-jelly?” Keith stops singing long enough to ask his mother. He’s not looking into the living room, but is collecting grape jelly and a carton of 2% out of the fridge. The Skippy and white bread is in a cupboard above the countertop. Keith hums and reaches behind himself to grab a knife from a plastic drying rack full of dishes next to the sink. He makes himself a sandwich. 

“I do not,” Krolia responds. “Keith.” 

“Hm?” 

“You have a visitor.” 

“Huh?” Keith takes a big bite of sandwich and a gulp of milk and swivels around. His eyes go comically wide when he sees Shiro sitting on the couch— he sputters and nearly chokes. A hacking cough, a gasp, and then he shouts: “FUCK!” 

“Hello, again,” Shiro ventures to speak. 

“Shiro?!” 

“Guilty,” Shiro confirms. 

Keith truly looks like he has no idea how to process this turn of events. “Uh-whu-huh- Shiro ?” 

Shiro is inclined to agree. 

From behind her phone screen, Krolia lifts her brows. 

“This is going well,” Shiro decides under his breath. His ears are burning with embarrassment in a way that he hasn’t experienced since early adolescence. He clears his throat. Stands up, “I apologize for dropping in unannounced. I wanted to return this as soon as possible.” Shiro crosses the few steps to the kitchen and reaches into his pocket to hand Keith back his phone. 

Keith’s shoulders— paler than his forearms, like he routinely works outside in a tee shirt in the summer— marginally relax, returning to their normal position instead of in close proximity to his ears. “Oh. I didn’t know I left it…thank you, Shiro.” He looks up at Shiro, shorter without boots, eyes dark and wide. 

“No need to thank me,” Shiro returns, dry. 

“This close to the race that would be pretty bad if I lost it,” Keith nods, serious. 

No doubt it would be difficult to replace this exact model, considering it seems to be more ancient relic than mobile device. “No problem, Keith,” Shiro reassures. “Happy to return it to its home. And I got to meet your mother— so.” 

“Yeah.” Keith smiles up at him, sunny. He does not, perhaps, realize that Krolia is terrifying. Nor that the loaded rifle at her side is not necessarily the epitome of exemplary gun ownership. 

“Shiro is fortunate,” Krolia chimes in from her armchair. Whether this is an allusion to the fact that he was mere moments away from acquiring a hole in his chest, or the fact that Shiro ‘found’ Keith’s cell phone is indeterminate. 

As much as Shiro is enjoying himself in this scenario (and the sight of Keith’s long, toned legs), Shiro thinks that it would be wise to leave the Kogane household before his luck runs out. 

“I really owe you one,” Keith says, solemn in his boxer shorts as he follows Shiro to the door. 

“You don’t,” Shiro says. Despite rationality, he’s choosing to be bold here— it’s a calculated risk, but the fact that Keith’s cowlick is already springing up from the back of his head, adorable, certainly carries weight in the equation. He lowers his voice, keeping this just between the two of them. He grins, half a smirk, flirtatious. “In fact, I already collected my payment.” 

“Hm?” Keith tilts his head. 

Shiro nods to the phone in Keith’s hand. “I may or may not have taken the liberty of adding my number to your contacts.” 

He enjoys, very much, the immediate return on his calculated risk— that is, finding out that Keith’s flush dapples over his chest before it settles on top of his cheekbones. “Oh!” 

“Text me,” Shiro instructs. “That way I can rest assured that my favorite musher hasn’t left his phone on a glacier somewhere.” 

“Shiro— you,” the blush crawls up his neck too. Keith gets an expression like he has too many words in his mouth. “Dude— I— ! Okay—promise. I will.” 

“Perfect.” Shiro glances towards Krolia, and decides that, while he’d like to say more, while he’d like to kiss Keith here— and he has a growing suspicion that Keith would let him— he is a man of calculated risks. Not suicide missions. 

Shiro is not even to his car yet when his phone pings: 

This is Keith , the message says. 

A promise already kept, and, Shiro decides, a promise of better things to come.

*

Shiro makes it a point to look for Keith whenever he flies after that. Keith’s Kennel and the Kogane cabin is surrounded by significant forest cover, but it’s not more than a couple of flights before Shiro sees him again: 

This time, not on the move, but a significant distance away from town, dogs and sled huddled around a campsite. Though the official racing team will be limited to fourteen dogs— by now, Shiro has all but bookmarked the Yukon Quest’s official website; he is an avid student of the rules, schedule, and participants involved— more than that are bedded down around the sled defying the bank of snow and the break in the trees. A long path snakes from the direction they came, rivets in the white like ridges of a fingerprint, worling through the difficult terrain. Though it’s a significant group, from the air Shiro might have missed the team entirely if not for the wisp of steam and smoke rising from the campsite’s fire. 

It’s not concerning in and of itself, but, truthfully, if Shiro didn’t have passengers in his care, he’d be tempted to set the plane down right there to make sure that Keith is okay. As it stands, he’s transporting Dr. Holt (Matthew Holt’s father) and a small team of researchers further North. They’re on an expedition to study, of all things, ice. Shiro, for his part, cannot fathom why, but he’s a pilot, so his opinions on their subject matter will remain fridged. 

John Carpenter himself could not have chosen a better spot for their research, Shiro thinks, landing the monoplane down and helping the men unload supplies into a remote facility that looks positively arctic. As soon as The Thing is finished, Shiro returns to the air. 

He doesn’t see Keith or his dog sled team on the flight back to Tok. It’s not truly a concern— depending on altitude and cloud cover, weather, and so on, occasionally he can’t spot much on the ground at all. Really, Shiro should be focused on a number of other things while he’s flying. But, well, what does routine or reason have to do with a man’s heart on a mission such as his? He makes good time back to Tok, but having traveled fairly far North, it does take him the better part of the day. Still, once he lands, he’s not even out of the hangar before he messages Keith, 

Saw you out near Mt. Hayes earlier today. Are you headed home?  

Which is a message not exactly reaching profundity. Shiro grimaces and considers adding some kind of additional thought or question, but, then again, he’s not really expecting a response at all. Maybe, maybe , a text in a few days, or late in the evening, early in the morning when Keith has a moment to himself. 

He certainly does not expect that his phone immediately signals an incoming call:  

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Shiro. It’s Keith.” The man’s textured voice is different within the confines of a phone. Closer. Sweeter. “I saw you texted me.” 

“I did,” Shiro confirms, lifting his hand in a wave to Matt as he walks from the tarmac into the building. Matt’s skinny arms windmill convincingly, but Shiro is adept at pretending not to notice he’s being hailed. 

“Did you need something?” Keith asks. There’s a whistle of wind behind him, and the bark and rustle of so many dogs. He may still be out on the trail, or maybe he’s just reached the kennel once again. 

Shiro settles into a chair at the front desk. He unzips his coat and pulls gloves off his hands. Rolls his shoulder. The prosthetic sometimes makes his shoulder ache in the cold, something he especially notices when he returns inside. It’s becoming more of a bother as the winter progresses. An unfortunate phenomenon, considering his chosen climate, but he’ll survive. “Nothing in particular. I just wanted to make sure that you made it home okay.” 

“...” 

A pause. Shiro might imagine that the satellite phone dropped their call if not for the background noise and the light sound of Keith’s flustered silence. 

“Did you,” Shiro asks, enjoying the way Keith’s breath is close to his ear, and the way he can picture that pointed gaze thrown anywhere but directly back at Shiro, “Make it home okay?” 

“I—yeah,” Keith responds. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for checking in—hey. Iwantedtoaskyou—” 

The last words are rapid fire thrown into the receiver, but Shiro understands enough. He hums out a prodding “Mm?” 

“Would you— I’m taking my secondary team out for a short run the day after tomorrow. Would you, uh, wanna come?” 

That’s unexpected. A chance at experiencing dog sledding first hand? Shiro’s life has taken him into some interesting situations, but he can honestly say that this is a first. Luckily Shiro is not the type of man who has ever turned down an adventure. And certainly not one with this kind of company. “Keith. Are you kidding me? Of course. I’d love to.”

“Yeah?” 

Oh, he can picture Keith’s smile with that word, and it’s golden. Shiro can’t wait to see it in person.

Keith’s grin echoes through the phone. “Yeah, you want to? Okay—yeah. Cool.” The giddiness fades and Keith adds on, somewhat more to himself, “Yeah, the dogs need the practice with extra weight, yeah, good,” 

Before Shiro can decide if he should be offended by this additional information, Keith is already talking again, and he’s serious: 

“Okay, yeah, if we’re gonna do this,” 

And this time, Shiro follows his compulsion to take notes. By the time Keith hangs up the phone, this is the outline that’s mapped out on the pink notepad Allura keeps next to the phone at the front desk: 

• Arrive at 07:00 Keith’s Kennel
• Eat breakfast beforehand, high protein, high carb, more calories than usual 
• Keith has used the words ‘big guy’ multiple times to describe me
• Big guy? 
• Dress in layers 
• No ‘fancy shit’
• Are my typical clothes ‘fancy’? 
• Yes, he says that they are 
• Double socks, bring an extra pair
• Keith will pack us lunch
• Is this a date?
• He did NOT understand or appreciate the idea that I would bring a bottle of wine 
• Maybe another time on the wine 
• Keith will provide gear
• It is probably not a date 
• Should I be concerned about the hunting knife he’s mentioning 
• No 
• What about the axe
• I’m choosing to live in a reality where this is normal 
• Keith will provide dogs 
• This seems that it would be a given
• He’s talking a long time about the dogs 
• Cute 
• Should be returning to town around 18:00
• Fairly serious itinerary/timeline for a first date
• No, it’s not a date 
• It may be a date 

Shiro taps the blue ballpoint pen on the notepad and considers. After giving him so much information, Keith finished with a gruff reminder to get a full night’s sleep beforehand. Then he signed off, smile in his voice again, a grin of Shiro’s name. 

Shiro circles the words ‘It may be a date’ in blue pen. 

*

The sled is packed and the dog team is harnessed by the time Shiro arrives at Keith’s Kennel. The dogs fully understand what’s about to happen; they are full of ear-drum piercing energy, each one a four-footed cyclone of movement.  

However. Keith is nowhere to be found. 

Instead, 

Big brown eyes regard Shiro with absolute suspicion. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Shiro says, sticking out his hand. It makes sense that Keith’s Kennel employs other people. Afterall, the dogs need a great deal of care and attention and time. No matter how devoted he is, it would be an impossible task for Keith alone. “Shiro.”

Still. This isn’t exactly the type of person that Shiro would have expected….

“So I’ve heard,” the skinny man sneers. He has a shovel in his hand, and he leans on it— all long limbs and floofy hair and big, brown, distrustful eyes. “So. I’ve. Heard.” 

“Right.” Shiro says. He withdraws his handshake. “Well. Is Keith around?” 

“What are your intentions?” The man demands to know, skinny brows shooting up into his hairline. “Quickly!!” He waves the shovel around in a way that could be threatening if he didn’t look like the human equivalent of vermicelli. “You listen to me, buster . Keith is a very sensitive boy with a kind soul and a big heart and he—-” 

“ LANCE!!! ” Keith comes roaring out of the storage cabin, absolutely bellowing, “FRANCISCO LEANDRO CHARLES ALVAREZ MCCLAIN I WILL END YOU .” 

“Keith!” Lance yelps and starts hopping around— not unlike an enormous baby bird— dodging Keith’s ire and simultaneously trying to swat him with the shovel. “I didn’t— I’m being good— c’mon, man— quit it!!!” His wailing only increases as Keith lunges at him. “Ke—ACK!!! Lemme go!” 

“I would put you in the fuckin’ meat grinder and feed you to the dogs if you weren’t so FUCKIN’ STRINGY,” Keith shouts, shaking him. 

“I take offense at that!” Lance shouts back, jabbing thumbs in Keith’s mouth, grabbing his cheeks and simultaneously kicking his shins. “What if he’s a spy?! What if he’s only using you for your body?! I have your best interests in mind!!!” 

“I’ve seen the interests your mind has and I sure as hell hope I’m not in ‘em!!!” Keith shouts, prying Lance’s hands off his face. 

“Rude!!!” Lance takes this opportunity to leap away and recover his shovel. He waves it around some more. “That is so rude, man!!” 

“How’s it rude if it’s true, shit for brains?!” 

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t look like that !!! Mullet!!!!” 

“Womanizer!!” 

“Mouth-breather!” 

Keith huffs out an angry breath and actually snarls at him. Lance dances out of reach. Interestingly enough, Kosmo is relaxed nearby and none of the dogs seem overly concerned— something that makes Shiro believe this kind of exchange is not all that uncommon. 

“I’m not a spy,” Shiro volunteers with a smile. 

“That’s what a spy would say!” Lance hollers from a secure distance. 

Keith gives him the finger. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Keith grumbles. He runs a hand through his hair and huffs out another breath. “Anyways,” he looks up at Shiro, “M’really glad you could make it today.” 

“I’m happy to be here,” Shiro says truthfully. 

Ducking his face toward his boots, Keith gives the snow a shy smile. “Yeah, I think, uh, it’s gonna be really good. You’ll really like it.” 

Shiro already likes it when he finds out that the first order of business is Keith giving him a very thorough once-over. He plucks at Shiro’s sweater with deft, no-nonsense fingers, making sure he has multiple layers underneath his parka. His touch is solid as he reviews the fit of the gloves on Shiro’s hands— and this close he smells like firewood, and winter air, and dog, and soap— and he reaches up and pulls Shiro’s hat into place. “And multiple layers here too, right?” he asks, studying Shiro’s snow pants. 

Lifting his brows, Shiro smiles. “Would you like to check?” 

“Uh— I’m— no,” Keith’s face is red again. “No. I believe you. Just don’t,” he coughs, “You can’t be cold out there, it’s dangerous.” 

“I’m in good hands,” Shiro states. 

The face Keith makes looks like pride and also three shades of panic. “Uh—I—the team is almost ready!” 

The dogs get a once-over as well. Each one is fitted with little red booties over their paws— and Keith has spares packed away if they need it. The dog team is thrumming with excitement, chewing on the leads and each other and growling and barking and prancing in place while Keith double-triple checks the sled. It’s not the same one he uses to race; this sled has a place for a passenger to sit, just behind the gear, in front of the musher. Feeling more than a little silly, Shiro sits. Keith’s knees are right behind him, his hands the level of Shiro’s shoulders. He imagines that he must look so foolish to an outsider— what a strange world this is! 

“Okay, guys!” Keith calls out to the team. 

Immediately, every single dog is stock still. They stand perfectly in order, no longer fussing or play fighting. They’re listening. That was their cue to listen, and they’re so excited for what comes next. There’s an anticipation crackling in the air, muscles coiled at the ready—the space between a breath and an order, between the tarmac and liftoff, between thought and action— 

For one terrible moment, Shiro has the realization that this isn’t going to happen….his weight will be too much for the dogs and this will end in a terrible embarrassment. The entire thing seems absurd and somehow unreal, and he almost calls out to Keith to stop it before it can begin— 

But—

Keith inhales, and then he shouts, “Okay team! Let’s GO!” 

And there’s an insane lurch that feels like rising into the air and the sled shoots forward as if effortlessly. It’s so much faster than Shiro expected, so much force that it takes his breath away. He grabs onto the seat, falling backward against Keith’s legs. He laughs, astonished, excited, and Keith is solid and Keith’s hand squeezes his shoulder, reassuring. 

They’re off!!! 

On the tour, Keith said that the dogs love running more than anything. This is immediately, unequivocally true, and it’s wild to see it performed. They bound forward at an incredible, ridiculous pace like they’ve been wanting to do nothing but this exact action for their entire lives. They’re so happy it’s catching, just this feeling of singular, energetic bliss. 

“They know the way to the trail,” Keith tells Shiro, voice loud enough to rise above the rush of movement. “So I don’t do anything for this part.” 

Trees fly past them and the trail opens up and Keith calls out the word for right— the dogs are trained a certain way, traditional commands—- and the team banks in one smooth motion. Keith said that this was his secondary team, and that’s amazing to think about too. These aren’t even the most skilled— not the strongest, not the fastest, not the most practiced— out of all the dogs he’s trained. 

They fly, fly, fly rocketing over the path until there is no path left, and the land opens up in front of them, a whole world right here. Bright sun beats down over perfect snow and the dogs run as if they know the way, or they’re eager to find it, and ice cold wind sprints past them. 

“Keith—” 

Shiro can hear the giddy adrenaline in Keith’s voice, “It’s great, right?” He leans back, knees pressed into Shiro’s back, and belts out a happy howl of noise. All the dogs howl and shout in response, bounding over the snow. It’s eccentric and wonderful and Keith is still laughing when Shiro cups his hands around his own mouth and does the same thing—- 

And Keith and all of his dogs are shouting and gleeful in response, free in this wide wilderness. 

*

The team of dogs would run longer than Keith allows them to— after a few hours and so many miles, he and Shiro disembark the sled and walk ahead of the team, forcing them to slow their pace and cool down before their break. Shiro finds that this is a different type of rewarding: this far into the wild, the snow is untouched and the views are enormous. He and Keith stamp out a trail ahead of the dog team, wading through the soft powder, compressing the heavier snow underneath. Of course, Shiro has seen these peaks from above, but it’s different altogether to come face to face with the rocky crags that rise up into mountains. 

“We’re almost there,” Keith tells Shiro, a little breathless, still smiling. 

He’s more settled out here, relaxed despite the effort this hike is taking. Keith and Shiro walk shoulder to shoulder, and though Keith is still quiet, though he’s still intense, it feels more tempered. It’s happiness, Shiro thinks, plain and simple. This is Keith, happy. 

How could Shiro not feel the same? He takes in the huge blue sky overhead, cut through with silvery gray clouds that look like they hang so close and so full. Shiro breathes deep the coldest, crispest air. He exhales and his breath is a tender cloud, marking the air before it slips away. The world is quiet here, harsh and alive. 

Keith clicks his tongue at the dogs, warning them about behaving now that they’re not running, and Shiro asks him about the team that transported them here so well. Grinning, Keith tells Shiro their names and their ages and their personalities— every single one of these dogs has been in his care since its very first breath. The dogs, the dogs’ mothers, entire lineages. He’s raised the vast majority of the dogs in his kennel since they were puppies. He talks and talks— words breathy in the cold, nose red with his racing balaclava pulled down past his chin— ‘til Shiro feels like he knows them all. 

“Thank you for your dedication,” Shiro tells Elvis, a black dog with brown markings bouncing next to him in one of the lead positions. In response, Elvis nibbles at Shiro’s prosthetic, eager to play, tongue lolling in a grin. 

“Ah. Here—this is it.” Keith touches Shiro on the shoulder. Their hike has taken them across a glacier’s snowy plain, out of the forest, where the mountains start to rise. But here, at the base— a perfect glacial pool. 

The water is still, more glass like than ice, blue and deep and perfect. 

Shiro breathes out wonder, taking it in. The area close to the pool is too rocky, still deceptively far, but from where they stand, the view of it all is enough to take his breath away. The mountain’s snow capped peaks reflect in the dark, clear water, a lens of sharp rock and unreachable heights. It’s a view so shockingly stunning that it hardly feels real. 

“Good place to rest,” Keith judges. He calls out a command and the dogs circle up; they know this routine, too. “Dogs eat first,” Keith tells Shiro, gruff, and sets about making it happen. 

There has to be a fire to melt the snow to make water, and the food is frozen and has to be thawed, and the whole thing seems to be a huge, complicated undertaking. Keith takes it on with practiced diligence, and Shiro has an image of what it must be like when he’s running a race— the black night, the wilderness all around, hundreds of miles into a trek, and still hundreds of miles to go. Keith alone, only himself and his dog team. It reframes the races into something more real for Shiro, watching Keith mutter to himself and to the dogs while he unloads things from the sled, no hesitation in his movements. These are tests of endurance, tests of character, tests of dedication. 

When every dog has his or her bowls and very own place to rest, Keith turns to Shiro. 

It’s gotten colder— now that they’re not moving, and the thready sun shifting behind the mountains and the clouds— and Shiro is happy when Keith settles in close to him. 

Oh, Shiro thinks. This is a date. Because Keith is so sweet as he pours out cups of soup from a thermos— rich and heavy and still, as if by a miracle, hot— and shyly offers Shiro a clementine out of his pack while he unloads the rest. The fruit is small and perfect in Shiro’s hand, bright and cold and sweet in his mouth. Keith has brought them a veritable feast, it seems, but nothing more satisfying than the way he looks when Shiro tucks an arm around his waist. 

“I’m glad you came with me today,” Keith says, bold and honest. And if it weren’t for the way he ducks his face, Shiro would kiss him right there in response. “It means a lot to me.”

It feels like a confession, in a way, all of it. Around them, the dogs are rolling around in the snow, cooling off and playing now that they’ve finished their meals. Some of them are asleep, content despite the negative temperature, curled into tight little balls within the straw nests that Keith has laid out for them. They’ll want to run again soon. The sun is bright on the snow and the air is freezing cold. Shiro understands him well enough— this is Keith’s heart. 

It feels more inveterate than a crush. Deeper held than physical attraction. Shiro— the kind of man who used to gauge likelihood of failure and possibility of death for a living— is not immediately sure if he can wade into this and not be swept away. Though, god, does he want to. There’s many layers between them, insulating, separating, but Shiro pulls Keith closer here. “Keith,” he murmurs, “You’re remarkable— did you know that?” 

Some kind of non-response is huffed out, and Shiro smiles. Wading a little deeper, still mediating risk— not just for himself, both for them both. Shiro tells him, “I’m glad to be here.” 

They eat together, side-by-side, quiet, until: Shiro chuckles at the antics of one of the dogs and Keith laughs too, a galloping, uninhibited sound. The charged moment seems to dissipate, but the closeness remains. 

*

“Hey. You wanna drive?” 

Shiro looks at Keith. He’s just finished packing up the sled and readying the dogs for the journey home. The team is once again pounding with energy, ready to take off as soon as they get the word. 

“Me?” Shiro asks. 

“Technically, it’s called mushing,” Keith grins, “But, yeah. We don’t really say ‘mush!’ to make them run like, uh, they do in movies.” 

To be perfectly honest, Shiro has never seen any movies wherein anyone is saying ‘mush,’ but perhaps the two of them have different cinematic experiences. He hardly feels qualified to lead after one morning run, but then again, “How could I pass up a chance to learn from the best?” Shiro is game. “Just tell me what to do.” 

“You won’t have to do anything,” Keith says, blunt. He brushes off the compliment with a quick tuck of his mouth, and nods. “Okay. Stand here, like this—” He pats the bar where Shiro will hold on. “First rule of dog sledding: You never let go.” Keith grins, and repeats this important point: “Never let go.” 

Thus, with a vision of falling off and the dog sled racing into the distance without him, Shiro lets Keith arrange his feet on the slats, listening while Keith goes through the various pieces again. It’s simple in design, but Keith is thorough. “Stand here on the brake—” the brake is just a flat piece that digs into the snow on the back of the sled, “And I’ll take care of the anchor,” Keith tells him, dark eyes serious as he looks up at Shiro. “When I let you know, keep one foot on the brake, the other, here,” he shows Shiro, bending down and touching Shiro’s knee to move it. “Don’t lock your knees or freeze up when we’re moving. Shift your body with the sled. Trust the team. The dogs know how to get us home.” 

“Simple enough,” Shiro says, half joking, a little nervous. He remembers his first time moving from flight simulation to the real deal. But what did he tell Keith this morning? He’s in good hands. 

“Okay guys!” Keith calls out, and the dogs fall into place, the ganglines taut with promise. Keith looks up at Shiro behind him— his eyes are sharp, glittering with focus and excitement— and then, satisfied with what he sees, directs his gaze back towards the team. “Okay, team! Let’s GO!” 

Again, the sled shoots forward— but this time Shiro is hanging on. 

From the passenger seat, Keith is calling out commands and watching his team. His voice is full and rich despite the cold air, and he’s immediately part of the team, just as in tune with them as before. They trot as if one entity, each set of four paws in rhythm with the others. The landscape rushes past, with Keith at its center. He’s focused on the dogs, but Shiro? Shiro is watching Keith.  

*

They make it back to the kennel in far less time than it took to get to their destination. After about an hour of Shiro at the helm, Keith called the dogs to a stop and they switched back to their original positions. But this time, before starting, Keith leaned forward and whispered in Shiro’s ear, “Don’t forget— first rule.” 

With their final destination ahead of them and the dogs warmed up and fed, this was the moment: Keith stepped off the brake entirely and let the dogs run to their hearts’ content. As fast and as hard as they wanted to— and, oh, they ran . The sled, a rocket. The wilderness, a blur of ice and wind. Now, Shiro recognizes that the first half of their journey and his part were controlled, tempered. A full out sprint is something entirely different, and by the time they arrive back to the kennel, Shiro has a good idea of the unbridled insanity that wins dog sled races. 

Shiro’s heart is beating hard and fast. Keith helps him off the sled— never let go, never let go — and he feels stiff with cold despite the lingering thrill. It’s been a long day. 

The team, though, could run for a hundred miles more. They want to, almost demanding it, indignant and loud at returning home. There’s a great outpouring of fanatical energy as they reunite with the rest of the dogs at the kennel, a wild adrenaline rush that lasts past the dogs being unharnessed and into the post-run routine. The man known as Lance, thankfully, seems to have left for the day. 

“Go inside and warm up,” Keith tells Shiro as he takes care of his dogs and unloads the sled with practiced movement, impatiently moving him aside as Shiro attempts to help. 

“I’ll make us hot chocolate,” Shiro decides, remembering the sugary packets from the tour. 

Keith’s mouth is soft. “Yeah,” he agrees. 

Inside, the kettle hums with promise and Shiro unpeels some of his layers. After being in the extreme cold— thirty below zero is ideal temperature for dog sledding, and it was only a handful of degrees warmer than that today— the small, red cabin at the kennel feels positively balmy. But as his parka and sweater come off, and the outside warmth returns, the ache in his shoulder becomes more noticeable. 

Shiro ignores the pain, idly looking at some photos pinned on a bulletin board while the water heats. Kosmo, who Shiro now knows is retired, is in wheel position in one of them, right ahead of the musher. And it’s not Keith manning the sled, but Krolia. 

The kettle sings and Shiro reaches to lift it— but—

Sharp pain makes his shoulder seize up. He drops the kettle and it’s lucky that it’s only a couple of inches above the surface as it clatters back down, the boiling water sloshing inside, a threat—

He hisses, quiet, teeth gritting together as both hands clench. “Fuck,”  

“Shiro?” 

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, automatically straightening up. He forces his shoulders to relax and his jaw to unlock. 

Turning, Shiro finds Keith closed-mouthed and studying him with that intensity. He has also taken off his outer layers and is wearing, of all things, a tee shirt with wolves on it. His hair is in tangles worse than usual from being under a hat. He takes a step forward towards Shiro, 

“You hurt yourself? When you were on the sled?” 

Shiro shakes his head. “No, it’s just—” he makes an attempt to roll his shoulder, but it hurts to do so and the movement is aborted, “It’s just stiff.” 

Keith makes a noise of understanding. “Let me see,” he demands. Without waiting for a response, steady hands are pressing into Shiro’s back. They prod close to where the prosthetic meets his shoulder, where the muscle is knotted and tender. 

The pressure feels good as much as it hurts. Shiro exhales. “It’s okay.” 

The pressure stops and Keith’s hands withdraw. Without them, the cold seems to lick back over Shiro’s skin, despite how warm the room felt just moments prior. 

“Be right back,” Keith says, voice low. 

With only his left hand, Shiro turns off the heat and finishes making the hot chocolate. It’s cloying instead of sweet this time, and he’s bitter at himself. He sits at one of the wooden benches here, four of them arranged in a semi-circle for the tours. 

The tags of Kosmo’s collar make a friendly, tinkling sound— the enormous dog finds Shiro and sits next to him, setting his great head in Shiro’s lap. “Hey there,” Shiro says, petting his head with his hand. The one that can move freely, the one that still feels. “Good boy,” Shiro tells him, and the dog’s eyes close as if happy. 

“This will help,” Keith says when he returns. He’s tied his hair back out of his eyes and he’s holding a white plastic jar of what seems to be ointment. He must see Shiro’s questioning look because he lifts the jar and looks at it as if surprised he’s holding it. “Uh.” He squints at the label like he’s never seen it before. “Oh! It’s— uh. Shea butter? And coconut butter…and vitamin E oil and, um, other stuff. Nothing bad.” He nods. “Anyways. Take off your shirt.” 

Shiro’s eyebrows lift with such alacrity that he feels it happen. “...excuse me?” 

With a jut of his chin— and pinkness settled into his cheeks— Keith meets Shiro’s eyes. Defiant. “It’ll help.” 

It is with dark resignation weighing in his chest that Shiro decides to comply. He likes Keith. He likes, too, the smooth confidence that comes from years of practice, and an entire state full of people who don’t know what he looks like undressed. Or who he was, before. “You—” Shiro sighs. “Okay. Just remember. You asked for this,” he decides, slipping his Henley over his head. 

He looks straight ahead, resolute. His throat feels tight. It’s not a pretty thing to see, this body. His body. Most of his right side is scarred, especially his torso, except for the shiny, taut skin of the grafts they took from his thighs. His shoulder is puckered, skin gathered strangely and knitted together above the heavy prosthetic. 

Keith doesn’t say anything. Shiro feels like he’s holding his breath, suspended in this terrible feeling, and Keith hasn’t said anything— 

Behind him, Shiro hears the sound of the plastic jar’s lid untwisting. Keith sets it down on the bench next to Shiro, arm brushing against Shiro’s just for a moment before he stands back up. Then there’s the slight sound of Keith’s palms together, the solid melting into oil between them. Keith doesn’t say anything, but 

His touch is immediately heavy— that pressure, painful, good, again— strong thumbs rubbing into the hard knot of muscle. 

Shiro exhales, heavy. It doesn’t feel like pity. 

It doesn’t feel like pity. It feels…Shiro lets his shoulders relax and all but leans back into the touch. God. It feels so good. 

His hands are warm. Solid and sure and direct. The dull ache, the bright pain— neither is a match for the way Keith lifts the prosthetic, carefully maneuvering it as his thumb presses into the tortured muscle. It’s a gentle movement, as thoughtful as it is direct. It gives almost immediate relief, but more than that: it’s simple. 

There’s just the sounds of his hands, the oil, Shiro’s skin. Keith’s breath, exertion, Shiro’s pulse steady in his own ears. He’s caught here in this moment, 

Keith’s hands are strong, capable; after his arm is loosened, they work into Shiro’s traps with purpose and Shiro doesn’t realize the stuttering groan he lets out until moments after it happens. 

The realization makes him feel hot. Keith’s fingers massage into his back in unrelenting circles and the touch feels so good that Shiro forgets what he was going to say to try to alleviate the awkwardness, and then a moment passes, and he still hasn’t said anything. The flat of Keith’s palm, the heel of his hand presses pain into pleasure. Shiro exhales hard through his nose, suddenly aware of the line of Keith’s body against his back and the heady knowledge of how Keith’s hands feel on his bare skin. 

Keith uses his knuckles— a steady, hard roll of those points over a tender knot— and Shiro gasps deep in his throat with how his vision whitens for a moment in bliss. 

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs, voice thick. Shiro can hear him swallow. The thick shutter of his throat. 

“No—” Shiro disagrees, affected. Slow. “No. It’s good.” 

In response, Keith does it again. Fuck— it’s good. 

It’s no surprise, then, that Shiro finds himself getting hard. His cock is soon interested enough to be noticeable and Shiro adjusts himself as subtly as he can, now grateful for his multiple layers. He sends Kosmo a look of apology as the dog settles down at his feet. 

Keith’s fingers are light at the base of his neck, heavy over his spine, good, good, good. The oil feels decadent over his skin, and Keith is a simmering intensity, so focused on Shiro, and Shiro, 

“It was faulty wiring,” he breathes out, impossible not to sound affected, impossible to let this go on any longer. 

“Hm?” Keith makes a noise of interest, hands still working over Shiro’s back. 

“The IDGs— that’s integrated drive generators— have what they call constant speed drive gearboxes to rotate at a required RPM,” Shiro rattles off, as if diving headlong from a cliff. This is one way to kill arousal, that’s for sure. He explains, “It ensures the system functions no matter if the jet engine itself runs at idle or full power. I was piloting an older, ‘safer’ model— that’s the ironic part—” he adds, sardonic, old anger dipping into his voice before he shelves it away, “As a control flight to pair with the new tech later in the week. The wiring in the generator was faulty. The engine went from functional to detonation in a matter of seconds. I—” 

Shiro swallows, fire in his vision, remembering. Keith’s hands are flat on his shoulders, just resting there, listening, “I self-ejected at almost 50,000 feet. The jet exploded less than a minute after I left it.” 

They called it a miracle. Shiro’s life was ruined. 

That miraculous escape ruined Shiro’s life— his career, his relationships, his mental health, his body— until it didn’t. He’s been in therapy, both physical and mental; he’s independent. Here’s here. He’s launched a new career for himself, flying in a way that he never expected, in a way that he’s beginning to love. In his own way, he’s carving out a space for himself in this wide, cold, wilderness. He’s here, under Keith’s hands. 

“I don’t like to dwell on the past,” Shiro says. “But—I wanted—” He inhales, Keith’s touch still weighty over his shoulders. This is true, he realizes: “I wanted you to know.” 

Keith’s fingers curl against his skin. 

“I’m okay,” Shiro says, and he means it. He thinks about the way the mountain peak reflected in the still, dark water of the lake. The way Keith’s mouth softens with happiness. The thrill of racing over perfect snow. He’s okay. He recovered. He says, almost to himself, “I’m okay. Today was a good reminder of that.” 

“Shiro…” 

Shiro turns, looking over his shoulder at Keith behind him. 

The sharp edge of his attention stings. It stings so sweet, like boney knuckles in twisted muscle, like Keith’s strong hands pulling Shiro out of his past. Keith shifts, his fingers now light against Shiro’s jaw. He leans in. He kisses Shiro. 

His lips are warm and dry— chapped. The position is strange. Just a brief, sure press of his mouth. 

He draws away, color high in his cheeks, eyes elsewhere. His warm, solid hands now are stiff at his sides. 

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, looking up at Keith behind him. 

Keith looks defiant again. He sets his jaw and looks at Shiro as if ready to fight him rather than kiss him— if it weren’t for the just-there memory of pressure on Shiro’s lips, Shiro might think that he imagined the action.

“If that wasn’t alright, tell me. But.” The way Keith’s adam’s apple dips in his throat betrays emotion, “I’m not sorry.” 

“Keith.” 

Shiro stands, turning towards Keith. The bench on which he was sitting is still in between them, and his legs knock against the wood as he reaches to hold Keith. Shiro’s hand wraps around his arm and he leans in, catching his mouth. Kissing him, again, slower. A beat longer. No. Don’t apologize. Not for this. 

Keith’s mouth is warm, parting for Shiro as if in surprise, and as soft as the happiness from before. He tilts his face towards Shiro and seems to follow as Shiro draws away. 

Shiro smiles as Keith follows him, reaching up and drawing him close, a hand at the nape of Shiro’s neck, fingers skating where he’s made the skin supple with oil and touch. Keith is kissing him again. The exchange, this dialogue of kisses, is so sweet— and Shiro almost laughs. When has life ever been like this? 

“What?” Keith asks him, cross with the bow of Shiro’s mouth. 

Pulling his shirt back on— and his shoulder feels loose, and it doesn’t hurt— Shiro steps over the bench and kisses him once more. Keith fits into his arms, open-mouthed, another kiss, this one longer, deeper, one that leaves Shiro thinking about his distaste for moderation once again. 

“Does your arm feel better?” Keith asks him, a little shy, a little awkward. He sounds out of breath. It’s lovely to hear. 

“At the moment, my arm feels remarkably good,” Shiro decides, one hand— his left— snugly over the swell of Keith’s ass. 

Keith blinks, then realizes the joke. His smile goes from shy to sharp. A smirk that becomes laughter as Shiro draws his hand up Keith’s back and steps away. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Shiro tells him, delighted by the way Keith’s expression shifts from sharp amusement to bashfulness to pride to something like preening: 

“I— yeah. ‘Course,” Keith smooths his hands down his tee shirt, ducking— but his hair is pulled back so Shiro sees the satisfied muddle of his mouth. “No problem,” he says, serious. “Anytime.” 

“I’ll see you again before the race?” Shiro asks him. Afterall, it’s just a little over a month until the starting line, and Keith keeps a rigorous training schedule. 

Kosmo— no longer content to be left out of the conversation— boofs his head against Keith’s hands demanding pets and attention. Keith complies, doting. Vigorous scratches that send Kos’ bushy tail wagging. “I think so, yeah. Hope so.” 

“I’ll look forward to it,” Shiro says, redirecting Keith’s attention for one more kiss before he leaves. It’s indulgent. Slow. He touches the bottom of Keith’s chin, gentle, tasting him. Keith leans into him, eager and sweet, and Shiro relishes taking his time with this goodbye. 

Never let go , he thinks. 

*

The next weeks are a blur of work— the roads are more treacherous as the winter deepens, but the charter flights become more popular with the season as well. Shiro, despite not being medical transport, ends up flying an elderly woman from a remote town in Northern Alaska to Anchorage. He finds out later that she had to be careflighted to a big hospital in Seattle, but made a full recovery, when her family sends him a care package of venison. He flies people to mountaintops and glaciers and deep into the sprawling forests. He sees caribou with his own eyes, and spots the lumbering tracks of a bear, and even spends an afternoon ice fishing. 

All in all it takes a dedicated effort to find the time to speak with Allura:

They finally have a free moment one afternoon due to a client cancellation. Shiro finds Allura at the front desk, writing out ‘thank-you’ cards while the ancient desktop struggles to load the next episode of The Bachelor. 

“My father always thought a handwritten note was a good way to keep in touch with clients,” Allura says. Her handwriting is a perfect script, lovely and neat. She sips at her tea— a heinous concoction of ‘Grinch Frosted Sugar Cookie’ and Ceylon. (Shiro doesn’t know what flavor the ‘Grinch’ himself imparts to the mix, but it does lend a sickly green color to the cup which Shiro thinks the world could do without.) “A personal touch. But I do get rather behind,” she sighs. 

Shiro looks at the impressive stack of envelopes next to the monitor. It’s lucky there’s so many women in these Bachelor shows. And so many seasons. Plenty of episodes for plenty of drama and plenty of cards. “I’m happy to help,” Shiro offers. 

Allura looks at the scrawling handwriting that Shiro has left on the physical calendar with mild disdain before returning to her letter. “Thank you, dear,” she says, and makes no move to hand him any cards or writing utensils. 

“Point taken,” Shiro mutters. He waits for a moment to see if the computer is going to complete its struggle, but it looks like the show is indefinitely paused. Well, then. Full steam ahead. “Allura, actually. Neither of us have a flight scheduled this Friday evening and I have a request.” The forecast is supposed to be clear and Shiro has dreams of taking Keith out to see the Northern Lights. 

“Oh heck no!” Matt says, evidently listening in, despite the fact that he’s in the conference room down the hall. His nasally voice carries as he makes his way to the front desk. “You can’t ask Allura out on a date!” He appears, wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘!false: it’s funny because it’s true,’ and the most painfully basic pair of khakis that Shiro has ever laid eyes on. Matt puffs out his narrow chest, a white knight to the rescue. “That’s a major no-no, bro.” 

“I’m not trying to proposition our employer, Matthew.” Shiro sighs. Allura looks mildly offended, so Shiro tacks on, “You’re beautiful, stunning, gorgeous; I’m just very much gay.” 

“Nature says biological sex is malleable as fuck!” Matt declares, thrusting his phone into the air. “Did you know that some frogs can change their sex spontaneously or due to environmental factors?” 

Allura clicks and double-clicks the mouse. Still no progress on The Bachelor. She frowns. 

“....I did know that, actually,” Shiro says. “It was a major plot point in the original Jurassic Park movie.” 

“Behold! A man of fine tastes!” Matt declares. He’s, evidently, an ally. 

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose. “Allura. I’d like to take out one of the planes Friday evening for a personal flight.” 

Allura puts her pink monogrammed ink pen down. She turns to him, shark-like. This is better than The Bachelor. This is blood in the water. She loves closing a sale: “Oh? You’d cover operating costs, of course.” 

“Of course,” Shiro says. 

“And our normal rate?” 

“Twenty-five percent.” 

“Shiro. Darling.” Her false lashes flutter. “I’m wounded.” She’s serious: “Fifty percent.” 

“Thirty.” 

“Forty.” 

“Thirty-five,” Shiro says. “Most of that cost is going towards the pilot and I’m the pilot. Allura.”

“Hm.” Her pink pout purses. 

“Thirty-five percent and I’ll pick up chocolates from that place you like in Fairbanks.” Shiro tells her. 

Allura considers this. “The ones with the gold leaf and the ganache? Oooh.” It’s an overpriced tourist trap for sure, but the chocolates are delicious. She’s visibly crumbling, so Shiro stays silent and bides his time. She finally caves. “Very well. Thirty-five percent and the chocolates.” She seems pleased when she adds, “You’re quite good.” 

“I know,” Shiro says. 

“Matt,” Allura pats the stalled computer. “Since you’re here: do something with this, please. It’s being rather unruly.”  

“You got it, Princess!” 

Shiro makes an escape before Allura can add any additional stipulations to their deal. He’s seen her at work and negotiating with the princess is not for the faint of heart.  

*

Now there’s just the problem of inviting Keith. With less than two weeks to the starting line, Keith is bound to be busier than ever. Ever the optimist — well. Honestly speaking, Shiro is something much more sinister than an optimist or a pessimist: He’s a realist. But, still, a man can hope— Shiro sends him a text message: 

I’d like to take you out before the big event. Can you reserve this Friday night for me?

He expects that Keith will respond when he gets the chance, perhaps a text in the next few days—

However.

Shiro’s phone immediately rings as soon as the text is sent. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Shiro. D’you need something?” 

“I do,” Shiro says, smiling. He’s just gotten home to his apartment, and he tucks the phone into his shoulder as he works at getting the coat sleeve off his prosthetic. Evidently Keith Kogane does not text. “First: how are you?” 

“Tired as hell,” Keith says, blunt. “But good. The team really showed up for me today. Even when I got frustrated, they were right there, keeping me on track. They’re stronger than they’ve ever been, Shiro, you shoulda seen it—” 

He does sound sleepy. It’s late. Shiro pictures him at home, maybe sitting in front of the fireplace with Kosmo, or under one of those crocheted blankets. Shiro settles into his own couch, turning on a heated blanket to keep over his stiff shoulder. “Tell me about it,” he says, listening. 

“Yeah?” 

“As long as you feel up to it,” Shiro says. 

“I— uh. Yeah, I can, I guess, if you want—” Keith starts off awkwardly, but as soon as he’s discussing the dog team, he picks up momentum. It’s only a few words before Shiro can picture the short, brusque movements of his hands in the air while he talks and the way happiness looks in his dark eyes. Evidently he had his team doing runs today with his truck. As in, hauling the actual truck. It sounds insane. 

“But you’re home now?” Shiro asks him when Keith has detailed the training for the day and trailed off into a drowsy silence. He massages his shoulder with his left hand and thinks of Keith’s weighty touch. The way they kissed. 

There’s a muffled sound in the background. “Yeah,” Keith says, “Yeah, I just laid down. I was about to go to bed when you called.” 

That explains the thick syrup of his voice, and the sound of pillows shuffling. 

“In bed?” Shiro lets his voice go a shade darker: “If I was there with you…” he lets the implication unfold between them.  

“Mm. No.” Keith says. He yawns and then adds on, “It’s a twin bed. You couldn’t sleep here.” 

“I see.” Shiro stifles his matching yawn. Well. “The two of us here, then.” Shiro’s apartment may not be as cozy or lived in as Keith’s place, but his bed is certainly large enough for them both. To make his intentions more obvious, he adds, “I haven’t stopped thinking about your hands…” 

“Is your shoulder still bothering you?” Keith asks, sounding a little more awake. Shiro imagines him sitting up in bed, “I can come over now, sure. But I can’t stay. It’s a 4:30 a.m. wake up tomorrow.” 

“Keith.”

“Yeah?” 

Shiro is stubborn. He’s not one to give up easily. But he knows when he’s met his match. Keith is too oblivious for phone sex. Or even phone flirtation. “Go to sleep. And put down in your schedule that you’re busy Friday night. I’m taking you out.” 

“Oh.” 

“Okay?” Shiro asks. 

“Yeah—I.” Keith pauses and Shiro can picture the way his mouth works around happiness and the softness of his eyes, intensity cowed, only for a moment. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” 

More than nice, Shiro hopes, telling Keith goodnight. 

*

Once upon a time, Shiro thought he’d find himself among the stars. He dreamt of being an astronaut long before he was a pilot. Space flight felt like less of a child’s dream and more of an achievable goal when Shiro was doing things like routinely flying in technology so advanced it didn’t even have a name yet— or how about this: breaking the sound barrier. That moment, traveling over the open ocean at a speed only a handful of humans have reached, felt like merely a stepping stone at the time. Breaking the sound barrier, breaking records? He had bigger dreams by far. Once upon a time, he did. 

The Northern Lights are easily explained by science. The sun’s solar wind— a coronal mass ejection, plasma traveling through space— interacting with Earth’s magnetic field. Ribbons of light against a night sky; brilliant green-blue, a bright bright red, oxygen and nitrogen lit up like neon lights in the upper atmosphere. In faraway wilderness, where the night is blackest, they are like a reminder of ancient times when miracles were real, captured now on beloved iphone or android screen. Shiro, once, would have considered such simple pictures as falling short. Shiro has seen photos of the auroras from the International Space Station. Maybe, once upon a time, viewing them like that was his fate. 

Now, he personally does a pre-flight check of Black— his favorite of the Lion Air Service’s fleet— prosthetic fingertips tapping at the clunky switches and dials in the aircraft’s dated instrument panel. She hums underneath his hands as if the two of them are having a conversation. Maybe she’s looking forward to tonight as well.

“Doing okay back there?” Shiro asks through the headset. 

No response comes; the cockpit is small— just a single pilot’s seat, and the passenger directly behind him. 

Shiro adjusts the mirror, lifting a hand to angle the small circle so that he can see Keith sitting behind him. He catches the way Keith’s gaze flicks from Shiro’s hands over the instruments to the mirror to look back at Shiro. 

“Nervous?”  Shiro asks him. Some people are— the Lions are small planes, and their classic design makes it obvious that they are from another era. They’re like children's toys compared to the jets he used to pilot. Flying in one is not an experience for everyone. 

Keith shifts in his seat. There’s something in his expression and it’s not nerves. He looks at Shiro, “No—I. I just. You’re really, uh, good at this, aren’t you?” 

Ah. This is the first time that Keith is seeing Shiro truly in his element. Confident. Competent. Shiro allows himself half a smirk. “Yes. I am.” 

“I can—” Keith wets his lips, and the weight in his eyes has obvious meaning. “I can tell.” 

Shiro makes a noise, pleased, acknowledging. There’s a heat that goes along with the words, and Shiro allows himself to linger in it. “So, then. Not afraid?” 

Keith shakes his head. 

“Excellent.” Shiro sets his sights on the runway and the distant horizon. Keith’s breath is close in his ears as they start to move. 

The moon is rising over the snowy landscape as the plane picks up necessary speed. She lifts, as if effortless. The humble buildings of the aircraft hangers begin to look small as the plane climbs into the air. A sound of wonder leaves Keith’s lips and Shiro enjoys the sound, letting it lift him along with the plane. He feels himself start to relax: practiced movement, beloved routine. 

Moonlight makes the untouched snow glitter over the outstretched land. The weak light from Tok’s few buildings soon fades behind them, and it is just the rumble of the aircraft and the two of them, together, against the night sky. 

“But how can you see?” Keith wonders, spindling treetops reaching toward them from below, mountains in the distance. He’s peering so close to the window at his right that the warmth from his breath clouds the glass. 

The stars feel closer out here; whistling wind rocks the aircraft as if a lullaby and Shiro, calm, pulls them just a little higher before he responds. “The simple answer is that I can’t. But Black is equipped with instruments for night flying.” Shiro adds, an afterthought, “If it’s comforting to hear, I have about fifteen years of experience with flight planning as well. You’re safe with me.” 

“I know,” Keith says, the gravel of his voice a dark tone in the confines of the plane. Shiro looks at him in the mirror and watches as Keith pulls his eyes away from the cold window to meet Shiro’s gaze. He adjusts the headset, the muffs big over his ears. His fingers make the sound crackle when he touches the mic. “Fifteen years, huh? You’ve been a pilot a long time.” 

“Longer than that.” Flying is in Shiro’s blood. “My grandfather owned a small airport in Japan. All of the Shiroganes are pilots.” 

Keith hums and Shiro imagines his late grandfather— a tall man with big hands who built model ships when not in the air— meeting Keith. It strikes something in his chest to think that the two of them would have gotten along. So much for mediating risk—the current seems to quicken and Shiro is in so deep, hardly noticing now when he’s swept away. 

Below them, the black veins of the Yukon river spindle out tracks in the land. The river is frozen now. Soon Keith and his team will race over that water, and more treacherous landscape as well. In some way, this flight is Shiro’s way of telling Keith that he’ll be with him during the race.  

The plane crests over clouds settled on the low peaks of the Yukon-Tanana range— they emerge above the cloud cover, high above the Tanana valley. And then, around them, oh .

It’s better than Shiro could have hoped. All around the plane, skating throughout the sky: shimmering color. 

“Shiro—” Keith breathes out his name. 

Shiro thought he knew what to expect. He didn’t know it’d be like this. 

Bright green ribbon dances in the cold, clear air around the plane. Red hints at the edges, vibrant bluegreen fades into midnight dark. That neon green, so vibrant, like fire blazing across the sky— 

“Holy shit,” Keith exclaims, 

At the same time that Shiro breathes, “It looks like it’s right outside the plane.” He looks above, to his left, glancing at the airplane’s wings overhead. It looks like the wing’s tips are dipping into color. Like he could reach out and cup this miracle in his hands. The air is so clear that the stars are pinpricks of pure white, visible as if piercing the curtain of hazy color above the bright ribbon. 

Behind him, Keith laughs, a bright, sweet sound— amazement. “Wow— it’s— wow . Shiro!” 

“I know,” Shiro agrees, joy bounding in his chest, making his heart race. He wouldn’t trade this for space. The thought is surprising, but not, as it once might have been, unwelcome. No, Shiro thinks, taking the plane in a wide, relaxed turn, listening to Keith marvel behind him, he wouldn’t trade this for anything. 

Shiro flies. 

The simple plane rumbles around them like a purr. The mountains’ glittering peaks shimmer. The moonlight is clear, cool, beautiful. The broad swaths of color are like something from another world, or a storybook— and the way Keith is saying his name— 

“Shiro,” Keith says, an hour later, when Shiro has flown them back to Tok and expertly set Black down near the hangar to taxi inside. The night air is biting cold, but Keith’s voice is nothing but warmth. 

Shiro unclips his harness, moving to help Keith out of the plane, but there’s no need. Keith is right there alongside him, two boots on the tarmac next to Shiro’s.   

“Keith,” Shiro says, leaning down to cup his face, to kiss him. 

Keith looks up at him, looking into Shiro’s face with a brightness like the aurora is just there, like Shiro himself hung that color in the sky. He says Shiro’s name again, coated in that same reverence, and then, “Thank you.” His fingers skate over the back of Shiro’s hand, “For this. Tonight.” 

Shiro kisses him. 

If, before, Keith’s mouth was sweet exchange, dipping into something new, then this is richer, warmer, fuller. Shiro takes his mouth— open mouthed, heady with the way Keith is looking at him, the way he has been looking at Shiro all night— and Keith makes a noise of wanting. His hand is heavy on the back of Shiro’s neck, pulling him in, groaning as Shiro holds him. Keith kisses in an artless way, unpracticed, inexact, and Shiro enjoys tempering his obvious enthusiasm with slow, steady, unmistakable want. 

Bitter wind is sweeping snow across the pavement through the open door, and Keith’s hands are like ice as they somehow find their way under Shiro’s layers to his skin. It’s too cold to be doing this in an aircraft hangar. Shiro kisses Keith’s jaw, nosing into the high collar of his parka and mouths into the decadent warmth of his body. “Come back to mine,” he says, his own voice husky to his ears. 

“Y-yeah,” Keith agrees, tilting his head. His adam’s apple jumps in the pretty column of his throat as he swallows, and Shiro kisses into his neck. He smells, like, before, a loamy mix of dogs and skin and cold. 

“Mm,” Shiro agrees, enjoying the way Keith’s breath is hot over his face, and how his short, straight eyelashes flutter as he looks at Shiro with hazy eyes. 

“I mean,” Keith heaves out another breath, hands now withdrawing from their exploration of Shiro’s chest, “I want to…” 

Shiro clears his throat, making an effort to gather his thoughts away from Keith’s hips under his hands and the heat of his mouth. “You want to, but—?” 

Keith grimaces. Not exactly the expression Shiro would like him to be making. 

“We’re supposed to be making the drive into town tomorrow,” Keith admits. ‘Town,’ in Tok, Alaska, means either Fairbanks or Anchorage. In this case, Fairbanks, some two hundred miles away. The starting point of the race. “Vet check is scheduled for the next day.” 

The sled dogs have rigorous veterinary oversight throughout the race—mandatory at every checkpoint— and exams at the beginning and end of the 1,000 mile race. “You can’t miss it,” Shiro tells him, knuckles gently stroking the swell of his cheek. “I understand.” 

Sucking in a breath, Keith looks up at him. “Shiro—I.” Though people have finished the race in as few as eight days, for most contestants the Yukon Quest can take up to ten days, twelve days, even more than two weeks of grueling pace. Keith needs every bit of rest he can gather between now and the starting line. 

“I understand,” Shiro murmurs again, kissing him. 

In response, Keith buries his face into Shiro’s chest, embracing him. It’s a purer gesture, perhaps, than the kiss, though just as artless. He’s solid and strong as he pulls Shiro as close as he can. He mumbles something.

“What was that?” Shiro asks, daring to hope. 

Even in the thin, yellow light of the hangar, he can see the flush in Keith’s face. “Lemme tell you right,” Keith decides, looking away, all sharp eyes and determination. “After the Yukon.”  

“I’ll look forward to it,” Shiro says, plucking out of the edge of Keith’s smile, kissing him simply. A promise. 

Keith insists on helping Shiro close up the hangar for the night— a process much less intensive than bedding down sled dogs after a run— and follows Shiro home in his truck since it’s ‘on the way.’ When Keith is satisfied that Shiro is safely inside, he heads back to his cabin for the evening. Shiro listens to the rumble of the truck fade, and thinks, I love him . 

*

After living in Tok for upwards of six months, Fairbanks feels like a sprawling metropolis on the day of the Yukon Quest’s start. 

Like Allura said at their first meeting, this is a busy time for Lion Air Service. Shiro is scheduled with back-to-back flights for the entirety of the race’s duration. There’s a wide range of clients these two weeks, everyone from journalists— a group is here filming a documentary about the Yukon Quest race— to wealthy eccentrics who have the disposable income to spend on charter flights to follow the dog sled teams. Still, Shiro reserves a few hours to walk through town before the mushers leave the starting line. 

Fairbanks is called the ‘Golden Heart’ of Alaska, and today it does seem to be beating in an especially gilded way. After picking up Allura’s promised chocolates, Shiro buys a coffee from a shop with an actual espresso machine and makes the walk from town to the race’s starting line. Alaska’s state flag whips against the cold wind at regular intervals, adorning the warm looking buildings lined up in neat rows down the city’s streets. Cars slush down the roads and so many people are bundled up on the sidewalks, talking, living— but even here, the sound of the sled dogs is audible in the distance. 

Shiro follows the sound— and the crowds— to the outskirts of the city, where the race will begin and the dog sled teams will take off into Alaska’s wilderness. The snow is a heavy blanket over the ground, weighing down naked balsam poplar branches, giving each street light a thick, white crown. There’s crowds of people on either side of a roped off, snow covered lane. Above it, a large yellow banner shivers in the wind: ‘Yukon Quest: International Dog Sled Race.’ 

Though his eye is trained for one person in particular, Shiro finds Romi first: 

She’d be impossible to miss, really. Where most people are dressed in sensible parkas, shades of black and brown and gray, Romelle is wearing a brilliant turquoise ski suit, one that looks like it could be vintage from the seventies. The silver belt buckle gleams and so do the snaps on her fluffy snow boots. She’s holding a mini tripod, the kind vloggers use to film ‘content.’ She’s clearly at ease in front of the camera, chatting to it like she’s facetiming a friend. But the whole contraption gets lowered when she spots Shiro— 

“Hiii!!” Romi trots over to him, grin wide. “Shiro!” 

Shiro has (mostly) forgiven her for sending him without warning or weapon directly into the jaws of death. Mostly. “Romi.” 

She wraps him in an enthusiastic hug, close enough that Shiro can see she’s wearing white mascara. Waitress turned influencer snow fairy. “I knew you’d be here.” Mischievous: “You wouldn’t miss sending off your man.” 

“My man,” Shiro repeats, somewhat amused. “Or his mother. Who happens to have a loaded rifle at the door, by the way, did you know?” 

Pink jelly gloss makes a perfect ‘O’ of horror. “Oh shit.” 

“Correct.” Shiro gives her a look. 

“Well,” Romi laughs. “You’re alive, so it must have worked out okay.” She motions him down closer so that she can whisper in his ear. Shiro indulges her and leans down. “I heard he took you sledding. Shiro. I’ve known Keith my whole life. Do you know how slay that is? That’s, like, a wedding , to Keith.” 

Shiro feels warm and happy despite himself. He gathered as much. He whispers back: “Has anyone told you that you’re a menace?” 

She laughs again, a charming laugh, genuine and loud. “Whatever you say, babe. Let’s go find him.” 

Wasting no time in taking his hand, Romi drags Shiro through the throngs of people closer to the area where all the trailers are parked. Here, the sled teams are preparing for their individual start times, sleds packed and nerves strung tight. The tension in the air is palpable, and just as piercing as the dogs’ shouting barks. 

They find Keith before Keith finds them. Even from a distance, it’s obvious that he’s simmering with his trademark intensity. At the moment, it’s directed at another musher: a tall, slim man with long, pale blonde hair tied back in a knot. Keith is listening to the man with his arms crossed and his mouth set, serious. 

“That’s Sincline,” Romi hisses to Shiro. 

Lotor Sincline— this is the man who’s slated to win the race. Shiro studies him with a critical eye, taking in the way his gear looks too expensive and the curl of his lip that lends itself to a sneer. But then he says something and Keith is smiling, and Sincline chuckles, and it’s clear that there’s no malice between the two of them. Shiro has heard dire stories of mushers coming to one another’s aid on the trail— though competitive, there’s a true camaraderie between the teams. A sportsmanship and respect for the dogs that is honored above all else. 

“They’re probably trading tips about dog shit shoveling or something,” Romelle says, rolling her eyes. “C’mon.” She waves at them, “Lotor. Keith!” Without warning, Romi lifts her camera and takes a few shots of them. Sincline looks coolly in their direction at the interruption, nonplussed. Keith, on the other hand, looks both annoyed and confused— that is, until his gaze lands on Shiro. 

“Shiro!” Keith is sweet in his parka, headlamp already strapped to his head despite the daylight. Shiro knows that he has a spare packed away in his gear, along with all his other supplies. His racing bib with his number is pinned to his chest already. He’s tall in his ‘bunny boots,’ thick soled, insulated boots made for extreme negative temperatures. He slips gladly into Shiro’s arms, embracing him closely despite the bulky outwear. “Uh. Sincline, this is my, um.” A pretty blush rises to his cheeks and Keith jerks his head in Shiro’s direction, attempting to facilitate an introduction to Sincline. Keith squints, “Shiro,” he finishes. 

“Keith’s Shiro,” Sincline says, amused, voice coated in an accent that makes it difficult to parse purr from disdain. Still, he’s friendly enough when he takes Shiro’s hand. “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance.” 

“Likewise,” Shiro agrees. Keith’s judgement of character is enough for him. The man is, perhaps, just as eccentric as the rest of the people in Alaska. It certainly seems that way when Sincline balks at Romi’s questions, responses all overly polite and appropriately distant. 

“How are you feeling?” Shiro asks Keith, voice low, just the two of them. 

Keith’s sharp eyes find his. It’s obvious that he’s thrumming with adrenaline already, every nerve pulled taut like the ganglines of his dog team about to run. “Ready,” Keith says, simply. This much fire is nothing but attractive, and Shiro has to be stern with himself and resist kissing that fierceness from Keith’s mouth. Keith wets his lips and Shiro can’t help but track the movement, impossibly drawn to this quiet, forceful confidence. 

*

The energy at the starting line is frenetic— the dogs are screaming and pulling, some of them dragging volunteers through the snow, dancing and wild and strong. The brakes and anchors on the sleds are barely enough to keep them at bay, and grating squeals of metal on ice peal through the air at random intervals as the teams attempt to unmoor their sleds and take off before their appointed time.

Keith’s turn comes and pride wells up within Shiro as he watches the man climb onto the back of his sled. His cherry red parka is a bright spot against the snow, unmistakable along with his intense energy. He finds Shiro in the crowd, meeting his eyes. And then the signal is given— 

The crowd roars with applause. The sled takes off in a spray of snow and ice, dogs howling their approval. Keith is facing forward, focused on the stretch of wilderness before him. Never let go, Shiro thinks. One thousand miles between this and the end. 

* 

Twenty-six teams depart from Fairbanks into the wilderness. 

Shiro sees some of them from the air— he has a pair of journalists in the cockpit with him, one of them with a low voice, speaking voice notes into their phone, the other taking footage from a vantage point more impressive than a drone. The city is behind them and the teams fan out over the land. Over the course of the race, there’s just four checkpoints with mandated rest periods. Though the race spans so many miles and two countries, the first of the checkpoints is a mere thirty miles away: 

Two Rivers. Shiro sets the plane down at the first checkpoint just as alpenglow is creeping up the snowy peaks in the distance, drenching the landscape in beautiful reddish haze. The mushers are required to rest for specific amounts of time at each mandatory checkpoint, and this first one is just two hours. By the time Shiro arrives in the tiny town, Keith has already spent the required two hours here, and left again. Shiro finds Allura there— she’s flying Blue today, transporting a family of tourists who came to see the race’s start before staying in a luxurious cabin tucked into the mountainside. Shiro shares a meal with her that becomes a scheduling meeting— Allura is relentless in many ways— and watches the night fall across the land. He’s thinking of Keith. 

Mile 101— so named due to its distance from Fairbanks— is a strategic checkpoint rather than a mandated rest point. It’s nestled between the two highest peaks of the race, Rosebud and Eagle summits, both of them nearly four thousand feet above sea level. Mushers are not required to rest here, but they are required to check in, because, well, it’s a measure to make sure they’re not dead. This stretch of the race is named the most difficult dog sled terrain in the world— the ascent up each peak is a difficult task for the strongest team, and the descent on the other side is a steep, rocky plunge that requires chains added to the sled. Fat spruce trees become terrifying obstacles over the knife-sharp edges of land; places where the trail is more gravel than snow threaten to crack the sled with hundreds of miles still to go; the scent of caribou in the forests are a distraction for the sled dogs, and a temptation for the wolves who follow them. 

It is with no small relief, then, that Shiro finds ‘Keith Kogane’ written in tight, neat handwriting in the log at Mile 101. He’s not here though. Days into the race, and it’s just getting started. He’s racing ahead.

Eagle, Alaska is where Shiro finally sees Keith in person again. This small village— population of less than one hundred people— is much less bustle than Fairbanks or the other checkpoints. This time of year, the depth of winter, the area is not reachable by road— air or sled dogs are the only way in. Shiro volunteered to do the supply drop here. He sets the Lion with the yellow stripe across the body down next to the town’s tiny schoolhouse that will serve as the checkpoint. A little beacon of golden light in the harsh winter— the wind is whipping snow relentlessly through air that is already fifty degrees below zero. Here, the mushers have a mandatory four hour rest. 

“Where do you want this?” Shiro’s breath is a cloud in the cold air as he hauls one of the heavy containers of supplies— food, straw, medical equipment— from the monoplane. 

“Dude, let me help with that,” responds one of the volunteers. He easily lifts another container and motions for Shiro to follow him towards the warm little schoolhouse. He’s got on a red vest overtop his coat— RACE VETERINARIAN is written bold letters across the back. “Name’s Hunk, by way, thanks for coming, make sure you have some stew before you take off again, it’s delicious, I made it, or actually, feel free to stay because, yeah, I’m sure you can imagine, like, you know, we can always use more people.” 

Shiro takes the friendly stream of consciousness in stride and introduces himself. The gymnasium of the school— yellow wood floor still glossy enough to squeak— is transformed into a mini command center. Folding tables with food for the mushers and volunteers, someone plucking at a guitar, people talking and a few kids running around. Someone has a laptop with a satellite connection set out on one of the tables with the trackers for the mushers. Triangles with ‘Sincline’ and ‘Kogane’ labeled above them are close by— they’ll arrive soon. 

Though friendly, Hunk barks out orders like a general, and Shiro is so caught up in helping with the supply drop that he doesn’t realize the first of the teams have arrived until Sincline is standing in the gym. The tall man gives him a nod of recognition, obviously dead on his feet. He and Keith tackled the summits together— a good idea in such dangerous terrain. They’ve been traveling together for most of the race. 

“Is Keith with you?” Shiro asks him, watching Lotor unspool elegant hands from thick gloves. 

“Your boy is bold,” Sincline responds in his heavy accent, the ghost of a smile tilting his mouth. “Talented. Quite fearless. Yes, he’s here. Currently feeding and bedding down his dogs. I imagine he’ll be in soon. If you’ll excuse me,” he motions, polite, indicating the way that he’s about to pass out. 

Quick footsteps take Shiro to the entrance of the school. He throws the doors open against the wind, just to find Keith climbing the two steps into the building. He blinks up at Shiro as if confused. “Shiro?” 

“Come inside,” Shiro helps him in, wrapping an arm around him, 

“Thought you were a …” Keith closes his eyes for too long to be considered a blink. “Mirror….thing. Imagining. …I can’t think of the word.” 

“Hm.” Shiro considers. Keith is leaning against him heavily. Shiro all but carries him down the hall. “‘Mirage,’ maybe?”

“Thas’ the one.” Keith pats Shiro on the face. They’ve reached the gym. Keith grabs one of the volunteers walking by. Literally grabs them. “You. Set an alarm. Wake me up. Two hours.” He nods at the volunteer, nods at Shiro, then staggers to the closest corner. He tucks his hood around his face, lays down, and immediately falls asleep. 

“Keith…” Shiro would be concerned if Sincline weren’t doing the exact same thing on the other side of the room. Evidently this is not an uncommon practice. 

After the two hours of sleep, Keith is marginally more coherent. He eats the stew that Shiro hands him, and talks to Hunk about his dogs. He’s worried that Mr. President— one of his team’s wheel dogs— tweaked his wrist on the last descent. But this checkpoint entails a full veterinary exam, and the team gets a clean bill of health. No injuries. All fourteen dogs and Keith are ready to run, just as soon as the mandated four hours at the checkpoint is complete. Pride now has a squeeze of heartache alongside it as Shiro watches Keith fly with his team back out into the wild. 

Dawson City. Dawson is considered the halfway point of the race. Roughly five hundred miles behind them, roughly five hundred miles to go. This is the longest required checkpoint— mushers must stay in Dawson for a full thirty-six hours. The only point at which outside assistance is allowed, the teams can do a full restock here: raw meat for the dogs, fuel for their campfires, necessary repairs made on their sleds. This is also the point to ‘drop’ dogs. 

“No,” Keith says, eyes sharp as he looks at the reporter. “No. I don’t plan on dropping any dogs.” 

Shiro watches the video clip some three hundred miles away, on a tarmac in between flights. ‘Dropping’ dogs, leaving the dogs with handlers from the musher’s kennel, is sometimes necessary if a sled dog is injured or can’t finish the race. But it can also be strategic— fewer mouths to feed, fewer paws to put snow booties on— and plenty of mushers plan on finishing the race with fewer dogs than they have at the start. 

“I want to finish this race with my whole team,” Keith says. “My dogs know that. We’re doing this together.” 

Scroggie Creek - Stepping Stone - Pelly Crossing - McCabe Creek - Carmacks — the race continues and more than a week has passed. There’s just one more mandated checkpoint before the finish line: 

Braeburn. With the Yukon wilderness stretching out on all sides, and the smell of cinnamon in the air— the city is known for their massive cinnamon rolls— this last leg of the race is where the winner is truly decided. There’s one last check up to ensure that the dogs are healthy enough to finish the race, an eight hour pause that is timed down to the very second. The anticipation crackles in the air as if the milky blue sky above is waiting too. Just one hundred miles between here and the end. 

And, after the finish line, Shiro will find Keith. 

*

It’s funny to think that six months ago, Shiro had no idea that the Yukon Quest existed. 

The people in his plane now are avid followers of the competition. An older couple with connections to the race— Shiro understands that both of them had sled dog teams in the past, both of them have finished this momentous trek— well known in the tight knit community of sled dog racing. 

The older gentleman has two fingers missing on his right hand, lost to frostbite on the trail, and he speaks in a heavy rumble of words that almost matches Black’s engine. His wife is beside him, face marked with identical wrinkles to his— the way that sunshine over snow makes a person squint leaves a telltale mark over time. The Quest makes no distinction for women or men, and it’s not uncommon for spouses to have both finished the race in different years, or for children to follow in their parent’s footsteps. Raising sled dogs—this passion— requires commitment. It’s generational. It’s whole life. 

Shiro circles lazily in the air east of Braeburn. Sun cuts through clear, cold air and dances over the wings of the plane, sending light and shadows in patterns on the clean snow below. It’s a beautiful day. He’s flying low, about thirty miles from the finish line in Whitehorse. They’re going to follow the race’s winners into town. 

“There they are,” the woman says, warm voice and shrewd eyes. The two teams who will place second and first crest into view. They’re flying over the snow. Keith’s cherry red parka is there; Shiro smiles. 

“You know the mushers?” the woman asks. 

“...Kogane.” Shiro murmurs into the headset, watching the path unfold as the teams race through the snow. The teams are galloping at wild pace and Shiro remembers that day they went out together. The ride back with Keith— the energy of it, the unbridled fervor of the team working as one. Hungry to run. 

They close in on the town. The wilderness narrows to a roped off lane of snow, people cheering on either side of the lane— at first just a few, then thick crowds of people on either side, giddy to see the race’s conclusion. 

Shiro finds himself holding his breath. From the air, he can’t hear the roaring approval of the crowds, not the thunderous applause or whoop of joy from the mushers. He can’t hear the howling barks of the sled dogs, the happy-exhausted-panting, the clanking of their harnesses taut on the ganglines. As Keith crosses the finish line, Shiro hears only his own wonder-filled exhale. The breath of laugh that follows. He won. 

*

“Oh, Shiro, don’t be foolish. Of course you’ll stay here,” Allura says, waving a hand as if to dispel any of Shiro’s reservations. She ushers Shiro inside the lodge— the Wimbelton-Smythe Estate, evidently owned by a family friend— “I wouldn’t accept any other arrangement. And besides. A little mousey told me something you might be interested to know: it just so happens that a Mr. Keith Kogane is staying here as well.” She winks at him. 

“Gee. How interesting you should mention him,” Shiro responds, dry. He certainly has not discussed his relationship with Keith enough for her to comment on it, even obliquely. 

“Yes, well, you did take him out on a romantic flight in one of my planes, darling,” Allura. “But even so, you went all mushy heart-eyes when you saw that photo—” she points to his phone, “And to be perfectly honest you’ve been nothing but distracted since we left Fairbanks. I’d be blind not to put two and two together. At any rate, come in. Coran loves a full house. We’re happy to lend you a room.” 

The photo in question: Keith on his back in the snow. Eyes squeezed shut and teary. Mouth open in a happy sob. His arms outstretched and grasping at his sled dogs all around him. It’s a photo that was taken directly after he crossed the finish line, just a couple hours or so ago. YUKON QUEST ROOKIE COMES IN FIRST: the caption reads. 

Pure chaos erupted after the race. Keith, predictably, was single minded in getting his dog team appropriate food and rest. The press wanted pictures with him and Sincline, interviews, sound bytes. There’s the matter of the race officials and documentation. From what Shiro understands, Keith was exhausted and overwhelmed by it all, but Krolia— no stranger to winning dog sled races— swooped in and took care of things. 

He had no idea that Keith’s mother swooped him away to here . 

Well, not here , exactly. Shiro steps off an ancient elevator and looks down either end of the hall. The lodge is sprawling. It’s all glossy marble and leather couches and lush, warm toned patterns— honestly speaking, it’s giving the Overlook Hotel at the moment— but. Shiro is man enough to admit when he’s lost. He sighs and turns around— 

And directly finds a familiar pair of bright blue eyes looking at him. One bushy tail wags in recognition. 

“Kosmo,” Shiro grins, kneeling down. He’s met with raucous excitement, head butting and licking and a lot of excited yips and spinning around at Shiro’s presence. The husky seems to be focused, though— only a few enthusiastically met belly scratches and the dog is back up on his feet. Not unlike his sled dog pulling counterparts, he trots off on a mission. He’s pulling Shiro along. 

Kosmo snuffles at one door in particular, loudly protesting when Shiro doesn’t open it immediately. One big paw knocks at the door and, when that doesn’t work, soon Kosmo is up on his hind legs, scratching at the heavy mahogany with both his front paws. 

“Kos!” Shiro chides. Surely this is not Keith approved behavior! The enormous dog sits down and gives Shiro a surly look, as if to say, you’re not my real dad and also well, open it then!  

(Six months ago, Shiro certainly couldn’t have fathomed having conversations with dogs.) 

Shiro sets his trusty pilot’s overnight bag down on the floor— he wants to have both hands free to surrender if there’s a rifle on the other side— and knocks. No answer comes. Kosmo whines and prances in place, impatient. Shiro, carefully, turns the knob. 

The door opens. 

Shiro intends to open it just a crack, perhaps enough to call into the room and make sure that he’s not entering the room of a stranger unannounced— although that’s absolutely what he’s doing— but. Kosmo smooshes his enormous head through the crack and wiggles with all his husky strength past Shiro. He barrels inside with purpose. What can Shiro do but follow?

He collects his overnight bag and walks inside. The room is certainly occupied: a pair of boots lined up near the door, a large duffle bag placed inside. A cherry red parka hung on the back of a chair. 

“Keith?” 

Shiro gently shuts the door behind him and toes off his own boots. He follows the gummy feeling of humidity towards the bathroom. “Keith,” 

Over hexagon tiles— little ones in white and black— the rest of Keith’s clothes are strewn about, inner layers balled up, as if he was growing more and more impatient the closer he got to his goal. 

And his goal now? Not the finish line of an international sled dog race. Something much simpler to attain: a long, hot soak. 

Keith has his eyes closed and his head tilted back, submerged in a bath up to his shoulders. The air is thick with steam. He doesn’t move as Shiro darkens his door. He might be asleep. 

Shiro looks at Kosmo. The dog is now lying on the tile amongst the clothes, all sprawled out as if to escape the steam rolling off the water in the bath. Utterly unbothered. “So much for the urgency,” Shiro mutters. This is clearly not a ‘bring Shiro to rescue Keith’ situation. This is more of a ‘find human who can open doors’ situation. “I feel used.” 

Keith’s eyes flutter open. He sinks a bit more into the water and then sits up, sending the water rolling as if threatening to overflow. His hand emerges to steady himself at the side of the tub. He runs the other through his wet hair, but stops mid-movement: 

“Shiro?” 

“In the flesh,” Shiro deadpans. It appears as if Keith is too sleepy to be overly surprised, but Shiro has all his faculties and is, to put it mildly, mortified. “I’m not in the habit of breaking into people’s guest rooms and watching them bathe.” Shiro swallows, “But, clearly, I’ll make a special exception in the case of Kosmo’s explicit request.” 

Keith squeezes his eyes closed and looks pained. “ Huh ?” 

“Your dog.” Shiro indicates Kosmo because, truthfully, Keith has a number of dogs to which he could be referring, “Brought me here.” Keith looks down over the side of the tub and Shiro notes that he has a pretty birthmark— a dark freckle— on one of his shoulder blades. Keith is so —

Effortlessly—  

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll leave. Apologies for—” 

“Oh. No. You don’t—” 

Shiro stops his nervous monologue. “I don’t?” 

Yawning, Keith’s mouth works before he can get the words out. “M’really tired, but, uh.” His eyes are heavy lidded, but they find Shiro’s, “Stay?” 

“I’ll stay,” Shiro says, heart plucking tender in his chest. That one word is all it will ever take to change his mind. “Of course. If that’s what you want. I’ll stay.” 

Keith’s smile is sleep dopey. “Cool.” As if remembering where he is, he sloshes around in the water. Kosmo looks up, interested in the noise. “Um. Be out soon?” 

“I’ll send out a search party if it’s any longer,” Shiro promises, and Keith laughs, a quiet, low, little sound. Warm, echoing in the bathroom, lighter than the humidity clouding the air. Shiro loves it. 

The room has a fireplace, Shiro learns, carefully studying his surroundings while he makes careful work of carefully not thinking about Keith, naked, a few paces away. It’s an electric fireplace, slightly at odds with the old fashioned estate, but a welcome amenity. He finds the switch for it after a few moments of searching, and watches the flames dance while he listens to Keith’s muted voice. He’s talking to Kosmo. 

Shiro can only catch every fourth word or so, and then the door opens and Keith has a tiny white towel wrapped around his waist and Shiro momentarily forgets to listen to anything but the blood roaring in his ears. 

Keith’s shins are a darker tone than his thighs— a continuation of the unfortunate tan lines Shiro noticed before, but with the addition of wiry hair below his knees. He tracks wet footprints onto the room’s plush carpet. Rivulets of water make their way down the pretty expanse of his back, each lock of hair a source, before finding their way into the towel knotted around his waist. He’s clearly dead on his feet, rocking around off balance as if gravity itself is confusing him. 

“Mm. No. Yeah, alright,” Keith mumbles to himself, going through his duffle bag. His bare arms are pretty, the muscle in them obvious under lush, bath fresh skin as he ruthlessly works at unpacking his bag. “Ah. Found them.” He steps, teetering into boxer shorts— 

“Careful,” Shiro is there, a hand at the small of his back when Keith stumbles. His skin is warm, soft—Shiro doesn’t want to let go. He touches Keith at the elbow, keeping him steady while he gets dressed. Soft sweatpants. Another tee shirt, also, unfortunately, featuring arctic wolves. 

“Thanks,” Keith looks to be half-asleep again, eyes going closed when Shiro takes the towel from him, and uses it to squeeze out some of the water from his hair. “Feels warm,” he comments, tucking his face into Shiro’s chest. 

He’s putty malleable as Shiro maneuvers him into bed underneath a heavy duvet. Keith nuzzles into a pillow, mouth slack and movement syrupy, while Shiro quietly undoes his own belt and folds his sweater and pants. 

“S’good, s’good, c’mon,” Keith says, coming awake at Shiro’s slow descent into his bed. Keith seemingly has no patience for this, and Shiro can’t help but smile as he finds himself pulled in close. No lover has ever hesitated less in regards to his prosthetic. No lover has been quite this immediately insistent: Keith wraps an arm around Shiro, a leg too, tucking his face into Shiro’s neck. Maybe he interprets Shiro’s smile as a tease: “Yeah, yeah. You try living as an ice cube for more than a week. M’freezing.” 

“Purely utilitarian cuddling,” Shiro comments then, actually teasing. “Understood.” 

Keith snorts out a laugh. The breath is soft over Shiro’s chest. His body is warm as they share closeness under the heavy comforter. 

Kosmo jumps up on the bed and settles in behind Keith, sandwiching him between Shiro and more than eighty pounds of fluffy dog. Keith’s smile is crooked with sleepy happiness. “Good boy.” 

Shiro tucks Keith’s hair away. It’s thick and still damp from the bath, soft under his fingertips. Baby hairs are already becoming unmanageable, springing out from the uneven edges of his hairline. Following a whim, Shiro kisses him there. Keith sighs, melting under his touch. 

“Hey,” Keith says, a few beats later, when Shiro would’ve sworn he was asleep. 

“Mm?” Shiro rouses himself from the comfortable haze of having Keith in his arms. 

“You saw me, right?” 

“I saw you,” Shiro says, understanding. Keith, his team, flying over the finish line. Magnificent. Absurd and wonderful. Like nothing he’s ever seen before. He lifts Keith’s face, looking at him in the low light. Keith looks back, flicker of the fireplace dancing in dark eyes. 

“Baby. It was everything.” Shiro kisses him, just simple, relaxed. Punctuation. Pride. “You did it.” 

“Yeah.” Keith smirks, settling back down into comfortable closeness. “I did.” 

*

Shiro wakes up to the sound of the door unlatching. 

He and Keith traded a few more kisses— heavy, like bodies weighed down with sleep, familiar, relaxed kisses. Slow, now, like they have all the time they could ever need. Keith’s mouth was soft with sleep, too drowsy to continue, folding gently into Shiro. Now, he’s sound asleep. 

At the sound of the door, Kosmo lifts his head. 

Shiro holds Keith closer, as if to protect him from waking. Though, truthfully, that doesn’t seem to be much of a concern, considering how dead to the world he is— at the moment, mouth ajar, snoring softly with one cheek smushed against Shiro’s bicep.  

Kosmo’s tail thumps against the bed. Shiro’s heart stops. 

“Keith.” 

Shiro, helpless against this turn of events, lifts a finger to his lips. Above the crest of Keith’s shoulder, he meets Krolia’s eyes. 

She looks at him. 

He holds her gaze. 

(Respectfully.) 

Krolia’s mouth twitches— a smile, almost. “I see,” she says. And the glint in her sharp eyes is somehow a mirror of Keith’s. “Kosmo.” She clicks her tongue and the dog happily bounces out of the bed towards the door. She watches Kosmo file out past her and then looks back at Shiro. She nods at him, just once, and then pulls the door shut. 

All of the air in Shiro’s lungs whooshes out in one relieved exhale as soon as he hears the door click and the bolt turn. 

*

The room is darker when Shiro wakes again. The fire still burns, infinite, in the fireplace, but the sun has set and the snowy landscape outside the window has disappeared into the dark. There’s a quiet whistle of wind there, but the walls are thick in this old estate. When the winter wind dies down, there’s only silence in its place. 

Shiro luxuriates in the sound, thinking of it in comparison, not for the first time, to the noisy apartment he left not so long ago in Southern California. The city has its perks, of course, but he doesn’t miss the traffic— nor the wail of sirens, nor the constant press of people. Nor the loneliness that he felt there. 

Pressed up against him, Keith stretches awake. He shuffles and Shiro is still, thinking that Keith might fall back asleep, until — a smack of lips, a clearing of throat, a murmur of nonsense— 

“S’ro,” Keith mumbles, relaxing post stretch. Then clearer, “Shiro,” 

“Hm?” Their legs are tangled together and Keith’s body is hot against his under the heavy duvet.

His hair has dried into its usual form: tangled and shapeless, falling into his face and around his shoulders. Keith’s dark eyes find Shiro’s. “You stayed?” 

“You asked me to—” Shiro is going to remind him, but Keith cuts him off, pressing a kiss into Shiro’s mouth instead. “Mm,” Shiro agrees, lips parting, hand slipping into the tangles of his hair adjusting the angle, kissing him, completely. 

Keith moves, sitting up, but the position presses his hips into Shiro’s— 

It’s obvious through the sweatpants that he’s woken up hard. And just now realizing it. “Oh,” Keith mutters, pressing his lips together and looking away, 

“Oh,” he says, hand tight around Shiro’s bicep when Shiro responds by nosing into his neck. Kissing him there. Pulling him closer with obvious intention. Keith is warm and smells sleep ridden, softer than usual, still, somehow, Keith. The suggestion of teeth has Keith arching against him like they’re fucking already, and Shiro can’t help but enjoy the way Keith gasps when Shiro sucks, hard, into the same place. 

“Can I use my mouth?” Shiro asks him, cupping Keith through the fabric of his sweatpants so as not to be misunderstood. He has enough experience with Keith to imagine that the extra clarity might be necessary. 

Keith heaves out a breath, looking at Shiro both like he hung all the stars in the black, black night, and also like he’s lost his damn mind. “ Shit, ” he swears, hot, and scrambles to take off his tee shirt. 

Shiro laughs, and the sound clears some of the marked tension between them, and Keith’s smile in return is crooked like that one incisor in his mouth— just as charming. Shiro kisses him, and Keith is playful, grinning and nipping at Shiro’s mouth, fingernails zinging their paths across Shiro’s skin in a way that’s deliciously distracting. 

Still— Shiro is dedicated to a goal when he sets his mind to it. He kisses, now, into the pretty hollow of Keith’s throat, nosing into the hair that spreads across his chest. Teeth over a dark nipple, enjoying the way Keith’s chest heaves, mouth loose over the soft plane of his stomach, enjoying the feel of the dark hair that spreads lower, 

Eager, Keith pushes his own sweatpants down, kicking them off from around his ankles in a way that’s a little violent and a little adorable. Shiro can’t help but look at him, the dark freckle that breaks up the paleness of his thighs, the chapped skin of his knees, the sharp ‘v’ of his adonis belt. Shiro takes the bold thrust of his cock from the curls there as a compliment to him personally , and hums, pleased, as he takes Keith into his mouth. 

“Oh, fuck ,” Keith chokes into the air. His hands are heavy over Shiro’s shoulders. 

Mouth full, Shiro thumbs over the narrow crest of his hip— exquisite— and enjoys the way Keith’s thighs are thick muscle on either side of head. Keith groans, voice all gravel in the dark, and the sound of it— mixed with the taste of him— sends a shiver of pleasure over Shiro’s skin. He can’t wait to hear this man come. To know what his name sounds like in that voice when Shiro is inside of him. 

Shiro plays with his balls, mouthing at the base of him, stroking him. Pre spreads over his tongue and Shiro enjoys the way Keith twitches. The way he gasps so plainly when Shiro takes him deeper. Shiro presses fingers over his entrance, not pushing inside, not yet. 

When Keith comes, hot, it’s with a tight clenching of his stomach. His fingers spasm against Shiro’s skin, and he’s endearingly wordless when Shiro responds by swallowing and kissing the pads of them. It takes him a full moment to find his breath again. He pulls Shiro closer, “Ah-you—I-uh, Shi—Shiro,” the flush dapples over his chest in patches, like love bites that Shiro wants to leave in earnest. 

His own breath still short, Shiro is so, so turned on, he feels close already himself. He knows that Keith can tell, just based on the way his sharp eyes keep glancing to Shiro’s cock, the way it’s straining in his black boxers. But— not yet, 

“I’m not finished,” Shiro says, sucking at Keith’s fingertips before smiling against his palm. Afterall there’s something he’s been wanting to do since he saw that curve of ass in Wrangler jeans. With his free hand, Keith is stroking at the short hair at the nape of Shiro’s neck; the movement stops when Shiro whispers into Keith’s ear that he’d like Keith to turn over. 

If Keith’s voice was sweet to hear before— 

“ Shiro! ” 

It’s something else entirely when Shiro has worked him open with nothing but patience and his tongue. He works his mouth into Keith’s heat, and Keith is beautiful like this— freckle on the back of his shoulder, his spine, peeking out of the dark hair spread between his cheeks. His muscles lush in his back as he moves, panting out expletives and Shiro’s name, dribbling onto the sheets, already hard again. 

Shiro kisses the base of his spine, taking himself in hand. He’s been patient enough. 

Generous amounts of lube, too— and Keith decadently ready— 

“Wait,” Keith says, voice throaty, sitting up. He touches Shiro, 

His touch is heavy. Direct. He wants Shiro on his back— and that’s, 

“Yeah,” Keith says, biting his lip as he settles over Shiro’s waist. He has Shiro’s cock in his hand. He’s a vision. He’s thrumming with intensity— that crackling determination— as he sinks himself onto Shiro. 

Shiro feels pinned with that intensity as Keith takes him. He’s all edges— the angle of his teeth as they cut, silent, at the air, mouth open and wordless. The sharp slant of his body, tilted just so for Shiro. The piercing eye contact before his eyes flutter and he looks away. 

“Keith,” Shiro groans, and Keith swallows. 

“Jesus,” he says, and his voice is all breathy, fucked out, “You—Shiro. You’re so fuckin’ big,”

Shiro is about to say something dry in response— afterall, there’s not much need to stroke his ego at this point— but Keith lifts up and lowers himself back down and they both groan. 

Keith gives him a sharp smile that tells Shiro everything he needs to know about how Keith feels about his size. He leans forward, cupping Shiro’s chest— his thighs are trembling as Shiro runs hands up them, enjoying the clench of Keith’s abs, the narrowness of his waist. The bob of his cock as he rides Shiro. 

Settling into a luxurious pace, Shiro rolls his hips upward. 

“A-ah—” Keith moans. His voice curls around Shiro’s name as he’s being fucked, gorgeous in a way that Shiro would never be able to forget. Or relinquish.  

No. Not the way that Keith looks at him, the intensity of it— 

Shiro groans, burying himself in Keith, holding Keith’s hips as his own body shudders with release. And Keith has a hand wrapped around himself, jerking desperately until he comes, white, across Shiro’s chest. 

No— not the way the two of them have settled into this like it’s worn in already. Not the heavy way Keith touches him, careful, purposeful, strong. Shiro pulls out but Keith settles in next to him, the line of his body still pressed, hot, into Shiro. 

He touches Shiro’s shoulder, the twisted muscle of it, above the prosthetic. It’s intimate, the way his fingers are familiar with Shiro’s body. Not hesitant, not dramatic, just there, pressing deep into his skin as if to comfort. 

Letting his eyes fall shut, Shiro concentrates on the touch. The thud of his heart in his ears, the heat of Keith’s skin. Pleasure sinking into the feeling of satiety. Closeness. 

“I said. After the race, I said I would tell you—” Keith starts, but his voice is thick and he stops, swallowing. 

Shiro opens his eyes to see Keith press his mouth into Shiro’s shoulder. He lifts his hand, touching Keith’s face, the swell of his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. “I understand,” Shiro says, also affected. Also in love. 

Keith shakes his head. “No— let me. I— I want to say this. That day that you went out with me and the dogs—” Keith begins, stopping again. This time Shiro waits, quiet. “I didn’t think I would ever meet a person like you.” Keith says, voice low. “I never thought that I would love anyone like I love being with my team.” Emotion takes his voice and Shiro makes a soft noise at the feeling of Keith trembling. “I couldn’t wait to get back to you, Shiro.” 

No. Not now— now that Shiro has this, he’s never letting go. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, shifting to pull Keith against him, to hold. He whispers it back, against his skin, because it’s gotten a little truer every moment since they met: “Keith, I love you.” 

Keith makes a noise that’s something like a laugh, and presses a grin, heavy, into Shiro’s skin. 

*

One year later, almost: 

The temperatures are starting to edge closer to zero, but the full breadth of winter’s chill hasn’t yet sunk in. Still, Shiro keeps his hands in his pockets, eyes lifted up towards the huge blue sky. An eagle— not uncommon for this area— is soaring overhead. Shiro recognizes it as one he usually sees closer to the river, nesting in the oldest of the trees there, the ones that tower over the land, stronger for having endured every winter and then some. Good day for flying, he thinks. 

If only his clients weren’t taking their time! 

He listens to them discussing gear with their guide, some final checklist of items that have already been loaded into the storage of his plane. 

“Hey! We know you!” the woman says when they’re finally ready to get settled. Last year it was a honeymoon trip; this year they’re going for their first anniversary. “Do you remember us?” 

Shiro does one last pre-flight check, the old plane purring under his hands. There’s a picture of Keith and Kosmo tucked into the instruments now, a candid that he took. It doesn’t quite capture the slow, satisfied pull of Keith’s smile, or his galloping laugh, or the sharpness of his grin. But it comes close enough. 

“I remember you,” Shiro says into the headset. He taxis the monoplane to the runway, picks up speed— she lifts into the air, easy as breathing. He’s relaxed, climbing higher. Enjoying himself, and the way the sun is glinting off the snow covered peaks. Soon the land will be blanketed as far as his eyes can see. “Congratulations on your anniversary.” 

“Well it wasn’t easy,” the man with the auburn beard jokes, and his wife rolls her eyes, parka swishing as she prods him. “What about you, man? Any exciting news?” 

Shiro holds up his left hand. 

There’s a ring there now. 

The proposal came as a surprise— but after it happened Shiro realized that it couldn’t have been any other way:

There wasn’t anything flashy about it. Just Shiro and Keith sitting in the Kogane living room. Krolia, nearby. Kosmo relaxing at their feet. The smell of something warm and savory— Keith, it turns out, is a fiend for slow cooker recipes— the sound of the dogs at the kennel not so far away. 

“It was my pop’s,” Keith said, after handing Shiro the box. The gold band, perfect there. Keith’s hands were in fists over his thighs, and he swallowed, drumming with intense emotion. “I—uh. Everybody keeps telling me it’s too soon.” Keith shrugs, looking at Shiro, all sharp edges. “I know what I want.” 

Shiro couldn’t imagine anything more Keith than that. 

“I said ‘yes’,” Shiro says to the woman in the plane, tone half wry due to the phrasing, but never able to minimize the love he feels for Keith. 

“Oh!!!” The woman is delighted. “Oh, wonderful, congratulations!!” Her husband is less enthused, but kind. 

“Thank you,” Shiro says. “Any advice for our first year?” 

He’s making polite conversation, of course. Shiro lives a life that’s bold— adventure and absurdity. A lack of moderation. Now, a lot of dogs. Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith and the wide open air. He doesn’t, as a general rule, take much advice. 

Sunshine-made crow’s feet crinkle into happiness. “Just what everybody says,” the woman smiles. “You know, don’t worry about the small stuff. Sometimes you just have to let things go.” 

So funny, Shiro thinks. He’s heard the exact opposite. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shiro replies, solemn, smiling as he takes the plane higher into the sky. 

***