Archive of Our Own

The nauseous feeling in Shiro’s stomach doesn’t fade, even as he tugs his bags from the ship’s metal overhead rack and heads down the landing ramp.

The first thing that hits him is the heat. The combined glare of Daibazaal’s three suns drag over his face, and Shiro lifts his hand to shade his eyes and provide them some relief. He’d dragged a scarf over his head and wrapped it around his neck before exiting the ship, but the covering is as good as absent as the sun roasts his skin. The air is so heavy that he must force himself to breathe deeply to stop the encroaching dizziness. He lifts his bags onto his good shoulder, careful with the one containing his prosthetic.

There’s a small gathering of Galrans gathered at the bottom of the ramp. The ship’s autopilot had landed him at the appointed Daibazaal ship port, so Shiro isn’t surprised to see the welcome party waiting for him.

No, he thinks, as he takes a few more cautious steps, it is the composition of the welcome party that surprises Shiro.

Daibazaal’s own beloved Prince Lotor waits, surrounded by taller Galra that Shiro presumes are the prince’s personal guards. His long white hair has been pulled back into a half ponytail, leaving the rest to flow over his shoulders. A silver circlet is threaded into his locks, and he smiles slowly as Shiro nears him.

Shiro lowers his bags to the floor to greet the Prince - with his hand empty as per Galran tradition. He’s studied the little of Galran conversational strategies he’s been able to find in the Garrison archives for months, and he hopes what he’s doing is accurate.

 “We are well-met, Prince Lotor,” Shiro says, and bows with his left hand over his chest, his fist clenched. Traditionally, one would use both arms crossed in an “X” over their chest, but Shiro makes do.

“I am Officer Takashi Shirogane, Earth representative and diplomat to Daibazaal.” Shiro’s proud of himself for how his voice keeps level and doesn’t betray the rapid thuds of his heart in his chest. “It is an honour.”

“Well-met, Officer Shirogane,” Lotor drawls, and raises his arms in a quick show of the salute. Shiro’s tall by human standards, so it feels a little odd that he’s the shortest in the small crowd. It’s also a prime position for Lotor to look down his nose at Shiro, and Shiro forces a polite smile under Lotor’s narrowed yellow eyes and accompanying smirk. “Welcome to Daibazaal. Come, let us take the hovercars back to the palace and out of the stifling heat.” Shiro doesn’t miss how his gaze pauses at the tied, empty sleeve of Shiro’s right arm.

“I am glad to meet you, my Prince.” Shiro falls into step with Lotor as the Prince’s bodyguards shuffle behind them, picking up Shiro’s duffels. Sweat drips down his nose, but Shiro refuses to wipe it off while he’s face-to-face with a prince. He needs to be a good representative for all humans here. Shiro settles for blinking it out of his eyes. “Thank you for welcoming Earth into the Space Federation, and for your generosity in setting up an embassy on Daibazaal.”

Lotor meets Shiro’s eyes, and his voice is easy, languid. “You can thank my parents. They sent me to welcome you. Emperor Zarkon and Empress Honerva have been generous with you humans. I confess, I am still waiting to see why.” His smile doesn’t fracture at his last quip, but his stare weighs heavily on Shiro in obvious assessment.

Shiro has heard of the Prince’s unstable temperament. It was one of the topics Iverson had covered, and then re-covered in the multitudes of briefings he’d put Shiro through, along with a blurry slide deck of various photos of Lotor looking angry, furious, and pensive in equal measure.

He swallows and smooths the crease sure to be forming between his brows. It was something Adam had continuously bemoaned throughout the last months of their engagement. “Of course, my Prince. I will endeavour to show you what we are capable of doing.”

“That promise assumes you have anything we Galra would even need.” Lotor laughs, and it sounds more like a scoff. The glare of Daibazaal’s suns grow unbearably scorching on Shiro’s face, as if their arc through the sky is responsive to Lotor’s disposition. “You will be staying at the palace till the embassy is built.”

They slide into the waiting hovercraft. The subsequent ride back to the palace is uncomfortable, to say the least. Shiro wishes, for a split second, that he’d walked the miles alone, regardless of the heat. He can’t seem to find the words to engage Lotor, and a quick peripheral glance at Lotor’s expression tells him he shouldn’t try.

The hovercar speeds through city streets to a high fortress of metal with a great, pulsing quintessence energy barrier. Shiro can only marvel at the artistry with which quintessence has been inlaid into the silver palace. It’s built into a towering mountain of stone that presides over the rest of the city. The sharp towers of the palace strike at the sky, interrupting the path of passing clouds. Passing through the barrier, the car rumbles to a stop in front of the palace steps.

The next part is a blur, with efficient servants who bat Shiro aside and seize his bags. Shiro makes his way into the palace, rushed down corridor after corridor. After sending Shiro a snarky reminder of the evening dinner party thrown in his honour, Lotor waves him away and takes his bodyguards with him in the opposite direction.

Shiro can barely pause to take in his surroundings, let alone respond to Lotor before he disappears from view. He had known it would be opulent – Daibazaal is a rich planet, after all – but the décor in the palace is lavish by any standard. Quintessence infuses every surface, every path and floor, brimming with pure energy that dominates each room.

The servant pushes the twin doors open to a lavishly decorated room in a far tower, which they inform Shiro, helpfully, is reserved for important diplomatic guests. It’s located next to the royal tower, and it mildly stumps Shiro that he’s actually here, and that he’s going to be living a few doors and a passageway from the Daibazaal royal family.

“Your room, Diplomat Shirogane,” the servant says meekly. “Please be reminded that dinner will be held in the Great Hall in four vargas.”

When Shiro looks blankly back at them, they continue hesitantly. “The Great Hall is down the lift conduit we just passed, directly opposite this room, in about five and a half Earth hours.” They gesture to the unobtrusive tube behind them. “Feel free to let me know if you require anything else.”

“Ah, thank you.” Shiro rubs at the back of his neck with a hand. “You’ve been really helpful.” He tries to put in some energy into his voice, but it’s met with a strange look from the servant, who then exits with a bow and strides down the corridor quickly.

Shiro brings a palm over his eyes and leans against the door frame. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t manage to insult every person in this palace. It seems that despite receiving and dutifully practising his diplomatic skills, there are Galran traditions he hasn’t had access to. It very much isn’t Shiro’s fault that Galra are such a secretive people. Or maybe Lotor is just a dick. He allows himself a sigh, just this once, then closes the door behind him.

Shiro’s bags are piled neatly in a corner next to a massive bed. The room is huge, bigger than his crammed apartment back on Earth, and every surface looks polished to a gleam. This is more than what he’d imagined, coming to an alien planet as a Diplomat. It’s excessive in itself, and gearing up to be terribly lonely.

With a sigh, Shiro starts unpacking.

==

Shiro frets at his Admiral uniform, pulling at the sleeves and at the hem. Somehow in the few years that Shiro’s been deskbound, the uniform has grown much too tight. Perhaps it’s all the spare time he’s invested in working out to avoid facing the loss of his piloting ambitions after the accident. Perhaps the uniform shrunk in the wash. Either way, the high collar presses into his throat every time he tries to take a breath, the chest area of the uniform straining against the rise and fall of his sternum. Well. He doesn’t have anything else suitably formal that represents his position, so he’s just going to have to deal with it.

Shiro threads his hand through his hair to push it back and tame any unruly flyaways before stepping out the door. Just as he’s pressing his hand to the door scanner to lock it, he hears footsteps and the clearing of a throat behind him.

Shiro blinks twice, steels himself, and turns on his heel to meet piercing yellow eyes. The Galra in front of him is smaller than any Galra Shiro has ever seen, almost a half head shorter than Shiro himself. His purple ears, framing his handsome face, are pressed back against his long, dark hair. It is left to hang against his back, and Shiro catches sight of a platinum, polished circlet lying flat on his forehead. It is similar to the one Lotor was wearing earlier.

The Garrison notes on Galra were minimal at best and despairingly pedantic at worst, but Shiro can guess that the Galra in front of him is a member of the royal family. Shiro quickly sweeps into a low bow, heart thudding. If he’s anything like Lotor, Shiro will surely be chided for his lack of attentiveness.

“Your Highness,” Shiro breathes, to the floor, and there’s a pause.

“Please rise, Diplomat Shirogane.” There’s a light touch on his bicep, and Shiro straightens jerkily.

“Apologies, my lord, I regret that I do not know your name while you do mine.” Shiro tries desperately to cast his thoughts back to the hours of seminars and lectures about Emperor Zarkon’s extended family tree and comes out blank. He meets the Galra’s eyes again, and they seem to soften minutely around the edges.

“I am-” The Galra opens his mouth hesitantly. “Yor- Prince Yorak.”

“Prince Yorak,” Shiro repeats, then crosses his arms over his chest in the Galran salute. “We are well met.”

“Mm.” Prince Yorak seems to be watching Shiro carefully, content with studying him, and makes no attempt to continue the conversation. His eyes run over the breadth of Shiro’s shoulders, down quickly at his chest, and quickly back to meet Shiro’s own. How exactly is Yorak related to Lotor? He and Lotor could not be more distinct. Lotor is all flashy arrogance, and Yorak calm, but intense. Shiro swallows under the burn of his gaze.

“Are you heading to the Great Hall?” Shiro blurts, and Yorak nods, gesturing from Shiro to the space next to himself. Shiro falls into step with Yorak as they head to the lift conduit, and step onto the hovering platform.

“The Hall,” Yorak murmurs, and the hovering platform starts to lower. The lift is wholly silent except for the flashing lights on the conduit walls that mark their rapid descent. Shiro opens his mouth, closes it, then opens his mouth again.

“You look very nice, my prince,” Shiro says, then breaks out into a cold sweat all over again. What is he thinking? What kind of diplomat is he? Suddenly, Shiro is regretting leaving his ship at the ship port. He should be running away. Maybe he should set up a retirement shop at the edge of the galaxy, selling coconut juice. Yeah. It’d be a big hit.

But there is truth to Shiro’s words. Yorak is wearing a full set of gleaming black dress robes lined with quintessence that has been cut to lower the neckline and expose his shoulders, along with a generous swath of cape. He looks every bit like a prince. Shiro is looking very respectfully at the craftsmanship, and not at the narrow line of Yorak’s waist. Or the sharp lines of his neck.

“Thank you.” Yorak shifts minutely next to him and meets Shiro’s gaze. His lips twitch up into a small smile. “You do too, Diplomat Shirogane.”

“Please, just Shiro,” Shiro says, automatically repeating his usual method of introduction. Then, he realises with a dawning horror what he’s done. One day here, and he’s telling a member of the royal family how to behave. “If you would like to, that is, my prince. If you wish to call me Diplomat Shirogane, then that is entirely your prerogative! There is no need to stop on my account.”

Yorak’s lips are pressed together, tight and stern, and Shiro tries again to save himself.

“It’s because Shirogane is quite formal, my prince, my friends usually call me Shiro, just Shiro, but I understand it’s not regulation. Apologies, Prince Yorak.” Shiro ends off with a harried gulp of air, breathing hard. There’s a muffled sound, and Shiro raises his head to see the prince’s shoulders shaking. He’s… laughing?

Shiro awkwardly chuckles along, and slowly stops as Prince Yorak gives him a genuine, fanged grin. His heart stops beating for a minute or two as Yorak looks up at him through his eyelashes, and he quickly pulls his eyes away from its sweep over Yorak’s collarbones and the hollow of his throat.

“I-” Yorak takes one step, two, towards Shiro, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You may call me Yorak if you wish, Shiro.”

“Yorak,” Shiro repeats dumbly.

There’s a beat, and Yorak clears his throat. “How was the journey from Earth?”  

“It was comfortable, thank you. I am, uh, honoured that Prince Lotor was part of my welcome party.” Shiro winces at how it sounds, hesitant and worse, insincere. “I really am.”

“Ah,” Yorak sighs, looking weary as he turns back to face the conduit wall. The expression on his face isn’t anger, rather weary frustration, as if Lotor is a regular nuisance Yorak has to deal with. A nuisance! “If it is within your means, please forgive his… hastiness. Lotor is particularly threatened by the new. I assure you that I will speak to him about this, and you should expect an apology from him.”

Exactly who is Prince Yorak, that Prince Lotor would listen to his orders and cater to his whims? It sounds so casual, that Yorak might easily berate the heir to the Galran throne without blinking. Shiro glances over, noting the blade at Yorak’s hip, his easy stance and sharp posture. All the merits and effects of royal tutelage and perseverance in training his body into sharp, lean lines. It is a fighter’s body.

“Please do not trouble yourself, your, uh, Yorak.” Shiro winces. Any further conflict would surely compromise any future relations Shiro needs to have with Prince Lotor, and if Iverson’s slidedecks are to be trusted, the regard Lotor has for Yorak. One of the frustrations of losing his arm has been learning how to pick his battles. A younger Shiro would have pushed himself to show Lotor exactly what humans are capable of, but now Shiro can only shake his head slightly, a small smile on his lips. The last thing he wants to do is for Yorak to suffer the hurt of misplaced anger. “I can imagine how that might hurt your relationship with him. It is not worth it, truly.”

Yorak’s head snaps up from where he’s been examining the conduit detailing. “You mean to say that you are afraid of Lotor’s disinclination towards me for me.” He sounds confused, with the way he has given his sentence careful emphasis. “Do you not wish to receive his apology? I know how harsh he can be. He is every bit a Galra.”

“That may be so,” Shiro says, and he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I do not- do not wish to provoke any trouble. This is new for all of us. You do not need to be affected by my arrival, or any consequence of my presence. It isn’t to say an apology isn’t worth what it is. It is, it’s just-” Shiro chuckles to himself, feeling some tension spill from where he’s been holding it in the stiffness of his neck and shoulders. He’s travelled thousands of kilometres to make a difference, and he can’t bring himself to think that he’s entirely hung up on court politics when he’s on a whole new world.

Meaningless politics. There had been enough of it on Earth.

It comes out in a rush. “I want to have a pleasant time here on Daibazaal. I want to learn about what it’s like here. I want to understand more, meet the people, just do the best I can.” Shiro risks a glance at Yorak, who’s staring. “If I can help it, I don’t want anyone fighting my battles for me. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

Shiro breathes deeply after his long spiel. He isn’t going to be another load to carry here, like how he was for Adam before their breakup. Not after all the therapy and the times he’s picked himself up since the accident. He used to think concerns and obligations like this could be shouldered between friends or lovers, evenly distributed between someone who loved him, and he would in turn bear any parts of them they had or wanted to share. That’s since been proven wrong. No, some things Shiro should keep to himself.

“You are no burden,” Yorak says quietly, and Shiro blinks at him in surprise. “Relying on someone, doing the right thing, sharing a difficulty – that isn’t a burden, or a trouble. It’s what should be done. I am sorry you have had to see it this way.” Yorak’s voice grows steadily louder as he speaks, his eyes flashing with conviction where they meet Shiro’s.

Shiro can only blink rapidly as the sound of his breathing fills the conduit. Then, the platform beneath their feet shifts to a halt.

“There are always good people who are willing to share the load. You need only ask.” Yorak suddenly continues, and then he is moving swiftly apart from Shiro as the lift doors slide open to a gleaming hall. “I will see you later, Shiro.”

Yorak steps out and moves into the crowd before Shiro can reply, and Shiro watches as he is swallowed by the throng.

It is a few seconds before Shiro’s brain catches up to him. He remembers to greet the Emperor, as well as the council members who deign to give him more than a glance, before taking his place at one of the many dining tables. He can’t help but scan the room until he spots Yorak taking a seat next to Lotor at the head table.

The dinner is awkward, to say the least. Scoops of steaming, brightly-coloured food are served, and Shiro swallows each pulsating globule with all the diplomatic effort he can summon. After that, on silver platters, rows of unidentifiable animal ribs. He’ll grow used to the food quickly, he knows. He just needs time.

From stilted conversations with the parties at his table, Shiro manages to glean that Prince Yorak is a cousin of Prince Lotor through Emperor Zarkon’s brother, Lord Kolivan, who married Lady Krolia, Yorak’s mother. Yorak has human blood, from his Earth father, but grew up on Daibazaal under the shelter and tutelage of the royal family. And most surprisingly, that Prince Lotor is a complete pushover for his cousin, constantly hanging off his every word and giving him everything he wants.

Something else that’s interesting, the Galra head quartermaster tells him slyly over a glass of putrid-smelling juice, is that while Prince Lotor has recently been engaged to Princess Allura from Altea, Prince Yorak remains stubbornly single.

There have been no suitors for him, no proposals, no courting though he is of age, all because of his half-human heritage. This is met with laughter and pity from the other drunken Galra at the table. Shiro winces, and wonders what they think of him now, fully human and obligingly attending a Galran dinner in his honour when he’s not even seated at the head table. Perhaps that he is a tool of Emperor Zarkon, to further Galra ambitions.

Shiro’s under no illusions about his presence here and his status. Mostly, he hopes to do his best and establish good relations with Daibazaal and Earth. While not committing any diplomatic felonies or grievances. Or offending princes with beautiful shoulders and cheekbones.

Celebrations head into full swing as attendees polish off the banquet and down more glasses of the juice – something comparable to Earth’s alcohol but many times more potent (as informed by the helpful quartermaster, who is currently snoring under their table after drinking his as well as Shiro’s glass). Shiro takes the third partygoer’s muffled snores from his face flat on the table as the direct cue to take a breather, and retreats to one of the open balconies. Everything is unfamiliar and he needs some time to exhale without feeling like he might inadvertently break.

As Shiro walks out to a glimmering sunset sky, he finds he is not alone. Yorak’s proud back is turned to him, his gloved hand propped against his cheek as he gazes towards the desert. Shiro takes a step towards him, then hesitates. The prince might wish to be alone – it is clear that he left the hall for a lack of company and not for want of more. Still, Shiro drinks in the sight of how the sunset catches and colours Yorak’s eyelashes a faded grey.

He’s about to turn and make his exit when Yorak shifts, and says in a careful voice, “Do you have this on Earth?”

“What, diplomatic dinners, or obnoxious princes?” Shiro asks, chuckling, and Yorak snorts. It’s amused, and Shiro watches as he slides a hand through his hair, turning back to the view. Feeling emboldened, Shiro makes his way to Yorak’s side and leans against the balcony railing. The wind ruffles through his hair, sweeping it over his forehead.

“I meant the yulkov. I think you call it sunset.” Yorak explains, biting down on his lower lip.

“Yeah, we do,” Shiro says. “I love sunsets. There’s a cliff near the Garrison, where I used to work. Sometimes after work, I’d ride out on a hoverbike to catch them before heading home.”

“Really?” A slight smile settles on Yorak’s lips. “You have been an officer for a long time?”

“For quite a few years I’ve been a deskbound officer, but I was a pilot before that,” Shiro recounts, and feels the usual twinge of phantom pain in his right shoulder as flashes of burning steel and blood blur in his mind.

Yorak seems to have picked up on Shiro’s hesitation, because he nods and changes the subject. “I’m sure you already know – I was on Earth for a while, but I don’t remember them. I would like to see the sunsets on Earth. They must be different.”

“Definitely, but I don’t think we can compare – you guys have three suns here.” Shiro taps on the railing softly. The orange light has cast both him and Yorak in a faint glow, and Shiro has to pull his eyes away from how it defines Yorak’s steady profile. “It’s amazing.”

There’s a pause, then Yorak glances at Shiro. “Will you miss it?”

“Miss what?” Shiro holds Yorak’s gaze steadily, and Yorak blinks twice before turning back to the desert.

“The yulkovs on your planet, on Earth.”

Shiro sighs. “I’m sure I will. Just like how I’ll miss everything back on Earth. The food, my friends, everything. But this is what I’ve always wanted to do – making first contact, being in space – this has been my dream since forever. Now that it’s come back to me, I’m not going to let it go.”

Yorak clears his throat. “I hope you will like it here, on Daibazaal. Lotor might be a huge self-entitled plynok, but what you’re doing is important. Galrans can be quite close-minded, trust me, I know-” His voice grows sharp and jagged. Shiro risks a glimpse at Yorak. He’s rigidly still, staring straight ahead. “But it’s important that we learn from other cultures and people.”

“I’m honoured to have your support, Yorak.” Shiro smiles down at the Galra prince, and finds he means every word.

“There is no need for thanks.” Yorak’s cheeks colour slightly, and then his eyes twinkle mischievously. “I really hope I’m not one of the obnoxious princes you were talking about.”

“No, definitely not,” Shiro says, gazing affectionately down at Yorak, who’s staring softly out into the horizon. He shifts slightly closer and feels the sure reply of Yorak’s side pressed up against his. “You’re nothing like them.”

==

When Shiro swings open his room door, he almost steps onto a slip of paper. Bending down, he picks it up to read, and-

Oh.

“Sorry”, the note reads simply, signed off with a royal seal and an angrily drawn “L”.

Shiro grins to himself, and shuts the door.

==

“How is it, Takashi? How are the aliens?” asks Ryu, who is currently an extremely blurry blob on Shiro’s datapad. There are multiple screams in the background of “Takashi!”, and Shiro catches sight of his grandmother waving at the camera, which he returns eagerly. Ryu laughs, holding the camera further away from himself as more of Shiro’s extended family come into view. Shiro can recognise them vaguely from their silhouettes.

“They’re called Galra, Ryu,” Shiro replies, smiling and waving as more Shirogane cousins come into view. “Hello everyone! I’m really sorry the connection is so bad.”

“And it costs so much! Even though it’s so blurry, why is it so blurry,” Ryu grouses, huffing as he tries to press some buttons out of frame. Shiro can’t help but chuckle at his discontented expression.

Post-Adam, Ryu had been one of the rocks in his life, driving him to every physical therapy session. He hadn’t asked when Shiro’d turned up at his doorstop with a duffel full of his belongings, simply opening the door and letting him in. Ryu had also been there during the fitting for the clunky prosthetic that he wears when he’s able. “Family has to stick together, you know,” Ryu had always said, every time he’d woken Shiro from a bad nightmare. “We’re all each other has in this country.”

“The communication arrays haven’t been fully set up yet,” Shiro explains patiently to a few pairs of curious eyes. “When things are fully up, it’ll cost less and the connection will be better. Unfortunately, it seems like we’re stuck with this for now. You guys don’t need to call so much, it’s okay, I’ll cover the outgoing costs on your side too.” He hopes it sounds as casual as it, but just seeing his family members again makes him feel a little less alone, and surer of himself.

 “Takashi,” Ryu says, and it’s low and warning. “We’ll call. It’s nothing. Don’t you dare send us credits for this.” His eyes, barely visible through the static on the screen, are serious. You are no burden, Keith’s voice echoes in Shiro’s head. Everyone around him who cares seems to understand that – Shiro’s just taking longer to accept it himself. “I won’t,” Shiro promises, feeling his eyes grow slightly wet. He’s missed this; this is soothing, familiar.

“Anyway, Takashi.” He hears the voice of Ryu’s younger sister, Hikari, as she makes a grab for the holopad. Shiro’s screen is filled with a heavily wing-lined eyelid. “Is anyone there hot? Are you gonna get laid? We need to know. Urgent data collection.” Hikari works in a research lab, occasionally going off-world to collect samples and for other… pursuits. She’s wickedly funny and smart and Shiro can barely keep up with her. She’s also probably the only one in the family who’s met more aliens than Shiro, which is a feat in itself, given that the Garrison has been an alien hotbed ever since Pidge’s alien communication device shuddered into success.

“Hikari, please,” Shiro groans, and it’s a sentiment shared by Shiro’s other younger cousins, who are pulling faces. “I’ve only just got here.”

“So you’re telling me there’s absolutely no one that’s caught your eye among the big and strong and extremely tall Galra?” Hikari asks, incredulous. “Do you even know what they say about their stamina?”

“I haven’t heard anything about stamina,” Shiro says carefully. “Not all of them are tall or big, though.”

He thought he’d prepped his face before speaking, but Hikari’s resounding crow of success instantly disproves that assumption.

“Aha!” Hikari yells, seizing the holopad firmly from where Ryu had been attempting to dislodge it from her long-nailed grip. “So there is someone, Takashi, I was over here thinking you were being your usual stuffy self, but we gays don’t stop, do we, nope-”

“Okay, that’s enough, sorry, we don’t have much time left on the connection,” Ryu interrupts, pulling the holopad from Hikari and holding it above her head before she can snatch it back. She prods him in the side with one finger in retaliation, but moves aside for Ryu to let Shiro wave at his grandparents and ask about their health. He waves at the other smaller Shirogane cousins and they give him small toothless grins.

Shiro ends the call and falls back onto his bed with a big smile, a warmth spreading in his chest.

==

The next morning begins with a two short knocks on Shiro’s door – the unfamiliar bed had kept him tossing and turning half the night, and he’d just been drifting off. Shiro raises his head to stare out of balcony windows that line his room and find that the three suns have just begun to show over the horizon, casting everything in a warm yellow.

Shiro yawns, sitting up in bed blankly before he hears another tentative knock.

Shit. Shiro quickly drags on a long Galra bathrobe that hits his knees which hopefully hide enough of himself to maintain his respectability, along with a pair of boxers. Who could it be at this hour, or worse, if something had happened back on Earth-

He swings the door open and his chest collides with a clenched purple fist that’s ready to knock.

“-Yorak?” Shiro says hesitantly into the dim corridor as Yorak’s eyes widen and his arm shoots back like it’s been burned. “What’s wrong?”

“Shiro- I, uh, apologies, nothing is wrong.” Yorak’s eyes dart down and back up to Shiro’s surely sleep-rumpled face. His cheeks darken slowly, the flush crawling down his neck. “I did not mean to wake you-” Yorak trails off uncertainly.

“No, no, it’s fine! Is there anything I can do for you?” Shiro hastily tightens the robe around himself, gesturing for Yorak to continue. Yorak’s wearing another black robe that reveals his pale shoulders, with delicate lace lining the low neckline that extends down his arms to his wrists. He looks incredible.

Yorak nods. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday.” A small smile raises the corners of Yorak’s lips. “About- about wishing to see and learn more about Daibazaal.”

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Shiro says, head spinning. Is Yorak saying what he thinks he is?

“Yes, well. I am free this day.” Yorak coughs into a clenched fist. “I was hoping to accompany you to see some of the sights Daibazaal has to offer. If it is agreeable to you, of course.”

Shiro’s mind goes blank. He’d originally planned for this day to be a time for him to explore the city, perhaps borrowing some maps from the palace library to figure his way. It would have been alright – Shiro is used to being alone, to doing things in isolation. Particularly after the accident, when people he loved slowly started to fade from his life for fear that they would say the wrong thing or something inappropriate, when all he wanted was for someone to stay.

But this is a different kind of offer in itself – Yorak is a prince, surely with royal duties that keep him busy, and he wants to spend the rare free time he has with Shiro.

When Shiro takes a little too long to reply, Yorak clears his throat and makes as if he is turning to leave, a purple blush spreading down his neck. “Apologies for the assumption, I did not mean to impose-”

“No, please,” Shiro catches Yorak’s wrist and when Yorak halts in his steps, turning to stare down at their linked hands. Shiro drops it like it burns, in case touching isn’t a Galra thing too. “I’m awful in the mornings, please wait.” Shiro’s voice cracks a little.

Yorak blinks twice, and raises his head to meet Shiro’s gaze with something unreadable in his own.

“I am honoured to have the privilege of your company today, Yorak.” Shiro gives Yorak a small bow, and catches how Yorak’s eyes gentle. “It isn’t an imposition. If it were, it would only be a welcome one.”

“Excellent,” Yorak says, and clears his throat again. “I will wait here for you then.”

“Yeah, it is,” Shiro says, content to lean against the doorframe and grin down at Yorak, before noticing Yorak’s raised eyebrow. “Oh yes, clothes, got it, clothes, I’ll be right back!”

Shiro darts back into the room, and allows himself three seconds to sag back happily on the shut door before he reaches for a dress shirt and tailored pants.

==

Yorak doesn’t take Shiro to any fancy restaurants with an armed escort or a chauffeured hovercar. Shiro finds himself pulling on a spare robe that Yorak hands him, and they both raise their hoods so they are indeterminable from the few trickling out onto the streets and alleys beyond the palace walls.

Daibazaal’s capital city is already hard at work, and Shiro finds himself having to squeeze through the growing crowds when they reach the city centre. Yorak passes through easily, almost dantily stepping past the throngs. Just as Shiro has resigned himself to waiting behind a blockade of people at the entrance to a market, he feels a gentle tug on his sleeve.

Yorak is already turning to lead him down a darkened backstreet, lit only by a few lamps and light from open windows. Shiro faithfully tails him, and when Yorak’s hand slides down to encircle his wrist, he follows. They emerge at what Shiro assumes to be a far corner of the central market, with coloured ribbons and streamers hanging between buildings to drape over endless rows of stalls.

Warm and delicious aromas waft every which way from the row of stalls, and Yorak pulls Shiro over to examine each one’s new and unique offerings for breakfast. The storeowners seem familiar with Yorak, grinning down at him and giving him extra, pulling hot food off the stove just for him.

“Shiro,” Yorak says, pausing when they pass a stall with tarts with fruits that look like blue strawberries and Shiro hesitates. He nods towards the spread of food. “Choose.”

“Me?” Shiro asks, then shakes his head. Yorak’s going to pay for everything in the market at this rate. “Yorak, it’s okay, what you want-”

“What you want is important too,” Yorak replies immediately, and lays a gentle hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “Choose, please.” Shiro takes a hitched breath at the sincerity in Yorak’s eyes, the small curved smile dancing on his lips, and can only nod and stammer out that the small purple gloopy-looking tart looks good. Yorak buys all thirty of them. Between them, they have 6 precariously stacked boxes each.

As Yorak leads Shiro further down the row, Shiro realises belatedly that despite the swaying parcels, Yorak hasn’t let go of his hand once.

They reach the end of the stalls where the market fades into homes with slanting, fractured roofs, and then homes where the walls aren’t so much walls as they are cracked mud. Shiro looks around curiously – this is so far from the grandeur of the palace, and yet Yorak forges ahead assuredly, unconcerned about the splatters of dirt collecting on his robes and boots. Shiro holds tight to his hand, the other cradling the boxes of food.

Shiro slows to stop next to Yorak as Yorak pauses before a dilapidated house. The door creaks open and shut with the wind, stained with water damage, but beyond it Shiro can hear sounds of running footsteps and – children’s voices? His face must be doing something odd, because Yorak turns to him, and his expression grows a little strained.

“You must wonder why we’re here,” Yorak offers, voice soft. Shiro looks down and sees Yorak’s face harden into something stubborn and immovable. He’s beautiful, cloak streaked with dust and as he lets go of Shiro’s hand to lower his hood, his dark hair pulls past his shoulders to curl down his back. The circlet on his forehead glimmers in the daylight. “What you said before – about, about wanting to make a difference – did you mean that?”

Shiro swallows at the sudden dryness in his throat, resisting a sudden urge to – what? To brush Yorak’s hair behind an ear? To smooth the soot from Yorak’s cheek? Yorak’s gaze is piercing, watching him for any sign of hesitation, of disinclination. Shiro gives him none, straightening as he says, “I did.”

A corner of Yorak’s mouth lifts into a shaky smile, and somehow Shiro feels like he’s passed a sort of test. “Alright, Shiro.” Then, he calls out, almost cheekily, “Hello, anyone there?”

There’s a pause, then hollering and screams as the door swings open and about eight small children, toddlers even, dash out of the house and gather around Yorak, pulling at his robes and legs. Two of them even attempt to clamber up and wrap around his waist, looking smug on their narrow perch. They’re all small Galra, but some, curiously, have wildly variating features. Where you’d expect furry Galra ears, there are small antennae, or tentacles instead of claws, and even scales instead of hair. One has eyes that are completely black, instead of the usual yellow.

“Ah, children, please,” Yorak gives a feeble attempt at protesting, but his free arm wraps around the smallest child at his feet to balance them on his hip. He grins, throwing his head back as he allows the child in his arms to burrow into his chest and nuzzle into his robes. Shiro looks on fondly as the child lets out a little burp, and coughs up what Shiro presumes is milk onto Yorak’s chest – and Yorak doesn’t yell, get angry, or shy away, but draws a soft cloth from a pocket and gently dabs at the child’s chin. The child happily burbles up at Yorak and is met with a forehead kiss from him. Yorak’s still grasping on to the boxes of food, Shiro realises, as he watches Yorak shuffle to avoid dropping anything on the children clinging to his feet.

“Yorak, here, let me take those,” Shiro moves to take the boxes from Yorak and is at once faced by eight pairs of inquisitive and suspicious eyes. The children on the ground quickly shuffle behind Yorak’s billowing skirt, grasping at the heavy fabric as if to shield themselves from the unfamiliar, towering figure at their door.

“Oh, sorry!” Shiro quickly shakes the hood he’s wearing off, and lets it rest on his shoulders. “I don’t mean any harm.” He rests the parcels on the floor and squats, lowering his knees to the floor. Shiro doesn’t know how to fold his arms, how to present himself as anything other than the tall, imposing officer he’d trained to be. He thinks back to the distant cousins back on Earth and how he’d held them close, played with them, and opens his arms wide with a smile. “I promise I’m a friendly older brother!”

The child with the antennae pokes out from behind Yorak’s skirt, and inches towards Shiro. They’re the tallest, and Shiro supposes they’re the leader of the little motley crew crawling up and balancing on Yorak’s shoulders. After they look him up and down for a pensive minute, they nod solemnly towards the rest of the children, and say in a tinny, high voice, “He came with Mister Yorak, so he should be fine.”

This is the green light for the other children to slowly make their way to Shiro and gently prod at him while asking a multitude of questions that he tries to answer as best as he can.

“Why is your hand not purple?” A toddler with gills wraps around his arm and smiles a toothy grin up at him. “Feels funny!”

“Well,” Shiro begins. “I’m not Galra, I’m from Earth.” Shiro continues hastily, seeing the kid’s mouth open again. “It’s another planet.”

The kids start yelling over each other to be heard, and Shiro looks up almost helplessly at Yorak, who chuckles at how thoroughly out-of-depth Shiro must look. Shiro watches as he cradles the toddler tenderly, swaying from side to side, and feels his heart clench hard in his chest.

“Mister! Mister, why are your cheeks so red? Your ears too!” A cry breaks Shiro out of his stupor and he slaps his hands over his ears as he rises, face flaming.

“Now, children,” Yorak says, and the children obediently file over to listen to him. “Don’t tease Mister Shiro like that. He’s come to bring you all some delicious breakfast!”

The children scream excitedly even as Shiro tries to protest – it wasn’t his money, Yorak had brought it – but the look in Yorak’s eyes is enough to stop the words in his throat. It’s happy, and free, and so different from the serious, stiff gaze from back in the palace.

“Yorak, I-” Shiro begins helplessly, and is interrupted by the door swinging open. A tall Galra stands in the doorway, wearing an apron and holding a broom. He’s broad, and his muscular biceps flex as he crosses his arms over his chest. A long braid rests on one shoulder.

“Yorak, you’re here. I was wondering what all the noise was about.” His voice is low, indulgent, and Shiro doesn’t miss the way Yorak’s eyes shine as he meets the other Galra with a tight hug. Yorak pulls away, but not without keeping his hold on the Galra’s arm.

“Shiro,” Yorak smiles up at the Galra, and then back at Shiro. “Meet Regris. He takes care of all the children here at the orphanage.”

Thankfully, Shiro’s brain kicks back in before his heart. “I am honoured,” Shiro says, stiffly, with a quick bow and salute, but Yorak and Regris are already turning back into the house, followed by the rest of the children except for the one clinging to his arm.

Shiro sighs and bends to pick up all the boxes. The little kid hanging on to his arm gives him a deliberate look. “Don’t worry,” they say confidently. “Mister Yorak likes you!”

Shiro can’t help but smile at their earnestness as they enter the house. “I hope so, kiddo.”

==

In some ways, perhaps Shiro was being complacent when he’d assumed that this outing, this day, was something special that Yorak hadn’t shared with anyone else before. He’d just presumed, from the rumours, from the gossip at the dinner, that Yorak was possibly showing him a sort of affection he didn’t have with anyone else, and Shiro wants to knock his head against the wall for his own arrogance.

Obviously, the royal court hadn’t been truly looking, hadn’t known where to pay attention. Yorak is kind, beautiful, and generous to a fault. Shiro is foolish for thinking he’d had a prince’s attention within two days of arriving at Daibazaal. Yorak has his own life, his own people here, and he’s just being considerate to Shiro, helping him settle in. Somehow that thought makes his chest ache.

Shiro’s busy helping Awrei – the little kid still clinging to his arm – colour a picture of a fish. Yorak and Regris have been leaning against the counter, facing away from the children who are busy wolfing down their breakfast treats, and speaking in low, hushed tones. Shiro colours in the fish’s gills a deep purple (“Like me!” Awrei had exclaimed in an awed voice, and Shiro had held their hand as they’d stared down at the picture) and determinedly does not pay attention to where Yorak’s laughing, holding on to Regris’s hand for support.

Which is probably why he almost falls off his chair when a hand touches his shoulder.

“Oh, Shiro, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Yorak steadies him carefully, and Shiro quickly pulls his arm away before Regris turns around too. What is Yorak thinking? He knows how territorial and possessive Galra can get over their mates. Yorak stares down at his hand, then back at Shiro.

“No, no interruption, none at all!” Shiro asserts hastily, and Yorak nods at him slowly, backing away slightly as if there’s something he doesn’t understand. Shiro isn’t sure why Yorak’s looking at him like that, like he’s hurt-

“Mister Yorak, look at what Mister Shiro helped me do!” Awrei lifts up the picture and pushes it into Yorak’s hands, who gracefully accepts it and studies it for a moment.

“It’s really good, Awrei,” Yorak says, then, a little more hesitantly to Shiro, “thank you for helping Awrei, Shiro.” He slides the picture back to Awrei, who grasps it enthusiastically and toddles over to show it to the other children. “Ah, it was no problem,” Shiro offers a weak smile down at his hands, clasped in his lap, not daring to meet Yorak’s eyes. Next to him, he can almost feel Yorak bristle.

Soon, all of the children scramble over for their own colouring sheets, and Shiro distributes them. A slight reprieve from the chaos of having a small house full of children, but Shiro enjoys the way they concentrate so hard colouring within the lines that their little brows furrow. He bends down to help a small kid hold a crayon and sees Yorak doing the same next to him, guiding a child’s hand. Some time passes, and when the children are about halfway through their colouring, Yorak clears his throat softly behind Shiro.

“A word, Shiro?” Yorak pauses to see if Shiro will follow him out to the garden, and Shiro realises he doesn’t have to. He’s a prince, and no one would dare disobey such a direct order, but Yorak is different. He’s completely royalty in some ways and a total contradiction in others.

Shiro follows behind him and slides the backdoor closed. From here, they have a view of the children sitting at the large low table on the floor and the view of the small rows of plants neatly embedded in the soil. Shiro spots little signs stuck in the ground next to the plant lots and realises that each child has their own little spot to nurture and grow.

For a minute, Yorak doesn’t speak, simply tipping his head back to feel the suns’ rays on his face. Standing in the glow of the light spilling past the surrounding trees, in his muddy skirts and paint-covered hands, he looks regal, and entirely ethereal.

“Awrei’s the best,” Shiro offers, in the silence between them, and Yorak lowers his head, breathing in before he turns back to Shiro with questioning eyes and a small smile.

“That they are. All of them are, you know.”

“I do,” Shiro says, holding his hand behind his back in case they do something completely obvious like shake, and takes a step to stand next to Yorak. “Are they all also…”

“All a mix of Galra and other alien races?” Yorak finishes, and the look in his eyes is starkly proud. “Yes, all of them. Either abandoned or disowned by Galra families, thrown out because of them being a disgrace to Galran heritage. Just like me.”

Shiro doesn’t know what else to say in this precious moment, offered to him in gentle, cupped hands. Something diplomatically correct? He simply blurts the first thing he thinks of.

“I think they’re all beautiful. They deserve everything.” And Shiro means it. He thinks of each small child separated from people who should love them and not knowing why. “Thank you for bringing me here, Yorak. It means a lot to me.”

Yorak inclines his head, a smile dancing on his lips. “We can come back. I make it a point to visit as much as my duties allow, but you know the way here – you can help out if you want.” He spreads out his hands and surveys the garden. “This is our latest project. It’s not much, but we’re hoping that it gives the children something to do, builds some responsibility.”

“The oldest should be going to school soon, right?” Shiro asks. He isn’t sure, but the oldest of all the children looks about the age to sit in a classroom and learn.

“Should, but is unable to.” Yorak says, voice clipped and irritable. “Nusi would be bullied, spat on. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Is there anything you can do as,” Shiro gestures at Yorak, at his circlet and the quintessence-inlaid bracelet he’s wearing. “As someone from the royal family?”

Yorak lets out a harsh laugh. “Shiro, I’m only where I am today because of the Emperor’s respect for my mother and his tolerance for her-” Yorak chuckles, but it is razor sharp. “Her mistake. I am lucky Lotor favours me, but that is as far as my influence goes. No Galra likes seeing a weak halfbreed even near the throne. I’ve spoken to Lotor, but as long as his father is still ruling, there is not much I can do. And there are so many more children, I’m sure of it, but they haven’t found us yet, or they’re still unsafe, and I’m just- I can’t-”

The frustration in his voice makes Shiro’s chest hurt, and he lays a steady hand on Yorak’s shoulder. This whole time, Yorak has been fighting by himself, despite how precarious his own situation is; that of a simple buoy ravaged by harsh seas.  Shiro wants to be there for him, holding on to his hand – a steady weight, an anchor, anything.

“Yorak, listen to me,” Shiro says helplessly as he watches Yorak furiously scrub at his face. “I promise I’ll do anything I can, I’ll discuss this issue with the Garrison, let them know about it and maybe we can find a way to highlight it in further Earth-Daibazaal discussions.”

Yorak turns to him, mouth slightly ajar. He looks stunning. “I- I- mean,” the words trip over Shiro’s tongue, “I know it won’t overturn a whole systemic issue in a day, but hopefully it’ll change something-”

Shiro stumbles backwards with the force of Yorak’s embrace. His hands inevitably lift to clutch at Yorak’s back, the strength in the lines of his bare shoulders. Trapped between Shiro’s fingers, Yorak’s long hair is soft and smooth.

“That means so much to me, Shiro,” Yorak says into the fabric on Shiro’s chest, and his eyes are shining from where he’s tilting his head back to gaze up at Shiro. “Thank you.”

Shiro bravely resists meeting Yorak’s eyes for longer than societally appropriate. Somewhere in his mind, alarms are blaring. A Galra prince is in his arms, and Shiro doesn’t know what to do, how to handle the growing heat trapped between their bodies-

“Yorak, I-”

The door back into the house slides open abruptly, and Shiro immediately shies away from Yorak. He catches a faint glimpse of a wounded glance Yorak throws him, but then Regris is standing tall in the doorframe, and Shiro can’t bring it within himself to feel anything other than relief. He’s pretty sure he’s just protected both himself and Yorak from further incident. Yorak wouldn’t be harmed by any conclusions Regris would have drawn from their embrace, and Shiro’s just a simple diplomat who shouldn’t be touching any princes so intimately. Particularly if they have protective, jealous mates.

Regris thanks them for the short rest they’ve brought him by taking care of the children. Shiro and Yorak deal out hugs and promises to return to eight bawling and screaming children, finding themselves out on the road just as Daibazaal’s suns begins to set.

Awrei waves goodbye to Shiro from the window with a small hand, which he returns, smiling so hard his face hurts. Shiro turns away for the hard embrace Regris gives to Yorak, looking back to the latter as he hears the door to the orphanage shut. They pull on their robes and turn up their hoods.

“Are we heading back now?” Shiro asks, and Yorak pauses.

“Do you wish to retire?” Yorak faces Shiro, head tilted, questioning. “We… could return to the palace.”

The hair that’s loose from the circlet he’s wearing frames his face, making him look, for an instant, like a tired ruler. Earlier that afternoon, Shiro had watched as inquisitive children tugged on Yorak’s hair, poked his cheeks, as he had sunk to his knees on the dusty floor and allowed them to scramble into his lap. Shiro wants to cradle his face in his hands and take away any of the sorrow, the weariness at their situation. His eyes are neutral, but his expression – Yorak doesn’t want to return, not just yet.

“Only if you do,” Shiro says, leaving it open for Yorak to refuse. Shiro’s been following orders all his life, letting others lead, taking their cues. Yorak’s been the only one to present choices to Shiro – yes, no, maybe – and patiently see if it’s what Shiro wants for himself. Perhaps it is because Yorak has had his choices made for him since he was born – where he lives, what kind of Galra he should be, what others think of them – that he doesn’t, he can’t hold others to that kind of ruthless constraint and immurement.

Shiro wants to give it all back to Yorak, gathering the chances and possibilities they can take together and push it towards Yorak, overflowing from his palms.

Yorak’s eyes meet his again, a meaningful look that lasts for a few seconds, then they flutter shut, his eyelashes like crescents of black against his cheek. He smiles a little, and it is sly and clever and beautiful.

“Then we’ve just started, Shiro.” He takes Shiro’s hand slowly, enough for Shiro to pull away if he wants – and Shiro knows he should, given what he’s seen with Regris but he allows himself this indulgence, the slide of a rough but gentle palm against his. Yorak starts to lead him down another dimly lit road, and all Shiro can do is clutch his hand tightly and follow.

==

 “Where are we going, my prince?” Shiro can’t help how it falls from his lips, decidedly spirited. “Where is my lord taking me?”

Yorak gives his hand a small squeeze in soft rebuke, and Shiro can see from the slight turn of his head that his smile is stretched wide on his face. He continues unwaveringly ahead. “You will see soon enough, Shiro.”

Whatever Shiro was expecting, it wasn’t this.

Yorak’s leading him down a backroad behind the market, and further still to the border between the inner-city houses and where the dust of the Daibazaal desert gives way to sparse greenery, and carefully cultivated nature.

The field they stop in front of is wide and open, filled with grazing animals that Shiro assumes are what Galra raise as cattle. There are large cow-like, plodding animals, and then there are sizeable fowl, something that looks like a cross between a chicken and a peacock, and equally as large. Yorak scans the field openly, then his eyes gleam as they alight upon the chicken-peacock hybrid.

Shiro watches, dumbstruck, as Yorak releases his grip on Shiro’s hand, and breaks off at a sprint while undoing the clasp of the robe at his neck so that it flutters to the ground behind him. What follows next is so surreal that Shiro’s breath seizes, arrested in his chest as he watches Yorak attempt to catch a bird with an extremely long neck, razor sharp teeth, and no qualms about sinking them into Yorak’s lace-covered arms. It does so once, prompting a cry from Yorak, but he persists in running after it, hair streaming past his shoulders.

Shiro moves to help, worry splashing a cold bucket of water over him, but Yorak waves at him as if to say stop, Shiro, I’ve got this! And so Shiro watches Yorak wrestle with the bird for the better part of half a varga, hand twitching at his side, before Yorak gives a growl of frustration, drawing his sword from the sheath at its waist and slicing the fowl’s head off.

The cut is amazingly clean, and Yorak hoists what’s left of the bird up into his arms, wincing from where it weighs down on his injured bicep. Shiro watches wordlessly as Yorak approaches him with a tentative smile, and holds out the bird. Blood is starting to well, staining and muddying the black lace where the bird sank its long teeth into the curve of his shoulder. His hair is fully in disarray now, the circlet on his forehead doing little to push it back.

“This is for you.” Yorak’s smile is deafening, his eyes crinkling. He looks proud, for some undiscernible reason, and Shiro can’t help the fond clutch of gently pulsing want in his chest.

Shiro takes the bird offered, holding its body in his hand, then sets it down on the grass.

Yorak makes an injured noise, staring at where the bird lies on the ground and whirling on Shiro like he doesn’t understand what Shiro’s just done. His eyes grow glassy quickly, and he moves to push at Shiro’s chest as Shiro steps closer. “Shiro, what- I thought-” Yorak is struggling to push out the words, but he moves like Shiro’s injured him instead of the bird, twisting out of his hands like fluid water.

Shiro pauses in where he’s standing, close to Yorak, arm outstretched for Yorak’s injured arm. There seems to be somewhere where he’s misstepped, misunderstood something for all the hurt that’s in Yorak’s eyes, and somewhere underneath that, confusion and upset. “Your arm,” is what he settles on, searching Yorak’s face for any explanation for what he’s so upset about.

“My what?” Yorak says, and he’s still looking at the bird on the grass. His face is resolutely turned away from Shiro’s, such a clear juxtaposition from his previous open smile that Shiro almost takes a step back to give him space, but he can’t. He can’t let Yorak think-

“Your arm,” Shiro repeats, insistent. The blood is caking on his sleeve, dripping down and off his elbow. Yorak frowns even more, but stiffens when Shiro traces his jaw where small drops of the bird’s blood mark his jaw. “Will you allow me to touch it?” Shiro draws a scrap of cloth from his pocket, a quick bandage he’s taken to carrying around after his accident.

Yorak huffs, but moves closer to Shiro, and obligingly holds on to an end of the bandage. Shiro wraps it tight round the wound, murmuring soft sympathetic sounds when Yorak bristles at the touch of the fabric on sliced open fur.

Finally, Yorak turns his gaze to Shiro, and he studies Shiro for a while before shaking his head and drawing his robe around himself again. “Let’s go back?” Shiro slowly picks up the bird, and ardently misses the feeling of Yorak’s hand in his much larger one.

“Yorak, thank you for the lovely gift,” Shiro says quietly, as they walk back towards the palace.

“No thanks are needed,” Yorak replies, and Shiro pretends to miss the way he draws in a deep breath. “It is my mistake, for presuming.”

Shiro isn’t one to shy away from possible conflict, especially when Yorak’s grown so cold. “What is the bird for? Is it for a meal, or-”

“Let’s just go with that,” Yorak says, his smile more like a grimace on his face.

They drop by the kitchens for Shiro to hand the bird to the staff, and Shiro finds himself back in front of his door, with Yorak moving his weight from foot to foot. Shiro doesn’t understand the hesitation in his eyes and misses the freedom on his face, particularly the freedom he’d had when he was speaking with Shiro.

“Goodnight,” Shiro offers, and catches his hand in Shiro’s own. Slowly, surely, leaving any space for Yorak to pull away, Shiro presses a soft kiss into those bruised knuckles without breaking their locked gazes. Whatever Regris is to Yorak, Shiro will take this so long as Yorak keeps looking at him like he wants it, and Shiro isn’t ruining a bond. Yorak blinks twice at him, then smiles, something small and incandescent hovering between them.

“Goodnight, my qurlik,” Yorak says, then freezes as if he hadn’t expected the words to spill out. Shiro tilts his head at that, he has no idea what it means, but by the way Yorak flounders and bows a few more times to him before disappearing down the corridor, Shiro thinks he can guess.

==

It means fellow warrior, from what Shiro can surmise from the quiet, halting explanations of a passing servant that he catches outside his door the next morning. Which is a nice sentiment, except it isn’t exactly what Shiro was hoping to hear. Still, it makes Shiro happy to know that Yorak views him in such esteem, and that they are becoming fast friends. Particularly because Shiro hasn’t exactly been viewed as the peak of physicality since he lost his arm.

He’s completing his usual morning routine with some push-ups when soft knocks sound on his door. Shiro recognises the pattern from before, and hurriedly pulls the door open to meet Yorak’s expectant gaze.

“Ah,” Yorak breathes out, and his eyes are shining. “Good morning, Shiro.” He’s no longer wearing an off-shoulder outfit; his shoulders now covered in heavy lace that stretches to his neck. He’s wearing new sweeping skirts, in ruby and gold streaks.

Shiro obligingly moves aside to let Yorak in, and Yorak moves directly to sit on Shiro’s bed. And, nope. Shiro absolutely does not think about how big the bed is compared to Yorak, how slight he is against the bedspread.

Shiro’s sweaty and dishevelled, but Yorak’s still smiling up at him like he doesn’t mind. “Good morning, Yorak.” It’s only then that Shiro notices that Yorak’s hair is neatly braided. Unlike the usual untamed flow that Yorak keeps down his back, his circlet is threaded in an elaborate up-do in gathered, intricately interwoven sections. There are silver chains with twisting shards of glistening quintessence, tempered and carved into flowers that hang intertwined in his hair. “Wow, you look- amazing- really, Yorak, this is beautiful.”

Yorak starts smiling at those words, and Shiro realises that Yorak had been waiting for his reaction, waiting for him to notice, his wringing hands stilling where they link in his lap. His purple ears perk up from where they’d been lying flat against his head. Shiro trails off slowly.

Yorak gives him a searching, expectant look. “Is there anything else you would like to say?”

Shiro’s confused, again. “About what?”

“About,” Yorak gestures frustratedly at the headpiece he has balancing in his hair. “About this?”

Um. Shiro stares at the glistening headpiece for a few more seconds. “Uh, it is very shiny, and very pretty, and- um-” Shiro stops again at the confused face Yorak is making. That makes both of them. Shiro feels like there’s a lot of things he isn’t getting. The briefings had never mentioned anything about frightening birds or ornamental hairpieces at all. Or princes with delicate, reddened lips.

“Would – would you like me to do your hair?” Yorak asks, biting at his lower lip, and the look he gives Shiro is equal parts hesitant and eager.

“Uh,” Shiro comes to sit next to Yorak. He’s dripping sweat terribly, and his hair isn’t long enough to do anything interesting with, not like the amazing braids all the Galra take pride in sporting. “It’s okay, but thank you, Yorak. I’d much rather admire yours.”

The moment the words leaves Shiro’s mouth, Yorak’s face grows pinched and his eyes shutter. “You would not like me to do your hair,” Yorak says dully. “Now or ever?”

Shit. “Uh, well, it is only because your hair is so lovely, Yorak, I am not sure if-” Shiro continues, and it sounds a little weak, but when something like cautious hope flickers in Yorak’s expression, Shiro decides then, to heck with it. “I would love anything you want to do with my hair.”

Yorak beams up at him, and Shiro feels like he’s staring back at the sun. His long eyelashes graze his cheek when he leans forward. “Uh,” Shiro manages to make out, the intelligent and eloquent diplomat that he is.

“Turn your head, please,” Yorak says, and Shiro obliges. Yorak could tell him to cartwheel down the hallways and he would do it, if would make him look as effervescently delighted as he does now. Yorak reaches into a small pouch he’s carrying and draws out two pins with an interlinking chain of black crystals. “Does this please you, Shiro?”

Shiro quickly nods, mouth dry, and Yorak sweeps his forelock back, threading his fingers through and patting it so it lays slightly flatter against the top of his head. Then, gently, he slides the pins in on either side of his forelock to pin it back. Yorak pulls out a handheld mirror and pushes it into Shiro’s hands.

Shiro stares back at himself and turns his head to see the crystals sparkling against the white of his hair. “Do you like it?” Yorak asks, careful where he presses against Shiro, hands fretting at the pins.

“I do, really, it’s beautiful.” Shiro turns his head again to watch the crystals shine against his hair.

“Wonderful.” Yorak claps his hands together happily, breathing out a relieved sigh. “When I was crafting them last night, I was certain that black would be your colour.”

Wait. “You made this?” Shiro gently presses his fingers into the crystals, where they sit carefully inlaid into the chain.

Yorak gives him a funny look. “Of course, I did, I shaped it with my own hands – you didn’t think someone else made this, did you? I would not insult you in that manner.”

“No, certainly, Yorak, this is incredible,” Shiro says, and he can’t help the entirely unprofessional grin that spreads across his face. “You are such a great friend.”

“Friend,” Yorak repeats, thoughtful. His brows scrunch together. “Yes, we are friends.” There’s something unreadable in his gaze again and Shiro rests his hand gently over Yorak’s.

“So, when do I get to take this off?” Shiro asks, and Yorak blinks at him. “When I bathe later, or-”

Yorak clears his throat abruptly, sliding his hand out from under Shiro’s.

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks helplessly, as Yorak rises to his feet, smoothing out his skirts. His gaze slides over Shiro’s face, and Shiro’s stomach drops. Again, he looks every bit like a cold, removed prince. The circlet gleams starkly against his forehead, a sharp reminder of who Yorak is, and the distance between them feels like a valley.

“I should be going,” Yorak says, and it is soft and unfeeling, a bleak contortion of the warmth he usually shares with Shiro. Shiro hates it. “I have to meet with a few council members.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Shiro asks, feeling like something is slipping through his fingers. He can spend today going over Garrison communications and sending back what he’s found out about the orphanage, but he can’t imagine losing Yorak’s presence in his life here. Not to something stilted and unnamed between them like this, not like this.

 “I will try.” His words are clipped. Shiro sees him to the door, watching his stiff back disappear down the corridor.

It is a particularly cold day after that. Shiro doesn’t understand why, considering Daibazaal is all scorching desert.

==

The odd behaviour that Yorak exhibits doesn’t go away at all. In fact, it intensifies in the strangest way.

Shiro returns one day to his room after a conference call with Daibazaal and Earth representatives to Yorak passing him a stack of sheathed blades. He pushes them into Shiro’s hands without any explanation, just flushed cheeks and darting eyes. His eyes lock on Shiro’s unadorned hair, then his mouth twists as if he’s disappointed. Shiro can only accept them all gratefully and mount them in the empty display cabinet in his room.

The next day, and the day after, buckets of daggers, sabers, and even fencing blades are left at his door, and Shiro can only take them in, bewildered. This continues for the week, and one morning, when Shiro’s left staring up at the ceiling, buckets of swords of every kind surrounding his bed, Shiro resolves to talk to Yorak, properly.

It’s convenient then, that the prince in question is nowhere to be found. Shiro can find neither hair nor hide of the man, and even when he knocks on Keith’s door, he is met with silence.

Great.

==

It so happens the opportunity to clarify presents itself when Shiro revisits the orphanage, this time laden with snacks from Earth for the children and a bucket of the mysterious blades.

Regris opens the door and lets out a low whistle at the bucket in Shiro’s hand. Maybe it’s a bad idea to go asking the likely mate of the prince in question exactly what said prince is trying to do, but Shiro’s desperate at this point. Hikari doesn’t have any answers for him either, and he’s been declined entry to the palace library so many times a guard has been stationed outside specially for him.

“Please,” Shiro can only say. “I need an explanation.”

As it turns out, Shiro is very wrong. About everything.

==

If he can’t find Yorak on his own, Shiro has an inkling of who might be able to help him. Unfortunately, he isn’t particularly fond of Shiro either.

“What do you want,” Lotor practically spits at him, as Shiro lowers his hand from where he’d been knocking on Lotor’s ostentatious, quintessence-covered door. “The very gall of you to come here, Diplomat Shirogane.”

Shiro swallows, but he isn’t going to back down. Not if what Regris had told him had been true.

“Apologies,” Shiro says, sliding his foot between the door and the door frame, and sees the seething anger flare in Lotor’s eyes at his insurrection. “This is very important, your Highness, would you happen to know where I can find Yo- Prince Yorak? He is not answering at his door.”

“Why should I know where he is?” Lotor scoffs at him, rolling his eyes. “What is it to you anyway, Diplomat Shirogane, given the way you’ve treated him.”

“The way I’ve-” Shiro repeats, head spinning. “I didn’t know, please, Prince Lotor.”

“You think I care about your begging?” Lotor says mockingly, cruelty etched into his snarl, but Shiro can recognise a protective older sibling when he sees one. It was Ryu, when he’d answered the door to an apologetic Adam, then told him to leave before Shiro came around the corner. Shiro appreciates the intention, but upon reflection, he’d realised he could’ve had that chance to say his final goodbyes and find closure, instead of it hanging over him like a dark cloud for months.

“No,” Shiro says slowly, placatingly. “But I think you care about Yorak being able to make choices for himself. Especially since he hasn’t had the chance to do so for a long time.”

Lotor stills, blinking down at him. Then, he scowls. “You do not deserve him.”

“Maybe not,” Shiro says. “But I care about him, and I want to make this right. Please, your Highness.”

Lotor rolls his eyes as he sighs, but the pressure against the door opening abates slowly. “You may enter. Watch yourself, Diplomat Shirogane. If he does not wish to see you, you will leave immediately.”

“Yes, I understand,” Shiro promises, and steps past Lotor into an opulent living room. A few doors lead off from the main living space, likely leading to a variety of other suites for Lotor’s use. The roaring fire in the hearth blankets Shiro in unnecessary warmth. His already clammy hands don’t hold up to more moisture, and Lotor gives him a frown of distaste as he wipes his hands against his shirt.

“Yorak,” Lotor calls out. “Please come here.”

A beat, then one of the doors is swinging open, and Yorak steps out from behind it. He’s wearing something black and loose and lacy, his long hair bundled on top of his head. He looks perfect.

“Who was at the door-” Yorak freezes as he meets Shiro’s gaze, and his arm jerks as if he is going to swing the door back open and disappear behind it.

“Wait- Yorak, please,” Shiro takes a step forward, and stops when Lotor growls at him. “Let me explain.”

Yorak swallows, eyes fluttering open and closed. He looks away, towards the flames licking in the fireplace. He looks tired. “I don’t know what else there is for you to say, Shiro.”

“Please, hear me out,” Shiro protests. He can see Lotor advancing on him from the corner of his eye. “Yorak, I know – I knew – nothing about Galra courting or mating traditions.”

 That has both Yorak and Lotor stiffening.

“You’re a diplomat,” Lotor says, suspicion colouring his voice. “You cannot claim to be so clueless.”

“There are no works, papers, or oral accounts available to us on Earth about Galra courting and mating habits,” Shiro continues, staring beseechingly at Yorak, willing him to understand. Yorak’s gaze is still downcast, and he looks miserable. “I would know, I have studied every one of the resources available.”

“I did not know what a plinek was before this,” Shiro says, taking a step forward when he is certain Lotor is not going to disembowel him. In front of Shiro, Yorak now blinks up at him, looking uncertain and terrified in equal measure. That will not do. He reaches for Yorak’s hand, and Yorak tentatively slides his small hand into Shiro’s. Through everything, Yorak has always been the brave one, to take, to share, and to have faith in him. Shiro wants to, needs to let him understand.

“I did not know of the old warrior tale, of Ashmi and his devotion to his lover Guntyak, that he slew the rare and ferocious plinek for him, and that Guntyak treasured his gift of plinek so much that he never let the plinek touch the ground until it was being prepared to be consumed. I did not know that letting the plinek touch dirt meant a rejection or scorn of a lover.” Shiro lifts Yorak’s hand to his lips in a faint echo of before, and watches as Yorak’s hand trembles beneath his mouth when he presses a gentle, open kiss to it. Behind him, Lotor groans and mutters something about leaving. The door clicks shut faintly behind him, but Shiro continues doggedly, the obstinate shift in Yorak’s eyes spurring him on.

“I did not know that Galra wore their hair down till they wished to court someone, and then put it up. I did not know that Galra put on their best jewellery for the one they courted, as a reminder to the courted that they were precious and should be protected, that they should be fought for. I also-” Shiro smiles down helplessly at the choked intake of breath from Yorak as Shiro gently slides the fingers of his other hand along the braids in Yorak’s hair. “-did not know that the more intricate the hairstyle, the greater the depth of feeling. And that the jewels are all handmade to show devotion. The most unforgiveable of all is that I did not know that the jewels once bestowed, can only be taken off if one does not feel as strongly as the other.”

Yorak’s mouth falls open as Shiro pulls his fingers through a section of hair left to fall over his shoulder and kisses the strands reverently. Surely Yorak understands, Shiro would not have so brazenly, so unkindly rejected him. Shiro would not have opened his door to him and promised everything, and then let him go.

“I did not know the blades meant that you were willing to meet as equals, as warriors with one heart and one mind. That being your qurlik meant you felt your soul clash with mine, and that you wish for them to stay intertwined.”

Shiro pulls Yorak into his chest, feeling Yorak tense, and then relax in his arms. He smells like fresh dessert flowers, with an underlying heat of spice and smoke. Shiro kisses the top of his head, his forehead, and his ear, before whispering, “I would never have laid the plinek in the dirt, and if I could do it all over again, I would never have wanted to take the pins off. I am sorry, my qurlik, please do not hurt.”

Shiro stills as Yorak shakes in his arms, burrowing his face into Shiro’s shirt, and he feels wetness grow on his chest. “Oh, my love, do not cry.” Shiro holds him tighter, and Yorak’s arms hesitantly slide around his neck. He looks up, and Shiro’s feels winded.

Yorak’s eyes are watery, shining, and his cheeks are flushed crimson. There’s a faint sheen of sweat over his collarbones that Shiro suddenly wants to taste. The impulse is so strong that he has to force himself to not stagger with the weight of it.

“I thought you were playing with me,” Yorak says softly. “You were so genuine in one moment and so carelessly flippant in the other, I did not know what to think.” Shiro starts to murmur reassurances when Yorak presses a slim finger to his lips. “I know now that I didn’t read you wrongly, Shiro. You are good.”

“Good for you?” Shiro can’t help asking, and Yorak grins back, rosy and pretty. “Good for me.”

Shiro’s heart clenches in his chest as another wave of fondness passes over him. “Tomorrow, I shall do your hair, and you shall do mine. I will slay you as many plinek as you so desire.” He tucks the lock of hair back behind Yorak’s ear, tracing its furry top, and Yorak shivers. Shiro lowers his lips to mouth at Yorak’s jaw gently.

“You can’t, you can’t just say these things, Shiro.” Yorak swats at his chest, flustered, but he tilts his head to allow Shiro greater access to the lean line of his neck. “Who told you about our courting traditions?”

Ah. Shiro straightens as Yorak lets out a discontented mewl. “Regris was very kind. Do you know that I thought he was your mate?”

“What?” Yorak places his hands on Shiro’s shoulders and stares up at him, speaking slowly. “He is a family friend, and a great community activist who I admire. He is also mated to another Galra.”

“I know now,” Shiro groans into Yorak’s neck, tucking his head back into its curve to hide the way his cheeks heat. “Forgive me-”

“Wait,” Yorak’s lips curve into something much more mischievous, his eyes playful. “Was that why you were acting the way you did? You were jealous, weren’t you?”

“Jealous is an ugly emotion,” Shiro recites dutifully, taking a long inhale of the spice on Yorak’s skin. “I was so confused, Yorak. You have to understand. I’m a disaster.”

“You are no disaster,” Yorak rests a hand on Shiro’s head, sliding his hand down to cradle Shiro’s neck. “From now on, we have to work on our communication. This is all I’ve known about romance and the accompanying gestures-” Shiro watches in fascination as a dark flush runs down Yorak’s neck. “How do you court back on Earth?”

Shiro pauses, thinking of the routines of dating. “Well, I guess we give flowers, trinkets, and just go on dates.” Yorak mouths the word “date” to himself, and Shiro can almost see the wheels in his head turning. “We do fun things together on these dates, like a nice meal, or try something fun and exciting. I guess it’s more about anticipating what the person you are dating, uh, courting, enjoys, and figuring it out from there.”

“Then, when do you mate?” Yorak’s ears tilt in curiosity. Shiro thinks for a second that he should like to lick them and see the expression on Yorak’s face.

“Mate, as in, getting married?” Shiro asks, watching Yorak frown to himself. “Or mate, as in sex-”

Yorak presses a hand to Shiro’s mouth, eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks as his gaze resolutely rests on everywhere except Shiro.

“I meant sexual activity. When is that to be expected?” Then, slight horror widening his eyes, Yorak steps back slowly, and Shiro has to lock his arms tighter around Yorak in case he flees. “You mean to say that you do not court with the intention of lifelong mating?” Yorak swallows hard, and breathes slowly. “I do not think I could do that, Shiro. It is not for me. Galra have always courted to find our one mate.”

The look on Shiro’s face has Yorak sighing in despair. “This is too formal for you,” Yorak rushes out, eyes watering dangerously. Shiro slides a palm against his cheek soothingly, and Yorak turns into it. “It is too sudden, isn’t it?”

Shiro thinks about how he should word this. He remembers the casual dates he’d had back when he was younger, into adulthood, and his long-term relationship with Adam that had ended in a dumpster fire. “On Earth,” Shiro starts, cautious. “Sometimes the people we court don’t turn out to be suitable to marry, or mate with. People change, and that’s why most of us test how well we match when we date. I have mated, uh, sexually with others before, and I’ve dated a few people, but I didn’t find my mate among them. It’s very different from Galra custom.”

They sit on the couch together and Shiro tightens his grip, firm and sure, around Yorak’s hand. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m not ready to try to be what you deserve, Yorak. I feel strongly that we could be lifelong mates, but I need to spend more time courting you, and getting to know you. I don’t want you to regret this either because you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Yorak stares down at their linked hands wordlessly, and a frission of worry grows in Shiro’s chest. He’s about to say something, anything, to erase the look of uncertainty on Yorak’s face when Yorak clears his throat.

“I understand the reasoning you have given me, and it is wise,” Yorak says softly, and his fingers hold tight to Shiro’s. “It is good that we clarify our expectations before we start courting.” He breaks into a smile and leans his head on Shiro’s shoulder, pulling his legs into Shiro’s lap. The fire casts a dim glow that reflects off his sharp nose, his delicate eyelashes, and Shiro holds on to his smaller body tight. “I suppose we shall just have to go on many more of these dates, so that we know each other best.”

Shiro can’t help but take hold of Yorak’s hips, and in response to the questioning look Yorak gives him, pulls him fully into his lap. Yorak’s knees bracket Shiro’s thighs on the richly upholstered couch, his chest heaving as the hem of his skirt pulls upwards. Yorak lets out a shocked yelp, but braces his hands on Shiro’s shoulders, spots of colour high on his cheeks.

“You are shameless,” Yorak whispers as he trails a hand behind Shiro’s ear, over his collarbones, and flat against his chest over his heart.  

“Guilty as charged,” Shiro murmurs into Yorak’s ear, grinning as Yorak swats at him, blushing. Shiro’s heart starts hammering against his ribcage as Yorak leans forward, eyes fluttering shut. He closes the gap between them, curling a hand in Yorak’s hair and tussling it out of its pins as he meets Yorak’s lips in a chaste kiss.

“Is this okay? Do you want to do this here?” Shiro draws back to try and ask, but Yorak keens, dragging Shiro back in with the eagerness and slight hesitation of a first kiss. Heat starts pooling in Shiro’s lower belly as Yorak squirms on his lap, shifting upwards into Shiro’s open-mouthed kiss, his rough tongue sliding hot and heavy against Shiro’s. Yorak’s enthusiasm wholly makes up for his inexperience, and they both break for air, smiling against each other’s lips.

“Let me know if you want to stop. Anytime you want.” Shiro whispers, and Yorak nods shakily.

Then Shiro licks into Yorak’s mouth, cradling his jaw and bending him backwards to kiss him deeper. Yorak lets out a moan as he bounces on Shiro’s lap, right over Shiro’s clothed dick, and Shiro can only slide his hands down his back, and start them up Yorak’s lacy, indecently short skirt-

The door slams open, tearing both of them apart as Yorak jumps off Shiro’s lap to stand next to the couch, pulling down his skirt as he does. Yorak looks blissed out, his mouth kiss slick. Shiro can only rise awkwardly as Lotor, framed by the light spilling in from the hallway, takes in Yorak’s bruised lips and neck. His yellow eyes darken.

“Get out, Shirogane!” Lotor roars, pointing at the open door, his raised arm shaking, and Shiro doesn’t need to be told twice. He presses a kiss on Yorak’s cheek to his huffed amusement and hightails it out of there with what remains of his dignity.

==

Hikari squeals into Ryu’s shoulder as he gives Shiro a weary look through the blur of the holopad. “Shiro. Did you really have to kiss a Galra? Even better, a prince?”

“Well, I-” Shiro winces. Ryu isn’t reacting like Shiro thought he would. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Are you even planning to come home?” Ryu asks, and Hikari stills next to him. “You told me you were coming back after settling the embassy. Is that still true, or do I have to tell the family something different? What are you even going to do, live the rest of your life as one of the only humans on Daibazaal? Does that place even have any future for you, Shiro?”

Shiro swallows through the lump in his throat, the sudden stinging behind his eyes. The memory of the soft press of Yorak’s lips against his, the warmth and weight of his thighs on Shiro’s, fractures slightly under Ryu’s disapproval and Hikari’s hesitance.

There had been brightness in Yorak’s eyes when he’d greeted Yorak at the door that morning, and Shiro in turn had felt breathless, glowing with the weight of Yorak’s gaze on him. Yorak had beamed at the sight of the pins in Shiro’s hair, where Shiro’d fumbled with the dainty chains of jewels. He’d backed Shiro onto the couch, and knelt, tucking his slim legs under him as he pulled a comb from his sleeve and combed out the tangles in Shiro’s hair, adjusting the pins. Then Shiro’d combed Yorak’s hair, attempting to do the same, and kissed the laughter from Yorak’s lips when he’d accidentally pulled a few braids loose.

They’d eaten lunch alone in the Great Hall with their legs pressed together, both of them refusing to let go of each other’s hand under the table. As the three suns set in the sky, Shiro’d rested on Yorak’s lap with Yorak’s fingers running through his hair, reading a Galran children’s fairytale book out loud with all the voices. Then they’d missed dinner because Shiro’d pressed Yorak down into his sheets and fit his mouth to the curve of his jaw as Yorak sighed into his ear. With an open look of adoration, Yorak had traced his fingers behind Shiro’s ear before heading back to his room to rest, Lotor lurking beyond Shiro’s door like a constipated chaperone.

It had been an amazing day, Shiro’d thought. But now all he saw was the tentative infatuations of the start of a relationship. Yorak was young, and Shiro was his first everything, his first relationship, his first kiss. Shiro didn’t want to see the light die out in his eyes like Adam’s had, when Adam had realised Shiro hadn’t been worth it all along. The feeling of the sun burning out in his hands while he watched – despite him scrambling, clutching it as hard as he could to his chest – had been hard enough to do the first time. Worse, Yorak might get too used to Shiro, and when the novelty of Shiro being someone from his far-off homeland faded, Yorak might find Shiro – Shiro in all his boring, antiquated comforts – too common for the likes of a prince.

And Yorak belonged fully to the royal family. He’d said it himself, that day in the garden, mouth twisted as he spelled out his helplessness. Shiro didn’t know where this relationship would go. Even if Yorak was stubbornly set on courting him till they exchanged mating vows, that didn’t change what his whole family or the Emperor thought of Shiro. If they wanted Yorak to put a stop to what they had growing between them, Shiro was sure Yorak wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.

But Yorak is also- also becoming the light of his days, the effervescent warmth that makes him smile like he hasn’t in a long time, that makes him want to get out of bed. He cares about Shiro, not just Shiro the diplomat, or the high-ranking Garrison officer, but what food Shiro likes to eat, the way he sets his shoulders, the different sighs he makes. Yorak is beginning to know and memorise them all, with the confidence and determination of someone who is trying his best to love Shiro. Maybe that is enough.

 “I- yes, Yorak is the future for me,” Shiro says firmly, then heaves a sigh at the look on Ryu’s face. “He isn’t Adam, Ryu.”

Ryu lets out a harsh laugh. “I sure hope not.” He hands the holopad over to Hikari and stomps out of frame.

“Men.” Hikari rolls her eyes, then continues earnestly. “We just want the best for you, Shiro. You know Ryu is just scared, because you’re all alone up there. He misses you and he doesn’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me. I’ll come back to Earth to visit.” Shiro promises, and he tries to hold it back, but his face crumples. “Is it- is it so bad that I want to be here, with someone who might love me for me?”

Hikari makes a protesting noise. “Of course not, Shiro. It’s just- does he know about Adam? About your arm?” She’s so serious, such a stark contrast from the regular Hikari Shiro knows, that Shiro smiles back at her through the ache in his chest.

“No,” Shiro says. “I haven’t told him. But I will. Soon. I just want this – this to last for a bit longer.”

“Okay, that’s completely fine, Shiro, you do what you want to do, we just want you to be happy,” Hikari says, punctuating each word shrilly to someone offscreen, presumably Ryu. “Just take care Shiro.” Hikari’s voice grows softer. “We’re always rooting for you.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says gratefully. “I love you all. Ryu too.”

Hikari’s eyes soften. “I’ll let him know.”

==

The next day, Shiro waits at Yorak’s door early, early enough that Yorak almost slams face first into Shiro’s chest as he rushes out of his room.

“Woah, there,” Shiro grips Yorak’s arm to stop him from pitching forward, and Yorak halts inches away from him. “Good morning, baby.”

Yorak’s ears twitch shyly even as he shamelessly drags his hands down Shiro’s pectorals, then down his sides to loop his arms around Shiro’s waist. “Good morning, my qurlik. I have a surprise for you.”

“Really,” Shiro noses at his neck and up his jaw as Yorak leans into his touch, panting against his ear. “What kind of surprise?”

Shiro knows he’s being a little too brave, kissing the underside of Yorak’s jaw in the hallway, but Yorak looks stunning. He’s dressed up in sweeping robes with a lacy underrobe and top that looks painted on. The best part is his neatly woven and styled hair, glistening with jewels. It’s like Yorak’s shouting to the whole world that he’s in love, in love with someone like Shiro, and Shiro can barely breathe. What has he done to deserve such a precious thing? What has he offered that can equal such a privilege, that of Yorak’s slim hand in his?

“You’re a little eager today, aren’t you?” Yorak says, and Shiro pulls back hastily, searching Yorak’s face for any sign of discomfort. There is none, just a blinding, cheeky grin on Yorak’s face, and Yorak just pulls him close. “Let’s continue this outside.”

They head out of the main palace tower, and Yorak leads him up a quiet beaten trail, stones laid by a path worn through the sand where others have trod before them and marked the way. Shiro smiles a little giddily at their hands swinging together.

They stop by a slightly dilapidated shed behind the palace towers. Shiro steps back as Yorak presses his free hand to the scanner next to the door, and the door to the shed flickers and fades.

“Surprise,” Yorak says, and looks a little cautiously at Shiro. “Do you like it?”

Shiro’s mouth isn’t working. In front of him are two shining hoverbike behemoths, sitting primly in the dusty garage like Yorak had gotten them specially for this, for them. One is solid, matte black with a deep red stripe down the side, and the other is the reverse, a startingly red bike with a black streak down the side. They match.

“I had them customised for us,” Yorak continues, and he’s starting to sound nervous now, like he isn’t sure if Shiro’s lack of reaction is due to upset, or anything else. “Sorry, was this too soon?” His hand is starting to sweat in Shiro’s.

Shiro raises Yorak’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss gently on each of his knuckles. “I love it, beautiful. Thank you.”

Yorak flushes, a deep purple spreading down his neck. “You, really, Shiro-”

“How did you know?” Shiro wonders as Yorak pulls him over to the side of the black hoverbike. “I haven’t gotten on one of these, since- since-”

“Before your accident, I know,” Yorak completes, and swallows as he stares at the hoverbike, smoothing a hand over the seat. “I read your file that first night after the dinner. I didn’t mean to know anything before you told me, but Galra intelligence is very thorough. I know you loved it. Racing, I mean. I just, I wanted you to have something you like here. So, you know, you won’t feel like Daibazaal is boring, or lonely, so-” Yorak cuts off before he can continue, eyes darting to Shiro’s before he’s looking away again, but Shiro hears the unspoken words very clearly. So you won’t leave.

Shiro huffs out a little laugh, and cups Yorak’s cheek gently, guiding it back to face him. Yorak’s eyes are unsure, but he lets Shiro, and Shiro’s momentarily overwhelmed at the trust Yorak has so intimately placed in his hands.

“I already have something I like right here,” Shiro says, and slides the tips of his fingers through Yorak’s hair at the top of his head, over Yorak’s ears, which shiver at Shiro’s touch. “I’m not going to leave, Yorak. I’m here as long as you want me to be here. This, this-” Shiro places his hand over Yorak’s on the seat. “This is so sweet of you. I’m just happy you think of me.”

“I always think of you,” Yorak says, then flushes as he meets Shiro’s gaze.

Good, Shiro thinks. I hope he knows what he does to me.

“I thought we could ride these today,” Yorak says, pulling Shiro closer to the black hoverbike.

“Ah,” Shiro rubs at the back of his head lightly. “I’m not wearing my prosthetic.”

“You don’t need it, with this bike,” Yorak says, and Shiro blinks at him. “This bike can be controlled by your mind – it’s a physical aid program that I had put into the system that helps our people here on Daibazaal.” At Shiro’s blank stare, Yorak wrings his hands. “It’s for the days your shoulder hurts and you don’t want to wear the prosthetic – I’ve seen the way you feel the ache some days. I’ve also asked our engineer to start on a better prototype for your arm, something better fitted. You can also ride the bike with manual steering, it’s just something, I thought it might help, I didn’t mean to overstep-”

Shiro pulls him into a gentle kiss, biting down softly onto Yorak’s lower lip, and Yorak arches into the kiss before pulling away to rest his forehead on Shiro’s chest.

“You aren’t mad?” Yorak whispers into the fabric of Shiro’s thin white shirt. “I know it was presumptuous of me.”

“Why would I be mad?” Shiro places a kiss on top of Yorak’s head. He’s so happy he might faint from it. Adam had asked him to wear the prosthetic every single day during recovery. At first Shiro had thought his constant, jabbing reminders were from a place of care, but then it became obvious that Adam was looking for a semblance of their previous normal.

But Shiro wasn’t Adam’s normal anymore. The crash had changed him fundamentally – everything had seemed harder and further away, and that made Shiro try all the more. Adam hadn’t liked that. Shiro realised Adam hadn’t liked a lot of things about him.

“You’ve been a step ahead of me this whole time.” Fondness seeps into Shiro’s voice.

“As long as you stay one step right behind me,” Yorak says wryly, slowing pulling Shiro’s arm away from his waist. “Let’s go try these babies out.”

==

Alright, so Yorak is a speed demon.

Shiro can’t say it’s unexpected, given Yorak’s inclination to jump in headfirst, consequences be damned. A thrill runs through Shiro’s body every time he turns to look behind and realises Yorak is right by his side, his robes flaring out behind him as he picks up speed. They chase and goad each other through cavernous desert valleys, skimming over shallow pools of water and dry orange rock.

It’s a little strange to balance himself on the bike and not have to steer, just think, feel the directions left and right and hope for the best, but the hoverbike banks and turns exactly when he tells it to.

Yorak’s hair streams behind him where it’s come loose from the pins, and Shiro can’t take his eyes of him. They race towards the horizon as Daibazaal’s three suns start rising. Shiro recognises the heady rush through him as the sand below them ahead tapers off into a steep cliff drop.

Yorak starts slowing his own bike, letting out an alarmed shout as Shiro continues to speed ahead. He hasn’t felt this free in so long. Out here it just seems the two of them can do anything.

Shiro waves back at him to reassure him and completes the fall and rise as easy as breathing, and for a moment, it’s almost like before. The wind catches in his hair, in the pins, and Shiro lets himself lean into it. He’s missed this – the pull of flight against his clothes, the heavy feeling in his stomach before he rises again. It’s the feeling of invincibility.

After Shiro’s taken the time to breathe, he starts to bring the bike back around before he’s hit with a pang of dread. Adam hated whenever he completed the drop, saying that it was terribly dangerous, but he never asked Shiro what he thought about the matter. Shiro had given it up because he loved Adam, and Adam had been proud about that fact. Remember what you used to do, he would ask Shiro, aren’t you glad you met me so I could talk you out of it?

What if Yorak is the same way?

Shiro pushes the bike back up the slope to the crest of the cliff, and Yorak is there waiting. He hops off his bike when he spots Shiro returning, and Shiro swings off his own bike to meet him in the middle.

“Shiro, what the hell?” Yorak’s eyes are bright, and Shiro winces.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you before, I won’t do it again-” He starts to say, at the same time Yorak says, “You have to teach me to do that-”

Shiro stops and Yorak blinks up at him. “I’m not in charge of what you do,” Yorak says slowly, like he’s realising this is deeper than just the drop. “I only want you to share it with me.” Then, he holds Shiro’s hand. “I want all of you.” Yorak’s eyes are brilliant, golden-hued where sun rays hit his cheek.

Oh. Shiro holds tighter to that hand. “Okay,” he says, and shudders a little at the memories that come back to him. “Okay.”

Shiro tells him everything – about their fights, the breakdowns, and the accident. About the recovery, the crushing expectations of returning back to what he once was, and how he could never meet them. Yorak just rests his back on Shiro’s chest with Shiro’s arm around his waist, running his thumb along the knuckles of Shiro’s fingers. It’s a steadying anchor, the soft weight of Yorak in Shiro’s embrace, the curl of his warm scent around the both of them.

“Is that-” Yorak says when Shiro pauses. “Do you think I’ll do that to you?”

Shiro breathes in, out. “I honestly- I don’t- Adam wasn’t this at first. He wasn’t this punishing, and by the time he realised how it hurt me it was a little too late.”

“Seems like it was an excuse to double down on you.” Yorak’s eyes flash. “And that’s where we’re different. I’ve never seen you as anything less than whole.”

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” Shiro places a kiss on the right side of his neck, watching as colour blooms at the spot. “You’re not cruel. But I, I just think that you might wake up one day and wonder why you aren’t with someone as beautiful as you.” Shiro feels Yorak stiffen and start to turn, and Shiro holds him tighter. “Please, let me say this before you face me,” Shiro says, and it comes out all breathless and strangled. “You are young, you’re a prince, I’m your first relationship. I have so much baggage, I have trauma that follows me, I don’t want you to regret, to feel that you should have made a better choice-”

“Is that all?” Yorak asks, and it is low, a growl that rumbles from his chest. “Have you said what you want to say?”

“No.” Shiro sags against him, and Yorak tenses but Shiro rests his head on Yorak’s shoulder. “I just wanted to say that I know all this, and yet I want you – I should push you away, but I want to be selfish for this one good thing in my life-”

Yorak whirls around, eyes blazing. Shiro almost takes a step back with the force of his gaze.

“Then be selfish,” Yorak snarls, eyes bright. Shiro stares at him, open-mouthed at his conviction. “Because I have made my choice. And it will always be you. On the good days and the bad days. On the days where we’re happy and the days where we’re sad. Because I’m no fool – I know we will get frustrated, get mad at each other, we aren’t perfect and that’s okay – but I’ll make the choice to always be with you, no matter what. To pick you up, to be your support. To find you again and again. As many times as it takes. So please, be selfish with me.”

Then Yorak tips his head back, and kisses into Shiro’s mouth. It’s fierce, and claiming, and Shiro clings on like a drowning man. He kisses down Yorak’s neck as Yorak pants, soft breaths that hit his cheek, and presses him back into the cool metal of the hoverbike.

Yorak makes a choked off sound as Shiro picks him up and leans him against the hoverbike, spreading Yorak’s legs.

“Is this okay?” Shiro asks, and Yorak nods at him, wide-eyed. “Tell me what you want.”

“Your- your mouth,” Yorak says shakily, but his eyes are determined.

“Where?” Shiro prompts, running his hand up Yorak’s left leg, displacing his long silk robes to reveal Yorak’s thigh. “Here?” At Yorak’s nod, Shiro kisses up his thigh, pushing further at his robes and undoing the clasp at his waist to let them part further.

The left side falls to drape against the hoverbike, revealing the long, lean, unobstructed line of Yorak’s side. Shiro leans down to mouth at the sharp jut of his hip, then closer to the flat planes of his abdomen, down to nose at the dark purple trail leading downwards. The right side of the robe is barely covering the tent of Yorak’s erection, and the indecent stretch of it is enough to make Shiro’s mouth water.

“Is this okay?” Shiro questions, and looks up to see Yorak nodding as he bites down hard on his lip, his hands clenched at his side, uncertain of where to put them. “Here, pull my hair, it’s okay.”

Yorak slowly slides his hands into Shiro’s hair, and they shake as they tug on his hair hesitantly. Shiro chuckles a little and reaches his hand up to flick at Yorak’s nipple. Yorak immediately tugs harder, panting as Shiro rolls the firm bud between his fingers and finally, pushes the robe away.

He leans back a little, just to check that the tears sliding down Yorak’s cheeks are not from pain or confusion, and to admire how Yorak is naked, vulnerable like this on a hoverbike for his eyes only. His robes have fallen off his shoulders, away from his legs, to display Yorak’s stiff erection leaking against his stomach, and Shiro runs a hand across Yorak’s cheek, which Yorak kisses.

Shiro leans back down to slowly, start mouthing the tip of Yorak’s dick, then to lave his tongue from the root to the tip of it, sucking at the tender skin of the head. Yorak pulls hard on Shiro’s hair, and yelps when Shiro takes his mouth off of Yorak’s dick to fix him with a look. Shiro’s sure his lips are glistening with saliva and precome.

“Yorak,” Shiro says, and blows a little air over Yorak’s dick. Yorak shudders. “Don’t hold yourself back. I want to hear you.”

Yorak blinks back at him, mouth open, then nods. Shiro smiles, then leans in. He tries to remember how he used to do this, how to relax his throat even as Yorak’s hips jerk slightly where he can’t hold them still. Once he’s swallowed Yorak’s dick down, feeling its heat press against the back of his throat, and soft curls tickle his nose, Shiro looks up at Yorak, whose full body flush has reached his chest. He’s whimpering, almost mewling where he rests against the hoverbike. He’s the most beautiful thing Shiro’s ever seen.

Shiro grinds his hand against his own erection as he bobs his head up and down over Yorak’s cock, sucking hard and hollowing out his cheeks, pressing his tongue against its slit. Yorak has given up on holding himself back, fucking into Shiro’s mouth with thrusts that meet Shiro’s own. When the movement of Yorak’s hips grow stilted, he tries to pull away, but Shiro holds fast to them. Yorak comes down his throat with a scream.

After a beat, Shiro sits up and wraps Yorak’s robes back around him, cleaning Yorak off with a cloth as Yorak leans boneless against him with a giddy smile. He bats away Yorak’s own wandering hands at his waist – he can deal with that later. All he wants now is the comfort of Yorak against him.

He kisses Yorak indulgently, Yorak’s hand a firm press at his lower back.

“What?” Yorak asks, looking back. Shiro has to remind himself to breathe at the sight of Yorak like this, framed by soft light. His eyes are questioning, soft, as they are whenever they rest on Shiro.

Shiro feels something swell in chest at the thought of Yorak looking back at him like this for the rest of his life. Be selfish with me.

“Nothing,” Shiro says, ardently. “I was just thinking that I love you and that I want to be with you forever. I want all of you, too.”

“You-” Yorak stops and stares at him.

Then he smiles, as bright as the sun, and throws himself into Shiro’s open and ready embrace.