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It's different, being around humans again.
It's not a terrible sort of different, not at all! In fact, it's an enormous relief to speak and have someone respond, to see distinctly Earthen features react in surprise, happiness, anger or even sadness. His sister's features especially, ones that Matt has reminded himself of over and over again over the past two years, ones so similar to his own. Katie – (Pidge, she's Pidge now, still his family, still his best friend, but with a new name and his old glasses that are too big to rest on her tiny nose, and eyes that are too sad for her young face) – has run the gamut of emotions since finding them. Sometimes Matt catches a look of concentrated anxiety that's so like their mother it makes his chest ache. More often, though, it's that carefree, glorious smile, usually accompanied by her muscled shoulders angling under his wasted arm, hugging him carefully, mindful of old wounds.
Matt is beyond happy to be back, to sleep in a real bed and eat real food and talk to real humans again. He's even happy to share what he knows of the Galra with kind aliens, the Altean princess and her mustachioed adviser. He has so many words that he's kept swallowed back for all these months, and he finally has the freedom to let them out.
So why can't he? Why is it that, without an overseer to prod and yell at him, without rows of other slaves whose monotonous motions belie their aching bodies and crushed spirits, without a mindless routine to be forced into day after day, Matt still remains mute and still most of the time?
He doesn't notice it until the Blue Paladin – (Lance, his name is Lance, he's a friend of Pidge's and he's a person with a name and so is Matt) – comments that “boy, you're really chill all the time! I don't think I've seen you move from that chair all day!” He likely means it as a compliment, some testament to the fact that Matt is able to be calm despite the torture he's lived through, but it strikes the older Holt to his core to realize that he can't remember the past several hours at all. His stomach is growling and aching, his muscles are stiff from being in one position for so long, and yet even when he's left alone again, Matt can't make himself get up. There's nobody here to tell him what to do, nobody to tell him when to sit, when to stand, when to eat, when to sleep, and he has no idea how to tell himself anymore
Under the boiling sun of a remote mining asteroid, there was no time for Matt to remind himself or his father that they were still people. Now that they're free, he's beginning to fear that maybe he isn't a person anymore, just an empty shell, pretending to be the son and brother and friend everyone lost.
Nighttime in the Castle of Lions is indistinguishable from daytime when they're out so far in space, surrounded by blackness and stars constantly. Only the constant movement of the Paladins and their Princess clues Matt in as to what time of day it is. When they're tired and smiling and sweating, it's later in the afternoon, after training. When they're yawning and rubbing their eyes and staggering towards the dining room, it's breakfast.
Apparently it's the latter right now, if Lance's loud groaning and Pidge's silent, space-coffee-driven shuffle is any indicator. Matt smiles at them, tiredly, waving in response to Hunk's awkward greeting. They don't know how to act around him yet – he's only been out of the healing pod for a couple days, after all. Generally the only one who seeks him out is his sister.
Well. Most of the time. Matt is still sitting by the window, hands folded in his lap, looking out at the endless void of space when he feels the hand on his shoulder. It makes him jump, he can't help it, turning with a sharp gasp and bringing one arm up defensively.
“Sorry! I'm so sorry!” Shiro's face is different than it was, healthier, better-fed, but scarred and lined with worry. And, currently, it's also twisted into intense guilt as he looks from Matt's frightened face to Matt's wrist, which the other had caught automatically in his robotic hand's grip. The grasp is tight, and for a split second Matt can't breathe, can't stop remembering--
Inhale. Exhale. Matt lets the fear leave him slowly, draining away, replaced with the familiar comfort that thus far only Pidge and Shiro can inspire in him. “It's all right,” he says, not moving to dislodge his wrist from the other young man's grip. Just in case. Just in case. “You just startled me. I'm fine.”
To his surprise, Shiro doesn't let go just yet, just slides his hand until it's squeezing Matt's, cool and metallic, the sensation at odds with his intense look and his earnest voice. “I was just...you've been sitting here all night. Yesterday too. Have you slept at all?”
Matt frowns briefly, noting the dark shadows under Shiro's eyes, the exhaustion that he remembers so well from the Galra prison still audible in his friend's voice. “I should ask you the same thing,” he replies, quietly, squeezing the metal hand once.
This is a familiar back and forth, an exchange of concern, two human beings watching out for each other in word and action, two boys who were taken from an adventure and thrust into a nightmare. Back in that tiny cell, Matt's entire days revolved around making sure Shiro and his father were okay. He's painfully conscious that the last time Shiro did the same thing, Matt had been sure his friend had died in his place.
With this weight behind his mild reproach, Shiro exhales, pulls back a little, lets his hand slide from Matt's. “It's been a long week,” is all he says, half-smiling a little and raking his fingers through his hair.
That gets a smile in return, and Matt nods towards the dining room, where the rest of the Paladins are no doubt wondering where Shiro is. “You should go eat.”
“You should too.”
It's said so simply, and Shiro is offering his hand again, giving that half-smile that once upon a time, back in school, used to make Matt's stomach do flip-flops. The fact that it still does that is one he's not so sure he's ready to deal with, so he looks away, makes excuses – “I'm fine, you really don't need to worry about me, you go on ahead and--”
The hand drops onto where his neck and shoulder meet, the human hand this time, squeezing once, gently, fingertips rough against his skin. “Matt. Come and eat.” The voice is still soft but there's a firmness to it that Shiro never had before, a command and presence that makes Matt's face heat up, right to the tips of his ears.
He's on his feet almost immediately, blushing and clearing his throat, but not moving out from under Shiro's hand. He doesn't want to move away. Someone is finally telling him what to do, someone good and kind, someone who cares about him, and there's so much relief in that thought that Matt barely notices Shiro's confused, thoughtful look as they walk to breakfast.
Of course Shiro notices something's up, because that's part of the job of a commander. The title isn't an official one, of course, but Matt only has to spend minutes around the group of Paladins to see who the leader is, the one that the others turn to for the final word. It makes him smile to see it, remembering how even back during their Garrison days Shiro could capture all the attention in a room simply by walking into it.
...okay, yes, maybe it was primarily Matt's attention he was capturing, but that's neither here nor there.
The point is that for the rest of the day, no matter what else is going on, Shiro is never far from Matt's side. He doesn't say much, just sits off to one side with a book while Pidge rambles to her brother about the modifications she's made to Green, or adds his opinion to a conversation/argument between Lance and Keith that Matt is bemusedly observing. When it's time for lunch, or if it's been a couple hours since Matt's remembered to get up and stretch, there's a touch on his shoulder, like clockwork, and a quiet “come on” from his old crewmate. Then they walk to the dining room, or the training room to watch the younger Paladins fight, or to a different part of the Castle that Matt hasn't seen yet.
Honestly, Matt doesn't notice anything strange about it, at first. He's more relaxed around Shiro, that's definitely true, but he doesn't recognize that it's because whenever he starts to get that lost, dazed look in his eyes, the other is there to rest a hand at that same spot on his shoulder and deliver a command in an undertone. It doesn't even register that Shiro is, in fact, commanding him – not a suggestion like Pidge or Allura will give, but a quiet statement that brooks no argument. So Matt doesn't argue.
Granted, he sees the others giving him a strange look when, after a few minutes of staring blankly at his plate, it's Shiro's quiet voice that prompts Matt to eat, but he explains it to himself – and them – as him daydreaming. “Just thinking about things,” he says, smiling in a way that's so much like Pidge's “everything-is-fine” smile that nobody quite buys it. But they back down all the same.
It isn't until another night rolls around (not that Matt can tell yet; everything outside is still the same) and Shiro drops heavily to the couch beside the older Holt sibling that the subject comes up again. The four other Paladins have already headed off to sleep, Pidge with another of those gentle-but-fervent hugs and a demand that Matt wake her up if anything changes with their father. Shiro also looks tired, the bags under his eyes more noticeable than ever, the bones in his neck cracking audibly as he rolls his head from side to side with a groan.
Matt half-smiles over at him, closing his book on Altean history with one finger marking his page. “You definitely keep busy,” he comments, amused. “Even in the middle of space.”
“Gotta stay fresh,” Shiro mumbles, metal hand coming up to massage at his shoulder, wincing as he teases out a knot of tension. Matt watches for almost too long, hands twitching with the desire to reach out, to soothe the tired muscles. Maybe back before Kerberos he would've. Maybe back on the prison ship.
But not now. Now he turns away with an effort, looking back down at his book. “You should probably go to sleep,” he says, gently, turning a page without making eye contact. “It's late.”
There's a weighty pause. “You should too,” Shiro says finally, and Matt can feel those bright eyes on him, watching his face, waiting for a reaction.
It's a suggestion, and Matt shrugs it off, eyes flicking over briefly, then returning to the words he's not actually reading. “I'm all right,” he deflects, simply.
“Aren't you tired too?” Shiro presses.
Matt shrugs a shoulder, not looking up. He can feel that something's wrong, Shiro is figuring something out, and it's not really a surprise when he feels the cool sensation of the metal hand on his shoulder and hears the words, short and simple: “Go to bed.”
It is a surprise, however, when as soon as he closes the book and stands – it's immediately, it's without question or pause, something like relief easing the knot of anxiety in his chest – Shiro stands as well, catching hold of Matt's upper arms and holding him in place. The younger man halts, brow furrowing, looking up and up to meet his friend's eyes. They're darker than usual, angry and grief-stricken and Matt feels guilty without knowing why. “Shiro, what--”
“Why are you doing that?” The short words cut off whatever Matt had been about to say, clipped and furious, though Shiro's grip stays careful, gentle. He's visibly upset, but he touches Matt like he's something fragile, something precious. “Why do you wait until I...order you to do something before you do it?”
Matt knows it's true even as he's shaking his head, denying it with a nervous laugh. “Don't be silly, Shiro, I'm not--”
“You've been doing it all day!” Shiro's voice breaks on the last word, and now the anger is melting away, replaced with something haunted. “Do...are you...afraid of me? Do you think I'm going to hurt you?” The again is unspoken, but they both feel it.
The idea is ludicrous, though. The scar on Matt's leg is just one of dozens now, and he's been hurt over and over, many more times for many worse reasons. He's never seen what Shiro did as anything but an act of protection, of sacrifice. So he shakes his head immediately, meaning it this time. “No, I don't,” he replies, fiercely. “You would never. You would never.”
Shiro slowly loosens his grip then, letting his metallic hand drop to his side, though the flesh and blood one stays, gently curled around Matt's atrophied arm. His thumb is moving up and down where sleeve and skin meet, mindlessly, over and over, like he's trying to soothe one or both of them. “Then why...?” he begins, voice faltering, nothing but hurt now.
And Matt can't lie to him anymore. He exhales slowly, stepping forward, lowering his head. If he moved just an inch more it would rest against Shiro's chest, over his heart. “I'm...I think...something is wrong with me,” he manages, softly, staring at his bare feet. “I can't...I can't make decisions anymore. I can't tell myself when to eat or sleep or get up and walk around. I...I think I've forgotten how. I've been told what to do for so long...”
The shudder is tangible through where Shiro is holding onto him, and the strain in his voice is evident. “So...do you see me as...as a...” He can't form the words, can't use overseer or slave master. Not when he's talking about Matt.
“No!” Matt lifts his head, laughing helplessly, though he feels more like crying. “No, that's...that's just it. I need it, but....I want it from someone I trust. Someone who understands, who knows it's not because I liked being ordered around and-- and owned. Someone who'll see it's just because I...need to relearn how to do it for myself, but I haven't yet.” He exhales, heat rising in his cheeks at how intently Shiro is watching him. “Someone who can...take care of me while I learn to be human again.”
There's a long, weighty silence, during which neither young man speaks or moves, though Matt can hear his heart thrumming in his ears, and he's well-aware that his ears are probably the same shade as the Red Paladin's lion. But then, in a slow, careful movement, Shiro releases his grip, moving instead to wrap his arm around Matt's narrow back and pull him that last couple of inches closer.
“If that's what you need from me,” he murmurs against Matt's too-long hair, heartbeat steady and firm where the younger boy's cheek is pressed to his chest. “Then I'll give it to you.”
For another long moment Matt can't breathe, can't decide whether he's happier that Shiro's holding him or that Shiro's willing to keep helping him, keep prompting and guiding his actions until Matt can do it himself. Then he exhales, that sick knotted anxiety that's lived in his chest since he was rescued finally untangling and disappearing entirely. His arms lift, wrapping around Shiro's waist, holding on with all the strength he has in them.
“Thank you,” he manages against Shiro's warm, broad chest.
There's the ghost of a touch against the back of his neck, but all Shiro says, in that firm, directive voice, is “Go to bed now.”
It's...definitely something they both need to get adjusted to. As much as Matt now recognizes that he wants and needs Shiro's direction, there's a difference between articulating it and actually carrying it out. It seemed simple enough when he asked for it, but Shiro is Shiro and he needs to talk everything out. So they talk, sitting cross-legged across from each other on the couches in the big room with wide windows that Matt spends so much time in. He likes being able to see the stars, he manages to explain, shyly, not noticing how color rises in Shiro's cheeks and how the other has to turn away and clear his throat repeatedly.
They have to be careful around the others, especially Pidge. Shiro understands not feeling in control of your body, needing help to navigate the nuances of being a human being, but the younger Paladins might not. They might see it as unfair or even cruel. “And,” Shiro says with that lopsided grin of his, “I'm pretty sure Pidge could kill me and make it look like an accident if she thinks I'm doing anything to you.”
Matt wants to come up with a snappy reply, wants to be cool and smooth and stop staring at the curl of Shiro's mouth when he grins, or thinking about just what doing things might entail. But he can't, because he's a hopeless helpless idiot, and anyway he started this whole thing by asking Shiro for help, and flirting would make it ten times worse. So he just turns red and nods and laughs and adjusts his glasses and – accidentally drops them on the floor. Because of course he does.
“Let me.” Shiro probably doesn't mean it as a command, but Matt still freezes in the act of bending down, watching the slightly blurred figure rise from the couch and cross over, stooping down and picking up the thick, wire-rimmed frames. Then, before Matt can reach out and take them, Shiro's reaching out, sliding them back into place very very gently, a soft smile on his face as the world comes back into focus, and wide amber eyes blink a couple times behind the lenses. “There,” Shiro says, quiet. It makes Matt's whole body shiver, and he doesn't know why.
And then it's over, moment past, Shiro moving to take his seat again and discuss what he should say and when and how – only for necessities, like eating and sleeping, and if he notices Matt is blanking out and maybe needs help to center on what's happening. Case in point: focusing on the rest of the conversation is difficult for Matt, and he just sort of nods and agrees to everything, twisting his fingers together in his lap. Shiro assumes that it's exhaustion or nerves from the weighty conversation, so he stands, stopping for a moment to gently push Matt's glasses up a bit on his nose with a fingertip.
“We'll talk more later,” he says, warm and helpful and so, so good, and Matt wants to pounce on him and see what that smile tastes like. Shiro's gone before he can reply, though, so he just decides to stay put until his heart stops beating a mile a minute.
He stays put for a very, very long time.
Once the kinks of this little arrangement – pun not intended – are sorted out, it's startling how easily it just becomes another part of life. Shiro is usually a step behind Pidge in the morning, standing in the doorway and adding his quietly bemused voice to Matt's sister's urgent “Time to get up!” He sits next to Matt at breakfast, touches his knee and squeezes gently whenever the younger boy goes too long between bites, prompting him without words. He makes quiet commands, masked as suggestions to what Matt can do to fill the days – go examine the Altean medical facilities, visit his father in the healing pod, explore the library, watch the Paladins train. Shiro is present at every mealtime, he's there when Matt's been doing the same thing for too long and needs a reminder to sit and rest, drink water, use the bathroom, talk to another person. He's there when it's time to go to bed, quietly smiling and supportive and everything Matt asked him to be.
And god, it's still not enough. Matt aches for that calm, silent, guiding presence during the in-between times, while he's dressing or brushing his teeth, while he's flipping through ancient Altean texts or looking out at the stars. He wants to reach back or turn around and be able to rest his cheek against the broad, firm plain of Shiro's chest, or duck up under his arm and lean against his side. He wants to be able to roll over at night, when nightmares wrench him into waking, and curl up against Shiro's warm, reassuring form and go back to sleep. In the simplest, most innocent moments, all Matt wants is to touch Shiro, even for a minute, even for a second.
He wants, he wants.
It isn't until something goes horribly, predictably wrong that Matt realizes just how much he wants.
“What were you thinking?”
They had landed on a small, blue-green planet, on the edge of Galra territory, peopled by a race of aliens that looked very much like lavender caterpillars. It was meant to be a simple recon mission – go out and meet the locals, spread information about Voltron and the resistance, maybe “chill out at some hero-welcoming bonfires” in the words of Lance. But then the familiar sharp-angled ships had appeared in the sky, and the Galran soldiers had descended upon the village in hordes, and before Matt could see any more, Pidge was shoving him back towards the Castle and Shiro was telling him to “get inside and stay put!”
They'd won. Matt had seen none of the fight, unable to stomach the violence and destruction, unable to think of his sister and her friends (and Shiro) risking their lives right outside. He'd been doubled over in the bathroom, retching up his breakfast as the Castle shuddered and shook, hating himself for being weak, hating that he couldn't even look at the enemy that the Paladins fought against every single day.
When the noise had died down, Matt had unfolded himself from around the commode and forced his shaking legs to come out to the main control room, where Princess Allura was wiping sweat from her brow and Coran was already hollering out how many parts of the Castle were damaged. They'd both stopped when he entered, unsure around him like he was some sort of wild animal. But Matt had smiled, pale and shaky, but standing tall.
“How can I help?” he'd asked.
And that was how he'd ended up in the medical bay, surrounded by equipment that would make the Garrison on Earth weep with envy, meticulously stitching up a large gash on Shiro's forehead. In the course of defending the caterpillar people, the Black Paladin had pulled a particularly risky maneuver, flying upside down and sideways and headfirst into a knot of Galra fighters. “It was totally awesome!” Lance had gushed as the five exhausted members of Voltron had staggered back onto the ship, weary and exhilarated.
Matt didn't exactly share their sentiment. He'd smiled, of course, hugged Pidge tightly and even gotten a brief bone-crushing embrace from Hunk, which had been strangely comforting. But as soon as Shiro had pulled off his helmet and revealed the trickle of blood from his forehead down the bridge of his nose, Matt had seen nothing else.
Shiro had firmly refused the healing pod – “There are civilian injuries much more severe, it's just a cut, I hit my head, that's all.” – so, once he got the go-ahead from Allura, Matt had all but dragged his mildly protesting friend down to the medbay. Throughout the whole process, Shiro had been smiling that sheepish, but content half-smile of his, watching Matt silently gather supplies, disinfect and start cleaning the wound.
However, when Matt hisses those words – “What were you thinking?” – the smile completely vanishes. Shiro frowns upwards, closing one eye in a wince as stinging antiseptic is applied none-too-gently to his injured head. “I was thinking about winning,” he says slowly, clearly confused as to why Matt is this angry.
Letting out a frustrated huff through his teeth, Matt threads a needle and presses the edges of the now-clean wound together. “You could've been killed,” he says shortly, not looking away from his task.
Shiro grimaces slightly when the surgical thread is slowly pulled through his skin, but goes right back to frowning – apparently Altean disinfectant has numbing powers as well. “The fighters were targeting the Castle,” he begins, trying and failing to meet Matt's eyes. “If I didn't stop them, they could've broken down it's defenses and damaged it.”
“And then it would've been fixed,” Matt says, stitching with precision, hands staying steady even though his voice is low and angry. “That's what happens every time, or so I've heard. You should've stayed back and made a better, more concrete plan. Something less risky than flying headfirst into a swarm of Galra fighters!”
There's only silence in response, and for a moment Matt worries he's been too harsh. But his heart is still racing, and he can taste bile in the back of his throat, and imagining Shiro fearlessly hurtling towards injury and death is worse than anything he suffered as a Galra slave. So he finishes the stitches, tying them off and putting them away in absolute stillness. He's almost ready to turn and leave without saying another word, when Shiro reaches out, catches his hand, holds on tight.
“You were in the Castle,” he says quietly, and when Matt turns around, stricken, Shiro is looking haunted and guilty, down at his feet.
Shaking his head once, twice, stepping back and closer to the exam table Shiro's sitting on, Matt says helplessly, “Shiro, I...I...you don't need to...I'm not...I'm not vital, I'm not...that important, I...”
He gets a raised eyebrow for that, the one not under a line of neat stitches, and Shiro tugs him even closer, in between his knees. Matt's small enough that his stomach bumps against the edge of the table, and he has to look up to meet Shiro's eyes. The hand in his lets go, moves to his face, and any anger Matt had left melts away in the swell of relief he feels when Shiro finally, finally touches him.
“You're everything.” Shiro says it like a wonder, hand warm and human and soft against Matt's cheek, and it's so easy, it's like breathing to lean in and kiss him at last. He tastes like he smells, sweat and salt, and his lips are chapped where they fit against Matt's, urgent and clumsy, their teeth almost clacking together in their earnest inexperience. They both laugh, breathless, needy sounds, and Shiro's hands are in Matt's hair when their mouths seal against each other again. Anyone could walk in at any moment, see them like this and he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care.
It's endless moments later when they finally pull apart, red-cheeked, breathing heavily, heating the small medbay up with their racing heartbeats. The medic in Matt checks to make sure Shiro didn't pull any of his stitches out while they were kissing. The romantic in him is just focused on the way Shiro's lips are full and red and slick, from Matt biting at them.
“...wow,” Shiro remarks, matter-of-factly, and his eyes are so, so bright. Matt wants to kiss him again, but he just nods and glances towards the door, meaningfully, because they'll be missed if they stay here any longer. Shiro looks mildly disappointed, but he nods, sliding off the table and pulling Matt into his arms, all in one motion, like it's the easiest thing in the world.
They'd embraced before, when Matt was rescued, when they got back on the ship, but those were adrenaline-fueled, “I'm-so-glad-you're-alive” sorts of hugs. This one is more about learning how they fit together, how Shiro can tuck his chin on top of Matt's mussed hair, how Matt's arms fit so neatly around Shiro's trim waist, how they can stand there for an endless moment and just listen to the other breathe. Holding Shiro like this makes the world shrink down again, to just the two of them, and Matt dearly wishes it could stay that way.
But it can't, and they both know it, and it's evident in Shiro's resigned sigh as he slowly lets go of the smaller boy. “What are we going to tell everyone?” Matt asks, softly, looking down at where they're toe to toe. The thought of the rest of the team, of Pidge being upset or disappointed is terrible. But trying to push rewind and pretend he didn't just spend ten minutes kissing Shiro is unthinkable.
There's a hand under his chin, tipping his face upwards, and despite his calm voice, there's anxiety in Shiro's face as well. But he smiles, he smiles to reassure Matt, and that makes it possible to smile back. “We'll tell them the truth. In the morning,” Shiro says simply, like it'll be just that simple. Maybe it could be. Maybe Matt is allowed to have his family and this too. He just has to think about how it's all going to fit together.
However, what Shiro says next, leaning down to press his lips to Matt's forehead, suddenly very close and broad and tall and speaking in that low, deep, commanding voice, is enough to make all other thoughts leave Matt's mind – “After dinner, come to my room. I want...” He trails off, but it's enough, because it's exactly what Matt wants too. It's what he'd be happy to take right here and now, but maybe a sterile environment isn't the best one for that sort of thing.
So instead he nods, leaning back against the exam table as Shiro leaves, already missing the warmth and solidity of the other body so close to his. Then again, it is a very nice view, watching Shiro walk away...
Dinner is interminable. It isn't just the fact that the green space goo is slightly overdone (“how can you even TELL?” Lance demands of Keith, who just scowls and pokes at his plate), or the fact that Pidge is especially hovery and concerned about Matt (“seriously, you spent the whole battle puking? Maybe you should go lie down...”) and he can't exactly explain to her that he's busy imagining Shiro shirtless and that's more appetizing than anything even poor Hunk can conjure up.
It's the fact that the aforementioned, tragically-still-shirted Shiro is sitting right beside Matt, calm and composed, not even wincing when chewing pulls slightly at the stitches in his head. He even remembers to prompt gently with his hand on Matt's knee. And on his thigh. And slowly moving up his thigh, squeezing, thumb tracing over the fabric slowly, caressing--
Matt excuses himself early from dinner and makes a beeline to the wing of the castle where most of the bedrooms are. It's a labyrinth of hallways and doors, and he gets turned around once or twice, but that gives him enough time to calm his pounding heart, to find his way to Shiro's room and sit down and think this over, to be relaxed and ready to talk whenever the other young man arrives. At least, that's his intention, sitting on Shiro's bed and breathing deeply and thinking peaceful, non-Shiro-y thoughts.
But apparently that just makes it even worse, because the second Shiro arrives, Matt's up and across the room and on him before the door has even full slid shut behind him. Shiro lets out a sound like an “oof!” crossed with a startled gasp, back hitting the door from the force of Matt's body colliding with his. But his arms go around Matt, and it feels even better than it did in the medbay, likely because it's been so many hours of waiting.
“You're terrible,” Matt informs Shiro, very seriously, in between touching his perfect face and kissing his perfect lips and pressing against his perfect body. “You were teasing me, and you knew you were teasing me and--”
Shiro makes a soft sound of protest, reaching up and gently taking hold of Matt's shoulders, pulling him away enough that they can talk with something resembling calm. “Is...are you mad about that? Because I was...I won't anymore if you don't--”
Matt is much smaller than Shiro, he's skinnier and weaker and honestly the size of Shiro's hands on his shoulders is enough to make his heart hiccup in his chest. He'd never had any sort of reaction to Shiro's size before, had he? Either way, it takes him a moment to catch his breath, to look upwards and bite his already kiss-swollen lower lip and say in a whispery voice he hardly recognizes as his – “I will be mad if you don't let me kiss you again right now.”
Suffice to say, Shiro doesn't stop him again, doesn't do anything except smile and let Matt come back into his arms, runs his fingers through mussed hair and presses his lips to the other's with a sweetness and a hesitance that suggests he's still being as careful as he possibly can, like Matt's something breakable and precious. It's so much, after wanting for so long, and it fills up that dark, broken, frightened place inside Matt that wants to believe he'll never be worth looking or loving ever again. It overflows, it drowns him and he breathes it in hungrily.
They're over on the bed now, Shiro's bed and it's soft and neatly made and it smells like him, and Matt's knees hit the edge of it minutes before but he hasn't stopped turning and breathing in the scent that clings to the sheets and envelops him. He groans, soft and needy, fingers fisting in the blankets and yanking them closer, wanting to wrap up in Shiro's scent and never leave this bed again. Then suddenly there are lips against his neck, soft laughter where his pulse is pounding, and Matt laughs, reaching up to swat at Shiro's shoulder and not very much minding when he misses and pets at his hair instead.
“You like how I smell,” Shiro says, and it's a comment, mumbled against Matt's collarbone, chased by the shivery feeling of tongue against sweat-slick skin, and one shaky hand curls into dark hair.
“Don't you make fun of me,” Matt slurs, glasses shoved up and lost in his mussed hair, shirt untucked so Shiro's hand can slip underneath, undone pants slipping down every time he moves. “You're the one with your m-mouth on my neck.” He gets a hum in place of an apology, and then there are teeth just where his shoulder curves and Matt doesn't think, he just wants more of that, he just fists his hand in Shiro's hair and pulls.
Suddenly things are still, and Matt's propped up on his elbows, already apologizing, letting go as quickly as he can. His pants are down around his knees and Shiro looks disheveled and flushed, and there's guilt creeping into this place, this good, safe, perfect place, and Matt could cry. He very nearly does, breathing shakily, trying to sit up, trying to avoid Shiro's bright eyes.
He's apologizing again – “I'm so sorr--” but it's cut off by the smooth feel of metal on his cheek, metal that moves with a tenderness that's all human, metal thumbing his lip, cupping his chin, pulling him back to be kissed, firmly. Matt can't resist that, can't shy away from that mouth on his, even as he's mumbling sorries into it.
But Shiro is shaking his head, and when he pulls away his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, and he's breathless in a way that has nothing to do with kissing. “Do it again,” he croaks, and there's a vulnerability in his face and in his voice that makes wanting spark in Matt's gut. His hands are shaky when they slide into close-cropped dark hair, feeling around for a moment before he finds a grip and tugs, once.
Shiro moans, and it's filthy, it echoes off the walls and thrums deep in Matt's chest. The younger man sits up, lets go long enough to pull off his shirt, not caring about the scars left on his body by prison and enslavement, not caring about anything except getting his hands back into Shiro's hair and pulling him close again. He's more confident this time, biting his lip in excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning when he hears the Black Paladin whine soft and low.
“You like this.” It's not a question, it's a revelation, and Matt's eyes are bright with something wicked. “You like me pulling your hair. You like me...showing you what to do.”
There's a blush and a shrug, and a hopeful nod, and isn't it just like them, these lost star-struck dizzy boys who've been to hell and back together, isn't it just like them to find so much pleasure in giving control over to the other. Shiro's been there every day, guiding and coaxing and commanding and protecting, and now he's kneeling in front of Matt and asking for the same in return.
And it's the most beautiful thing Matt's ever seen in his entire life. He swallows, flicks his tongue over his lower lip, watches Shiro watch him do it. Then he leans in, hand firm and cradling where dark hair is cut short. “I want...I want you to...” he starts, falters, curls blunt nails against Shiro's scalp to ground himself. “I want you. Tell me what...you want to give me?”
The way it's phrased has Shiro shifting on his knees, another of those groans sounding deep in his chest. He looks blissful in a way Matt's never seen him before, the anxious wrinkles along his forehead smooth, the tension in his jaw completely gone. His eyelashes flutter, thick and dark, smudges against his cheekbones when he swallows tightly, moving his hands to the waist of Matt's pants. “Let me make you feel good?” he manages, hoarsely, a request, moving closer, in between the other's legs.
It'd be very easy to just go right along with this, because that tone and those words are fueling the fire burning low in his stomach, but Matt just bites his lower lip and moves the hand not curled in Shiro's hair to cup his chin, tipping his face up, meeting his eyes. “Say please, baby.”
There's a look, brief and wordless, thanks and relief and gratitude, and it's something miraculous, that Matt can make this man look so freed with just a few words. Then Shiro's closing his eyes, resting against the hand on his chin, hands warm on Matt's hips. “Please.”
Matt kisses him again, once, sweetly, in consent. Then he's leaning back again, bracing himself with one hand, the other resting gently in Shiro's hair, ready to guide again, if he has to. That doesn't seem necessary for the moment, however – Shiro is almost clumsy in his eagerness, getting rid of Matt's clothes, seeming not to care that he's still fully clothed himself. His hands are gentle and worshipful, smoothing over the shivering muscles in the younger man's stomach, brushing gently over the old scar on Matt's left leg.
For a moment Shiro falters, thumb tracing the mark he'd made, the mark that had saved Matt's life, the mark he'd regretting creating for months afterwards. His dark eyes flicker up, something haunted in them, and Matt can already hear the apology. So he cuts it off before it begins, pulling at Shiro's hair again, once, firmly.
“Don't stop,” he whispers, hooking the scarred leg over Shiro's shoulder, urging him closer.
The calm and relief slides back into place, and there are lips on the scar, reverent and brief, before Shiro returns to the task at hand. He's moving back up between Matt's legs, metal hand curling around the top of his thigh, human fingers finally moving to drag down the clinging cotton of borrowed boxer-briefs. Matt almost cries when he finally feels Shiro's mouth on him, soft and wet and warm. His back arches, hips rising to where Shiro is dragging his tongue over hard, hot flesh, and he groans out – “Shiro, please--”
Humming softly, taking Matt in his mouth, Shiro holds him still, pressing his hitching hips down with the warmth of his human hand. He's inexperienced, but not hesitant, closing his eyes and sliding his tongue slow and teasingly over Matt's cock, moving forward steadily and then swallowing. It's so much, it's almost too much, and Matt's toes are curling against Shiro's shoulder, his body is rolling up into Shiro's mouth and he's gasping out, “God, Shiro, so good, good, Shiro, so good.”
The words light something bright in Shiro's pleasure-glazed eyes, and he moves back, lips slippery and red where they're stretched around Matt, soft whimpers vibrating low in this throat every time his hair is tugged at. He has both Matt's legs over his broad shoulders now, one hand working what isn't in his mouth, the other splayed low over the jumping, tensing muscles of Matt's stomach, and he's moving his tongue and lips over Matt's cock like he was born for it, like there's nothing more he wants in the entire world than to be here, between Matt's legs, swallowing him down again and again.
Breathless, achingly hard, wanting to thrust upwards into that perfect slick heat, Matt settles for burying both hands in Shiro's hair, groaning every time that mouth takes him in, whining out how good it feels, how perfect Shiro is, what a good boy he's being, and something about those words, those in particular, make Shiro fall apart. He moves faster, eagerly, gulping and whimpering around Matt's cock, eyes bright and teary, so desperate to please, so hungry for that approval, that guidance, keeping his hands on Matt, even though he's hard in his pants and squeezing his knees together to desperately get some kind of friction.
It's not long enough, it could go on all night, Shiro working him over like this, hopeful and adoring and wanting so badly to be good, but Matt is young and has never, never felt anything like this before, and too quickly his hands are jerking in Shiro's hair and he's whining desperately, bucking his hips up hard, once, twice, letting out a sound that's almost Shiro's name when he comes. That in itself is almost as good as getting to touch himself, and Shiro swallows, groans, watches Matt shiver apart under his hands and mouth, coaxes him through it.
Matt has to pull, hands shaky and clumsy now, all finesse gone, oversensitive in Shiro's mouth, and he laughs hoarsely when the other man seems reluctant to let him go, slowly pulls back and nuzzles at the hollow of his hipbone. There's practically a pout on Shiro's face, and Matt laughs again, fuzzy and relaxed, petting through the hopelessly-mussed dark hair.
“C'mere,” he mumbles, tugging gently at a loose handful of strands. Shiro starts to obey, then grins, crooked and boyish when Matt scowls and tugs at his shirt. Clearly such things are not needed right now. So Shiro pulls his clothes off, leaves them in a pile on the ground, crawls up on the bed next to Matt, ready to fold him up in his arms and let him rest.
But Matt shakes his head, trembling hands sliding down, curling around where Shiro's still hard, scowling again, briefly, when the other man tries to protest, tries to say he doesn't have to, it's fine, don't worry about it. “I want to,” Matt says, soft, firm, stroking over Shiro's cock once, enjoying how his breath hitches at the touch.
Shiro hesitates a moment more, then nods, nudging forward until his forehead is against Matt's, arms tucking around his waist, keeping him as close as he can. He shivers beautifully under Matt's hands, biting his lower lip, eyes squeezing shut as stifled moans ripple through him. The instinct is there to hide his face against Matt's shoulder, to roll his body up into Matt's hand, but there's suddenly warm, slender fingers cupping his chin, keeping his face tilted upwards, amber eyes meeting his wide, glazed grey ones.
“Look at me,” Matt murmurs, stroking his thumb over Shiro's parted lips, keeping his other hand moving quick and firm on the other man's cock. “Look at me when you come.” The words come so easily, words Matt's definitely going to blush over tomorrow morning, but they have Shiro whining pleadingly, hands curling against the other's bare back, nails biting at his skin. He's so close already, close from feeling and tasting and watching Matt come, close from hearing the words of approval, seeing the looks of adoration, and all it takes is lips pressed to his quick and sinful and a soft, “Good boy,” to send him over the edge.
Matt keeps his eyes locked with Shiro's when he finally comes, shivering at the feeling of scratch marks on his back, at how the other man whines his name all throughout his climax, at how all Shiro seems to want to do when he starts coming down is cling onto Matt like a post-orgasmic limpet. He gets a laugh, and a soft mumbled comment about “sticky, hold on,” but the nearest item of discarded clothing is enough clean-up for the moment, and then Shiro is free to cuddle to his heart's content.
It doesn't take long for Matt to start blushing, thinking over his actions and words and hiding his face against Shiro's chest with a soft, mortified sound that's almost a squeak. “Oh my god, I can't believe I did that.”
It's the older man's turn to laugh, warm and pliant as he rests his cheek on Matt's hair. “Which part?” he teases, relaxed in a way he never is anywhere else, smoothing his metal hand up and down Matt's spine. “The part where you pulled my hair and called me baby--”
“Oh my god.”
“-- or the part where I had you in my mouth--”
“Oh my god, stop.”
“--and you called me a good boy and--”
Matt's laughing now, reaching up blindly and smacking his hand at Shiro's face, trying to cover his mouth. “Shhh, it sounds worse when you say it out loud!” he groans, feeling around until he can get his palm over his boyfriend's grinning lips.
...his boyfriend. That's a pair of words that's almost as embarrassingly delightful as having Shiro between his knees. Matt will have to revisit that later. Right now, though, he's leaning back enough to shake his head sleepy and reproachful. “You're terrible,” he says, patting his fingers against Shiro's cheek, keeping his palm firmly where it is.
Another chuckle, and Shiro kisses Matt's hand until he moves it away. “You...enjoyed it though, right?” he says, a faint crease appearing between his brow. “Because I...really liked it. All of it. Which is...not something I expected, but--”
“Shh.” Matt is sleepy still, but he reaches up, rubs his thumb against that crease, leans up to kiss Shiro gently. “I loved it,” he says as firmly as he can with the lax-limbed relaxation that's overtaking him. “You're so good to me, and you're good for me and I loved it and I love--”
He bites it off, hesitant, then shakes his head at himself and stretches up to press his lips to the corner of Shiro's mouth, to his nose, to his chin. “And I love you,” he finishes, softly.
Shiro's answering grin is like the sun on Earth rising, bright and brilliant and impossible to look away from. “Yeah,” he says, tucking Matt up to his chest again, shifting until they're comfortably tangled in the blankets. “Me too. I mean, for you. I mean--”
Matt gives him a fond eyeroll, a lazy kiss on his shoulder. “Tell me in the morning,” he suggests, gently. “Tell me when you tell me to go get breakfast and brush my teeth and remember to floss.” It's a comfort to say it out loud, to remember that Shiro's still going to be there for that part, to keep helping Matt take those steps back towards being human.
Then again, he's never felt more human, more real, more alive than he does in that exact moment.
Shiro settles down, nods with his chin resting gently on Matt's hair, calm and relaxed. However, after a moment, a very important question occurs to him – “Matt? Back in the medbay, when I left...were you looking at my butt while I walked away?”
“Shhh, go to sleep, Shiro.”