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The fire crackles gently. Cricket chirping and the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves accompanies the pop of the wood as it burns. The night sky is a backdrop of twinkling stars, lit at the horizon by the last dying haze of the sun.
Shiro pokes at the fire with a stick. He looks up at the prince sitting across from him, running his fingers along the sharp edge of his sword. Dark hair sweeps into his face, shrouding it in shadow. His skin glows in the warm light of the fire.
Unbidden, he looks up directly at Shiro. His eyes are black in the dark, reflecting pinpoints of light from the flames. There's a darker mark along his cheek—a scar.
"Just ask," he says, voice flat, and Shiro looks away guiltily.
"It isn't my place, your highness," Shiro demurs. The prince scoffs.
"Mercenaries," he answers the unspoken question. "They caught me on the road about a day out from the tower. One thought it'd be funny to turn his dagger into a branding iron."
A burn scar. Shiro winces in sympathy. "I'm sorry."
The prince shrugs. "Nothing for it now."
They fall back into silence, not quite uncomfortable but not easy, either. Shiro stares into the fire, watching the yellow and orange flames twist and flicker and smoke rise. His armor sits beside him, reflecting the light, and he traces his fingers over the metal in aimless patterns.
The prince watches him, dark eyes boring into him. Shiro tries not to fidget beneath his gaze. He searches for words—any words—to break the silence pressing in on him.
"You left," he says. It's not a question. "Ho—why?"
The prince looks away, fingers trailing over his sword.
"Because I realized," he says, "that no one was coming to save me. And I wasn't going to give that place another minute of my life."
Shiro thinks about the empty room, at the tallest point of the tower, in the castle abandoned to time and creatures told of only in tales meant to warn children from adventuring. The floor littered with books and papers and clothes and other material items. The walls draped in fine tapestries. The bed against one wall, sheets mussed from a body sleeping there. The window open, curtains fluttering in the light breeze, and a makeshift rope dangling over the sill.
It was a long, long drop. Shiro had struggled down the side, slipping from foothold to foothold in the stone. He'd nearly fallen twice, blood rushing through his veins as he'd found his grip again and paused to catch his breath and let his heart settle.
Shiro looks at the prince. Quiet strength fills his lean body, muscles faint under his shirt. There's a roughness to him, something wild and dangerous hidden under a delicate face. Something sad, too, worn thin and neglected.
There's something he needs saving from, Shiro thinks, but it wasn't the tower.
"Although," the prince adds after a pause, and he looks up at Shiro, "I guess you did come save me after all."
The smile he offers, small and intimate, nothing more than a quirk of his lips, is soft and sweet, and it makes something in Shiro's chest flutter with warmth.
Shiro ducks his head, an answering smile curling his own lips. "Sorry I was so late, your highness."
"Keith."
Shiro looks up, eyebrows raised. "Pardon?"
The small smile curls into a smirk. He huffs a laugh, husky and rough. "Call me Keith."
Shiro struggles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he searches for words. Finally, he huffs a breath out, shoulders relaxing, and returns the grin. "Keith, then. I'm Shiro."
"Well, Shiro." Keith sets his sword aside and stands. "We've got a long trip ahead. We should get some rest."
He stretches, and his shirt rides up, and Shiro stares at the stripe of pale skin revealed underneath. He looks away, face flushing with shame, when Keith catches his eyes, brow raised and a smirk curling his mouth again, expression taunting.
"Shiro."
Shiro looks up from under his bangs to see Keith holding a hand out to him.
"It gets cold out here at night," Keith says. There's a tease to his voice. "Keep me warm?"
Shiro looks between his outstretched hand, rough with callouses, and his face, open and kind, eyes shimmering in the light of the dying fire.
Shiro reaches out and takes his hand.