"This is your captain speaking. We are beginning our final approach into Boston, the weather looks clear and the skyline is beautiful. For all of those returning, welcome home and for those of you visiting, we hope you enjoy your stay in our northeastern paradise. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the descent."
Keith snorted at the pilot's chipper voice, a small thought in his head wondering how the man could still sound so enthusiastic on a flight that was inevitably the last leg of many hours of work. Pressing his forehead to the cool plastic wall of the airplane, Keith surveyed the twinkling lights of the city, smiling at their ability to mimic the stars above them.
Thirty cities in seventy-two days was the plan and Keith was staring down at city number thirteen. Lucky number thirteen, he had said, teasing Allura about her bizarre superstition around the number. They never booked hotel rooms on the thirteenth floor and Allura refused to fly on the date as well. There were times that it created a logistical nightmare, but she had done so much for Keith that he couldn't really deny her this one request (no matter how ridiculous he found it to be.)
Next to him the sounds of snores made him raise an eyebrow, moving his gaze from night sky to the sleeping man next to him. Why Coran had insisted on being part of this tour was beyond Keith, as was Coran's ability to fall asleep on any flight without a care as to the duration of their time spent in the air. Across the aisle, Allura remained focused on her laptop, eyes narrowed and fingers pausing only for brief seconds before tapping away at the keys again. Keith smiled when she looked up at him, only one side of his mouth involved in the gesture, and then returned his concentration to the approaching cityscape.
Wispy clouds hung outside his window, appearing like suspended cotton balls as the plane cut through the darkened blue of the sky. He tried to commit the color to memory, attempting in vain to form the exact sentence he would use to describe its appearance. Failing on his third attempt, he concentrated on the way the lights of the city's buildings illuminated the lines of civilization, again trying to craft a description in his mind to accurately capture what his eyes were seeing. Crumpling his mental paper and tossing it into the trash can that had become the back of his mind, Keith sighed and sank further back into his seat, eyes trained to the ceiling and feeling unworthy of seeing such a beautiful sight as Boston rising to meet them as they descended from their place in the sky.
He had produced six novels in three years, each more celebrated than the last and the first set to transform to a movie within the upcoming year. He had woven tales of space warriors, defenders of the universe, and love found and lost. Keith had built a world that sometimes felt more real than his life, a tangible place he could escape to when reality seemed unbearable. He crafted characters who made people fall in love with them, root for them, and hope for them. Every sentence became another quote to be stitched on a pillow or used as a Twitter tagline.
Keith had created an empire that was being touted as the greatest story ever told. Reviewers called it inspirational, fans called it their reason to live, and Keith called it the single most terrifying decision he had ever made. A world that had only ever existed in his mind was now a part of so many other people's dreams and he didn't want to let any of them down. They deserved to know the rest of the story, they deserved to know if their heroes would live happily ever after, and they deserved the answers to all their questions and speculations which had set Tumblr on fire for years. The world wanted to know how the story ended.
Unfortunately, despite being the captain at the helm of the ship, Keith still didn't know where it was supposed to go. Groaning under his breath, Keith closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to unsuccessfully will away another round of self-doubt and introspective interrogation.
The first book had started out as a way to exorcise his feelings of being left behind. Everyone had a person in their past who had slipped through their fingers, everyone had decisions that they wish they would have made differently, and everyone had moments they wished they could relive so they could choose the other option. Keith knew that inventing time travel was currently out of the question, so he used his first book to explore all his roads not traveled, disguising the pain of those decisions behind aliens, intergalactic wars, and sentinel robots.
Never in a million years did he think his self-edited, self-published little space pilots novel would spark the interest that it did. Two months after its debut on Amazon, Keith was fielding phone calls from publishers and agents alike. They wanted to know if the story was going to continue and how many books he planned to write. They asked about his goals for his publication times and his thoughts on total word count. Mostly they asked how much it would cost to claim a piece of the publishing action for themselves.
Keith had ignored or turned down every request to absorb his novel from a self-published social media phenomenon into a highly-marketed first book in a major series. He didn't care for the pushy attitudes or for the know-it-all demeanors of the people on the other end of the phone, so he settled into writing his second book without stopping to consider the benefits the needy, nasally morons could offer him. He had been determined to continue on his own, exactly as he had always been.
Allura had managed to change his mind. Glancing sideways again, he watched as she frowned at her screen, picking her phone up from its place on her lap with her eyes flicking between the devices. He supposed she was working on schedules or promotions, but he was happy to let her continue to handle that part of their business without his input. She always knew exactly what he wanted anyway and he was grateful that he never felt the need to intervene in her plans for his life.
It hadn't been the easiest relationship to start. Smirking, Keith remembered the day she showed up on his doorstep, blatant disdain for his shabby shack written across her dust streaked face. No one who ventured into the desert could avoid a relationship with the dust and Keith bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing at the memory of Allura's defiant stance despite the wind and dirt whipping through her long hair. She had demanded that he speak to her about "properly publishing his book" and he had refused without even opening his front door. A week later, when she had appeared on his porch every single day with the same level-headed opinion, Keith had finally cracked and let her in.
The rest was history, he supposed, and now he sat in the first-class seat headed for another destination in his fifth book tour. Allura had booked his first tour, after securing a contract with a publishing firm for his second book that had enough zeros to make his eyes bug out of his head. Keith never really needed many material things and most of the money had been tucked into the bank, but Allura's belief in his inherent value still staggered him. She told him he was worth it, even when he argued that he wasn't, and merely lifted his pen-holding hand and placed it over the dotted line. There had only ever been one other person who had believed in Keith so intrinsically but thinking of him made Keith's heart hurt and his wall of writer's block gain another inch in height.
Pushing the painful memories into the mental heaps of discarded descriptions and failed plot lines, he attempted to focus on the future, on the friends he had now and not the one he had let slip away.
Coran was odd at worst and caring at his best and always seemed to have Keith's best interests in mind. Allura was insistent that Keith have a stylist, as she had deemed most of his earlier fashion statements to be outright attacks on the eyes on his fans. Coran had come storming into Keith's life with a whirlwind of color and instead of making Keith into someone he wasn't, Coran taught Keith how to embrace all of the edgy, loner aspects of his personality and make them work as Keith's own personal brand. He was crazy, but as Keith eyed the fluttering hairs of Coran's mustache, he couldn't help feeling the deep-rooted gratitude for the man's stubbornness and willingness to care for Keith, even when Keith was being purposefully difficult. Coran wanted Keith to be the best, but he also wanted Keith to believe he already was.
Allura had the same determination to constantly push Keith to want more. It had been Allura who had procured the opportunity for all of his subsequent books to release to an insane level of fanfare and for the first movie in the series to become a reality. She had confirmed that Keith would have ultimate veto in casting and rewrites of the screenplay, cementing her place as the protector of Keith's creative vision. She was as pretty as a desert flower, but underneath she was all cunning steel and Keith appreciated every second of her existence in his life.
Except, possibly, when she was hounding him about the production of book number seven.
Like everyone else, Allura and Coran wanted to know how the story would end and if the heroes would ever find the love they deserved. Keith had carefully kept his readers on the edge of hoping for more romance and terrified that romance would only lead to heartache. He enjoyed the teeter totter that he had let them balance on for six books and wasn't sure he was ready to let the decision fall in one direction or the other. He was also absolutely too chicken-shit scared to admit that his heart was the part making the decision, not his brain.
He knew how the story ended in real life. One hero staying behind, left to wonder if he had only dared to speak his truth would the other have stayed. The other hero who was stronger, wiser, and older, dared to follow his dreams, naïve to what he was leaving behind due to the other's sacrifice. They weren't destined to be together, no matter how much Keith wanted that to be untrue.
His work was that of fiction though, so Keith hadn't stopped himself from wondering if this was his way to heal. If he gave his heroes the happy ending that he surrendered, would it be unfair to the spirit of the story or would it be a way for Keith's heart to finally stitch itself back together after years of drifting in torn pieces within his chest.
Again, he found himself without an answer to any of his own questions, his eyes squeezing shut as the thoughts began to bang against his head. The decision had to be made and the story had to end, if only Keith was brave enough to let it happen.
As the plane touched down and Keith followed the other weary passengers from the confined internal quarters, he pushed the thoughts of his open-ended life and painfully cliff-hangered story to the back of his mind, content to let them sprawl among the other mounds of mental waste which accumulated there.
The thirteenth city out of thirty. Maybe here Keith would find inspiration. Maybe in the midst of the busy streets of Boston, Keith would finally find the strength to make his decision.
Maybe, just maybe, it would be this time that Keith would finally be able to let go.
"I have intel."
A familiar store mailer slapped down in between Shiro's bent elbows, the breeze it created causing the hair at the top of his head to flutter. Cautiously, Shiro sat down his coffee cup, sparing only the smallest of looks for his roommate and friend. Flicking the paper open, Shiro felt his eyes go wide as he attempted to school the rest of his expression into something appearing like disinterest. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" His acting was abysmal, his voice pitching an octave higher as soon as he read the headline.
"Yeah, ok, if you don't see the big ad saying that none other than your lover boy will be appearing at my sister's book store, then I really don't know how to help you, you troll." Picking the paper up again, Matt swatted the back of Shiro's head. "Here," he proclaimed, whacking Shiro several times in rapid succession, "maybe I can smack the stupid out of you."
Dodging Matt's swinging paper, Shiro reached up and grabbed his friend's folded weapon, dropping it on the dining room table. A gorgeous picture of Keith caught Shiro's eye and he stopped moving, halting his movements suddenly enough to leave Matt snickering. Ignoring whatever comments were flying from his friend's sarcastic mouth, Shiro pulled the paper closer, his heart tripping over itself as he took in all the details of Keith's shy smile.
He remembered this smile, as clearly as he remembered all the other smiles that Keith had hidden from everyone but Shiro. He could still recall the sound of Keith's laugh and the way his quick wit could pierce holes in the toughest of bullies. Letting a finger trail over the line of Keith's shoulder, Shiro admired the way that Keith seemed to have grown into his own. Even in two-dimensional form, Keith sparkled and Shiro felt the weight of his regret lumping together with the heavy implication of Matt's current line of speech.
"He does this thing where he visits smaller bookstores before and after his big readings in each city." Pausing, Matt rolled his eyes at Shiro's raised eyebrow. "Yeah, okay I know you know that. ANYWAY… I emailed him months ago about Pidge's store, but judging by the response I got, he doesn't answer his own emails. Still, his people or… whatever… agreed to book a signing at her place and because I love you and want you to be indebted to me forever, I got you a ticket." Matt laid the shiny black and red paper over Shiro's prosthetic hand before flopping back into his own seat. "You're number ten in line because my sister probably thinks it's funny in some way to make you wait. Maybe between now and tomorrow night, you can think of a way to say all the things to him that you normally ramble about only when drunk."
"I hate you," Shiro groaned, although he neither meant it nor felt it. He knew that Matt had endured his increasingly circular thoughts about Keith and all the things that Shiro had regrettably left unsaid five years prior. Matt had done so with only a minimal amount of bitching and for that Shiro was grateful. He also accurately aware that this was Matt's way of pushing him into action and for that he was undecided on his level of gratitude.
Five years was a lot of time. Shiro reached for the ticket that Matt had carefully balanced on his metal knuckles, placing it on the table as he watched his prosthetic hand flex into a nervous fist. He wasn't the same man who had left Texas, who had walked away from a life he knew to chase a life of collegiate mysteries unknown. Now he sported scars he wouldn't talk about, an arm that still felt alien at times, and dark memories which fought for real estate against the happier remembrances that Shiro desperately clung to. At one time he had prided himself as being someone people could look up to, but now he was happier when no one looked at him at all.
"I'm not ready," Shiro said out loud, his chest aching with the weight of so much more than that simple statement.
"You'll never be ready." Matt spoke bluntly, as he always did, reaching across the table to nudge the paper closer to Shiro. "But aren't you tired of living with the ghosts of chances you didn't take?" Patting Shiro on the shoulder, Matt left him to sit alone at the table with his thoughts.
"What if he doesn't want to see me?" Shiro asked to the empty space around him. Five years ago, Keith had let him walk away. Shiro wanted to remember sadness in Keith's smile on that day but he could never decide if it was real or if his mind had invented the emotion to mirror Shiro's own feelings. He had started to cry the minute his dirt bike had taken him out of Keith's sight, only getting ahold of himself before he parked his cherished ride for a final time outside of his own house. That had been the last time he had seen Keith and Shiro could still recall with perfect clarity the pain he carried in his chest as he settled into the passenger seat next to Adam with Matt chattering away in the backseat.
College had proven to be an adventure Shiro wasn't expecting and in the aftermath of his break up with Adam, he had made decisions he wasn't proud of. One of them had led to the massive damage to his own body and the arm that, while no longer foreign, was never going to be an organic part of him. He had wondered if everyone from home would have heard about his accident, if they would have speculated about his broken heart and pondered about all the ways in which Shiro had failed. As an act of self-preservation he had refused to become a part of any social media network and therefore he had no confirmation if anyone even cared.
He often found himself wondering if Keith cared.
In the end he convinced himself that if Keith had known about any of it, his former best friend would have shown up in Boston determined to tear Adam into jerk-sized pieces. It was easier on Shiro's heart to believe that Keith was as unattached to the world at large as Shiro was, instead of letting the alternative possibility that Keith didn't care about Shiro's well-being take up space in his mind. The small, wishful, undying hope in him wanted to believe that Keith would care, that even after Shiro had left to follow his own dreams that Keith would have wanted to know that Shiro was alright.
That tiny piece of hope had only grown larger since the first time Shiro had picked up a copy of K. Kogane's debut novel.
The book had been a gift from Pidge. Wrapped in the cheerful dressings of Christmas paper, Pidge had presented it to him with a knowing smile, wishing him a merry Christmas before throwing an oversized package into Matt's lap and making her brother groan with pain. Shiro's hands had started shaking as soon as he spied the name scrolled in red at the bottom of the cover, his brain stuttering in place like the hands of a broken clock.
He had finished the entire book in a matter of hours, accepting his scolding from Matt's mom about reading at the dinner table with a sheepish smile while keeping the book tucked in his lap. Every word had spoken directly to his own memories, each painted with the fresh brush strokes of Keith's point of view. Every chapter had breathed new life into Shiro's own desires to relive his past.
He was positive, even though he had no right to be, that the main characters Keith was lovingly destroying in each installment of his series were created in the images of the two of them. He had lamented over this fact, to the point of dragging the tolerant Holts into playing his game of guessing what Keith's intentions were. Every one of his borrowed family members agreed with Shiro's analysis and had grown increasingly exasperated with Shiro's unwillingness to do anything about it.
What they couldn't understand was that Shiro was also positive he was no longer the man Keith was portraying him to be. Keith's hero was strong, resilient, loving, and supportive of everyone around him. Shiro was broken, a man fated to live with the ragged remains of his own idiotic decisions. He may have a good job and own a house which was big enough for him and Matt to share, but Shiro wasn't a hero by any means. He wasn't living up to the fictional character who shared his name and he wasn't sure he could bear to see Keith's disappointment in the difference.
"I can hear you thinking from here!" Matt called from kitchen making Shiro grimace. Reappearing as if called as a crusader to combat the deadliest parts of Shiro's mind, Matt leaned on the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm mad that I had to come back in here after that epic one-liner I left on." Cocking an eyebrow at Shiro's snort, Matt shook his head. "Let's make a deal."
Not looking up, Shiro nodded his head. His heart fluttered at the words, remembering how liberally they had used the challenge as teenagers and how often Shiro had made the same offer to the very man who was standing at the front and center of his mind. Keith didn't socialize, Shiro didn't take chances, but somehow they had used their game to force each other out of their comfort zones. Now Matt was dragging the words directly from their past to challenge Shiro to face all the things that he hadn't managed to leave there.
"I'll go with you. If you see his face and your heart doesn't immediately start doing somersaults in your chest, we'll leave."
Matt's eyes were narrowed when Shiro managed to look up at him. Opening his mouth, Shiro's protest was interrupted when Matt held up a hand.
"When you see his face, and your knees go weak and I have to keep your big ass from melting into a pile of goo on the ground, you'll stand in line. You'll ask for an autograph and you will ask him to get a drink with you afterwards." Matt's voice was stern, even with the hint of teasing in his statement. His hand appeared in front of Shiro's face, fingers wiggling in time with his eyebrows. "Deal?"
Feeling the familiar thrum of challenge vibrating through him, Shiro swallowed and lifted his own hand. Gripping Matt's hand in a slightly harder than necessary shake, Shiro said the only word he could get passed the anxious lump in his throat.
"Deal."