Keith
He gets dropped off by the shuttle bus, one of many new faces, crammed together with their boxes, bags, and suitcases, ready to trade their greenness for the burnt orange uniform of Garrison's Finest, the new batch of cadets. They'd been dropped off by proud parents, family; some patting their children on the back, standing tall as the new generation went off to begin a family tradition, others holding back the tears, the fears as the first child leaves the nest. He sits in the back of the bus, waiting them all out, battered duffel holding the seat next to him along with a glare that dared the world to care. The home's car had broken down the night before; one of his teachers (the English teacher who had helped him write his application to Garrison when he had decided to apply, after being told it was the best place to go) had dropped him off, a hurried good-bye before she rushed back to make her first home-room class of the year.
Senior cadets, some grinning and sharing in the newbies' excitement, others trying not to look bored, break the pack up, direct them to their halls, floors, and rooms with an admonition not to be late to the debriefing. Keith wonders how long it could take to move in, but with the amount of baggage some of those around him are lugging, maybe a while. He has a few changes of clothes, uniforms to be provided; it's books that take up most of what space he fills in the duffel, the friends who've gotten him through all the moves, far more than he wants to count. Roofs and places to sleep aren't constants. The pages of typed words that enfold all who fall into their worlds… those are.
He's allocated a room with two other boys, a tawny-headed farm-boy named Kyle Thompson and Harrison Johnson, who hailed from the south and had a drawl thicker than anybody Keith had met. They were arguing over who got which bed when he arrived; he took the one they had obviously designated as the least desirable, which stilled the argument pretty quickly. Harrison tried to get him to talk about himself, where he was from, but caught the hint from his silence fairly quickly. Kyle not so much, but the debriefing saved Keith from snapping at him to shut up. Too many people, too close together for his nerves. A new batch of strangers he needed to get used to; only upper-classmen got their own rooms, and even then there was a lottery. He tries to hang back when they get to the arena, but the press of the crowd (was all of Garrison there?) pushes him forward, surrounded by people he didn't know who pushed, laughed, moved into his space, and set his nerves on fire, the hair on the back of neck standing up. There's something being said about the rest of their lives, Garrison's commitment to its cadets and principles, but he can't hear it over the roar in his ears; then everyone is cheering, and there's some sort of morale activity and he thinks he's going to be sick. When it's finally over and people start moving, he's gone, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the muffled shouts and curses at his behaviour.
He doesn't go back to his room until it's late; Kyle and Harrison are asleep, his schedule on his bed. He stares at it blankly in the half light of the desert moon, sighs, and tries to get some sleep. It doesn't feel like it yet, but surely this would be better than the shuffling from place to place that he'd been going through for years now. Here he was guaranteed his place for so long as his classes lasted, longer if he decided to stay in Garrison housing once he graduated.
It would be better. It would be.
Three days in and the first fight happens. Keith is out the door before Kyle and Harrison know what's up, leaving before their angry retorts will have him saying something he'll regret. He's been here before, knows how it goes. Best thing to do is just get out.
He exits his hall in the lull between last period and dinner, when everyone is either in the library or, when the weather's good, out on the front lawn by the pond that offers the sole bit of green for miles. Garrison's architects left it, the last bit of nature to intrude within their walls; you don't mess with water in the desert. He could go to the mess hall, get an early supper, but he can't stand the thought of being around people right now. So he nicks a sleeping bag from stores (no one's there, it won't be missed; he'll have it back in the morning anyway) and heads away from the mess, the dorms, and classroom buildings, clustered together to keep cadets away from the 'real work' of Garrison's officers and administrators.
On the roof of the admin building huddled against the behemoth of the flight control tower, he spends the night staring at the stars. They spread out, countless pricks of light, more than he's ever seen before. But it's just a taster, he can tell. Out in the desert, he could see more. He stares, holds the promise close, the promise of an expanse so great that it can dwarf everything, make everyone as small as him. So many stars, and he suddenly feels the burning urge to be among them. One day he will, he knows. There have been manned trips to the inner planets for years now, and the first one out to Pluto and its moons had been the subject of fanfare a few years back. Yes, the stars called to him and he silently promised to meet them, stare at their dying light in the bleak expanse of empty space.
Apparently they had shouted loudly enough for someone to report them, because the three are in a junior commander's office the next morning, heads bowed and fingers twitching as they receive the lecture on learning to get along, how if it really does become a problem then accommodations can be made (but that it will go on the record, because nobody wants a morale problem to suddenly pop up in space), and they're shaking their heads, muttering "understood ma'am" in unison. Lecture complete, they're allowed to leave; the junior commander assumes they will make the necessary amends themselves, part of the lesson on social skills that no one teaches. He stares at his feet in the hallway; his fault, he'll try to block them out better next time.
"So…we're good?" Kyle asks awkwardly. He and Harrison nod; good enough, shuffle along.
Classes were a mixed bag, but then again, he'd expected that. He'd been to so many different schools, jolted between classrooms and syllabi, entering lessons halfway through, always catching up. He'd been lucky; he could keep up in a fashion, bright enough to tide him over until hours of homework got him as close to par as he could get. Not all could do so; one of the other problem children, who'd bounced around as much as Keith had, if not more, had been held back a year, then two. Keith hadn't been held back, but his education was lacking in some respects. Couldn't blame the teachers; they had so much to do, so little time; best to focus what energy they had on the kids who could be counted on to stay longer than a year, than a term. Who actually talked to them. Besides, school wasn't really his thing.
What he didn't expect was that he'd enjoy flight basics and flight mechanics as much as he did. For once, he gets it, understands that the metal structuring the planes and hovercraft can only stand so much, that the physics of air and gravity compete with those of propulsion and lift. Put in the context of flight, physics starts to make sense, the mathematical equations that seemed just a pointless exercise in moving numbers around gaining a tangible impact. Because if you move the decimal point one place over, or misplace that constant, things fall apart, fast and explosively.
Kind of like him.
The first time they're allowed in a flight simulator, their instructor warns them that they will fail. "No one passes on the first go, not me, not those illustrious cadets you've all been gossiping about" (he has no idea who she's talking about, but the nervous laughter tells him that he's just out of the loop, like always) "First go is to give you a feel of things. Alright, line up." They'd all flown until the screen flared red, some longer than others. Keith had been at the upper end of the spectrum, left with a pensive look on his face. He actually asked a question when the instructor opened the floor, sims over with, about why the sim had responded the way it had, when the textbooks said it should have done otherwise. Her face brightened, "Well, it's a bit early, but well done on noticing that. I geared it for conditions that are slightly off the ideal that's in the textbook. Unfair, I know," she conceded ruefully as everyone groaned, "But the weather won't wait for you to catch up."
The next week, in the next training sim, he was one of the few who passed, ducking his head at the congratulatory grin he received from the instructor as he left the simulator. "You've got a knack for this," she clapped him on the shoulder, winking before turning the next student. "Keep at it."
He had never felt so accomplished, and while he didn't know, really, how to handle the feeling, he knew he didn't want to let it go.
Shiro
"Oi, Shiro," Sven calls softly, and he turns to see Sven beckoning from the cluster of upper classmen standing to the side of the gym. He joins them, eyebrow raised. Sven points at the first-year class, in the middle of which were four students, separated by the trainer, glaring at each other. Or rather, he noticed on a second go, two glaring at the third, with the fourth grinning behind the two big cadets. "The pair's been picking on the skinny kid the whole class, with the hanger-on jumping in. Clark's had enough; he's letting them go free for all."
"What's your bet Fly-boy?" Lisa asked, eyes appraising the situation in front of them. "Kid with the long hair is the ace they say will break your record, Kogane I think; terrible twosome are Gregor's cousins; not sure who the weasel is." He rolled his eyes at that; Gregor was not his favourite classmate. "We're doing victor and time, closest without going over; everyone gets a day of winner's cleaning detail." With him in, that would make seven; almost a week off. "Put me down for Kogane," he said slowly, noting the way the kid had relaxed, settled into a balanced stance, once Clark gave his ruling. He'd heard about the first-year who was acing all of the flight sims, had been warned by Jansson, who ran the flight classes, that he'd have to watch out soon. "What times have been taken?" Answered under three minutes when Lisa told him three and four. And then Clark was leaving the circle, calling a free-fight that ended once you hit the ground, bets were closed, and everyone settled back to watch.
He was surprised despite himself. The kid was fast, jolting forward to elbow the bigger of Gregor's cousins and forcing him to double-over, wind knocked out. A lock around the bull neck and a twist, and the bigger cadet was on the ground, flat on his back; out. The other cousin was moving by then, shock ceding to anger, but Kogane was already gone, blocking the other's punches, always moving to redirect the force behind them, and sliding in to land his own before he swept the legs out from under the other cadet, sending him crashing to the ground. The weasel—he had to admit that Lisa's moniker fit, despite himself—was faster than the two big cadets, but not nearly fast enough, nor skilled enough. Kogane kicked him towards the crowd of onlookers (in the discussion afterwards, the senior cadets all debated over whether that had been intentional or not; they knew the rumours about the cadet's temper. Most favoured on purpose, while Shiro advocated for giving the kid the benefit of the doubt). The first-years shifted quickly, letting their classmate fall to the ground, winded and wide-eyed. In the stunned silence that followed, Shiro processed Lisa hissing the time.
"And that," Clark said finally, "Is why you never assume that a smaller opponent will be easier to fight than one your size."
Kogane folded his arms, glared at the stunned pair. He ignored the weasel. The first-years started moving again, hushed voices whispering to one another, side glances thrown at the figure in the middle, who ignored them all. The knot of upper classmen started to go back to their training as well, but not before Clark cast a jaundiced eye over them, called Sven over. "You don't need practice fighting bigger opponents," he sighed, turning back to the younger cadet. "But you could work on your form. And you," he raised an eyebrow at Sven, "Have gotten complacent. Drills. Go."
"So glad that isn't me," Lisa confided as she set herself opposite of Shiro. He just snorted; Lisa could hold her own against just about anybody. "By the way, you bastard, you won. Let us know what your schedule is." His answering grin disappeared as she shot forward, the high of victory giving way to the need to concentrate.
He has this habit, where, when it's not freezing outside or, on the rarest of occasions, raining, he makes his way outside in the early hours of morning. Everything's crisp and cool, the desert rocks having released all of the heat they accumulated the day before, and the day-break feels full of potential. Everything's waking up around him, and Shiro likes nothing more than sitting outside on the roof of one of the buildings and watching the sun come up. The sky puts on a show of stained colours while everything settles, still, around him. There's nothing better.
Normally, he takes a spot on the vehicle shed, off to the side, near the exit ramp. But it's under repair, and all the other buildings face the wrong direction, lack a flat roof, or are blocked. He decides to try the old admin building, which is perfect for watching the sun come up, but, to his surprise, someone else is there, sitting with their back pushed against the door into the building. It's the kid from the gym, and while he's normally loathe to share his morning sky-watching (it's the one bit of peace he gets before the day gets crazy), a spark of curiosity pushes him forward.
"Do you mind?" The kid shrugs, doesn't look at him. He notices the sleeping bag. "You spent the night out here? Why?" Notes the tightening of the cadet's shoulders, doesn't flinch under the look he gets. "I don't feel the walls out here," the cadet said quietly, "and I know how to take care of myself," clearly seeing no need to explain himself further. Shiro almost retorts, but he hears the subtle warning and decides to heed it. There's something about Kogane that has him believing his words, that reminds him at the same time of lighter fluid about to hit an open flame. And he remembers the fight, the way Kogane held himself, moved to take out the biggest threat. The cadet's about as social as a rock, but not in the way the computer geeks assigned to the com are. There's something else there, that speaks to experience and that this cadet actually can look after himself. So Shiro just nods, sits where he can watch the sunrise. He wants to ask why Kogane's out here, but gets the impression that another question isn't exactly welcome right now.
After a few minutes, he hears the other shift. Expecting to see Kogane leaving, he turns; instead he catches the cadet staring at the sun, relaxed again, though still watchful.
"It's great, isn't it?" he says softly, returning his gaze to watch the red spread across the sky. There's streaks of purple and gold; never the same twice. "I couldn't believe it the first time I saw a sunset here. There's nothing like this back home." Kogane doesn't say anything, and he can't see the other cadet's expression, but it doesn't matter. The silence is companionable, odd for two who had just met, kind of.
He introduces himself when he stands to leave, smiles when he gets the cadet's full name—Keith Kogane. "I saw you fight the other day," he admits, grins when Kogane raises an eyebrow. "How the hell did you get so fast?" He gets a glimmer of a smile in return and a shrug. "Just am, I guess."
Kogane disappeared to return the sleeping bag, and Shiro found himself thinking about the encounter, wondering whether he'd run into the other cadet again.
His week of winnings spent, it's kind of hard to return to his usual cleaning detail. Those assigned with him laugh, tease him about the bet. One of the engineers, Jean, chides him for not sharing his winnings with Kogane; least you could have done, she tells Shiro, face serious but eyes laughing. Have you met him? another final year scoffs; kid doesn't talk, and when he does, gets in a fight. This year's problem child.
There's always one; when Shiro started, it was a loud-mouthed girl named Sian, hair as red as her temper. She had a devil's streak in her, she'd joke, and took perverse joy in simply disrupting everything. Sven called her Loki's get, invoking the old Norse god of mischief incarnate, and Shiro had to admit that his friend was right despite the fact that he liked Sian, had considered her a friend. He was sure she had her reasons, but she left (on her own or expelled, no one knew) before he could find them out. They're usually angry, the problem kids, shoved towards Garrison in an attempt to 'straighten them out.' He didn't know if it worked, but Kogane had the sullen face and defensive shell that suggested that he, like Sian, had been sent this way to 'instill discipline' in him.
Sian had stolen his first kiss, laughed when he gaped at her. "Not to your liking?" she had teased, eyes dancing in mischief and mirth, as if she had known the answer all along, and nothing had come of it. There were many reasons for it, one being that he felt an inch away from expulsion around her half the time. His nerves and the need to do well, to seek the pleasure of accomplishment (and accolade), to push himself, well, they hadn't partnered well with the Molotov cocktail that bubbled in Sian. Especially then, with the pressure of first-year and the need to prove himself to a new group, and himself. He'd sobered since then, or at least, he hoped so. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to her; never found out, wasn't sure of her last name anymore. Something Irish, or was it Welsh?
On a whim, Shiro stops by Jansson's office after his last class. She's in there, frowning at readouts on her screen, but looks happy to put them to the side when he knocks. He laughs when she asks what brings the fabled Takashi Shirogane to her office, admits to having met the cadet that she claimed would beat his records. Her mouth quirked, face took on a calculating cast. "What do you think?" she asked.
"I think I'm in trouble," he conceded, "But only if he makes it past the first year." She sighs; yes, there is that.
Keith
He finds out sometime later that the Takashi Shirogane he met on the roof of the admin building is the current golden boy of Garrison's fighter pilots. Funny, he seemed too nice to be the favourite. Shrugs it off, not like he'll see him again; he's not high on the list that people like Shirogane socialize with (even if he did socialize). Though, he had been one of the better people Keith had met since he started at Garrison. And he'd never have thought that someone spoken as reverentially as the braggarts did of Shirogane would ever be found watching the sunrise, would speak of it in the way he had. Guess you can never tell.
Things are getting better with Kyle and Harrison. They've figured out that when he doesn't answer their questions, it's not because he's being an asshole, but because he's done talking for the day or because he doesn't have an answer, or at least one that he's comfortable giving. He'd seen Kyle struggling with his flight mech homework, had offered to help as a peace overture. In return Kyle now tutored him through the ethics class all first-years were required to take (turns out foster care didn't exactly prepare one for 'ethics,' which really just seemed to be dancing around the truth and trying not to offend certain people while not giving a rat's ass about the rest. Kyle assured him that wasn't the case, but he was still sceptical). Harrison filched food from the mess whenever he noticed Keith missed a meal. He even started smiling at their jokes, got a stunned stare from them both the first time his caustic wit voiced itself, a thunder of laughter from Harrison once the shock wore off. He tuned out when they talked about home, about their families and the people they missed, hoped were coming for families' weekend; they didn't try to draw him in. That's what the first fight had been about.
He lives for flight sims, finding a confidence in his ability to do something right. Half the time he gets comments on the 'originality' of how he solves the tests the sims pose regarding course corrections, speed, engine problems; he's told he needs to try and stick to the textbook, but since he hasn't crashed or injured anyone in the sim, they're content to let him fly as he will. The sims are great, but he's beginning to yearn for that chance when he'll be out of the sim, in the air. It'll be different, the instructor warned them, but he doesn't care. Something tells him this different will be good, and he's eager to proceed, impatient. But they don't progress to air flights until all are ready, and that likely won't be until after the summer break, months away.
His scores start getting noticed; upper level instructors periodically stop by and watch, cadets know his name, some even from the upper years. He doesn't care, until that day when he beats Shirogane's record (sim-flight, first-year cadets) and suddenly the entire base knows his name and wants to be his best friend, surrounds him in their insincerity.
It takes a week of snapping at people, at taking round-about routes to class and hiding out during meals before all the would-be sycophants get the idea and leave him alone. He's so stressed out that despite the fact that Kyle and Harrison don't ask about it and help hide him, a few days in of his new celebrity he's sleeping outside just to get away from the press of humanity. Shirogane's there in the mornings to watch the sunrise again. Keith bristles the first day it happens, ready to tell him to just fuck off, but Shirogane doesn't say anything other than good morning, sits to one side where he's close enough for any conversation that might happen (but doesn't) but far enough away for Keith to breathe. He isn't sure why, but he has the feeling that the older cadet is doing this on purpose. On the third day of waking up tired and battered, he's so exhausted that he barely acknowledges the greeting. They'll get the idea soon, Shirogane tells him quietly, and leave you alone. Garrison's attention is short, there'll be some new spectacle for them to gawk at. He only nods, hopes that it will be soon.
He doesn't start fights. Sure, he runs his mouth, snipes back when he should stay quiet, so the fights are his fault, but he's never thrown the first punch. Been tempted many times, but he has enough self-control and awareness that if he does that, he's toast. He dances on the edge of a knife enough as it is; throw a punch, and the guillotine comes down, everyone has the opportunity to smile, nod understandingly, though disappointedly of course, and there he'll go, out the door into the waste-basket of rejects and could-have-beens. He won't give them the satisfaction of being right. So hard as it is, he holds his fists at his side, waits for someone else to throw that first punch (and be seen, not that anyone has picked a fight with him in private, in the dark; they're too smart for that, too smart too, to go against him one on one) before he lets his own fists fly. Still gets in trouble, gets assigned more punishment detail that anyone else, but they can't toss him.
Nor do they want to, with flight scores like his. They keep him afloat, but they also invite weighty lectures on his 'potential' and 'attitude' and how the two aren't compatible. The instructors see them as oil and water; he leans towards oil and fire.
So there he sits, sullen and silent, as Commander Wade laces into him, lecturing him on everything from his attitude to his hair to his ability to do anything other than fly or fight. The 'fighter' part of 'fighter pilot' isn't to be taken literally, he's told, the commander's tone patronizing and iron; Garrison's cadets should be able to rein in their tempers. He refrains from pointing out that he didn't start the fight, that the annoying cadet, McClain or something, and his pack of cronies had. It's useless. They know how to make nice; Keith couldn't if his life depended on it. And even if he could, he wouldn't; that was for asshats like McPain.
Finally it comes to an end, and Keith's given his punishment: a week of cleaning duty in the library, supervised by one of the senior cadets, from whom Keith could do a lot worse than picking up some tips on how to conduct himself as a representative of Garrison. His shoulders hunch, but he nods, salutes when dismissed. Just great. A week of lectures awaits.
At the end of his classes for the day, he reports as expected at the main library, asks at the desk and is directed to the back storage room where, to his surprise, is the tall figure of Takashi Shirogane. "No, I'm not here on punishment duty," the older cadet says with a crooked grin at the shock on Keith's face, "This is taking the place of my usual cleaning stints. Hope you know how to dust."
It's a week of dusting and sorting books, cataloguing records that no one has looked at in years, and while the dust has him sneezing up a storm (he's sent to the infirmary for antihistamines, but they can only do so much), the two hours each day that he's to serve out his punishment are some of the best ones of his day. Shirogane doesn't expect him to talk, doesn't talk much himself, though he does hum snatches of music Keith doesn't know now and then. Keith almost asks him why he's being so nice, why he's so patient with the problem child that so many have already written off, but he can't bring himself to hear the answer; it's never good. On the last day though, Shirogane looks at him and smiles in a way that doesn't quite reach his eyes. A sad smile; he's good at recognizing those. The social workers always seemed to wear them around the older kids, the ones they knew they could never place. "Don't let them beat you," Shirogane's saying. "They're jealous and jealousy makes people mean. You're a good pilot; don't let others badger you to where they take that away from you."
He's shocked, stunned at the experience that colours the advice; had Shirogane suffered through some of what Keith was? But why? He knew why he was getting it—angry, broken, everyone's cast off—but couldn't figure out why the other cadet would have. "Thanks," he finally stutters, and Shirogane's face lifts, smiles more broadly. As they leave, he clasps Keith on the shoulder briefly, "If you need anything, you know where to find me. And it's Shiro." Nods, smiles as best he can in his surprise, hears himself saying "Keith then," as Shirogane, Shiro, gives him a quick salute in farewell before they part at the junction of hallways.
He's been showing up more regularly, to the admin building roof to watch the sunset. It's not that he's looking to socialize, but he likes the calm of dawn-break. Shirogane (he's supposed to call him Shiro, does when he talks to him, but finds it hard to think of the older cadet as 'Shiro,' the shortened name too personal, too close) is there somedays, others he's on another roof. Keith hasn't asked, or searched him out. He tells himself he doesn't mind, but on the days when Shirogane's on the admin roof as well, well, those are good ones, and he's a bit shocked when he realizes that he ends up going out only on the days of the week when he knows that Shiro will be on the admin roof. He likes Shiro, finds his presence comforting and challenging at the same time. Shirogane doesn't mind his silence, has answered the odd question about flying that the instructors put off or that he doesn't want to ask them. He would say that Shiro was his friend, if he were anyone else or lived another life. He wants to, he does, but something tight and terrifying holds him back every time.
And because he's a suspicious bastard, he doesn't trust what he's been given. So really, he's not surprised when it finally happens.
It starts off innocuously enough. One of the hot shots from his flight mech class starts running his mouth; the usual favourite of Keith's attitude, this time the flavouring of how his inability to talk to girls (or, Keith thinks silently, dislike of talking at all, but then that wouldn't fit the tale) stems from his lack of actual masculinity, and hence the bad attitude to compensate, with the penchant for picking fights (no, that's you, he fumes, trying to concentrate on his homework; more ethics, which makes this moment oh so perfect). The girls titter, some look over at him as if to appraise his reaction. Harrison had laughed at Keith's face when he told him that the girls thought Keith quite the catch. He hadn't noticed, or cared. Then the pencil tapping starts, off-beat enough to be continually jarring, and when he raises his eyes to glare at his classmate, the other cadet just smirks, apologizes, and then starts drumming his fingers when Keith goes back to his book. His hissed "do you mind?" is met with a lazy grin, triumph. "Free period man, not study hall. Library's down the hall, nerd." He glares; he's not backing down. "Go be an asshole outside," he snaps. "Some of us actually study."
"Manners cadet," comes the drawl, "Your mother should have taught you better." His shoulders tense and a cold pit opens in his gut. He could respond with some comment on how the bully's mother obviously hadn't taught him better, but doesn't, can't; despite the years, the loss is still too painful to stoop that low.
"Arrogant idiots weren't in the etiquette book," he retorts instead, and the cadet is up, sputtering about how a stuck-up little kid like Keith has no right to call him stupid when not everyone gets to grow-up with the privileges that Keith has. He loses it; did this asshole actually think he had grown up being able to fly and talk flight mech with his parents, have special schooling? He's up on his feet as well, and he's dimly aware of people forming a rough circle around them, and the fists are about to go when a firm, accented voice cuts through.
"Attention cadets!" Even the two in the middle obey the command, glaring at one another as they do. Two senior cadets push through, the stripes on their uniforms conveying just how much trouble everyone was in, and Keith felt himself tense as he saw the second. Takashi Shirogane stood behind the big cadet who had yelled, his face expressionless and stern, no indication that he knew anyone involved in the mess before him. The tall, broad-shouldered senior cadet gave Keith and his opponent a passing glance before ordering one of the on-lookers for the story, and he realized with a start that it was the same senior cadet he had been paired off against in weapons a while back. Holgor… something.
"What do you think Shiro?" Snorted but nodded all the same when Shirogane suggested restriction from the mess for the day and separation. "Ja, ok. You heard him; Senior Cadet Shirogane thinks you should have a second chance to behave. So you'll get one. If I even hear a whisper that the two of you have started something, it's a week's latrine duty or whatever I can convince Commander Wade that you need to straighten up." They both wince; Wade was notorious for lectures and escalating punishments. Then it's pack up the things, one junior cadet each to leave with a senior cadet; separate the two, relocation like bears too close to campground trash.
He doesn't say anything, and Shiro doesn't either until they're in hallways that contain no one else. "You shouldn't have responded," he says quietly. No shit Keith thinks, the temper remaining and his back tightening. "You keep this up Keith and even your flight scores won't be able to save you." Clenches his jaw. Yeap, there it is, that goddam, familiar tone of lecture, of one who 'knows better.' He knew it, knew something like this would come. Ignores the protests of friendship, the need to be less extreme in his responses, more forgiving; life wasn't forgiving, why should he be?
Shiro stops, folds his arms. He clearly expects a response. Keith huffs; "I know." But Shirogane only raises an eyebrow, "Do you?" And that's it. His face sets, folds his own arms and settles back on his heels. It's his fighting stance, and while he won't throw a punch (even he knows better than that), the stance is solid, balanced, and comforting. "Actually, yes, I do. Better than you do." Brushes past, doesn't look back; he never does, not because he doesn't care, but because he can't. He misses the shock that rushes over Shiro's, no, Senior Cadet Shirogane's face, ignores his name called out, and just keeps walking. Doesn't hear footsteps behind him, knows that no one is running after him, that he's leaving it all behind.
He shouldn't have responded as he did, he knows it, but couldn't stop himself, couldn't trust the friendship offered. He broke everything; why did he always break everything?
He's a mess afterwards, though he doesn't let anyone see, not that they'd be able to tell; throws himself into flight sims and weapons class, and for those hours of class and absolute focus, he feels like a competent human being. Otherwise it's just a spiral of nerves, emotions, and the bitter laugh of experience telling him he should have known better as he wonders why this time he wishes that he hadn't broken what any normal person would have called friendship.
Shiro
He feels like a fool, standing in the empty hall after Keith leaves, face set, sullen. Rubbing his face in his hands, Shiro sighs, wonders what he should do. What he even can do.
Lisa gives him a look when he asks her advice. "You know you can't save them all." Annoyed, he assure her that he did (neither of them believed him, based on her snort); let him cool off, she suggests, then tell him why you gave him the lecture. "It wasn't a lecture," he protests weakly, and she laughs. "Fly-boy, you can make a 'hello how are you' into a lecture when you're not thinking. I know, you don't mean to, but take pity on us mere mortals." She raises an eyebrow, lips quirk. "You like this kid don't you?" He tries to brush it off, but Lisa knows him too well; they've been friends since first-year flight mechanics, and he knows she and Sven gossip about him when he's not around. She teases him about having a 'thing' for the bad boys, and he rolls his eyes, "Not helping Lisa." She just laughs kindly, clasps him on the shoulder, wishes him luck and tells him not to overthink it. Sven, when the subject comes up, isn't much better; his first piece of advice is to get as far away as possible from the ticking time bomb that is cadet Kogane.
"You just don't like that he almost beat you in weapons," Shiro sighs, wishing he had friends who gave better advice with fewer cutting insights as Sven snorts, "And you have a hero complex and need to save people. The kid can probably take you; who says he needs to be saved? Not all who enter Garrison's doors in orange are meant to leave in green."
He goes back to the admin building the next morning, eschewing his usual place on the vehicle shed; not that he expects Keith will be back so soon, but just in case. As he watches the sunrise, he thinks about what had happened, how Keith had shut down as soon as he had asked if Keith knew what he was doing. He hadn't been thinking; if he had, he would have remembered that first conversation they had, the warning in Keith's tone. He frowns, searching for answers in the colour spreading across the desert sky. None are there, but he keeps looking.
So maybe he does have a bit of a hero complex. So what? His brow creases as Sven's words from the previous day come back. Keith probably could beat him in hand to hand, though he'd like to think that he'd give Keith a good run for his money; give him a few years, and for sure the younger cadet could, no question. But at the same time… that's not all there was to life. And there was something, he couldn't put his finger on it, but something about Keith that made his stupid hero complex come out and mess everything up as it so obviously had.
"Shit," he sighs, leaning his head back against the wall of the roof entrance and closing his eyes. Lisa had been right as well. He did like Keith. And just fucking perfect that he realizes it the day after he ruined everything.
Once each year, the second-years up to fourth go up into space, one at a time. It's part of the training, to accustom the would-be pilots, engineers, and com specialists with the great empty expanse, the void through which some of them will transverse. There are scientists and junior scientists, who form their own cadet stream at Garrison, on the station as well, some eager to share their knowledge of the stars and planets with the cadets, others tired and harried, annoyed to emerge from the work of the mind and their labs.
Shiro's used to the trip now; the first time it had been exhilarating, terrifying as the transport groaned its way out of the atmosphere, headed for the station that orbited the Earth. Most of the class had experienced some sort of air sickness (though how there could be air sickness when there was no air was a subject that vexed Lisa to no end, to this day; Sven attributed it to nerves).
As he waits with Lisa and Sven for their turn to run the test flight in the small ship, he stares out at the stars. He never tires of watching them up here; he could spend the whole trip watching their light, wondering what their home galaxies and systems are like. Most are dead, he knows that, but what a show their dying puts out. Stories, reaching out from eons past, the pale, momentary accompaniment to the daily cycle of the sun; a single death to the daily death of the great star that dictates the fortunes of the Terran system. Not really a death, more of a departure, return rather than rebirth. A promise that must be kept, that the warm light of dawn will echo out again, heat the ground and fuel new growth.
Then it's their go, and the three are in the ship and Shiro focuses on the job at hand. Perfect scores when they return, not that anyone's surprised (Lisa asked if he'd been replaced by a robot, or been turned into a cyborg; laughing, he promised that she'd be the first to know if he ever did gain robotic body parts). He is surprised though, to see who's watching the tests when they leave the docking bay. There are a few admirals, some higher officers as well. They hadn't been there the previous years, but then again, why bother? Final year was what counted; those who got there could be counted on to remain, to hold steady in the friction of Garrison's rules and the yearn to explore that drew so many young cadets to Garrison's halls. They salute the officers, and Shiro moves to the side when beckoned over; Lisa and Sven leave, dismissed.
"Senior Cadet Shirogane is a service to our fighter pilot programme," the space flight instructor is saying as he introduces Shiro to the admiral and commanders who turned away from the view screen with the next flight. "We have high hopes for him." He salutes, says that he hopes to meet their expectations, gets the noncommittal I'm sure you will murmur from one of the commanders. There's some questions on his plans after graduation, where he hopes to be placed; space division is his answer, though he's happy to serve where Garrison thinks he's best needed.
"A bit of both, perhaps," one of the commanders says thoughtfully, eyes appraising. "Cadets look up to you." He doesn't know what to say, nods, "Ma'am."
When he makes his way back to where he thought Lisa and Sven would be waiting, he thinks about the interchange. Might not be such a bad thing to be kept at Garrison, though he hoped that he wouldn't be there all the time. Eyes go back to the stars, wonder at their secrets.
What was out there?
It's been almost two weeks, and he knows Keith is avoiding the admin building. The mess is so crazy that it's hard to find anybody in it, let alone someone whose super power seems to be fading into the background. Plus he doesn't really want to go up to Keith in public; he knows gossip tends to follow him around, and he's made his peace with it. But based on Keith's reaction to his brief bit of accolade (he heard about the verbal fights through the grapevine, had seen the emotional strain for himself), it wasn't something the younger cadet was likely to ever be comfortable with, or welcome when it came his way, for whatever reason.
So when he sees Keith studying in an empty corner of the library, brow furrowed in concentration, he figures this is his best chance to apologize and he might as well take it lest it also be his last. He's not sure what to say, but he knows that he feels bad about how things had gone and he misses Keith's mostly-silent presence during his morning sky watching. He doesn't even think about what might be; asking Keith to forgive him enough so that they might be friends is enough. He doesn't know a lot about Keith, but he does know that whatever happens, it will happen at the other's pace, not his.
"Hey," he says quietly, "You have a minute?" Keith looks up; his eyes narrow, but he nods. "I wanted to apologize," he continues, looking down and feeling awkward for towering over Keith, who remained seated on the floor, but he also knows sitting down is assuming a level of familiarity that won't go over well right now. "I didn't mean to lecture, and I shouldn't have, but I kind of did. And I'm sorry." He feels foolish and is sure he sounds it, but Keith nods, gives a quiet thanks.
He's not sure what else to say, notes the books and papers strewn around Keith. "Flight dynamics?" Keith nods, "Yeah, test tomorrow."
"Good luck with it," and he takes his leave, doesn't see Keith stare at his back pensively, confusion peeking through before he sighs and returns to his notes.
He feels better about things once it's over with, curious as well as to what will happen. He expects not much, though he hopes he'll start seeing Keith again in the mornings. Shiro sometimes still sits on the roof of the vehicle shed, but he's begun preferring the admin building. It's quieter for longer in the mornings and has a better view. There's other reasons too, but he's not letting himself think about them right now.
Space flight has them all reviewing their flights from earlier, their second-to-last non-sim space flight before graduation. His tour is up on the screen as the model case, earning eye rolls from some students and gasps of feigned shock from others which transfer over into friendly laughter. He's used to it by now, but he can't wait until he's just another pilot. There must be several, loads, as good as he is out there. Sure, he's the best cadet pilot in years, but there must be others who reached their peak after the heightened environment of cadet school, when meeting and exceeding the standards was your job, not a cause for accolade. Once he's out, in their ranks, he'll fade back into the background, one of the good ones, maybe even one of the best, but no longer the best. It'll be a nice change. He's tired of being the star (not that he'll complain, no never; so many more have it worse than him. He has no right to complain), tired of constantly being appraised, held to standards that are not always clear and trying to figure out how to meet them.
The instructor's going through all the flight, clips of stellar moments and of less than ideal ones too, read-outs from the ships' computers for them to analyze and discuss. And as they do so, he tries to turn his mind back from its dreams of the future, of when things will be different, when he can learn how to fade into the background a bit himself.
Keith
It's nice to be outside in the early morning again; maybe he had gotten more used to this than he had thought. But he feels awkward as hell walking up to the admin building. Shiro's there, staring calmly at the sun's show. He smiles when Keith shows, waves aside the question of whether he could join. He sits, silence settles over them as they watch the sun rise, still until the need to say something about why that had happened presses against him, urgent and needing to get out. He doesn't often get this feeling (fortunately, because it's annoying and terrifying), but he knows he needs to heed it.
"I don't like lectures," he blurts out, starting mid-thought, blushes when he realizes that Shiro probably has no idea what he's talking about. After a momentary confused look, he gets a snort and wry smile in response. "I kind of figured." Shiro's voice is kind, but it doesn't stop the blush from spreading. Yeah, it had been pretty obvious.
"I'm sorry I blew up," he adds after a minute, and Shiro accepts the apology, tells him not to worry about it, but something still isn't sitting right. He pulls his knees up, worries his bottom lip as red spreads, stains the sand touched by the sun. (Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.) Sighs, frustrated at the fact that his mouth can never seem to form the words that his brain requires.
"I've been kicked out of three schools," Keith begins softly, trying to release the need to explain his behaviour. He doesn't know how; it's not something he does usually, explain himself. "More after school programmes than I want to count." Pauses. "More homes too." Smiles weakly at the look on Shiro's face, the question that sits there but isn't being asked. "Foster care. Didn't work out too well." He sighs, rolls his shoulders, tries to relax now that he has an idea of where he's going. "So I know exactly how to get myself kicked out. It's one of the few things I do know, that and how to get into fights." Shiro sighs; doesn't doubt the first, though he will argue over the second. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for" is all Shiro says at the look Keith gives him. Maybe.
"I'm sorry I doubted you earlier," Shiro continues, "I shouldn't have." Now it's his turn to accept the apology, again, wave aside the concern. His anger had burned out a day or so after the mini-lecture, but he hadn't trusted anything enough to let Shiro know. He probably should have, on reflection. Probably should tell Shiro now, but he doesn't really know what to say, how to explain the fact that no one's ever been around long enough for him to figure out how friendship works. Sure, he had friends when he was a kid, before everything, but it's different when you're seven than when you're seventeen.
After the first big fight with Harrison and Kyle the whole mess had been pushed to the side, covered under the rug of 'are we good?' He's not sure what else to say, but doesn't feel like that is right. 'Are we good' feels like a patch, a cover up, uneasily tacked over pieces from disparate puzzle sets to force them into a configuration none of them really fit. He wants to be done with this fight, but isn't sure how.
It's Shiro who ends up breaking the silence, moving them forward, as he asks how the exam went. He shrugs, feeling the tension leave his body at the change of subject and unfurls as he answers. Alright; grades in a few days, so they'll know then. "We're getting a new instructor today for sims though," he adds. "Iversson, I think." Shiro nods, says he remembers when Iversson took the first class for his year-group.
"He does it on and off first-year, takes over for second and third," he says. Then gives Keith a wry look. "Heads up. He's a stickler for the rules." Keith groans, mutters how that's just fantastic under his breath, and Shiro laughs. But it's kind, warm with amusement shared between friends and so Keith just smiles ruefully in concession, doesn't mind it at all.
They're silent until they have to leave, make breakfast before morning classes, but it's a companionable silence, relaxed and warm in the chill of the desert dawn. "See you around?" he asks tentatively as they're about to go their separate ways.
"Yeah." Shiro grins, slow, like he had also been unsure of how this would go, happy that this is the way things had turned. "See you around Keith."
When Iversson enters the room Keith knows he's in for it. There's comments on how 'inventive' answers are all well and good, but the textbook is not to be disregarded and was written for a reason. "Tried and tested!" the big man booms out, and while everyone is staring forward, knowing that they must hang on to these words, he can feel their eyes dart over to him, back to Iversson, sidle over again. He tries not to shrink into his seat, back ramrod straight and shoulders tense out of expectation. Waiting for his name to be called, for the hints at who had caused the commander's ire to raise to become actual words, understandable and in the open. But it never happens, and after a few more minutes of lecture, Iversson moves on.
He does try to follow the textbook in the sim. He really does, but the textbook demands steps which are unnecessary for a single pilot (and would be for a pilot plus crew, if his classmates were halfway competent) and is far too cautious. Keith's figured out how to read the sim, how it simulates the shakes of a jet when there's wind turbulence, or when he's pushing it to the point of engine arrest or wing decompression. The rest of the class hasn't; they need to follow the textbook, why should he be held back by them?
"When I run sims," Iversson tells him, voice a low, you-will-listen timbre, "The required take-off and landing steps will be followed, as will flight parameters. Understood?" Yes sir, of course sir (three bags full sir), salute and be dismissed. Not a question, that last bit, but a warning. Jansson gives him a sympathetic look, commends him on his scores and hands him a white ticket.
"Inventiveness aside," she says, eyes smiling, "the commander agrees that you can be relied not to break anything or injure yourself. This will allow you into the sims, so long as there's not a class running and there's someone on duty to run the programme." Eyebrow raises with the suggestion to start his practice by becoming familiar with Garrison standards for flight and course corrections. He nods, takes the white ticket; manages not to roll his eyes. This is a gift, and he knows better than to do anything to squander it.
Kyle drags him out later for a game of basketball. He's not great at getting the ball in the hoop, but he's hard to catch (like a greased pig, one of Kyle's friends complains good-naturedly at the end of the game) and he can pass just fine. He gets a clap on the back from Kyle and the other guy on their team, who grins, says Keith can join anytime, so long as it's on his team. And old joke it seems, for Kyle and the others just laugh as he smiles crookedly, sharing in the mirth.
He tries out his new pass later the next evening, gets waved through by a bored tech attendant. "You're cleared for basic levels," he's told as the programme is booted up. "Any weird readings, and I shut her down. Got it? Good. Enjoy." Back to his magazine, and Keith settles into the silence of the sim, the soft hum of the computers and mechanical parts. The tech's warning and the previous day's lesson still ringing in his ears has him going through standard procedures, intending to get it closer to the point where they become the natural choice. He gets bored fast, turns his attention to how far he can push those standard procedures and still remain within the textbook's parameters. He's still working on it when he leaves, mind turning over equations and constants, what wind force might do to the problem he had set himself. Not exactly what he had set out to do, but so much more interesting.
Shiro grins, congratulates him when Keith tells him of the pass a few days later. He asks what Keith's tried so far, tells about when he got the sim shut down on him for 'weird readings' and looks a little sheepish before he laughs that the tech just hits the button to kill the programme when something beeps at him. Before he knows it, Keith's drawn in, soaking in the enthusiasm Shiro gives off and sharing his own. He's animated, talking more than he has in a while, eyes bright as he tries to explain, hands moving the air when he can't get the right words, what flying means to him. Shiro nods, smiles, doesn't need them to be said; he gets it too.
They have to run to make first period, the bustle at the entrance to the admin building loud enough to disrupt them before the bell rings. Keith barely makes it, sliding into his desk right as the start of class blares its wakening across Garrison, start of the official day, all in order, time to go. He doesn't mind though, doesn't see the side-long glances thrown his way, the instructor's raised eyebrow (it's ethics; there had been bets as to whether he'd show, when it was getting close. Kyle alone bet that Keith would show on time and cleaned up for it. He shared his winnings later that night with Keith and Harrison, something Keith found immensely amusing).
He doesn't know why Takashi Shirogane decided that Keith was worth having as a friend, but he's never been happier to have his cynicism proven wrong.
He's out of sorts still in the next morning from what happened, what's been happening, in study hall. Every. Freaking. Time.
"What have the clouds done to you?" Shiro's voice, laced with amusement, breaks him out of his frustrated thoughts, his frowning at the sky which was covered in the heavy purple clouds that even the sun's brilliance couldn't penetrate. Monsoon season, the locals called it, that brief period in the year when rain could be relied on, when the ponderous rain clouds eked their way across the desert through the day, releasing their load late afternoon when they just couldn't bear the heat anymore. Early this year.
He sighs, shakes his head. Asks if Shiro ever had a classmate that he just wanted to kick out a window, which gets a laugh and a shake of the head; "None so bad," he tells Keith. "Maybe I have a better class than you." Or just me he thinks, but doesn't say anything. Frowns, tries to articulate what it is that gets him so. Thing is, it's something different every time and there's no rhyme or reason to what it'll be, or why it's happening.
"Who has the time to keep thinking these things up?" he complains, knows he's starting mid-thought again, but he's too agitated to slow down, go back, and besides, the past few times this has happened, Shiro's been able to catch up, so he doesn't (really) worry about it anymore. "Last time he was tapping his pencil to that horrible fight song. And in between, he's always bragging about everything." He huffs at the amused expression on Shiro's face. "Really. If you made falling on your face a competition, he'd claim to be the best." Mutters the other cadet's name when Shiro asks—Lance McClain—adding "more like McPain" to the end, which causes Shiro to snort, fight to hold back a laugh. He shoots a side glare Shiro's way, but his heart isn't in it, and soon he snorts as well, sighs, leans back. He's not going to ever understand his classmate's behaviour; might as well make his peace with it.
Shiro thinks 'McPain' is hilarious, which has him kind of embarrassed (it's just a dumb name); he tells Keith about his friend Lisa, who thinks up the worst-slash-best nicknames: 'Fly-Boy' for him (now Keith's turn to snort), 'Thor' for Sven since he's tall and Norwegian and should be blonde. "McPain's not so bad," Shiro grins, "Plus points for the pun." Keith just rolls his eyes and shoves Shiro, earning himself another laugh. (Almost two years later, Shiro will remember this conversation, finally put two and two together, and burst out laughing when he sees Keith and Lance squabbling. When everyone demands what's so funny, Keith'll remember the nickname, pale, shake his head furiously behind their backs. Shiro won't tell, still finds 'McPain' more hilarious than Keith does; he will, however, refuse to comment on the validity of the moniker.)
Later when he's got his head buried in a flight manual, he hears Harrison casually ask where he goes in the mornings. "Didn't notice at first, cause you're so sneaky-quiet," he continues, not caring that Keith hasn't acknowledged him, "But it's pretty regular now and I've noticed. You meeting a girl?" Nothing; keeps reading. "Dude then?" Keith's pretty sure the jerk of his shoulders doesn't mean anything, but Harrison obviously thinks differently.
"Told you!" he grins, tossing his pillow at Kyle, who chooses that moment to start paying attention. Keith frowns, tries to immerse himself back in his textbook, but his concentration's snapped. "Told you he was meeting someone!" Gives up, sighs and glares at Harrison, who just grins disarmingly when Keith demands if they've been talking about him.
"Roommates, man," he explains, Kyle nodding in the background. "We're allowed to gossip. It makes up for having to share this tiny box with strangers. And speaking of which," gives Keith a serious, admonitory look. "You have seriously been letting us down. Kyle and me have no one to gossip with about each other, and you get boring fast."
"Good," he deadpans. "And that's not how gossip works."
Harrison just laughs. "So this guy you're meeting?" He rolls his eyes, turns back to his books. "Just a friend Harrison, lay off."
"Uh-huh." Not convinced, either of them. "I always meet my friends in the early morning," from Harrison, "If he just a friend, what's his name?" from Kyle. Doesn't respond to either, trying to push down the nerves raising from the fact that their teasing is actually making him think about what his friendship with Shiro means, what he wants it to be, what it can't be.
"His ears are turning red!" Slaps his hands over them as Harrison crows, looks at them pleadingly. "Please, can we stop?" Harrison's chortling still, but he nods; Kyle does as well, a little more sympathetically.
It's quiet in the dorm after that, and eventually he gets his head back in place, but it takes a while, his thoughts running everywhere, mostly in a light panic. The familiar pages of equations and would-be cases, to be learned and internalized, reach out to comfort, but they can't fully erase an old ache, a wish to feel a hand in his.
Shiro
There's a knot of first-years huddled in the corner of the mess, whispering furiously to one another. Lisa saunters over beside him, follows his gaze. Your cadet's gotten into a mess again, she says softly. He gives her a look, halts the complaint when he sees her face. "Bad?" he asks her, gets the unhelpful answer of "well, half of the Sci-fi twerps are taking his side, so however bad that is. Careful Fly-boy," and she's off.
The first-years gape at him when he asks if they know where cadet Kogane is, accept the gloss of flight training. No one knows, not even the one introduced as Keith's roommate. He thanks them and leaves, no big deal, the cadet will show up or he won't. By the time he makes it to the end of the mess, he's heard a bit more, from a loud-voice of a cadet exclaiming over Keith's behaviour, from arguments over whether the other cadets had gone too far in their accusations. No one really seems to know what happened; those involved aren't sharing, but then, no one expects science cadets to share much with the pilots and engineers.
Keith's in a corner of the admin building, risking being found by those who linger, working late. Hunched over, knees drawn in: a gargoyle's posture, tilted back, protecting Keith instead of the building on which he might have perched. There's a tiredness in the set of his face, still, not moving, a mask, even, to cover whatever's going on below the surface.
His query of "you ok?" gets a shrug; Keith doesn't even turn away from his regard of the first rays of sunset.
Laughter erupts from below, giggles and the sound of feet on stairs. His ears heat up; when he had been a first-year, rumour had it that the admin roof was a favourite spot for couples. Looks like it was true, though less popular now perhaps. Grabs Keith's arm and hauls him towards the fire escape, gets him out of sight, ignores the glare he gets for his trouble.
"C'mon," he says when they land on the ground. "I've got an idea." Keith gives him a look when Shiro turns him towards the vehicle shed, but stays quiet. His shoulders are hunched and a defensive glower settles around him. Wait here, he tells Keith, leaving him on the edge of the shed, on the side secluded from the rest of Garrison's complex. Keith just nods, fades into the shadows. He's good at it, disappearing into the background.
When he calls Keith over to where the bikes wait, he doesn't miss the glint of anticipation that disrupts the emotionless mask, and he grins. "You've ridden one around Garrison, right?" Keith nods, settling onto the seat of one of the hover-bikes. "You know the basics then; watch out for wind when we get out there, don't take it too fast." Keith rolls his eyes at that, and he bites back the laugh. And then they're off, Keith following his lead and then, sooner than he expected, though he should have known better, Keith's up beside him, matching his speed through the desert corridors, spaces marked by the upward thrust of the rocks and buttes.
He can see Keith relax, immerse himself in the flight of the bike, and he smiles to himself, grins in response when Keith looks over, eyes bright, grinning in the force of the wind. Shiro's a good pilot, one of the best, part talent, mostly a focus that drove his practice to the point of praise. But Keith, he can tell, will blow him out of the water one day, soon. He's seen Keith in flight sims, knows that when Keith gets his hands on an actual plane, the thing will sing in his hands. He's got good instincts, knows how to read the feel of the metal and machine surrounding him. Look at them now—a few runs around Garrison, and then, faster than a snap of the fingers, and Keith's driving the bike like he's been doing it for years.
A sudden, sharp gust of wind kicks up, forcing Shiro to fight to keep the bike's balance as he shouts a warning to Keith. But Keith lets the wind take him and the bike, throwing his weight to shift the bike's centre of balance so that, as Shiro's heart jumps into his throat, images of explaining himself to his superiors flashing past his eyes, the bike flips, landing roughly, but still upright. Keith's eyes are bright as he laughs, and Shiro realises that this is the first time he's heard Keith actually laugh, without anything tainting it. And much as he would give anything (the thought gives him pause later) to hear it again, he can't take another almost-heart attack. "If you're going to show off," he admonishes, grinning weakly in relief that Keith hadn't crashed, "maybe try something a little less spectacular?"
Keith just grins, mischief dancing across his face, in response: "I make no promises I can't keep." Rolling his eyes, Shiro kicks his bike into gear, takes off, teases Keith that he'd better keep up.
They stop in one of the wind-cut breaks in the rocks, the dying sun staining the ground red, leeching the colours from their uniforms as it draws the last of its light back. Keith's looking pensive again, adrenaline of the ride fading in the memory of whatever had happened, staring at the maze of rock and gully that stretches out before them.
"More jealous classmates?" Shiro asks quietly, carefully. But Keith shakes his head, says quietly "Third-year, one of the science cadets. Ruined some big experiment; wasn't looking where I was going, ran into him." My fault, so quiet it may have just been whispered to the wind, implications on the breeze.
And that's all there is to it, or at least, as far as Keith is concerned. Shiro frowns. There's something different about Keith's tone, usually he's not so quick to admit fault. He's learned not to push when Keith clams up, but he does anyway, notes the way Keith's shoulders hunch in, defensive, how he looks over at the bikes. Remembers how Keith had said he knew how to get kicked out and start fights, refused to accept that he could do something else.
"That pass you got from Jansson?" Keith looks over, confused but nods. "Means you can do more than get yourself into trouble. You've got skill Keith, you can fly like no one else I've seen. And I've flown 'prentice to some of the best."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Smiles, grips Keith's shoulder and gives it a little shake before letting go. Perhaps lingers longer than he should, than he would have if it had been anyone else. Means that Keith needs to have more confidence in himself, he says, that sometimes, regardless of what others say, it isn't his fault when things go wrong.
"C'mon," he says a while later. "Race you back." Keith snorts, but grins crookedly, asks if Shiro's ready to be beaten by a first-year. As if, but all the same, Shiro barely makes it back before Keith does.
He's started looking forward to dawn, even on days when the air is cold and the weather miserable. Keith's a regular now as well, showing up every day, even on the weekends. Shiro's the infernal optimist, Keith teased; he's just a normal morning person. "I don't think anyone would classify morning people as normal," Shiro retorted, earning a bark of laughter from Keith, a concession to the point.
Finals are coming up, and Shiro's pacing the halls, tiger-nerves showing in the face of the last hurdle. Lisa and Sven tossed him out, ostensibly so they could study; they had their own way to lose the nerves, and really, if he hears you'll be fine one more time, he's going to murder someone and there goes his golden reputation. Murder, even in the face of finals, generally doesn't go over too well. Before he came to Garrison, he'd spent hours alternating between taking his bike out to the fields behind his neighbourhood, studying, and losing himself in the bright lights of his game consol. Curfew had him constrained, so here he was, pacing, deciding to head for the gym, punch the bag for a while until he calmed enough to review procedures, mechanics, and physics equations one more time.
"You do know the bag is already dead, don't you?" Keith's voice breaks him out of his focus, has him look up to see wry amusement light Keith's eyes.
"Big test tomorrow," he sighs, stills the bag. "Nerves." The expected reassurance never comes, Keith just nods, admits to hating tests as well. Snorts when Shiro asks how he deals with them; how else? Running until exhausted enough to sleep. Keith pauses, asks tentatively if Shiro would like a sparring partner.
"You don't mind?" It would be better than the bag, and Keith will give him a good run, guaranteed. Keith smiles wryly, "Our year-finals are in a couple of weeks. You can return the favour then." He grins; it's a deal.
Keith's as fast as he remembers, moving with a liquid grace and a general disregard of fighting styles and traditions that would be praised and lamented respectively. It's a flurry of punches, jabs, and kicks—his carrying more force, Keith's blocks aiming to use that force against him, set him off balance—and then he's able to toss Keith, jump out of the way as Keith's feet lash out. Grins as Keith demands to know how he did it, pauses to let his heart rate slow before he goes through the steps, exams forgotten for the moment, attention turned to the lesson, to the intent focus Keith directs at him. One more go once Keith has the throw down, harder now that Keith has figured out Shiro's reach. Eventually though he manages to catch Keith, pin him, end the match. As they stand, separate, a fire ghosts over his skin; the lingering thrill of adrenaline, surely.
"So tell me," Shiro asks as they walk laps around the gym, cool down. "Was I better than Sven?" Keith chokes back a laugh, grins and nods. "Well that's good," he blows out a ragged sigh, grins himself. "Sven's kicked my ass enough times over the years; at least I beat him in this." That gets a laugh out of Keith, a conspiratorial "better tell him then."
Keith shrugs noncommittedly when Shiro thanks him, a faint blush rising. "It's nothing. 'Sides," rolls his shoulders, shrugs one in a manner that Shiro has come to identify as Keith's uncomfortableness at being thanked at all, "I needed the challenge." Classmates not much of one, and Clark was getting tired of interceding in the fights that still happened on occasion. There was talk of moving him to another class, though with class schedules being what they were, it wouldn't be until after the year-finals.
"Good to know I'm still ahead of you in something," he teases, gets shoved towards the mirrored wall in return. "You think you could slow down in your flight classes?" This time he dodges the punch, laughs as Keith rolls his eyes, grins, relaxed in a way Shiro has rarely seen. That Keith never is around others, in large groups, and something warms curls around his chest, catches in the back of his throat that he gets to see this side of Keith.
"Thanks again Keith," he says as they head out. "I mean it; it's a big help with these damn nerves." Keith ducks his head, "anytime" coming from behind his long hair. Shiro smiles, offers to spar if Keith wants, even once the year-finals pass. "Thanks," Keith says, pauses at the junction that will bear them to their separate destinations. "And good luck tomorrow. Try not to set too high a record."
He laughs, feels some of his exam nerves dissipate, promises not to. Returns the mock salute as Keith turns away, heads back to his room and his books. Another hour, then he'll try and get some sleep… Last set of exams. Last ones, then he's free of these tests and hoops.
He can't wait.
It's the tail end of the year, graduation's here and the final years are standing a little taller, nervous-excited in the face of what the new uniform will mean. The first years just look glad to have survived, some talking excitedly about the return home for the few weeks they'll have off, friends to see again. Those in-between alternate between awe and jealousy at the senior cadets, finally 'adults,' 'grown-up,' and relief that they, like the first years, could enjoy a summer that didn't involve first assignments, new duties and responsibilities. His parents arrive today, for graduation, and he finds himself smiling in anticipation.
His exams had gone fine, top scores, more eye rolls and gossip, congratulations and high fives. Had managed not to punch Sven when his friend made an off-hand comment about his late night training sessions; he'd admit to them, but there was no way to do it and effectively deny the innuendo hiding in Sven's tone. Turns out Keith was just as bad as him before exams, maybe worse: he'd had years of figuring out his exam nerves, far as he could tell this was the first time Keith had cared enough about something to get them. Had just hated tests before, the jumping to someone else's tune, the judging implied and actual, that exams meant. In the last few days before the first-year's finals, Keith had started bringing his books with him in the morning, accepting Shiro's offer to quiz him as a study aide without comment or protest. Shiro wasn't sure if that said more about Keith's nerves before the exams or the level of their friendship. But Keith had passed as well, flying colours in all flight classes and weapons, good in the others. His strong grades had surprised him, earned an I told you so from Shiro (which earned him a punch in the arm).
If someone had set a picture of Keith from the beginning of the year against him now, it would have been hard to see, but Shiro could have told you the difference. Keith stood straighter, his shoulders back instead of hunched forward. A picture now would have him meeting your eyes; that one from the first day of cadet school would have shown a young man who refused to hold a gaze, hard to pick out of a crowd because he reflected attention away from himself. Keith could still disappear at whim, but his default now was to stand his own in the crowd. Shiro would have said it was because Keith finally trusted that he could do things other than fight and get kicked out, that he was talented, smart, able to hold his own. Had someone asked Keith, had he considered answering, he would have said perhaps because someone had finally thought him worthwhile to have around, worth weathering the storms for. Two sides, one coin.
Suddenly Shiro's waving, excited and green again as he sees his parents. Only child, son, leaving had been hard; his father had had hopes that Shiro would follow him, one more Shirogane in the world of white shirts, ties, and pressed slacks. Hadn't protested though, when Garrison came up, just asked if Shiro was sure, support ever since. Tears when he left, blinked back furiously by his mother; over-brimming pride now, two days before the ceremony when Senior Cadet Shirogane becomes pilot, junior officer.
They talk of nonconsequentials, gossip from home, from his parents' work. He hears about his school friends, those who still live in the neighbourhood, and he answers the questions about Sven and Lisa (Please tell me they've finally gotten together, his mother demanded, dimpled when he said yes, then sighed; long time coming, that), about the other people he's named or they've met. Keith comes up briefly, wiggles away from that topic, and then, speak of the devil, they run into Keith hiding (loitering, had it been anyone else) in the shadows of the buildings.
Brief introductions, his mother's "Oh, so nice to finally have a face to put to the name" has his ears burning, Keith torn between looking for an exit and wanting to punch Shiro. Parents. Mothers, really.
Keith's quiet reply that he's remaining at Garrison over the summer break has a quick look pass between his parents, a follow-up question about what he's doing for dinner; Keith's panicked look betrays him. "You were going to skip, weren't you?" Shiro teases, knowing full well that the mess hall would be full of cadets and their families right now. The muttered denial dissuades no one, and Keith, looking a little shell-shocked, suddenly finds himself included in their dinner plans. His protests have no effect.
"You are far too skinny to skip a meal," Shiro's mother tells Keith firmly, "Now come; you need to eat something that can be classified as real food." Shiro rolls his eyes; his mother never let him forget that complaint from first-year.
Shiro answers Keith's whispered "If I promised to get dinner from the kitchen?" with a shake of his head, a wry chuckle, "Won't work. It won't be so bad, plus this will be a far better dinner than whatever the mess is putting out."
Talk at dinner moves towards his parents' jobs again, the neighbours. Questions about what Shiro will be doing now that he's graduated, speculation about what being a fighter pilot will be like. Keith's quiet, but listens intently. Shiro wonders fleetingly when the last time Keith sat at a dinner table like this, but lets it go, knows not to ask. So instead he mentions that Keith has already beaten one of his records, rest are in danger. Keith's blush flares in his parents' congratulations, his father's mock-relief that someone's finally taken his son down a peg. They all laugh, Keith grinning after a moment, joining in on the mirth.
At the end of the meal, when Keith has relaxed as much as he's going to, Shiro sees his mother eye his friend pensively.
"Do your hands get beat up by these weapons classes you all have to take?" She smiles kindly at Keith's shocked face. "I'm a nurse and a mother of a son who saw fit to test my patience and skills," Shiro blushes, Keith snorts, holds in the laughter, "I notice these things." Tells Keith that there are a couple pairs of old compression gloves of Shiro's lying around, still good; she'll mail them to Shiro, Keith can keep whichever pair fits. Waves away Keith's stammered thanks, then forces them to order dessert while she abstains; only coffee for her, cakes for the boys.
"I felt like the kids in Hansel and Gretal," Keith admitted the next day, "Though your mom seems nicer than the witch." Shiro bursts out laughing, both at the comparison and Keith's still shocked face.
"I'm pretty sure she doesn't know how to make gingerbread," he grins. "She tells everyone they're too skinny; it's a mom thing."
"I'll take your word for it," Keith sighs, and Shiro feels his stomach drop at the shadow falling on Keith's face.
"You don't have to say," he begins quietly after a moment, "but how old were you?"
"Week before I turned eight," Keith's voice is tight, but there's nothing defensive in his posture. "Birthday's been a sore spot ever since." There something behind that statement, but Shiro doesn't know how to excavate it, bring it out to the open. Doesn't know what to say either, just reaches out to grip Keith's shoulder, give what silent comfort he can. Keith looks over, smiles softly through the old pain reflecting in his eyes, and Shiro knows that he doesn't need to say anything. A few moments after he lets go, Keith looks over again, a smile unshadowed this time.
"Thanks for including me."
"Anytime," Shiro says, intent, serious. Then grins, teasing, "Can't have you wasting away, you're already too skinny."
Keith rolls his eyes, "Ass," he retorts, shoving Shiro towards the wall. But he's smiling and his eyes are dancing.
A/N: Originally published on ao3 under the same title. This is probably all going to go out the window with the new season, but oh well.
