Trigger Warning: Unintentional outing in this chapter.

CHAPTER SEVEN

That night, I fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. Then, for the first time in a year, I woke well before my alarm and, yawning, crawled out of bed and into the shower. But as I washed up and dressed, my mind started to swirl with images from the night before—of Keith, right beside me on that boulder; Keith, brow furrowed as he pulled cactus needles from my palm; Keith, his lips molding to a piece of meat as he tugged it from a skewer with his teeth. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight, and his cheeks and ears were tinted—from the evening chill or my gaze?

"Get a grip, Ría," I croaked, slamming my forehead into the wall beside the door.

The whole wall shook, and the impact stung bad enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I needed to cool my jets. Nothing like that—the eye contact, the blurry surroundings, the tingling—had ever happened to me before, and I'd already known I was a whole lot of desperate even before he'd decided to give me the time of day. I had to play this cool; if I came on too strong, I was either going to spook Keith or creep him the hell out.

I whimpered as I pulled back, rubbing my forehead. Ouch. Keith was probably going to be in the cafeteria that morning—what was I supposed to do? In the shows I'd watched, the women had put on a show of acting uninterested after a first meeting. But I'd hated all that playing hard-to-get, cat and mouse crap. Not only was it dishonest—they wanted the attention—but it sometimes had the intended effect. Sometimes, the other person thought they didn't like them.

What would happen if I just played it by ear? If I just tried to act calm, to be normal? If I just let things go how they were going to go and didn't try to force things? Would things continue like this? With the personal stories and the delicious silences and him gazing at me, only at me?

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. I'd already given myself a headache, and the day was only just beginning.

It was still early when I finally walked into the cafeteria. A few stragglers from the night shift were clinging to the coffee maker like shambling zombies, but otherwise, it was quiet. I didn't see Keith—nor anyone else I recognized—as I entered, but as I headed for the fridges, I heard a voice behind me.

"Hey."

I jumped, nearly leaping out of my skin. Where had Keith been hiding? Behind the door or something? My heart began to thud against my ribs, and I took a deep breath to steady myself before I turned to face him.

"Hey," I said.

He was wearing his suit again. His bangs were hanging in his eyes like usual, but his long hair was tied back in a small ponytail at the nape of his neck—it looked nice. I watched as his eyes flickered back and forth like they had on the rooftop. Like he was searching for something on my face. What was it?

I gave him a small, restrained smile, and to my surprise, he returned it. We stood staring at each other for what seemed like eons, and eventually—unfortunately—the eye contact started to get to me. I looked away, fidgeting with the hem of my uniform jacket, and tipped my head toward the fridges. Keith nodded.

"You're up early," he said.

"Am I?"

I knew I was, but I wanted to know why he thought so. I reached into the fridge and pulled out today's sandwich—ham and cheese, by the looks of it. Tasty. I was beginning to get used to this new routine—the lack of chicken strips was no longer irking me so much. But then again, I was also eating sandwiches for every meal. Something would eventually have to give, and I hope it didn't do so in a way that was too destructive.

"You're usually here at 5:15," Keith said. "It's 4:45."

I paused, hand stretched out toward a bottle of orange juice, cold sandwich cradled in my hand. Huh? Had he been… watching me? It seemed like a misunderstanding, but he'd literally just given me an exact time. Was I wrong? I had to be wrong, right?

"I—I wasn't following you," Keith stuttered, looking away with both eyebrows raised.

Okay, maybe not wrong, I thought, taking in the frightened puppy look. Keith reached into the fridge and picked up a yogurt, then, hands fumbling, put it back and grabbed an apple from the counter. Then, he grabbed an orange juice himself, almost dropping that, too. I turned away to hide that smile that rose to my face.

Jeez, he was awkward. Not that I had any room to talk, but…

It was really, really cute, and it made Keith seem a lot less scary. I exhaled, feeling my shoulders relax.

"You were just here already," I helped out, voice tinged with amusement, even to my own ears. "Right?"

"Yeah," he said, the breastplate of his suit rising and falling as he breathed.

I smiled.

"You're the one who's up early, then," I said.

I started toward the checkout with my juice and sandwich, and he followed behind. We split into the two registers, as we had a few days before. But this time, I turned to look at him over my shoulder.

"So," I said. "You're a Blade?"

The Blades of Marmora were a Galran contingent—before the war's end, they'd been the Alien empire's rebel faction. A secret underground network of spies that worked hard behind the scenes to make sure Zarkon, their dictator, always had a thorn in his heel. Now, they were a humanitarian aid group, but until a year ago, they'd still only accepted Galra into their ranks. But somehow, Keith wore an officer's colors, despite lacking the fuzzy purple skin, yellow eye whites, and sometimes, fuzzy feline-like ears and tail that made some Galrans stand out.

I wanted to ask him about it. He'd told me bits of his story—the shack with his father, the beans, and I could infer he'd attended this Garrison—but I thirsted for more. But, how in the hell was I supposed to ask? And, wasn't it weird to ask a person to tell you their story?

"Yeah," Keith said, glancing down at his shiny, sci-fantasy hero uniform.

I leaned toward him over the metal railing that separated the two registers, grinning a wide, mischievous smile.

"Did you forget what you're wearing?" I whispered.

"Nope," he said.

His answering grin was thin-lipped and blade sharp, with a wicked confidence that put mine to shame. Lighting quick, he reached across the gap and tapped his card against my machine. My eyes widened, and I stared helplessly as it spat out a receipt, informing me how many credits had been paid by one "Keith Kogane." Kogane?

"H-hey," I stuttered.

It seemed impossible, but his grin grew wider as his eyes took in my dismay. Pleased with himself, he turned and started towards the tables, and I followed behind. I was so shocked I was nearly stunned, and I almost bumped into the edge of the first table as we passed it, heading for the table in the back where I sat every day.

Had that seriously just happened? My head spun as I sagged down into the chair across from him. Did he seriously just pay for my food? It was such… a boy thing. They paid for things, they took control, and they solved problems—I knew that. A considerable amount of my extended family were boys, and most, if not all of them, seemed to have those traits in common. I'd just assumed it was part of the gender divide.

But, even so, I'd never had a boy act this way towards me. No boy—at least, no boys who weren't related to me—had ever paid for my food, and definitely not sneaky like that, and…

I stilled, staring at him.

…and not flirty like that, either. All my male peers had done was make sure I knew that everyone—they always used that word: everyone—thought I was repulsive. It was ridiculous—no group of people ever thought the same thing—and maybe… Maybe, all my years without a partner were my own fault. Maybe, I shouldn't have believed something so obviously untrue, so exaggerated, so stupid.

You deserved it.

Keith stared back at me, his smile fading.

"You okay?" He asked, quirking a brow.

"Yeah," I said, picking up my sandwich and unwrapping it. My thoughts bubbled up, falling from my mouth as I stared at the layers of ham and cheese between the bread. "It's just that no one's ever done that before—pay for my food, I mean. It took me by surprise."

His shoulders sank, and I felt a pang in my chest. He'd done something nice, and I was rewarding him with what, melancholy musings on how deprived I was? At that moment, I wished I were someone else so I could drag myself out back and beat some sense into myself. Keep your eyes on the present, Rí. Nobody wants to listen to you do a postmortem on your childhood.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"Should I stop?"

It was a direct question, and appreciation reverberated through me as my answer came to me without any need to decode or translate. I smiled at Keith, and his eyes flickered over my face again. Am I doing alright? They asked. Did I do the right thing? I understood it, even though I hadn't immediately recognized it in someone else.

"No," I said, my voice softening. "Thank you, Keith."

I ate my sandwich, and he ate his apple, and as we did, we drank our orange juice and talked. Our conversation resembled the one we'd had the night before—statements about ourselves passed awkwardly back and forth, like neither of us really knew how to transition from one idea to the next. But it was comfortable, and eating with him felt almost normal.

"So, they started you out on fighters?" I asked, taking a sip of my orange juice.

"Yeah—I was a fighter pilot," he said, a small, proud smile curling his lips.

"Me too," I said. "Until they pulled me for the Jarvis program."

He tipped his head back and took a gulp of juice, and I watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"You any good?" He asked when he finished.

"Somewhat. I'm better at punching people and smashing stuff to bits, though."

That was why they'd moved me to the Jarvis program—because they'd gotten the impression that I'd do better in a less delicate role. And one that didn't require so much advanced math, which I was abysmally bad at doing on the fly—a turn of events that sometimes spelled the death of a fledgling pilot's career.

Time passed quickly, and people were starting to file into the cafeteria. Some of them shot us curious looks from the corner of their eyes, but Keith didn't seem to notice. He chuckled, tearing little bits off the label of his juice bottle.

"Me too," He said.

"You get in fights?"

He stilled, glancing at the man with slicked back hair, who'd come to sit nearby, two sandwiches, a juice, and a yogurt on his tray. The guy was thoroughly focused on unwrapping his food and didn't seem to notice us staring at him, and I turned back to Keith, sticking out a thumb in his direction.

"Him?" I asked, lowering my voice.

"Yeah," Keith looked down, his fingers working tirelessly at his juice's label.

"He reminds me of Diamond."

He looked up at me, a brow arched.

"Who?"

"Diamond," I said. "Er—Clarke, my old squad leader. It was always chain of command this, orders that, blah blah, blah," I rolled my eyes, and Keith smiled. "We called him Diamond because his arse was more pressurized than a diamond mine. He was one slip of discipline away from a natural disaster."

"So essentially," The guy said, and we turned to look at him. "You were insubordinate."

Silence stretched, him staring at us and us staring at him. I turned slowly back to Keith, and he looked at me, eyes narrowed in apprehension.

"Diamond 2.0," I said.

Keith let out a snort, ducking his head, and a wide smile split my face. The guy with the slicked-back hair made a sour face, and from the way he looked at Keith, I could tell he was going to take the brunt of my joke and not me. My brows pulled down over my eyes.

"It's James," Diamond 2.0 said. "Griffon."

I stood and tugged on the sleeve of Keith's suit, and he looked up at me, his face relaxed. His dark eyes were big—bigger even than mine, maybe, and without the dark shadows beneath them. I smiled at him.

"Diamond 2.0's catchier," I said, then, quieter: "C'mon, Keith."

He got up, collecting the curls of his juice label and dumping them in the trash as we left the cafeteria, slipping out in the hallway and leaving Diamond 2.0—who was probably just a decent guy in the wrong place at the wrong time—behind.

"Sorry," I said, looking over at Keith as we walked. "He's probably going to take my bullshite out on you now."

"Nothing new," Keith said, almost dismissively.

Then, his voice went quiet—so quiet I had to strain my ears to hear him.

"You going to be here at lunch?"

My shoulders sank, but not in disappointment. A smile rose, and I let it blossom across my face. Keith wanted to talk some more? To spend more time with me?

"Yeah," I said, even though I didn't typically eat lunch. "Meet you here?"

Keith's eyes widened.

"Yeah," he said.

In the hangar, as I was packing up to meet Keith for lunch, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I slipped it from my pocket, tapping my phone twice to wake the screen. It lit up, and my eyes fell upon my wallpaper—a picture of a clear sky—and a single Twitter notification.

I furrowed my brow. Who could it possibly be? I hadn't given my handle to anyone here—yet—and my former squad mates rarely messaged me at all and never on the penultimate hellsite. I tapped the notification, but my phone had restarted that morning and asked me for my passcode instead of opening the message.

"I'm off," I called to Dr. McKay as I left, and she gave me a brief wave before turning back to the group of Galra she was talking to.

Starting down the hallway, I typed in my passcode—3434—and then froze. A new direct message window had opened up, and in the corner was Rizavi's smiling face, along with a blue bubble that said: Diamond?

Crap. That's right; Keith's former bully was one of her friends, not to mention one of her squad mates. I winced, pulling at the bottom of the screen in hopes of another message. But, there was none—it simply sling-shotted back to that one, almost accusing message. I flicked the keyboard open and began to type.

Bleu Bees said:
Sorry. Got talking to Keith about our cadet days and got carried away.

I went to slide my phone back into my pocket, but it buzzed again.

Rizavi said:
Yeah, about that,

A gray bubble with three dots popped up, signaling that she was typing. I sighed. There were two things she could do—pursue me about calling her friend a nasty name, or pursue me about hanging out with Keith. I started walking towards the cafeteria again, wondering which one she'd choose.

"Hey," Keith said, offering me a smile as I approached.

He was leaning against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankle and his fingers meshed together in front of him. I smiled back, and in my pocket, my phone dinged—but I ignored it.

"What'd they have you doing today?" I asked as we walked into the cafeteria together.

"Top secret."

"Okay," I said. "What didn't they have you doing today?"

"Top secret," he repeated, giving me another of those wicked grins.

My heart fluttered. I faked a pout, but it wasn't very good—I couldn't keep myself from smiling. With a chuckle, Keith reached into the fridge, grabbed two orange juices, and then handed one to me. I hesitated. His hand was wrapped firmly around the bottle, and as I slowly reached out and took it from him, his gloved fingers brushed mine. Was it just me, or had he engineered that?

Maybe he wasn't so shy after all.

"You aren't eating?" I asked.

His eyes slid away from mine, and he leaned back.

"Don't eat lunch."

"Me neither," I said. "So, we're both here for no reason, huh?"

We were at the registers, and he bit his lip as he turned away to scan his juice.

"Seems like," he said.

This time, I knew his attack was coming. I threw my hand out, batting his card away from my machine, then thrust mine out into the gap. Keith's eyes narrowed, and he parried my card with his. It scraped my finger, and I yelped, my card dropping from my hands and pinwheeling away under the counter.

"2-0," Keith said triumphantly, tapping his card on my machine.

"No!" I complained, picking my card up off the floor and slapping it against the screen of his register.

But it was no good—he'd already paid for his own juice, and my late attempts to claim victory only caused him to smile wider.

"Give it up, Miller," he said, walking backward and pulling on the hood of his suit. "I won."

"No," I said. "You poked me—penalty box for you."

His laugh was sudden, loud, and dangerously intoxicating.

"What the heck?"

We sat down at the table, and my phone beeped again, vibrating against the chair. Frowning, I pulled it out of my pocket. Two messages—both on Twitter and both from Rizavi. The first was a hulking, leaning paragraph on the small screen, and I skipped over it. I didn't want to give Keith the wrong idea. But, my eyes froze on the second.

Rizavi said:
You guys realize everyone's staring at you, right?

"Anything interesting?" Keith asked.

Frowning even harder, my eyebrow bent over my eyes; I put my phone on mute and shoved it deep into my pocket. I could've done without the reminder—I didn't want to know that people were watching. I didn't want to care about whatever the two dozen other people in the room might be thinking, watching us play hockey with our cards and tags with our eyes.

"Do you ever wish," I said. "You could tap other people on the head, and it'd mute them?" He was staring at me, and I shrugged. "Y'know, so things could just be simple for a while instead of really fucking complicated all the time?"

Keith didn't say anything for a moment, but I didn't feel like he was judging me. His eyes wandered as if he was neck-deep in trying to figure out what to say. When he finally spoke, it was like he'd timed out, his shoulders sinking in what looked suspiciously like defeat.

"All the time," he said.

Rizavi said:
You never said how you knew Keith, but it's okay; I get it. You guys clearly have a thing.
Is it new? How'd you guys meet?
Has he told you anything about himself? I mean, his mom, Krolia, is a Galra—a literal Galra.
Also, until now, everyone thought he was gay. Is he gay?

Rizavi said:
You guys know everyone is staring at you, right?

I stared at the messages, shivering. After eating dinner with Keith, I'd been pinging off the walls with nervous energy, and so I'd decided to go for a walk outside. The air out there was cold, the wind strong, and there was a dark curdle of clouds sailing towards us, so I'd decided to check the weather on my phone… and it'd opened to Twitter, to the message that I now wished I hadn't read.

Individual words jumped from Rizavi's message, screaming at me. Literal Galra. Gay. Was that who Shiro was—Keith's boyfriend? Shiro was a boy's name. Japanese. I recognized it from the subtitles on the music videos I watched sometimes. Shi-ro, it was pronounced. White.

Shiro's wedding, Lance had said at the barbecue. Whoever the guy was, he'd gotten married—and Keith wasn't wearing a ring. At least not around his finger.

Had he gotten dumped? Or was he just wearing it around his neck, or keeping it in his pocket? What did this guy want from me? Just friendship? More? Had I been stupid to get so emotionally embroiled in this? No, I definitely was—I'd said I wouldn't get my hopes up.

Listening to my own train of thought, a strange pressure welled up in my chest. I shook my head, letting out a loud sigh, and sagged against the side of the building. My own desperate excuses aside, I hadn't needed to know this—just like I hadn't needed to know people were watching us. And, I'd thought Rizavi was cool. Did she have any clue what could happen to Keith if she messaged the wrong person, telling them that he was a gay half-alien hybrid?

People might edge him out. They might even hurt him.

I flicked open my keyboard, but my fingers wavered. I had no clue what I was supposed to do. All I could do was wing it—but what if Rizavi took it wrong? What if she got offended? What if she wasn't who I thought she was? I closed the keyboard, then opened it again, gritting my teeth.

Bleu Bees said:
Riz, this ain't cool. You're essentially outing him—twice.

I paused, a lump in my throat. Then, I leaned forward and continued to type.

Bleu Bees said:
I met him the day I got here. My car broke down, and he gave me a ride.
He's really nice.
I'm just going to try and forget the rest, okay?

There was a blip at the corner of the screen as she quickly typed something.

Rizavi said:
WHOOPS.
Sorry, my fingers are faster than my mouth, and my mouth's faster than my brain.

That was all? Just a whoops and an apology? I frowned, apprehension prickling across my skin. Nothing had happened to Keith—he hadn't gotten hurt, at least, yet. Or again. But did I seriously want her to beg me to forgive her? Or for her to get in trouble? My answer to both of those was no, so what was it?

Then it dawned on me: my father had said sorry, too. But, no matter how much he had, it'd never seemed to change anything. What'd happened to me had snuck up on me again, coloring my perceptions without me realizing it. But was it just this? Were there other things I was missing?

I sighed, shaking my head and wincing at the pain in my temples as I did so.

Sending her a silent thumbs-up emoji, I shoved my phone in my pocket and went back inside.