Keith hasn't particularly enjoyed any break from school since losing his dad, and this spring break is no exception, so he's a little confused when Shiro pulls up as planned and it doesn't immediately improve his mood the way it had the last time, when Shiro was helping him move onto campus for his first day. He should be glad to be getting back to the garrison, grateful this guy he hasn't even known all that long lives semi-nearby and is so willing to help him by giving him a lift, but all he can bring himself to feel is tired.
Forcing a smile as Shiro rolls down his window and does a goofy little wave, Keith uses his good arm to haul himself to his feet from his perch on the front stoop (which may now have permanent bloodstains hidden under the lobster-themed welcome mat he'd had to rearrange while cleaning up over the break) and circles around to the passenger seat, stuffing his backpack at his feet before buckling the seat belt.
"Have a good Easter?" Shiro asks him as he's reversing the car out of the driveway.
"I guess," Keith hedges, recognizing it as one of those questions people ask without wanting to hear the truth.
Chris and Maggie had both taken a lot of extra shifts the entire week he'd been in the house, maybe in the hopes of earning extra tips from the holiday crowds, maybe to avoid being around while he was actually using the bedroom that the case worker required they keep ready for him at all times despite him boarding elsewhere. Either way, they'd both gotten home late on the day of the actual holiday, and Keith hadn't seen any signs that they were religious yet, so he wasn't surprised when they didn't end up celebrating Easter at all, treating it like any other day.
"I get it. It's not my favorite holiday either," Shiro says. "My partner didn't want to stay with me on campus over the break, so I ended up ordering Chinese and catching up on some TV on my own."
This is one of the things Keith likes about Shiro—he doesn't force him to play the game the rest of the world seems obsessed with. Where others would push him to elaborate and then give him The Stare for being honest rather than coming up with a white lie in line with what they want to hear, Shiro lets things go and redirects without trying to make him feel bad about it.
"That sounds nice," Keith answers, and he means it.
He'd had a short stint with a Chinese-food-to-celebrate-the-Christian-holidays-as-nonbelievers variety of family, and it had been a nice change of pace to not have to pick through all the traditional holiday food in search of anything without enough dairy in it to make him violently ill for the rest of the holiday. That had been a few years back, and it's still saved in the mental list of customs he'll be free to have as his own once he finally makes it to full adulthood… two more years. That's all.
Shiro does most of the talking during the rest of the drive, sharing details about the upcoming classes he's looking forward to, the hobbies he had time to indulge in over the break, and his family, and Keith thinks he'd be eating it all up if only he weren't so sleepy. He manages to chime in often enough to keep Shiro going for a bit, but at some point, his head tips against the window and his eyes slip closed and don't open again…
…until the car is parked and Shiro is outside the passenger side door and tapping at his cheek, avoiding touching him more than he has to.
"I fall asleep?" Keith asks, the sleep-roughness in his voice answering the question for him.
"Not for long," Shiro lies, because it's about an hour's drive, and Keith remembers less than ten minutes of it.
He awkwardly thanks the man and escapes to his dorm before he gets a chance to make himself look any more pathetic, trudging through campus and making a beeline for his bed without bothering to change out of his civvies, barely tolerating the effort required to toe off his shoes and kick them under the bed along with his backpack still stuffed with dirty laundry. It doesn't look like his roommate's made it back yet, and he's taking full advantage of the peace and quiet to finish his nap.
The rest of his nap is not, in fact, a nap.
It turns into a fourteen-hour affair, and Keith can't bring himself to be bothered by it because at least he feels a little less tired when the garrison's morning alarm rouses him. Another few hours of sleep sounds almost irresistibly appealing, but he can push through with what he's working with now. He's survived worse. Skipping unexcused isn't worth the demerit he'd get, especially with the way Iverson has had a constant eye on him since his last fight.
It's impossible to forget the wound with the way it's pulsing under his skin from the moment he wakes, so he overrides his instinct to jump up and start changing like usual, opting instead to poke around under the bed until he finds his discarded backpack, digging the used items of clothing out and tossing them into the hamper in his closet one by one as though he expects to find anything in the bag besides dirty clothes.
He keeps up the charade until his roommate wordlessly leaves with his uniform and towel, presumably heading toward the showers as usual. Half a minute later, he's sure his roommate isn't coming back and changes into his uniform without having to hide his mangled forearm from anyone else's view. The garrison doesn't seem to run any climate control in the spring, and the bite of the chilly morning air spurs him to slip his uniform on as fast as possible, though he peels up a sleeve to get a closer look at the injury while he still has the privacy to do so.
It's not looking any better yet and definitely not feeling great, but nothing seems too off. It still hurts whenever he accidentally grazes a hand over it, and the skin directly around it is a little redder, but the important sign to watch for is a strange pus, and there's none of that.
He'll just need to be careful not to whack it against anything during his PT session later, easy enough.
For now, he'll get an early start in the mess hall. It's probably early enough that they haven't run out of his favorite cereal for once, which makes him feel a little better about having to forgo the shower he really wants first.
There are good days and there are bad days, and if it weren't for the stitches running along his arm, this would've been a good day. It's not one of the days where he can't bring himself to get too close to other people—those are the days that usually leave him paralyzed in discomfort and indecision in his room for a half hour after the morning alarm and eventually convince him to wait and sneak off during lunch when the showers are much less crowded.
It's just the stupid obvious thread that will surely draw every eye to the skin he's already so uncomfortable in on a good day that keeps him from the showers this morning. The last thing he needs is a rumor he tried to slit his wrists over break, and he knows that's what they'll make of it. People never listen to the truth if it goes against their initial assumption. He's still only been here a month, and he much prefers the reputation as relatively unknown or as someone who picks fights over being the suicidal emo kid again.
Whatever. There's no sense letting his mind wander that path, especially when he was right—the best of the cereal dispensers with its grainy balls of artificial peanut butter and chocolate flavor is half-full and his to claim after one other cadet moves out of his way. He grabs a spoon and a packet of apple juice and scores an empty table. Maybe he should come to breakfast early more often.
Admittedly, his stomach doesn't feel… right… but it's not in a very discernible way, more of a twinge that could be saying that maybe-he-feels-sick or maybe-he-just-hasn't-eaten-in-too-long. He accidentally stopped eating after lunch yesterday thanks to his marathon nap, so he's willing to gamble on just being hungry and shoves a heaping spoonful of the dry cereal into his mouth.
It's not as delicious as he remembers, but it's edible. It sticks in his throat uncomfortably, so he washes the bite down with some of his apple juice, which is much more palatable. He finds himself only finishing a few more bites of the cereal before sticking to the juice.
That finished, he shoves his leftovers to the side to either pick at in a bit or just trash at the end of the meal period, leaving the table space in front of him fully open to rest his forehead against his good arm and close his eyes for a bit.
"I wasn't expecting to find you here this early. Change your schedule over spring break?"
Shiro is settling in across from him with one of his Tupperware containers packed with some kind of food from his apartment unit when he peels his eyes open.
"Something like that," he says, fishing for something to pull his end of the conversation after his spectacular failure yesterday. "You know they have the best cereal if you get here early?"
"Makes sense," Shiro says, teasing. "But I'd have thought you'd have finished it if it's so good."
"Oh."—of course he forgot he still had his mostly-full bowl right there—"I guess I got greedy, grabbed more than I could finish."
"No worries," Shiro assures. "We've all been there. I remember how weird it was to go from my high school where the lunch ladies served those tiny scoops of everything to here where I can grab as much as I want. I definitely went a little mad with freedom in my first week. Makes the 'freshman fifteen' thing make sense."
"Yeah."
Keith is saved from coming up with something more insightful to say by Shiro digging into his meal, mouth too preoccupied to carry on a conversation anyway.
"I didn't see you at dinner last ni—" Shiro is starting when the next bell rings, and Keith makes his escape with the excuse of getting to class on time even though his first class is only about a minute's walk from here.
His earlier confidence for the day proves to be unfounded.
First, despite being so paranoid and doing everything to avoid the very thing, he manages to bump his injury with the strap when he's slipping his backpack off his shoulder, and the ensuing whimper gets him laughed at by some of the cadets sitting around him, the only thing finally stopping them being the stern look on the teacher's face when the final bell rings to start the class period.
That's the class that keeps on giving. Things should get better after his classmates stop making fun of him, but instead he reaches into his backpack only to realize he'd never gotten around to restocking it with his school supplies when he grasps a pair of his dirty underwear instead of his notebook and pencil. He can only be thankful he recognizes what's in his hand before he tries to pull it out to get a look.
He tries to make do by paying close attention in the hopes of being able to summarize some notes for himself later once he has his notebook in hand, but that's apparently not good enough for his teacher because she calls him out in front of everyone for being unprepared halfway through the class when she notices he's not writing anything down.
He's never been so happy to hear a bell at the end of class. Darting out at top speed in the direction of his dorm room, he only hopes he can grab all his supplies and reach his next class on time.
Rapidly repacked bookbag in hand, he's still sprinting in an effort to get back to the classroom area and to his next class on time when another officer yells at him and forces him to stop and listen to a lecture on safety while he catches his breath and resists wiping the sweat off his forehead in fear of causing further offense, making him late to his next class, where he is once again lectured—this time, in front of even more of his classmates since it's one of the core classes all the cadets in his year take regardless of designation.
And his arm still fucking throbs in pain with every heartbeat.
It is not his day, and he can't help the attitude that comes out as a result, only containing it by opting to keep his mouth firmly shut and stick entirely to himself for the rest of the day.
The morning classes mercifully come to an end, and he desperately needs a shower after his unplanned morning jog. His stomach still feels off, seemingly not helped at all by his little bit of breakfast, so he decides to forgo lunch completely in favor of taking his time under the hot water in the deserted shower.
The cut does not appreciate the hot water he lets flow over it, but he's not going to let a little—okay, well, kind of a lot actually, but he's had worse—pain stop him from keeping it clean like he needs to. There's still no pus, so at least he's doing something right even if he's messing up everything else.
That should be the worst part of the shower, but actually, it's the minutes between shutting off the water and getting himself dry enough to be able to escape the chill of the room. There's a lot he'd be willing to trade for a clean uniform in this moment, but if he goes through two uniforms today, he's not going to have a clean one left for Friday, so he shakes off the minor ick and pulls the old uniform back on.
He pretends not to smell the stale sweat that clings to it. It's not very effective.
There's definitely not enough time left to grab lunch, not that he particularly wants to, so he gets a head start toward his next class instead and even has a little spare time to jot down what he remembers from his disastrous first period lecture.
See that, universe? Keith Kogane isn't going to let you take him down today.
After the morning he's had, the afternoon doesn't stand a chance of competing in terms of suffering. Sure, it's getting colder and colder and his uniform isn't enough to stave off the shivers anymore and he's starting to seriously consider that he might be coming down with the stomach flu or something and he's having a hard time staying focused on any of the lectures, but he hasn't been yelled at even once.
Besides, it's almost the end of lessons with only the PT period left. Mondays are always double PT, but there's not much focus needed there, and it'll warm him up. All he has to do is keep his mind off his uneasy digestive system and aching arm and he'll be fine.
Which is easier said than done when his stomach is quietly gurgling in discomfort like that, and now the first tingle of a headache is settling in. Scratch the earlier thought—he's definitely got a stomach flu coming his way, but he's still got time before it really hits. If he can just get through this class…
By some miracle, he does. It's not his best work. It's not graceful and effortless like he can normally make it appear. It might actually be the sloppiest performance of any of these exercises he's ever done, especially one in particular that he almost aborts when he feels his stomach lurch unexpectedly. Iverson makes a couple disparaging comments as he's circling the room, but Keith doesn't technically fail any of the exercises, and that's all that matters in his one and only pass/fail course for the semester.
What he does fail to do is stick around the gym any longer than he has to. The bell rings and he is gone, skipping his usual voluntary extra cool-down stretches in favor of getting himself out of public view as fast as possible.
He wants to puke, to try to get it over with before he has time to get to feeling any worse and is forced to do it anyway, but when he ducks into the bathroom, his body decides it's a great time to calm down enough that nothing wants to come up. His bastard of a body does not get to screw him over like this though, so he stubbornly stays crouched in the stall with his arms braced against the toilet seat, trying to will himself to finish up so he can go lay down for a bit and escape reality.
This is taking way too long. He gives his right hand as thorough of a wipe down as he can with only the fabric of his shirt available and reaches two fingers to the back of his throat, insistently prodding until he feels—
—vomit shooting up his throat, coating the fingers he can't move out of the way fast enough but otherwise making its way into the toilet as intended.
There. He gives it a minute to make sure nothing else wants to come up.
It doesn't make him feel any better… His stomach feels emptier, but the rest of him still feels pretty terrible, all things considered. He might feel worse now that he thinks about it, actually. He's not sure, but he does know he's no longer in danger of puking in the immediate future, so he may as well clean up and get out of here. The good news is judging by the way he looks in the mirror—from the paleness to the sheen of sweat to how he can't stop shaking—it shouldn't be too difficult for him to convince his commanding officer to excuse him from classes tomorrow morning.
As wrapped up as he is in his own suffering, he doesn't see Shiro catching sight of his trek from the bathroom to his dorm room looking so pathetically sick. That's for the best.
He gently slips his body under the covers once he's in his room and can't bring himself to care whether he accidentally takes another fourteen-hour nap or whether he's forgetting the biweekly pre-class workout session Shiro has planned for the two of them first thing tomorrow morning.