Chapter Text
PART I.
There was a popcorn kernel jammed between his molars when the chainsaw roared to life on screen. Keith, elegant as ever, thrust his index finger between his lips and began scrapping with his nail, digging at his gums until metallic tang spilled onto his tongue. Eyes never leaving the drive-in's screen some hundred feet in front of him, his booted feet were kicked up on the yellow Mustang's dash, and in his free hand, an orange soda collected sweat.
"It's like I want to vomit," Hunk started as he tugged his package of Red Vines open with his teeth, "but I can't look away. Do you think people are fascinated with horror because we carry all of that inside of us but never see it? It's like, some subconscious self-awareness."
Lance barreled between the front seats at the sound of rustling candy. He inelegantly tugged free a strand of red licorice and viciously jerked a bite off the end. "We're probably just gross."
Hunk pressed his Red Vines to his heart as a means to display his betrayal, but Keith slowly reached across armrests to pluck the candy from his protection. Hunk side eyed him, but it didn't stop Keith who, somehow, wasn't looking at him anyway.
"Going in for the grab while I'm right here, Keith?" Lance asked, loudly mashing candy between his teeth and grinning to himself. He swayed to the side, accusatory eyebrow reaching for Mary and God. "Didn't know you were into that."
"Don't make me backhand you like your mother," Keith muttered. He pulled out his own strand and patted Hunk's pectoral. "It's me. Not you, buddy."
"No offense taken," Hunk said, entirely neutral as he wrinkled his nose at the sudden blood spill on screen. Said blood was followed by witchy screeches as Possessed Girlfriend succumbed to disembowelment, her claymation gore spilling out in unnatural blues and greens. "I'm going to be sick. Whose idea was this again? Famous Monsters night is not Hunk Night."
"Pidge's before she bailed on us," Lance answered, clearly aggravated. He forcefully sucked from his straw and was unbothered by the loud gurgle of air and ice. "I need more soda. Someone come with me to get more soda before I die. Keith over salted the popcorn."
"Can't you wait until the end?" Keith asked, and he shook his own empty cup.
Lance kicked at the back of Keith's seat. "Let me out before I shrivel up and die."
"Not the leather seats!" Hunk snapped, but he didn't look back from the movie, entirely absorbed. "My dad will kill me if he spots scuff marks on his baby. I'd be disowned. He once told me he loved this car more than me. I was seven. It was my birthday."
Lance dropped his boots and reached between the door and Keith's seat, hunting for the lever that would catapult Keith's face toward the dashboard. "Would he disown you and then kill you or vice versa? Sounds kind of counterproductive. Like, where's the win?"
"Hold on!" Keith snapped and then shoved open the door with all of his weight. He stepped out of the car and fixed his leather jacket's collar with a hard yank. Lance stepped out of the backseat, and Keith tried shutting the door on him.
This was followed by Lance's loud yelp.
"Guys, people are watching," Hunk groaned, but he didn't leave the car to stop them.
"I'm gonna kick your ass," Lance said and careened toward Keith's personal space. Keith clenched a fist and jerked it back as if prompting Lance further, but Lance brought the soda cup between them with an upward stabbing gesture. "But only after I get another Dr. Pepper. Did you see if they have Milk Duds?"
Keith's expression relaxed, and he rolled his eyes. He shoved Lance's head a little too hard, and Lance grunted at the clap against his temple. He tried smacking Keith back as they turned to walk toward the bustling concession stand. He missed.
Both wearing stitched and patched leather with only the color of heavy boots differentiating them, they looked more like twins than friends. Their red and navy steps fell in time, and Lance swung his arm around Keith's shoulders as they rounded the bend.
"I hate you both!" Hunk called out from the car, having watched the entire exchange via his peripheral vision. "Just letting you know that, when you come back, the car will be locked!"
"Does he know you still have the keys?" Lance murmured and he dropped his arm from Keith when a pack of girls wandered past with their big, flyaway bangs and lawn ornament earrings. He swiped his palms across one another and tilted his head while inspecting the T&A departments. "The latex says disco, but my heart says love is love. I'd sing the Bee Gees for a piece of that kaleidoscope cake. Hustle onto my lap, dames. Please and thank you."
"Standards so low you'd have sex with someone who likes disco," Keith said beneath his breath. He rubbed his temple with a grunt when he saw the stand's line and smacked free the ice in his cup. He tore off the lid so he could knock back the final dregs and crunched on a cube. "On a scale of one to ten—ten being how often you get laid—how dehydrated are you?"
"Right now? I'm like a priest."
"So about a modest eight."
Before his jab could sink in, Keith jogged toward the line. Lance caught up with him and sharply punched Keith square between his shoulder blades, but instead of yelling as he buckled, Keith laughed at Lance's heavy breathing. They skidded to a stop at the end of the line, and a proud Keith fished out his Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket. He popped the filter between his lips and patted his back pockets, hunting for a lighter that was nowhere to be found.
"Do you have a light?" Keith asked, essentially giving himself a cavity search as he rechecked himself. "I think I dropped my lighter on Hunk's floor."
Lance dug his hands into his pockets. After a moment of shifting through pocket after pocket, even checking the inside of his Docs, he righted himself with open palms. "Nothing, man."
There was the familiar whip and scratch of a Zippo springing to life. Before Keith could bother to find its keeper, the sigh was followed by a stranger's nonaligned drawl. "You know, smoking is bad for you."
"Thanks for that, Reagan, but I think I can handle—"
Keith turned on his heel with a dipping right shoulder only to stop mid-sentence. His eyes darted toward the person holding the lighter, and his throat squeezed tight. Nose becoming hot, Keith thoughtlessly pushed back his bangs as a way to inconspicuously check for a fever. The reaction was so intertwined with instinct that his brain didn't fully process what he was looking at until after the heat had brushed against him like a solar flare.
"—myself."
The width of his form was the first thing Keith noticed. Naked arms thick and gilded, his self-made muscle shirt was black with a screen-printed Hüsker Dü insignia smacked across the front. The man was domineeringly there in black cigarette pants and scuffed white boots, and he clearly had fun with bleaching kits because his bangs were platinum in contrast to the rest of his closely shaven undercut. Lips full and dark eyebrows distinctly sharp, Keith decided his tarry eyes were too bright.
Oh, and he was missing his right arm.
Keith raked his gaze over him twice before remembering the Zippo and cigarette between his lips. The man was offering to light it for him. He leaned forward and tilted his head before breathing in, clouding his lungs. Keith plucked the cigarette from his mouth and spoke through smoke.
"Thanks..."
Lance cut in. "Commander Jerk-Off."
Appropriately, there was silence.
"Shiro," the man corrected, good-natured. Keith looked at Lance who was gawking at Shiro after openly insulting him. "It's a stage name. Kind of."
"For what?" Keith asked, trying not to sound shrill.
He self-consciously considered the collection of porno mags squirreled away beneath his box spring.
"A band…"
Keith pretended he wasn't that impressed, but he was impressed. In the pits of Nowhere, California, there wasn't much to discuss except how red the dirt seemed. Sometimes there were stars, but one had to drive out to the old Garrison factory in order to clearly see their expanse. Keith liked the drive, the soft clicking of his cassette player when the final threads of black ribbon cranked to the end of an album. It was more the act than anything else; the way his garnet motorcycle devoured yellow subtraction signs as if removing the world behind him.
But that was it. That was the whole town.
"Shiro, this is Keith," Lance interrupted again and then smacked his palm against Keith's back hard enough for Keith to almost lose his cigarette. "I'm Lance. Keith's never listened to Quantum Queef, but your album Shish Kabobed by a Tentacle was on point. I heard it did well in the L.A. scene."
Keith knew Lance was shitting his pants. He'd already grappled for the back of Keith's jacket, clawing through his Alien Sex Fiend patch.
"It did. Thanks," Shiro said smoothly, smiling at the fan and then turning his attention back to Keith. He reached out to shake hands, and Keith awkwardly took it. "Reagan, huh? Not a fan?"
Keith cleared his throat free of a smile and flicked his cherry to the side. "Not really."
"Keith does music," Lance continued, and Keith pointedly shot him in the face with his stare. "He was going to go to a performing arts college, but then shit happened. What was it called again?"
"Lance, shut up," Keith muttered, not sure how to explain there was something ultimately lame about wanting a Bachelors of Music, especially considering who they were speaking to. "Anyway, why're you here? Of all places. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we've got a gas station, this place and a grocery store."
"Tasty Freeze," Lance added, and then glanced to the side. "Yeah. It kind of sucks, though."
Shiro placed his hand on his hip, and he smiled at the two's evident disenchantment with the small town. He was too nice to counter them with his Home Theory.
"I was on the road for a year, so I'm here to see my mom before I leave again. I'm actually here with her, but she fell asleep two seconds before the chainsaw," he explained and rubbed the back of his neck. Suddenly, he laughed. Keith felt it in his chest like a plume of warmth. "This always happens with her. Old woman, you know?"
"Do you want to hangout after the movie?" Lance asked, feeling so bold Keith's knees nearly gave beneath his audacity. "Like, drive up to the Garrison and drink. I don't know. Probably not as cool as L.A., but it's something to do."
Shiro and Keith exchanged fleeting looks, and Keith lifted an eyebrow as he turned his head to seem indifferent. He took Lance's cup from his hand and turned to refill their fountain sodas, paying attention to the candy but even closer attention to the two as they made plans. Shiro's politeness was otherworldly, and Keith wondered how he was the frontman of a punk band with that disposition.
"Hey, you guys!" Hunk's voice broke Keith's nonchalance in two.
Keith glanced up to see his friend breathlessly running toward them, yellow boots smacking against shriveled attempts at grass. His face alive with panic, he gestured back to the car with both thumbs and didn't even pay Shiro a second glance. Face red, he leaned over his knees and then righted himself, hair swinging off his face and then falling into its middle part.
"Pidge just showed up, and she's in bad shape. I can't get it out of her, but I think something's wrong with her dad." Hunk glanced from side-to-side and then cut a look behind him before mouthing the next words. "She's crying."
Keith haphazardly tossed the cashier a dollar, and pushed the cups into Lance's hands. The Milk Duds were shoved against Shiro's chest, and Keith jogged from the concession stand and back to the Mustang. He ignored Lance's disgruntled yell and didn't see Shiro's moment of uncertain confusion.
Shiro shrugged with a defeated exhale and followed his newfound acquaintances simply to return the candy.
They found Pidge sitting on the hood. Hugging a knee to her chest, she had rubbed her eyes dry, but they were red-rimmed. Her green boot dangled off the front of the car, and she didn't look toward them, not even when she heard Keith approach her side. She wiped her leather sleeve off on a pant leg and streaked the plaid with a hard sniff. Keith's gaze softened on spot.
"Is your dad okay?" Keith asked.
She dropped her shoulders and said through a tear-thickened voice, "No."
"Shit," Lance whispered and then handed her his soda. "What happened? Did he lose his job?"
"He came in from work and just told us he's sick. That was it. He wouldn't go into it, but he was in shock, ghost-white. He's had a bad cough for a while, so it's not like it isn't obvious what's there." She shoved her fingers through her closely cut mop and slammed her hand on the metal beside her. The other four watched in silence as she fought her tantrum until she sucked it up with a hardened expression. "It's from working in all those shitty chemicals. He was never careful there. I told him how to be careful. I know how to work in a lab."
"Is there anything we can do?" Hunk asked, but he sounded defeated. "Tasty Freeze. On me."
"I'm not hungry."
Keith realized they were avoiding the C-word as if their lives depended on it, but it slammed on top of his head like a cinder block. He stepped back as his head became swamped with memories; sterile hospital lights, neon piss draining into a catheter bag, hopeless confusion, and the sound of bickering over 'the estate.'
His back bumped against Shiro's chest, and it brought him to the present. Shiro's hand clamped onto his bicep to steady him, and Keith muttered a 'sorry' beneath his breath.
"You're fine," Shiro said, quiet enough so that they wouldn't draw attention. He gently pushed him forward.
"I know where we can go," Lance announced, and everyone darted their stares toward him. "Let's go to the Garrison. You, too, Shiro."
"Who?" Pidge asked defensively, not realizing she hadn't had a private audience.
Lance gestured at Shiro who raised his hand in defense. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
"Commander Jerk-Off?" Pidge asked and finished wiping her eyes. "Oh, man. I'm in shock and so imagining all of this."
"Wait— " Hunk chimed in and then turned to stare down Shiro. He sharply inhaled and pointed at Shiro with a loud choke. "It's Commander Jerk-Off!"
"Just in case we didn't know," Keith dryly added.
Shiro weakly laughed in spite of himself and waved at Pidge before he reached for the Milk Duds he'd set on top of the car. He approached Pidge's side and handed them to her, but not before playfully shaking them. Shiro seemed satisfied when she took them from him and slowly ripped into the box. She poured a couple into her palm and then popped one in between her lips. As she chewed, she finally shed a couple reluctant tears. Pidge didn't look at any of them.
"We should go to the Garrison," Shiro said. "Do you want to go?"
Pidge slowly finished her first piece of candy and added the second. "Only if someone has something to drink. I can't do tonight without a drink."
"Pidge!" Lance barked and flashed her finger guns. "Think about who you're talking to here. I always have something to drink."
"Right," she said, and Keith was relieved when she momentarily smiled.
There was the issue with the fact Hunk's car wasn't meant to seat more than a potential four. While Shiro went to explain the situation to his mother and give her his keys, the four crept around the vehicle and attempted to negotiate how to seat everyone. Keith mournfully stared at his front seat when Pidge announced she had no intentions of sitting on a boy's lap, and he knew he was the second smallest.
"My legs are too long," Lance said, but it was a weak excuse. He just didn't want Keith's ass that close to his dick.
In theory.
"That's not an excuse," Hunk grumbled. "We can't put someone on Shiro's lap."
"Keith can sit on my lap. Ever rode in a van with four drunk guys who haven't showered in two weeks? You learn not to mind close encounters."
Shiro had returned in a leather jacket; its studs perilously sharp. The sleeve on his amputated arm was expertly cut and crafted to fit along the bicep, and there was something about its finesse Keith found admirable. Keith flitted his eyes toward it, and Shiro noticed. Instead of cutting him a sharp stare, Shiro winked at him and shrugged it off. As Shiro waited for Pidge and Lance to climb into the backseat, Keith was certain a face hugger had planted its larva in his guts. Something was squirming inside, begging to burst free and end it all.
Shiro took a seat, and Keith stared at the canyon he was going to have to jump in order to place himself on his lap. Keith reminded himself he was being weird and confidently stepped toward the car, reaching for the top of the door before stepping a boot between Shiro's feet. Shiro reached for his hip to guide him down, and Keith was glad the car was dim because his eyes widened at the touch. His breathing drifted into a staccato, considered hitching, but it dispersed into a normal exhale.
"Are you alright like this?" Shiro asked when Hunk reached to throw the Mustang in reverse.
Keith scooted down and rubbed the side of his jaw. "Yeah. Fine."
The others drilled Shiro with questions, trying to get a sense of the life he lived in L.A., which in Keith's opinion, sounded more like a vomiting drunk mess than a good time.
Instead of engaging, Keith watched the night sky pass them by, the streetlights dwindling until they only had headlights. An endless canopy draped overhead, and the swirls of space curled like glittering afterthoughts. He only stopped looking to crank the radio's knob, but it wasn't as if he could hear the music anyway. He was deep in his head.
Pidge's dad was sick.
He didn't want to believe it, nor did he want to think what happened to him could happen to someone he cared about so much.
The old fighter aircraft factory appeared on the horizon line like a black mass, geometric against abstract skies. They didn't park near the factory, but drove until they found the usual bluff that overlooked it. Keith opened the door as soon as they parked, but it wasn't to get away from Shiro's warm chest that felt like heated brick. He wanted to drink in the feeling of the place before drinking to get shit faced.
"Someone get Pidge the bottle!" Lance called out.
Hunk left on the car lights and the radio, and one-by-one, they took their seats. Close enough to pass the bottle, but far away enough to have individual conversations, Keith realized Shiro was closest to him.
"Performing arts school?" Shiro asked when Keith wasn't prepared to initiate conversation. His voice was low, and again, that kindness was distracting. He handed Keith the bottle of Jim Beam, which Keith contemplated before slowly bringing to his lips.
"A year ago," he said and then sighed before knocking back the shot. "Whatever. It's not a big deal. I don't know why I thought I even wanted to go. It's not really my style. I wouldn't have liked the east coast. It's too wet there. I'd have to buy a coat."
Shiro smiled to himself before taking the bottle back so that he could sip one more. "You sound like me after I joined the Marines and got discharged."
"Marines?" Keith asked, mouth slack at the concept alone. "You were in the Marines?"
"Sure was." But he didn't seem interested in divulging details. Keith immediately made the connection between the arm and Shiro's military time. "It's easier to tell yourself you didn't want the things you wanted when it wasn't your choice to give them up, isn't it?"
The words caught him off guard, but Keith recovered fast. A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "You don't know me."
"You're right," Shiro admitted, shrugging as he passed the bottle to Hunk. "I don't, but I don't think it's something you have to have someone's fingerprints to see."
Keith reached forward and drew a 'S' in the dirt. He swiped it away, dusted off his palms. "So you got discharged from the military and started a punk band?"
"You don't know me," Shiro countered and laughed, fingers reaching back to scratch along his throat and trace his jawline. He paused and chuckled again. "That's a complicated and long story."
"You're mad. The band is your outlet," Keith shot back.
"Do you want it to be that simple? Is the reason you dress the way you do that simple? Is the reason you didn't go to college as easy as, 'I'm mad?'"
Keith realized he'd raised his knees and brought them close to his chest. His arms hung over the caps and his solemn expression faced Shiro. Shiro's undivided attention was clear, even if his words were tinged with soft mockery. Keith considered the questions and brushed back his bangs, leaving his hand at the hairline as he thoughtfully cast his eyes to the side.
"No," he admitted. "Sometimes, but not all the time."
"Right," Shiro said, and he was entirely unaware of how close he was to Keith until he leaned forward to catch his gaze. His expression was forgiving, gentle. "I'm more than just mad, Keith."
The whiskey made speaking too comfortable.
Keith lowered his voice, and he hesitated, but managed the thought. "I want the long story."
Shiro made a contemplative face. They were close enough to feel each other's hot breath, and Keith decided he needed another drink to refocus. He knew that—if one of them had been a girl—then they would've gotten away with drunkenly pressing mouths together, but that wasn't the case.
Shiro seemed to understand this better than anyone. He retracted and reached to take the bottle from Hunk's hand. Neither realized the other three had been shooting them glances the entire time. They'd even missed the game of gesticulating through semi-darkness.
"Can I have your number?" Shiro asked, and he dug out a pen from his jacket. "For the story."
Keith blinked back his surprise as the pen was offered. He took it, realized there was nothing to write on, so Shiro set down the bottle and offered him his forearm. Keith cleared his throat and carefully drew out his phone number, thumb accidentally gliding along the nodule of Shiro's wrist. There he could feel the thrum of his pulse; that arcane pattern that made him so human. Keith was leaned close so that he could see through the dark, and he slowly traced each number twice. When he was done and Shiro took his drink, Keith's eyes rose to Shiro's face.
Shiro cleared his throat, and it was then Keith realized the other man was nervous. "What're you doing tomorrow?"
"Nothing!" Lance called out, wedging himself into their conversation.
Keith jolted free from his dreamscape, and he was presented with the fact that they were close to his friends who had eyes and ears.
Lance repeated himself. "We're all doing so much nothing."
Keith's expression fell, and somehow, that voice sobered him up. He looked at Lance who was violently puffing on his filter, expression unreadable in the light.
"We could hangout," Shiro offered with admirable rebound time. The sincerity in his voice was incredible. Keith tried not to smile to himself, but he failed. Shiro noticed and fought to keep speaking with the neutral expression. He nearly gagged on a laugh. "Did you want to bonfire or something tomorrow?"
"Sounds rad," Lance said coolly.
Pidge and Keith made eye contact, and their wide stares were an attempt to connect telepathically. When it wasn't happening, Keith stood up and made his way to her side. He plopped down onto the car hood where she'd reinstated her throne as soon as they'd parked.
Keith opened his hand for some Milk Duds. As she deposited her small offering, she elbowed him once, twice and then pushed his head. He tried not to smile.
"Good Milk Duds," she smugly managed.
Keith translated that one.
Good job.
He straightened his face, unmoved. "They're like any other Milk Duds, I think."
Pidge translated that one, but she didn't drop her expression.
Shut up.