Chapter Text
Keith knew he would be leaving again even before he got there. In hindsight, it was ridiculous for him to believe otherwise - that he would be able to stay. Maybe graduate at the Garrison, attend a university in-state, get a music performance or education degree and live his life out in the same town, maybe work as a director or private lessons instructor at the Garrison. It was a stupid idea, really, but it showed up half-formed in Keith’s brain during one night where he couldn’t fall asleep, and he delved into the temptation and found himself exploring it with his entire heart. As the days went on, it formed bigger and bigger in his head until it gradually grew to large and the sharp tug of gravity pulled it down to Keith’s chest, a bubble - no, beach-ball sized glimmer of what he all-so-strongly knew to be hope.
He knew what hope meant. Hope, to Keith, meant sleepless nights and his breath catching in his throat, speechless (Keith always hates to be speechless), and crushed feelings when it, inevitably, fails to work out. Despite that little voice buried deep, deep in his consciousness, echoing phrases he’s whispered to himself since Day One, the first thing he has ever remembered (there’s a melancholy feel to it - it’s bittersweet; his first memory isn’t of his mother, or father, or any family at all - it is himself, because that’s all there is. That’s all there ever was - Keith. He speaks the name out in the dark, middle of the night, into the hanging silence that is thicker than blood and water, and not diluted blood with water - the thickness added together, creating the substance of himself, because Keith does not know blood, nor water, so he has created what he imagines them to be like, and shoves it so deep inside himself he thinks he might choke on it), Keith held onto that little bit of hope and watched it swell underneath the weight of his fingers. As it got bigger, the little voice became louder - yet, still Keith ignored it in favor of another late night with the group of friends he’s created for himself.
It was a stupid idea - and now Keith is paying the price for it.
His foster family was kind to him; they didn’t treat him as a member of them, but they didn’t alienate him, either. They were separate entities living in the same hollow shell of a home. If Keith needed something, they were there for the moment. If they needed something, Keith was there for the moment. Otherwise, they passed each other with the barest trace of a smile, nodding, then parted ways. They let Keith into their home for the financial benefits, and Keith repaid them himself by being away as much as possible. He didn’t know what it felt like to have an intruder in his home - the only home he has ever had has been himself, and nobody has felt the need to even ring the doorbell - but he imagines it is invasive and uncomfortable, so when the Garrison’s head band director noticed him in a dimly-lit practice room one day, going through his scales, Keith never mentioned anything to them about it. He didn’t ask for the sum that would allow him to partake in his music. He didn’t ask for the time of the director, who promised him that he would always have a spot in their ensemble. He didn’t even give himself a chance to wonder at the time what he could’ve become if he wasn’t so - well. Keith. If the universe didn’t look down upon him like vermin, Keith wonders now what he could’ve been if everything turned out okay.
The family he stayed with kept him around for the entire school year; it was nice to be able to finally finish out a year at the same school he started in. He made friends and, thanks to the hopeful glimmer, let his walls crumble down faster than he would’ve normally. He got to know a couple of his teachers, something he’d never even thought of before then. He even made some promises - and, really looking back, that is the worst thing he could’ve done. Not hope - hope isn’t real, hope is a figment of his and everybody’s imagination. Hope isn’t tangible, but promises? Promises are. Promises are the most tangible things, most powerful things, Keith knows. When Keith makes a promise, he’d rather die than break them.
And he was foolish enough to make some. Not just one - multiple. Keith holds promises higher than anything else; people in his life, whether he invited them in or they picked the lock unlatched, have never taken their promises seriously. They pluck them out of the air and rip apart both ends, tearing them into a jagged and frayed, broken idea, then discard it for Keith to pick up the pieces and use it to try and fix the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be.
Keith used the hope he developed to stupidly, so childishly, and tore his own morals in half.
When the father of the home announced Keith’s departure in mid-June, Keith felt his stomach sinking below his knees. He thought of the Garrison and its high, sleek walls, of its shiny marble floors, of the privileged students that attend (and he considered himself a part of), of the small, stuffy practice room he pulled a chair into every morning with his clarinet and just. Played. He played for his parents, who he never knew. He played for his unborn siblings, who he yearned for a relationship with. He played for the Garrison and everything it stood for - determination, wealth, intelligence, genius, Keith. He played for the music, which he considers such a big part of himself that if it ever left him the way his future did, he would surely shatter into the hollow shell of a person faster than he imagined himself to break. Most of all, Keith played for himself - for all his broken dreams, for his love for notes, for the sound of the reed and the keys, for the clarinet that wasn’t just a clarinet - it was an extension of his body, another limb his fingers ran across so intimately and knowingly and passionately.
Keith chided himself as he packed his few things. He scolded himself as he waited for the day his social worker would pick him up. He yelled at himself as soon as he got into the car, and, when the worker told him he would be travelling to the next state over, to a family that offered to foster him immediately after Keith was discarded, he hated himself. He hated himself onto the next street, into the next town, the next state. He despised himself when they drove into a nice, high-end smaller city with high-rises in the downtown and expensive houses in the suburbs. He abhorred himself when the social worker had to roll down the window to punch in a four-digit code that gave them access to a gated community. And Keith loathed himself the second they pulled up to the home - the kind of house that Keith could not even dream of. When he over-hoped, he crossed the line here. Keith never envisioned himself, such a sticky part of the System, even stepping foot into a house of this caliber. Yet, here he is, trembling fingers pushing the door open to the front seat of the Sedan, clutching a small duffel bag to his chest in one arm and holding the case to the most important thing in his entire life in the other. His caseworker leads him up the cobblestone walkway to a set of mahogany, grandioso double doors and rings the doorbell once. Keith swallows. There’s a thickness in his throat that prevents him from doing so successfully.
As a silhouette of a tall, broad man appears behind the blurry glass panels that take up the top part of the doors, Keith allows himself to panic. Why would they want him? Why is he here? Why would a family who lives like this, so lavishly, offer to house him? They certainly don’t need the money, judging from the extravagance of the home. Is this for charity? Is Keith a charity case?
The scraping of a deadbolt gives way to the knob of the Keith’s right door turning, and then the door pulls open, revealing a dark-skinned man with purely white hair. The sight makes him blink - not a grey hair in sight. Just white. He doesn’t even seem that old - mid-forties, maybe? The hair on his head is long, all of it reaching nearly his shoulders, and the beard on his face is overgrown as well, but still seems sophisticated. Keith nearly shrinks back when the icy blue eyes belonging to the regal-looking man fall on his skinny form. The man’s mouth is set in a sharp, stiff line that has Keith panicking even more, but soon gives way to a warm, welcoming smile.
“Hello, there,” is the first thing he says, the skin next to his eyes crinkling as they squint into his happiness. He has a thick accent - English? Keith thinks it’s English, though he can’t be sure. He doesn’t come across different accents too often. “Come in, please!”
Keith blindly follows the social worker through the door as the man steps aside. His mind is numb - he’s dissociating a bit, purely from confusion and apprehension and, oh, yeah, he just tends to do that sometimes, too. Keith sort-of feels like this is a dream. As his scuffed, ratty black Converse cross the threshold into the house, he shivers; they land on a mat before the door. Keith looks up to see a glittering chandelier hanging above their heads. Directly to his right is an archway to a formal sitting area, complete with another, smaller chandelier and a fancy, real fireplace - not one of the electronic ones a couple of his foster homes have dorned. Opposite that, to his left is a formal dining room. His eyes widen at the table - polished, dark wood, seating eight, and, oh, surprise, surprise - a third chandelier. Keith thinks these people like chandeliers. He turns his head to look in front of him; there’s a walkway to another part of the house, and next to that, a spiral wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. An oiled banister overlooks the entrance hall. Beyond that, Keith - if he stretches his body enough - can point out some closed doors.
This. This is not where he is supposed to be. Keith is at a loss for words - he feels resentment pooling in his gut, though he doesn’t know what for. This home is so - so…
The man leads them into the formal sitting area. He lowers himself down into a nice armchair facing away from the window. Keith’s caseworker decides on a mirroring armchair, leaving Keith to have full access to the sofa opposite the chairs. He hesitantly sits down, not letting go of his belongings. Just in case (Just in case what? Keith snorts to himself), he tucks his clarinet case underneath the duffel bag.
“I am Alfor King,” the man smiles warmly again, nodding to the worker and then Keith. Keith feels his heart pick up in his chest when he does so. He doesn’t smile back. Keith tries to keep his expression void of anything, even - especially - shock. If he really is a charity case, he doesn’t want to give this… Alfor King the satisfaction of his awe. “You must be Keith. It is wonderful to meet you.”
Keith averts his gaze. He can’t bring himself to look into Alfor King’s eyes - the blue overtakes anything Keith has ever seen.
As his case worker and Alfor King discuss things Keith doesn’t listen to, he keeps his eyes trained on the wooden floor. He sits there for maybe ten minutes, the same thought appearing in his head through little, bright flashes, until Alfor King and the worker rise to their feet. Keith follows suit; he speaks to the worker his goodbyes and watches from the doorway as the worker gets in the Sedan and drives away down the street, leaving Keith alone again. Alone in this monster of a house, with this royal king of a man (Keith almost laughs), and the chest-heaving realization that he has to start all over again.
The door clicks shut as soon as he can’t see the car anymore. Keith turns around. Alfor King is a lot closer than he expected - the man is about a foot away from him, staring down not unkindly. He seems to notice Keith’s uncomfort at how close he is and takes a few steps backwards.
“Good afternoon, Keith. How was the trip?”
Keith, having nowhere to go, hangs his head. He mumbles, “Fine.”
“Excellent. Well, as I mentioned before, my name is Alfor King. You may call me what you wish - Alfor is fine. Whatever makes you comfortable,” he smiles again, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
This comes as a (slight) relief. In one home, they forced him to call them “Mom” and “Dad”. The words left a sour taste in his mouth. Before he can think of the memory any further, he squeezes his fist so hard his nails dig painfully into his palms and he forgets what he was going to delve into. Good. He doesn’t want to remember that ever again.
“I have a daughter around your age. You are in high school, correct?” At Keith’s curt nod, Alfor continues, “What year?”
“Junior,” he mutters lowly.
“Ah - Allura, my daughter, is a senior. I will get her to show you to your room. Now, I don’t know if you can tell, but this is my first time fostering a child-”
Oh, Keith can tell. He’s being so… friendly. If it wasn’t his first time, he wouldn’t be so open in showing vulnerability. He wouldn’t be so kind and open and loose.
“-So I am not experienced. I do not know much about the system. But, if you would like to, I am always here to talk.” Keith doesn’t doubt it. All first-time foster parents pull the same spiel. He watches Alfor as he turns towards the second level, cups his hands around his mouth, and bellows, “ Allura! ”
Keith flinches before Alfor can turn around and notice. He listens to the groaning of hinges, then the patter of light footsteps, before a very pretty teenage girl stops at the railing, fingers curling around the wooden banister. She has the same dark skin and shock of white hair as her father - so it isn’t old age, just a… strange family trait? Keith has never seen such bright, light hair on somebody before. Her hair is down and wavy, trailing thick down her back and pushes away from her face with a golden headband. The dress she wears is purple and expensive-looking. Allura King looks every bit as regal and important as her father. Is this all there is? Two people, living in this expansive, expensive building?
“Allura,” says Alfor, voice dripping with affection, “this is Keith. Keith, meet my daughter, Allura. Keith is a junior, so he’ll be attending Altea with you.”
Allura’s cold eyes narrow in on Keith. She must not want him here. He must be a decision made by Alfor and Alfor alone - he is intruding on their father/daughter territory. He refuses to both inch backwards and meet her chilling gaze.
At least, that’s what he thinks, until her body visibly brightens and a smile lights up her entire face. Her first words aren’t “ Welcome, Keith! ” or, “I’ll show you the couch, I guess. ” or even a grunt. What leaves her mouth is a sentence that leaves cold dread dribbling down Keith’s spine.
“Is that a clarinet case?”
He freezes. He didn’t think they would care - in some of the, uh, poorer houses, they’ve always tried to pawn it off of him in exchange for money. He’s kept it with him by sheer force of will and desperation. He didn’t think this would be a problem, not here - they don’t need the money from the clarinet (But, man, would they get money - as the only thing he inherited from his dead parents, he’s kept it in prime condition; not a single scratch, blemish, anything on it. It’s worth thousands), so why would they care about it? He didn’t hide it well enough. Fuck.
“I-” Keith’s voice comes out panic-stricken and cracking. He clears his throat and rushes out a, “Yes, it’s the only thing I have left from my parents - I won’t practice in the house, I promise, don’t-”
Allura raises her eyebrows. Her mouth twists into a frown; she crosses the room and descends down the spiraling staircase. Alfor says nothing. He watches her with a sort of proud curiosity that leaves Keith puzzled.
As soon as Allura is on their level, she approaches Keith slowly, touching her father’s shoulder as she passes. Keith forces himself to keep his feet grounded, though years of foster care make himself want to back up.
“Relax, Keith,” she murmurs, the frown turning up into a soft smile. “I’m not going to take your clarinet. It is your property.” She has the same thick accent as her father, though hers is a tiny bit softer. Up close, Keith can see flecks of violet in her otherwise blue eyes. “However, I would love to look at it. May I?”
Keith hesitates; by her tone, he can tell she is genuinely asking for permission. If he says no, Keith knows she will back down. On a normal circumstance, Keith would guard the instrument with his life. It is only for his eyes - and his fingers, and ears, and music stand, and him alone. But this is the first time somebody has ever actually looked at it not with just curiosity, but also fascination - Keith gets the sense that she is not just interested in it to be interested in it for him. Allura King actually wants to see the clarinet for it being a clarinet, not just a piece of Keith’s life.
And that, Keith tells himself, is the only reason he drops the duffel bag next to the door and follows her past her father, down the hallway. The hallway next to the staircase leads to a large family room/den - there’s a huge flatscreen TV mounted on one wall with a DirectTV box on a TV stand underneath it, along with so many gaming systems. Along the same wall, in the space that is left, are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, but instead of books, there is an expansive collection of video games and movies. The room is brightly lit from sunlight streaming in through the entire other wall of just windows overlooking the grassy, large backyard. Off to the left, Keith can see the beginnings of a pool.
Allura leads him across the hardwood to tile. A smaller dining table has been set up on the outskirts of the kitchen, where it connects with the den through only a half-walled countertop. She motions for him to set the clarinet down on glass table; he does, and without prompting, flips up the latches and gently opens the top of the case.
Behind them, Alfor whistles lowly, making Keith jump. He glances behind him. Alfor is staring at the case with sparkling eyes - he looks unto it fondly, like he is remembering a time that is no longer. Or maybe he is just impressed with the sight of it. Keith would be, too. It is a beautiful instrument - black wood with golden keys, flawless.
Allura breathes out a, “That is beautiful. You do play, don’t you?” Keith nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices her slowly evolving smirk. “Are you any good?”
He scowls. “I’m good,” he snaps defensively. “I’ve been playing my entire life. I taught myself.”
Her smirk is growing wider by the second. “Impressive. Play it for me.”
“No!” He shuts the case. “Why should I?”
Instead of giving him a clear answer, she spins around to face Alfor. “Oh, father - he should join!”
Alfor chuckles, eyeing Keith. “Don’t force him into anything, daughter. Keith can join if he would like to.” Clearing his throat, Alfor straightens himself and looks at Keith. “I was not aware you are a musician.”
Swallowing, Keith shrugs. He glances at the case; it holds everything for him. “Hardly,” he says, voice soft. “I just. Like to play sometimes.”
“That is what being a musician is! Now, I don’t know you, Keith, and I don’t want to freak out out. You just arrived here, but I can tell you have a special talent. I haven’t even heard you play,” Keith notes that he doesn’t say ‘yet’, but the word hangs in the air, implied, “but I know that anybody who takes such good care of something the way you do to that instrument means you hold in highly in your heart, whether because it is something to remember something by-” Keith’s heart clenches in his chest. “-Or because it is what you love. I will not ask you to play for me - as a musician myself, I know performances are most heartfelt not when somebody requests your music, but when you feel like giving it out yourself.”
“You’re a - a musician?” Keith asks.
“I am the head music director for Altea High School, the school that Allura attends - as will you. I dabble in every instrument, but am particularly well-versed in the bassoon. Allura here is the head drum major for the marching band. She is an all-state flautist.”
Allura smiles proudly, nodding, as she laces her fingers together in front of her.
“Have you ever been a part of a school band?”
Keith shakes his head. He glances at the clarinet again. “I could never afford to join,” he mumbles. “I don’t exactly have a lot of money.”
“I suppose not. Well, I am offering a place on the Mighty Altean Lion Band. Free of charge, of course - as somebody living under the roof of my home, it makes me responsible for you. And I will be responsible for your payments on everything, including trips, rental of a marching instrument, uniforms, clothing - anything.”
Keith’s breath hitches in his throat - he stares at Alfor, wide-eyed, heart hammering in his chest. Alfor is… offering to pay for him to be in band? Marching band and concert band? Keith used to think, even if he got the money to be able to pay for concert band and its uniform, he could never afford to do marching band. The expenses are ridiculous, and Keith - well. Keith wouldn’t want to risk his clarinet by running around outside with it. But if Alfor is offering to cover the rental of a separate instrument just to protect his clarinet? Keith is, for the second time, at a loss for words. His throat tingles, and he blinks repeatedly to stop himself from tearing up.
This is just…
This is the nicest thing anybody has done for him. Ever. And he’s been in Alfor’s home for, what, fifteen minutes now? Twenty minutes?
Alfor smiles. “I will give you time to consider it, of course. Band - especially marching band - is a lot of effort. It takes diligence, perseverance, dedication. But if you would like to join, the offer is on the table from now until summer band starts, which is the first week of August.”
Okay. Okay, if he’s offering-
Keith isn’t just going to sit around and not take the offer because he’s never done it before. If Alfor is serious - and while Keith doesn’t know him well, he knows that Alfor is completely serious - then Keith isn’t just going to turn down one of the things that he’s wanted his entire high school career so far.
“You will?” Keith asks. “Just - you’ll pay for me?”
Allura and Alfor exchange wide smiles. Allura steps forward, slowly reaching out to rest a hand on Keith’s shoulder. For some reason, Keith lets her; he glances down at the long, nimble fingers like it is an entirely new world. For him, it is - those fingers, that hand, these people - they represent what seems to be a turning point in his so-far shitty life. Keith doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. Of course, there is always bad in good - but this is the first time in, well. Forever, that Keith thinks he might actually be happy here.
“Of course, Keith,” Allura beams. “Musicians have to stick together, right?”
At Keith’s numb nod, she chuckles, pulling away. “Get your clarinet and bag - is that all you have, really? You’ll need some clothes for band, of course, right, Father? We can deal with that when the times comes, I suppose. Get your stuff and follow me, I’ll show you to your room. The last one, right, Father?”
Alfor nods. There’s that same proud expression on his face - and this time, Keith knows why. This time, Keith can tell why Alfor is so evidently proud of Allura.
Keith doesn’t remember ever taking them up on the offer, but apparently Allura knows what his answer will be already. He picks up the case and clutches it to his chest. Before following Allura up the smaller, less grand staircase on this side of the hallway, he turns to Alfor and, as soft as he can while still being audible, whispers, “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Keith.”
Keith darts into the entrance hall for his bag and takes the stairs two at a time to catch up with Allura.