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The first two responses to his ad are instant rejects.
Lance scrolls through the messages, entirely unimpressed. First is a grungy dick pic paired with an asking price of three-hundred bucks—really? In this economy?—and the next is a self-declared alpha male who looks like he might be nine feet tall and entirely unfamiliar with the concept of smiling.
But the third response?
Lance’s eyebrows rise a little as he skims through it, weighing the pros and cons of a dude who is a bit sketch but still far better than the other prospective hires. There aren’t any face shots, but his pics show a whipcord body and defined abs and ruggedly strong arms, and already Lance has a good feeling about this one. Sure, the fingerless gloves in every shot are a little 2004, and the nine-inch knife in the background is maybe a little bit of a red flag, but the combination of cheap and available on short notice cinches it.
He shoots a message back to “Spitfire”—definitely not the worst handle he’s seen on here—and they finalize everything in a matter of minutes. It's a relief to have the errand out of the way, as there are only hours left before Shiro’s surprise party and they pass by in a flurry. While Allura decorates and Hunk finishes up the cake and canapés, Lance runs through his checklists and makes sure that Matt and Pidge are on schedule to escort Shiro to back to the house just in time for the festivities.
And, thanks to masterful planning, the surprise reveal goes off without a hitch. The cake might be Hunk’s finest work, their presents earn smiles and laughs, and soon enough it’s time for the real fun to begin.
Spitfire earns an extra star on Stripper Yelp for sneaking around to the back porch like Lance requested. Right now, Shiro sits in the living room surrounded by friends, distracted by food and Allura’s Instagram-worthy cocktails. Cluing him into the last surprise of the night too early would be a tragic waste.
“Wow. You should really do face pics next time,” Lance says in lieu of an actual greeting. Spitfire is a solid eight or nine, face-wise, though he could use a proper skincare regimen. Maybe some highlighter for a little extra pop. “Lance, by the way. I just sent you the other half of the money, and we’re gonna give Shiro like fifty in small bills to stuff down your pants, too. Is that cool?”
“Uh, yeah. More money’s good,” he says, somehow looking equal parts nonchalant and deer-in-headlights. “And thanks, I guess.”
He stands just a little shorter than Lance, despite the unruly sprouts of hair that jut upward near the crown of his head. Windswept black hair frames features that are intense, for no better word—large, dark eyes bordered by dense lashes, a sharp mouth, shapely eyebrows that speak volumes more than the man himself seems willing to put forth.
Lance stands aside to let Spitfire into the shoebox house that he and Hunk are renting, lips pursed as the stranger shoulders past. His gaze skids down Spitfire’s back, considering the garish red leather jacket, the black bootcut jeans, and the heavy black workboots clunking across the cheap linoleum flooring.
“Hey, try to be quiet. I don’t want Shiro to get suspicious and come sniffing around back here. Actually, speaking of…” Lance leans in and gives him a none-too-subtle sniff. “You smell a little… automotive.”
The guy—Spitfire—lifts the collar of his scarlet jacket to his nose and inhales. He sounds doubtful as he stares Lance right in the eyes and says, “I don’t smell anything.”
Thin, chestnut brown eyebrows zoom upward, a scathing rebuttal on Lance's tongue already. But time is of the essence and the moment calls for action—like when Lotor went on a twenty-minute philosophy monologue earlier and Lance heroically ended it by sniping the nerd with silly string from across the living room.
“Wow, okay. Whatever,” Lance scoffs, quickly herding Spitfire into the half-bath near the back door. He runs his fingers along a shelf lined with scents, humming thoughtfully, and settles on a bright red bottle with holo flecks. “Hold your breath, dude.”
“Do what?” he asks just as a thick cloud of aerosol engulfs him, his gloved hands clamping tight over his nose and mouth. From behind them, he manages a muffled, “Ugh, what is that? Liquid Big Red? Pepper spray?”
“Uh, it’s called Cinnamon Candy Seduction and it was limited edition and it’s the only thing I have that’s strong enough to cover the smell of motor oil and old tires. Now hold still while I do a second pass.” Lance doesn’t hesitate to really jam the nozzle down and generously swish back and forth. It’s the same drenching approach he utilizes on invading roaches and long-winded Lotors. “So, can I ask what your day job is?”
“Auto shop. Part-time. And the gym at the JCC, part-time. And a snow-cone place during summer.”
Lance hums at all that, running his hand back over short-cropped hair as he gives Spitfire one last look over. Garage smell neutralized, there’s nothing else to complain about. He’s starkly pretty— and without even trying, which is frankly annoying—and being this close leaves Lance with the distinct impression that this guy could kick his ass.
“So, Spitfire’s your stage name too, right? Or was that just your handle?”
He crosses his arms and shrugs. “I mean, I guess it’s both. Keith is fine, though.”
“Keith? Okay. That has sort of a… rustic appeal, I guess. We’ll roll with it. Alright, Keith, I’m gonna go out and warm ‘em up, get the crowd all ready for the razzle dazzle, and when I announce you, that’s when you saunter in, okay?”
It gets Lance a blank stare. Or not quite blank— there’s impatience and irritation behind it, reading in the little twitches of Keith’s expressive brows and clenched hands. “Sounds unnecessary. Why can’t I just walk out there with you?”
Lance hunches his shoulders forward, leaning in to meet Keith’s glare eye-to-eye.
“Seriously? Because you’re the entertainment. Damn, dude, do you have any theatrical sense?” A flat look and flatter silence follow. “Look, I’m just trying to make this a quality production. Forgive me for wanting you to have a flashy entrance. Oh! Wait, let me point out Shiro first.”
“Is he the one having the birthday?”
“Yeah. Follow me, but be sneaky.” He pauses, finger still pressed to his lips, and glances down. “Are those steel-toed boots?”
Keith’s eyes flit down to his own feet and back up. The breath he draws in puffs out his chest, his posture going defensive. “Composite toes. I have to wear them for work.”
Lance nearly comments on how massive and ugly the shoes are, but—like a goddamn saint—he refrains. He leads Keith down the hallway, past the narrow laundry room and the linen closet, and encourages him to stealthily peek into the living room.
Out there it’s bright and alive with the sounds of a low-key party—murmurs of conversation, intermittent peals of laughter, the muted audio of videos being played and little noises of pictures being taken.
Shiro sits in one of the metal-backed kitchen chairs that they dragged into the living room, flanked on either side by friends. Hunk and Matt are squished together on a small ottoman to one side, which proves a spatial challenge as Matt gesticulates wildly. Pidge is engulfed in a beanbag beside Lance’s empty chair, while Allura and Lotor sit nestled together in a papasan that creaks mournfully every time Lotor shifts his lanky monster legs.
“He’s the one in the middle,” Lance whispers as he elbows Keith a few times in quick succession. “Buff, white hair, jawline of the gods. That’s Shiro.”
At the moment, Shiro is turned toward Matt and Hunk, his ankle pulled up to rest across his knee, laughing softly at whatever story Matt is animatedly retelling. His sweater is a well-washed grey and ribbed high around his throat, and the material clings just enough to leave no doubt as to the physique underneath, which Lance can testify is hot extra in a gladiator movie levels of ripped.
A few birthday drinks have left a red flush across the tops of Shiro's cheeks and the bridge of his nose, loosened his smile, and drawn the usual military-stiffness from his wide shoulders. His fingers fiddle with his sneaker laces and the hem of his jeans, and the faint glint off of aluminum and carbon fiber digits is visible from the hallway where Lance and Keith are lurking.
“Oh.”
Lance chances a sideways glance and finds Keith gnawing on his bottom lip, stare fixed on his target. As a precaution, he adds, “He’s got a prosthetic and a bunch of scars from a bad accident. Don’t be weird about it.”
“Why would I be?” It’s a little edgy. A little defensive. Keith looks to Lance with scrunched brows and a heated frown.
“Chill,” Lance soothes. He thinks of the first time he met Shiro face-to-face, his grip hesitating at the unexpected sight of steely metal. “Sometimes it just catches people off-guard.”
Keith grunts and nods, apparently accepting the response. “And he has no idea about me, huh?”
Lance chokes back a sputtering laugh. “None! He thinks we’re gonna do karaoke,” he whispers, wiping at the corners of his eyes with the back of one hand. “We thought it would be fun, get him to loosen up a little. So really lay it on thick, okay? Don’t be afraid to go over the top. Give him something to remember. I think he’s been in a little bit of a drought lately… this could be a good pick-me-up for him.”
Lance shoots Keith a few finger guns as he edges past. “So let’s get you out there!”
There’s a little herding involved, first. Shiro's migrated to the kitchen and started eating the sliced fruits Allura prepared for her mixed drinks, and casually leading him back to his seat takes a minute or two. The birthday boy is still buzzed— which is a little bit of a godsend— and hasn’t yet reached that introvert-event horizon where he starts trying to weasel his way out of a gathering.
Everybody else in the room knows what’s coming. Phones are out, cameras at the ready, and it’s getting harder for Matt and Pidge— the weakest secret-keepers, because it’s apparently genetic— to keep their shit-eating grins concealed.
Everybody but Shiro knows, but the man is far more than just a pretty face. He’s still got a slice of kiwi pinched between his fingers, and as he chews his gaze slides left and right. Curious. Suspicious. He mumbles something about the karaoke machine not being set up, seems surprised to have his question quickly deflected, and ends up looking inquiringly to Lance instead. Through the faint haze of punchy, fruity liquor, the gears are definitely turning.
So Lance gets out just ahead of them.
“Friends, foes—” Lance shoots a look at Lotor, who’s sunken completely into the papasan, watching him with crossed arms and hooded eyes, “— and celebrated birthday boys, please put your hands together for the main event… Keith, a-k-a Spitfire!”
He zips to his seat beside Pidge and exchanges a smug grin with her, already feeling the satisfaction of a job well-done. She quickly snaps a picture of him, beaming over the top of her phone, and Lance can feel his face warm. To his right, he can hear Shiro asking Hunk and Matt what’s going on.
The last of the scattered applause and whooping slowly fades as Keith finally trudges to the center of the living room, taking up a space in front of the entertainment center Hunk’s uncle gave them. The coffee table’s already been pushed up against the far wall, and a little bit of confetti still flecks the stained rug. He’s got a good bit of square footage to work with, but Lance belatedly realizes that the room is a little too well-lit for the level of skeeze they were hoping to achieve.
It isn’t helping that Keith is just standing there, uncomfortably stiff, his arms crossed and his mouth set in a tight-lipped line.
“Hi,” Keith says, nodding his head in Shiro’s direction. His fingers strum an irregular beat against his red leather-clad biceps. “Happy birthday.”
Lance is trusting that Keith's moves are better than his public speaking; could be he just lacks whatever the stripper equivalent of bedside manner is. Charisma? Sensuality?
Lance glances sideways to check on Shiro and finds him staring at Keith slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Whether it’s just the shock of the reveal or the fact that he's being sized up by the world's most intense prettyboy, Lance isn’t sure. The blush dusting Shiro’s ears and neck and cheeks seems promising, at least.
A smattering of clicks and camera flashes starts to break the spell, releasing Shiro from whatever part-time mechanic, part-time stripper witchcraft is at play here.
“Hold that expression, Shiro,” Allura says as she gracefully squats onto the floor for a better angle.
That’s when it really seems to sink in.
“Oh, God,” Shiro mumbles as he cups his hands around his face, hiding himself and his flushed features from everyone else in the room. “You’re here for me?”
“Yup,” Keith answers, looking almost as uncomfortable. Now he’s slowly rubbing his hands up and down his jean-clad thighs, but it reads less as sexy and more as sweaty palms.
“You don’t have to do this,” Shiro says as he leans forward in his seat, his hands sliding down to mask only the bottom half of his face. The way he breathlessly glances down and up Keith’s frame suggests he’s hoping to see a little more, though.
“Uh, eighty bucks says he does,” Lance immediately counters. He grabs a fat wad of cash that Pidge hands him and shoves the loose, rumpled singles into Shiro’s lap. “Plus this. And don’t go giving it to him all at once.”
“It’s fine,” Keith assures Shiro, smiling for the first time all night. It’s nervous and wavering and overshadowed by the sudden flush of color over Keith’s cheeks, but still— it's a nice gesture.
“I’m so sorry,” Shiro says, and he’s already holding out a fistful of money apologetically.
Keith takes the bills with a bashful thanks and pockets them. He’s sporting a blush that rivals Shiro’s as he starts to unbutton his jacket. “Um… I hope you like it.”
Then there’s nothing but silence— agonizing silence, punctuated only by the occasional creak of a chair or shift of beans in Pidge’s bag— as Keith stands in place and finishes unbuttoning his jacket. There's even an additional zipper underneath, which he undoes with zero panache, zero build-up, zero tease.
Lance presses a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the disaster unfolding before them. On the other side of the room, there’s a dry cough.
“Hey, do you want some music?” Matt stage whispers, interrupting the show— if it could be called that.
“What?” Keith pauses with his hands on his belt, just beginning to undo the clasp.
“Some music— dude, seriously?” Lance hisses, his fingers already massaging firm circles against his temples. “You’re just gonna do it in silence? I assumed you brought something—"
“Let him work, Lance,” Allura interjects, all firm pleasantness forced through a tight smile. She looks at Keith indulgently and nods her support. “The man is a professional.”
Beside her, Lotor’s pale eyebrows shoot up, clearly skeptical of the very idea. But Allura’s posh boyfriend keeps his lips sealed behind the hand pressed to his mouth, apparently preferring to simply watch the train wreck happen rather than become an active participant.
“Hang on, I’ve got it,” Pidge says, flapping a hand to clear the air. The clacking of her short nails against her keyboard fills the stretch of uncomfortable silence, at least. “I’m picking a playlist. Lance, it’s going to be one of yours.”
Lance already knew that, because if anything can salvage this wreck, it's his expert taste in music. “Certified bangers, every one of them,” he assures the room.
Keith’s hands are still on his belt, his shoulders drawn stiff while he waits for musical accompaniment. Those dark eyes somehow manage to look everywhere but at Shiro, who’s sunk as far back into his iron-backed chair as he could possibly manage.
Weak, tinny music suddenly spills from the speakers of Pidge’s laptop, not quite loud enough to actually fill the room. Still, it’s infinitely better than awkward silence that let them hear every movement of Keith’s jacket and Matt’s spring allergy-induced heavy breathing.
It’s enough to get things going again, in the same way that pushing a stalled car down an embankment is getting things going again.
Keith’s saving grace is that he is, irrefutably and infuriatingly, incredibly good looking. He might as well be changing in a J.C. Penney fitting room, honestly, but his raw appeal helps balance out the sheer embarrassment of him shucking off his clothes with all the charisma of a bro in a gym locker room. There’s a collective gasp when Keith tugs his shirt off over his head and reveals the lean, muscled chest underneath— complete with a ribbon of tattoos up his side— but no one is more affected than Shiro.
Shiro, who is absolutely mesmerized by the objectively terrible stripper currently fighting a losing battle with his boot laces. The money sitting in his lap is beyond forgotten; his hands are steepled together in front of his lips, which are parted in a silent and protracted gasp. His world consists of a bargain stripper with minimal rhythm, now.
Others are… less entranced. There’s a creak as Hunk leans back on his ottoman and gives a little whistle to get Lance’s attention. It goes entirely unnoticed by either Shiro or Keith, who apparently only have eyes for each other now, which seems like both the best and worst possible outcome of this ordeal.
“Hey, so quick question,” Hunk whispers at him behind Shiro’s back. “Did you do any kind of screening at all? Or was it like a ‘hire the first person you saw’ kind of deal?”
“It was more of a ‘we decided on this last night and you guys were happy to leave it all on my shoulders’ sort of situation, actually.”
Hunk sucks his cheeks in and nods a few times, deciding to let that one pass. “Like, is he even a real stripper, though? Did you find him at a gas station or something?”
“Sorry, Hunk!” Lance snaps, earning him a sanctimonious little shush from Matt. “I didn’t think to ask the last-minute stripper I found on the internet for his references or credentials.”
“Hey, idiots. Shiro’s into it,” Pidge whispers over his shoulder. “So it’s fine.”
Boy, is he. Judging by the way he’s shifting in his chair, Shiro is enjoying it plenty.
“As long as he’s getting my money’s worth, I guess,” Lance mutters out of the side of his mouth, getting a tittering little snicker from his girlfriend.
Keith is down to just unbuttoned jeans, now, and it’s at that moment that Lance catches the spark of something dangerous in those blue-violet eyes. For a moment, the Spitfire moniker makes perfect sense.
Lance feels a bolt of genuine amazement— and fear, too, of what’s coming next— as Keith slips his red jacket back on and approaches Shiro with lithe, purposeful strides that have all the swagger of a big cat headed toward a surefire meal.
And Shiro. Poor, poor Shiro. It’s Lance that did this to him, really. They all chipped in a little, true, but it was Lance that picked Keith, the leather-clad temptation currently doing a number on his friend and longtime gymmate. Whatever’s happening between Shiro and this guy right now— and something is definitely Happening, given Shiro’s rapt look and stuttering breaths as Keith comes to stand with a leg on either side of the birthday boy’s chair— is a direct result of his actions today, and Lance can’t think of any instance where he’s seen realtime consequences play out quite like this.
It’s got him nibbling his thumbnail like he’s watching a genre thriller unfold. He’s not really sure if this is a usual part of the stripper routine— his knowledge has pretty much come exclusively from movies and a few stories from his older siblings— or if they’ve skipped right across a professional line somewhere.
Because it seems personal, the way Keith is straddling Shiro. The way his hand goes to cup along the back of Shiro’s skull is tender, but the little jerk as he works his fingers through short, dark hair is something else. It’s almost intimate, the way he gently tilts Shiro’s head, and they’re so close that the small movement has Shiro’s bottom lip and chin catching along the muscle over Keith’s ribcage, up the strip of exposed skin that’s framed on either side by red leather.
Shiro looks heady, and Lance realizes then that the amused whoops and cheers have long-since died off and they’re all watching this happen with the same withheld breath (and synth-pop providing a little background ambience that absolutely does not correlate with the mood in the room whatsoever). The poor bastard still doesn’t know where to put his hands, so they’re just hovering inches shy of the thighs that are spread for him.
And if he didn’t know what to do before Keith dropped his hips low and started grinding against him, then Shiro sure as hell doesn’t know what to do after.
Full shut-down, it looks like. There’s a lag of a few seconds before Shiro’s face blooms bright red, nearly matching the brilliant dyed leather of Keith’s jacket. Equal parts horrified and horrifyingly aroused, his hands again fly to shield him from everyone’s sight— and perhaps spare him from the too intense eye contact of the man currently working his hips into Shiro like it’ll salvage his reputation as a stripper.
Neither of them seems concerned with the loose pile of bills that are getting crushed between them, smushed somewhere between Keith’s surprisingly strong thighs and Shiro’s lap. If nothing else, Keith clearly takes pride in this aspect of his job. This is definitely about more than the money.
There’s a little pause that catches Lance by surprise— Keith slowing the rock of his hips and leaning in to say something in Shiro’s ear. He’s still very much straddling Shiro, with his hands gripping the metal of the chair’s back and his forearms resting on the man’s wide shoulders, but there’s a tender uncertainty in how he waits for Shiro’s response.
Shiro nods to whatever question he’s been asked, with his hands still pressed to his face and his head still curled down in embarrassment, before Keith resumes the lap dance with just as much enthusiasm.
“Jesus, Keith,” Lance says after at least eight agonizingly drawn-out minutes have passed. “You’re gonna kill him.”
When Keith blinks back at him, Lance gets the distinct impression that the dude had forgotten the rest of them were even around. Which, fair enough— Hunk and Matt are back in the kitchen for snacks, Pidge is working on her neuroscience paper, Lotor excused himself to the bathroom ten minutes ago, and only Allura is still enduring this display alongside him.
“You still okay, Shiro?” Keith asks, tilting his head as he leans back, resting his weight closer to Shiro’s knees.
Another nod, like before. Slowly, the man’s fingers part and he risks a glance at Keith between flesh, bone, and aluminum-reinforced carbon-fiber. A laugh bubbles past his palms, which are probably as sweat-slick as the rest of him looks to be. “Yeah. You’re really good at this.”
It’s all Lance can do not to roll his eyes. The last five minutes have consisted of Keith more or less wiggling in Shiro’s lap with all the finesse of a Tickle Me Elmo. It isn’t exactly an art, what Keith’s doing.
“Thanks,” the sham of a stripper says, smiling awfully bashfully for someone currently wrapped around a hot, sweaty beefcake. “It’s my first time doing something like this, actually.”
“Really?” Shiro is embarrassingly awed. “I’d never have guessed. It’s like you know exactly… I mean, it’s better than I thought these kinds of things were. It’s perfect.”
Except for the music, the shuffle-stripping, and the lap dance that quickly devolved into uncomfortably (for everyone else, at least) intimate and direct crotch-grinding. Did Keith ever even take off his pants? Did they really pay eighty-plus bucks plus to see him stand shirtless for five minutes and sit on Shiro for another ten? From the corner of his eye, Lance sees Shiro’s body bow slightly as he lifts his hips off of the seat, with Keith only barely bothering to raise himself off of the man’s thighs.
Shiro's going for the wallet in his back pocket.
That has Lance swiveling all the way around to face him. “Uh, hey buddy, what are you doing there?”
“It’s a tip,” Shiro says, and those are definitely twenties in his hand.
“You don’t have to,” Keith says. Still sitting on Shiro’s lap.
Is the show over? Lance doesn’t know. They never really agreed on a time-limit.
“It’s my birthday,” Shiro shrugs. “And I want to. Oh, and this.” He grabs as many of the stray one- and five-dollar bills as he can, crumpling them up along with the twenties he fished from his wallet, and carefully guides the wad of cash into Keith’s hands. “Hey, would you like a slice of cake before you go? It’s amazing. Hunk’s practically a pastry chef.”
So, it’s probably safe to call it a night.
“Great party, everyone,” Lance announces, standing up and clapping a few times. “Thank you for coming. Let’s all do better for Pidge, huh?”
There are a few scattered whoops in response, and a smattering of well-wishes and ‘happy birthdays’ thrown in for good measure. Shiro bears it all with as much grace as a man trying to tactfully hide his raging erection behind a gift bag full of presents possibly can.
“So, do I get a stripper for my birthday?” Pidge asks as she slips past Lance, her hip pointedly bumping his thigh.
“Uh, yeah,” Lance says, slipping on the smuggest look he can manage. He turns in place and sweeps his arms down, gesturing to all of himself. “Best in the biz, baby. You can look and touch.”
“Oh, good.” A giggle-snort follows, and in the next moment she’s leaned into his side with her laptop balanced in her arms. “I recorded everything,” she whispers, gleeful and conniving. “And I want the full Keith experience. Think you can replicate this move for me?”
Lance crosses his arms while she plays a ten second bit of Keith staring down while fumbling with his belt buckle. It’s a bleak look, made worse by the fact that Shiro is at the edge of the frame, visibly consumed with lust. “Well, if that’s what turns you on…”
Pidge smiles smugly and nudges Lance in the side. “Hey, don’t look now, but Shiro is hand-feeding Keith a slice of cake.”
“No,” Lance says, mournfully. Mournful, because once upon a time, he’d worshipped Shiro— and while learning that the frathouse legend and all-around heartthrob was more or less a regular dude had been bearable, seeing Shiro melt into a puddle of sweaty goo over a guy with a grown out mullet and dry skin is too sad for words. “Is he really, Pidge? Is he? I don’t want to turn around and see that.”
“He might’ve just been wiping frosting off of his lip. Would that be better, or worse?”
Lance sighs and turns to watch the way things shake out. It was his hand that orchestrated this evening, after all.
If there was frosting on Keith’s lip to be wiped away, it’s only because the two of them are more focused on making eyes at each other than actually eating the cake on their plates. They linger by the kitchen island, entirely oblivious to Matt and Hunk standing just two feet to the left, by the toaster oven. It smells like pizza rolls.
But the embarrassment of seeing someone he’d spent most of his college years looking up to abandon every shred of dignity for an awkward guy he just met is tempered by something else.
It actually seems to be working?
Keith’s sticking around longer than he absolutely has to, which bodes well for Shiro’s chances. And, Lance has to admit, there’s something a little inspiring about it all. Maybe it’s the kind of thing only Shiro could pull off. Maybe it could only work on someone like Keith.
Because fifteen minutes ago, Shiro was mortifyingly aroused while publicly receiving the world’s sloppiest lap dance. And five minutes ago, he was practically ready to sign away his next paycheck to a guy that smells like Big Red incarnate and thank him for taking it. And now he’s lingering around that kitchen island— probably to hide his boner— with said guy, chatting him up with the confidence of a man who wasn’t just ripped open and laid bare in front of his closest friends.
And it’s working.
Lance makes his approach just in time to see Keith using a knife that looks like it came from his boot to cut himself another slice of cake and yes, that is absolutely a seven-inch hunting knife pulled from God knows where, and Shiro’s only remark is:
“Oh, wow, that’s neat.”
Which is at least moderately better than the stifled choking noise he makes when Keith licks the blade clean, tongue passing along the flat of each side.
“Hunk,” Lance whispers as he edges close to the comforting hum of the toaster oven, “what have I done?”
“Oh, come on. You love playing matchmaker,” Hunk teases, his burly elbow playfully nudging Lance’s side. “You weren’t even trying and you still set them up.”
“I think it’s cute,” Matt shrugs before gingerly extracting the oozing pizza rolls and grabbing a few paper plates. “In a ‘wow, I’ll never be able to look at my longtime family friend the same again’ kind of way.”
The rest of Shiro’s birthday plays out like this:
"So. Good birthday?"
“Great birthday," Shiro says, grinning. "Even without the karaoke. I hope you had a good time, too?"
“Surprisingly, I did,” Keith says, head tilting to one side. His smile breaks into a laugh that has Shiro’s heart pounding against his ribcage like it wants to force the rest of his body a step closer.
“It was just to get some quick cash for a part I need to fix my bike again,” Keith continues, idly squishing the sides of his empty red solo cup. Lance had— without a word— removed every remaining bottle of liquor from eyesight a while ago, and now even the various flavors of sparkling fruit juice were running dry. “I figured this would be in and out, over and done with. Easy money. Never considered that it might be fun.”
Keith’s gaze cuts back to Shiro, lingering on his hips before sweeping up his chest and locking eyes with him. The weight of the look is as warm and heavy as Keith himself, and just as effective at pinning Shiro to the spot and leaving him aching for more. Keith’s eyes are tempest-grey, Shiro determines. Dark and stormy, tinted with violet, the color of clouds that promised torrents.
Shiro grins into his cup before finishing off the last swig. It’s a mix of strawberry lemonade and something with prickly pear. “Fun, huh?”
“Yeah,” Keith answers, his sights slipping to the side. He’s biting his lip, but there’s still a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth as he adds, “A lot of fun, making you squirm like that.”
Shiro can’t look right at him for a moment. The heat coming off of his face is unreal, and it's a possibility that he might spontaneously combust.
“Fun talking to you, too.” Keith’s hands are deep in his pockets, with the corner of a twenty poking out near his wrist. The shapely angles of his cheeks are dusted with pink, and the way he tentatively looks up at Shiro from under dark lashes makes the taller man’s heart stutter.
“Me too. I mean, I’ve really enjoyed talking! With you. I’m sorry for keeping you so long, though,” Shiro says. He glances down at his lockscreen and suddenly isn’t surprised that they’re the only ones left standing in Hunk and Lance’s kitchen. “It’s, uh… late.”
“Don’t worry about it. Not like I had plans for after,” Keith shrugs. “I was just gonna find a McDonald’s nearby, probably. Feed the beast.”
“Oh.” Oh. Shiro’s talking before his wits have gathered, something instinctual and eager to milk his time with Keith stepping in to save him from himself. “I could take you, if you want. If you need a ride. It’s not far.”
“Alright.” Keith’s lopsided grin is maybe the best thing Shiro’s seen all night. There’s movement and the faint crunch of crisp paper as Keith carefully draws his hands from his pockets. “But I’m paying. A very generous customer just tipped me like, over a hundred dollars.”
“Well, if you insist,” Shiro says, one of those half-giddy three-am laughs getting away from him. “But I’m no cheap date. Two Big Macs and a filet-o-fish, minimum. Apple pies are non-negotiable.”
“Good,” Keith replies, thumping his knuckles against Shiro’s front before heading to the door. “I like eating with someone who can match my appetite.”
“Yeah? Be ready to back that claim up. When the Holts have me over for dinner, Colleen doubles all the recipes. I didn’t even find out until last year,” he mumbles after. “I just assumed she always made two meatloaves…”
It makes Keith laugh, at least. “If it’s any consolation, my family is banned from every buffet restaurant on this side of town.” His amusement fades into a low whistle. “Shit. You need to wash your Jeep.”
“Yeah…” It’s a half-hearted, futile gesture, but Shiro reaches up and brushes a little bit of the dust coating from the hood of his black, two-door Wrangler.
“I like it, though,” Keith says as he clambers inside, admiring the leather seats and assorted condiment packets in the cupholder. He asks permission before he messes with the radio station, and he likes open windows and night air as much as Shiro does. “Bring it by my uncle’s shop sometime and I can get that dent out of the door, too.”
“Really? Thanks. Hate those loose shopping carts,” Shiro grumbles as he turns into the nearly empty parking lot of the nearest McDonald’s. “And, uh… if you need a ride at all while your bike’s in the shop, you can text me. I work a desk job on base now, so my hours are boring and predictable.”
“I might take you up on that,” Keith says, his knuckles running along the sideboard.
Only the drive-thru is open at this hour, so they park in the lot and eat in Shiro’s Jeep with the windows down and the radio playing softly in the background. With six burgers, an order of chicken nuggets, fries, and four apple pies split between them, they draw out the meal into an affair that lasts until the first tinge of orange on the horizon signals dawn.
And Shiro’s not sure he can remember the last time he felt so comfortable with someone so immediately. He’d taken to all of his friends with a similar spark— the Holts had enthusiastically claimed him as family after one day as Matt’s roommate, and Lance and Hunk became fixtures in his life practically overnight, and Allura and Coran felt like old friends from the start— but with Keith it’s all amplified. Less of a spark and more of a sudden jet of flame.
Their conversation feels like catching up. Like they’ve been separated too long rather than just meeting for the first time. Like they’re overdue for this moment together. Keith’s arm casually brushes against his prosthetic as he leans to snag a particularly crispy fry from the pile balanced on Shiro’s lap, and Shiro finds himself wishing that their paths had crossed sooner.
There’s a promise of a free oil change in there somewhere, and Shiro floats the idea of switching gyms—the showers in his current one are the site of a losing battle against several fungal strains, and Keith’s pretty sure he knows a better place, anyway.
They almost forget to exchange numbers. Five minutes spent sitting in front of Keith’s house, caught in a loop of thank yous and goodbyes, and it doesn’t come up. They part smiling, and it doesn’t even occur to Shiro to ask, though the thought of taking Keith out again has been running in the undercurrent of his thoughts for the past two hours.
It’s only halfway up the driveway that Keith realizes it and bolts back before Shiro can even take the Jeep out of park; he thumps the dusty hood as he rounds the front of the car, before stepping up on the running board to jam his head and shoulders through the driver’s side window.
“Need your number,” he says without preamble, a little breathless. The little bit of tension in his expression eases as Shiro slowly recites his digits and Keith secures them in his phone. He sends Shiro a text to make sure everything’s correct— it’s me, keith— and then lingers to watch Shiro officially add him as a contact.
It takes another few minutes to say farewell again, even with Keith dangling on the side of the Wrangler all the while.
Shiro is less than a block away when his phone briefly buzzes against the leather of the passenger seat. And, like a responsible driver, he makes sure no one else is approaching the intersection—which is empty, given that it’s 5:40 on a Sunday morning—and settles in at the stop sign to sneak a look at the text.
Make that texts. Plural. And all from Keith, with telltale fire emojis flanking either side of his name. A little wave of giddiness envelops Shiro, pushing back the exhaustion of an all-nighter and a fading sugar high.
The first asks if Shiro wouldn’t mind giving him a lift to dinner tonight, and the next offers to repay him with a ride on his bike, as soon as it’s fixed. The third is just calling him out for sitting at the intersection just to check his texts.