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Sometimes, Shiro finds the rule of thumb of public schooling very tiring.
Between his shifts at the hospital and having to kick out extra cash for a ridiculously flexible babysitter—Lance is an incredible negotiator, despite the fact that he’s on the losing end every time, not to mention the kids love the guy—Shiro’s exhausted, and the last thing he wants to do is sit through a mandatory parent-teacher conference on his evening off. Still, as a single dad of not one, but two, he’s already torn down by the fact that he has to engage twice in the same night. The monotony of learning of his children's genius when he is already quite aware has him weary.
Coran, Pidge’s kindergarten teacher, had at least been chatty enough for the both of them.
When he exits his daughter’s classroom and makes his way down the hall to the final one on his list, however, he doesn’t take his chance to leave with some excuse haphazardly typed up in an apologetic email. Shiro knows for a fact that parent-teacher meetings mean a lot more to Matt than they do to Pidge, especially since most educators hold him in high esteem. For that proud little smile he wears year after year, a simple cardiac surgeon like Takashi Shirogane will do just about anything.
Even if it means foregoing an extra hour of sleep.
Rounding the hall corner, Pidge sleepily holding one hand and Matt gripping tightly to his prosthesis, he makes his way to Classroom 2B just down the way and reaches it with little to no interaction with other parents; he’s far too impatient to stop for greetings anyhow. Bright and busy educational flyers litter the entire surface of the door, and with a tired sigh, he lets go of his son’s hand to grab for the knob—opening it and ushering the two inside.
At first glance, the 3rd grade classroom is a wonderland of color, from the posters down to the play area lined with boxes of legos and building blocks. It’s charming, just as every grade school facility is, full of life that Shiro’s sure he’d appreciate more if he didn’t feel so fatigued. And it isn’t until he walks into the middle of the room and Matt pulls Pidge aside to show her the toy bin that he notices it’s empty—not a teacher in sight, dashing his hopes of getting anything done in a decent amount of time.
Part of him wants to give them the benefit of the doubt—he is early, after all—but another part has little patience and just wants to go home and sleep, if his kids would allow.
But obligations are obligations.
Stepping over to the teacher’s desk, he takes a seat on one of the chairs, turning it to have full view of the room and smiling Matt and Pidge’s way when they wave at him from behind the fortress they’re building. It’s nice to see them together, actually playing with one another instead of already being fast asleep by the time he gets home from the hospital. He only wishes he had the energy to join them; it’s hard not to wonder if they miss him when he’s away. Shiro supposes now is not the time for him to be thinking about it, but time is also something he doesn’t possess, so he takes what he can get. Snapshots the memory for later, but watches fondly at the methodical way they stack blocks one by one.
Dark lashes feel heavy then, his shoulders carrying the weight of two days without sleep, and he props an elbow on the table—shoving aside the nameplate neatly set on the desk.
Closing his eyes for just a moment seems like a good idea...
And it’s when someone steps inside of the classroom and the door clicks shut that Shiro’s startled awake, staring at the leather-clad back of a man setting down a motorcycle helmet upon one of the kiddie tables, heavy boots a stark black against the off-white floor tiles. When the figure turns around to face him, he's stricken, because staring his way—sharp shouldered with everywhere hair, fingers bound in rider’s gloves—is a guy with the most breathtaking eyes he’s ever seen. They’re an impossible color, set beneath thick, pinched brows and just above an angular scar that leaves him looking angrier than he probably is. And after they share a look, the surgeon’s mouth parting as he gazes in awe, that expression softens—lips a tender, off-center smile.
Shiro swears his heart skips a beat.
And as a doctor, he’d say that’s perfectly normal every once in a while, but this time the diagnosis feels near life-threatening.
Heavy combats step toward him and his mouth goes dry; he wants to say something clever to what he thinks to be another parent, a charming line he puts to good use on the nurses he chats with, but all that comes out is a stuttering: “H-Hi.”
The man pauses for a moment, but just a moment, peeling his gloves away before tossing them onto the teacher’s desk and exhaling mirthfully. “Hey.”
No wedding ring, Shiro notices, though he immediately kicks himself for the thought because it’s not entirely appropriate and he’s sure he’s just losing it from lack of a good eight hours.
“I’m here for a parent-teacher conference.” He says dumbly, though with confidence, and that has to count for something. The man doesn’t seem to think much of it, unzipping his jacket in a way that makes Shiro nervous, and he suddenly begins to wonder if his age is catching up with him and he’s turning into one of those creepy old men.
Thirty-five isn’t old… is it?
“Yeah, me too.”
Whatever it is he’s feeling, however, he tries to play off for the sake of conversation, and the smile he’s given never wavers. He takes that as a good sign. “Oh… kid with the babysitter?”
“No.” The smile turns into a smug smirk, the leather jacket tugged off to reveal a smart sweater as he sits in a plush chair, reaching forward and fingering several folders before him—turning his attention away from Shiro as he opens one of the drawers and deposits them inside. “I’m the teacher.”
Diagnosis: Atrial Flutter, most commonly described as butterflies within the chest.
“You are?” Sitting across from him now, the surgeon can believe it, but he was sorely mislead by the sight of fitted jeans and layers of hide. “I’m sorry! You just didn’t look like one to me, so I thought…” He speaks honestly, but he quickly catches his mistake, hoping he didn’t offend the man as he shifts in his seat. “Not that you look like you shouldn’t be one—I’m sure you have all the qualifications. I—I mean, anyone can be a teacher.”
He can practically feel his cheeks burning, and if he wasn’t being stared down currently, he would have slapped a hand to his forehead at the sheer lack of intelligence he’s displaying.
“Wait, that’s not what I meant,” he tries again, reaching up to rub at his own scar across the bridge of his nose.
“Keith Kogane, Mister Holt.” The other man looks neither bothered nor impressed, and Shiro decides it’s better if he keeps quiet, opting to sit awkwardly and watch as Keith pulls a folder with Matt’s name on it from another file drawer, flipping it open as he grabs a pen, scribbling something illegible on one of the forms. “And you’re just fine; but tell me, is it the leather jacket or the bike helmet that makes me seem too cool to teach nine-year-olds?”
Shiro tries not to think about those fingerless riding gloves on the table when vivid eyes shoot a look his way; he’s caught off guard, trying to offset his surprise with a smile as he reaches up to rub at his jaw. “Uh, I—”
“Mister K!” The sound of Matt’s voice cuts through the tension like sweet relief, and he suddenly feels a little more level-headed as his son runs over to the teacher’s desk, all wide eyes and toothy smile—his glasses barely staying on the tip of his nose. Shiro reaches forward to adjust them, the boy laughing under his breath. “He drives a motorcycle, dad, isn’t that awesome?”
Shiro shrinks a bit under the weight of the smirk Keith throws his way, feeling a heat creep up the back of his neck and he looks away from the attractive man in front of him, giving his son an affectionate smile. “That’s very awesome.”
Matt laughs giddily at the agreement.
There’s a rustling coming from the other’s direction, and a hand full of lollipops is thrust between them, tawny eyes glowing at the sugary treats. “Hey, Mattie? I think it’s real cool that you wanna brag about me to your dad, but we’ve got a secret business to talk about.”
Mattie?
“Secret business? Like spies?”
“Yep! Why don’t you take these and go back to the blocks, okay? This won’t take long.” Shiro watches the whole exchange a bit scandalized, never really being the type of parent to have candy around the house; though, by the looks of it, bribery by currency of sugar seems to be super-effective. Matt reaches forward to take them, but ‘Mister K’ is quick to pull them back, giving the boy a stern look that rivals his own disciplinary glare. “You can’t have these if you don’t.”
It’s funny, the way his little genius eyes the wrapped pops, silently counting them before looking between his dad and Keith. When he grins, Shiro can’t help but fall in love with those pearly whites, a huge gap where one of his front teeth used to be. “I will, I will!”
Keith hands him the six sticks with a nod, and Matt almost runs off when the surgeon stops him. “Hey, what do you say?”
There’s a quiet, shy moment before the nine-year-old shuffles back over, surprising Shiro by raising his fist to give his teacher’s a bump. “Thanks, Mister K!”
“Sure.”
“Share with your sister!” He barely gets to call it out before the boy is back over in the corner, Pidge not at all paying attention to anything but what she’s building, and he’s a little dazed that Matt’s already so comfortable with another person after so short a time—but he guesses he should be relieved.
Keith takes hold of his attention again when he grabs for a small, protective box in one of the many mugs on his table, all with witty teacher text printed all over them. He quickly opens it, slipping on a pair of black spectacles from inside. “How about we get started? You look like you might be a busy man, what with your scrubs and all.”
He says it with a victorious look and the glint of his lenses paints a target on those eyes.
Shiro knows then that he’s done for.
And he dares to think he’s okay with that.
Using the tip of his pen, Keith skims through his notes before regarding the surgeon, tapping against his desk in a rhythm he recognizes to be a song from The Cure. “So, Mister Holt—”
“Shirogane,” he corrects a bit too quickly. “Matt and Pidge are still Holts.”
“Gotcha.” The ballpoint momentarily travels between two overly sharp canines before the clicker is pressed into the man’s cheek. “Well, Mister Shirogane, I’ve gotta say that I don’t recall having any complaints about Matt. He’s top of his class, excels in reading comprehension, math, science.”
Shiro takes a moment to be proud, always glad to hear about Matt’s accomplishments and how successful he is, how successful his teachers believe he’ll be. Year after year, educators had only good things to say about him, and he doesn’t doubt that he’ll shine in the coming months as well.
He can’t hold back a toothy grin. “He’s always been a really smart kid.”
“Incredibly, so we can keep this short.” Keith’s voice is level, relaxed in a way unlike any other teacher he’s met, though it could be because of all the ‘heys’ and ‘yeahs’ thrown into his vocabulary. And he is on the younger side, reminding him a bit of Lance, fresh-faced and surely twenty-something. “I’d recommend higher level learning, but he’s too funny to let go of. The kid’s got jokes.”
That he does, and a desire to embarrass his father every chance he gets at the supermarket, though Shiro keeps that to himself.
“I wouldn’t want him to anyway, he’d feel uncomfortable around children older than he is.” He imagines Matt in a bullying situation and just the thought makes him uneasy; he’s not sure he’d be able to endure the roughness of an older child. “But, I can agree with you there, he’s quite the character.”
Keith nods as he looks engrossed in a far corner of the form he’s scribbling on, a fond smile on his face that Shiro notices is soft in comparison to the previous simpers he’s witnessed.
“He told me that he wants to go to space,” the man admits. “The title ‘ Doctor’ just might run in the family.”
“Y-Yeah.” Shiro doesn’t know if it’s the endearment for Matt that Keith has or the way he puts an emphasis on the word doctor that renders him a blathering mess, but he just wishes that the man would keep talking about school so he can have fewer opportunities to look like a shy teenager. “Is there anything else?”
“Just a few docs you have to sign.” Keith pauses for a moment, exhaling through his nose as he looks away from Shiro and over to a couple of picture frames on his desk. It’s only for a single breath before he begins flipping through the folder again, turning it toward the surgeon and placing a pen in front of him. “I doubt you’ll have to come back for a conference. The first one is mandatory, but we don’t really hold these just to say ‘your kid’s a little genius.’ ”
“Oh, I guess not,” his hands move for the page and ink, feeling a bit dejected at the point made, but what did he really expect? “Right, why would you?”
The man takes the file back with a shrug and a half-hearted smile. “Thanks for your time, Doctor Shirogane. ”
Shiro has to stop himself from calling in for a defibrillator.
When he helps Matt clean up the play area, all six lollipops deemed his shoved into a tiny mouth, and picks up a sleeping Pidge—he barely has it within him to say a proper goodbye as his exhaustion kicks back in, and he’s ashamed that his kid does it for him.
It doesn’t help that he’s kept up longer than he wants to be because all he can think about is fingerless gloves and strapping leather.
The first time Shiro gets called into a conference following the mandatory first is when Matt catches the flu and is out for a week.
He’d gone in for just a quick once over of the materials the day after he noticed a fever spike, a few pointers that would help his son get things done over the weekend, and a fair-sized packet of worksheets due upon Matt’s return. And after taking in those scorching violets Mister Kogane had going for him for all of twenty minutes—and getting a little jealous over a picture of the teacher and some guy with an arm slung around his shoulders on his desk—the surgeon had been intent on getting them to him.
However, during his subsequent shift at the hospital, boredom and curiosity had gotten the best of him—and he sat down on his lunch break to look over a math problem or two just for the fun of it.
And then, maybe three or four in passing.
He had been stumped by the level of mathematics nine-year-olds were learning nowadays, but he guessed he should have expected it; rules and methods of learning change every year, and naturally, the next generation becomes a bit sharper than the last.
Still, all he can remember thinking was…
X equals… what?
Shiro had spent a vast majority of his break hammering out answers to his son’s homework questions, work included, and by the time he’d finished—there wasn’t much time to mull over the mistake made. The entire packet of worksheets had been completed in black pen in his own doctors’ scribe, unable to be erased and replaced with Matt’s own work. He’d been pulling his hair all evening after that, and almost all night, thanking anyone who would listen for the mitral valve procedure he was tasked with in the wee hours of the morning that kept him occupied.
It wasn’t until he’d taken a nap in the bunker and called Lance to check up on the kids that he decided to go back to the school and ask for a new packet; it wouldn’t be any more embarrassing than the insulting things he said to Keith the first time they met.
Only, as he’d driven into Garrison Elementary’s parking lot, he realized it was.
And when he caught Keith, luckily during a free recess period—he didn’t ask for a new packet at all.
He just… turned in his own and attempted a bit of odd small talk, unsatisfied until he made the man smile and unwilling to look like a complete idiot for doing a third grader’s homework because he has a high school level crush on his son’s school teacher.
Nobody would notice anyway, right?
And he guesses that they didn’t, because the days following are quiet, continuing as normal. Matt recovered from his cold and returned to class the day before, surely succeeding as he always did, and Shiro tries not to be disappointed that the days he’d gone to pick up and drop off his son’s homework would be the last he would really get to see of Keith.
That was, until he’s called in for a meeting.
Sitting there now in front of Keith—he cleared his entire evening schedule for this—he can’t really read him. His lips are pursed and there’s a slight movement in his jaw that makes Shiro think he’s chewing on his cheek as he flips through a few sheets of paper painted in black ink and marked up in red. It’s terribly attractive, how he looks when he concentrates, and the surgeon tries not to stare.
It doesn’t work.
And when Keith finally looks his way, he’s quick to straighten in his seat, curled up on a small bean bag chair in the play area since the man’s desk is being refurbished. It doesn’t help that the teacher sits taller than him either, having still his normal chair.
“I called you here because I noticed Mattie’s grades were dropping quite a bit, and I was wondering if you’d noticed anything. I know he was sick, but he’s such a quick learner; it’s a little unexpected.” He sounds genuinely concerned, turning one of the pages in his hands to reveal a worksheet Shiro himself had spent his entire break on weeks ago, every question marked wrong.
Oh.
There’s a searing heat crawling its way over every inch of his skin, and he tries his best to hide a full-body blush, thankful that it’s cool enough outside that he chose to wear a sweater. If anything, he prays the words that come out of his mouth next sound a bit less suspicious than he’s feeling.
What Shiro didn’t want to say is that he haphazardly did every problem himself because he hadn’t the time to give them to Matt in the first place and decided he’d practice them in the lounge at the hospital for fun; the surgeon’s sure his intelligence would be questioned and his pride, compromised.
“I see…” He tries not to sound disappointed, because really, he worked pretty hard on those problems for the less than satisfactory grade he received—he has a doctorate, for God’s sake, hadn’t he learned anything? Of course, voicing his concerns is more than a little unwise, and he carefully attempts to turn the conversation around. “Maybe he just needs more time with you to really get a grasp of the materials.”
“Maybe,” Keith agrees, though not without giving Shiro a calculating glance that lasts longer than it should. In his nervousness, he returns the stare with a smile, and the man relents. “At any rate, I’d really like it if he tried to make up these worksheets for a better grade, so I made a new packet with different problems.”
Taking a small stack of stapled pages full of numbers and—no multiple choice?—he’s handed, Shiro quickly files them into his briefcase, spotting a couple reading comprehension sections and nearly exhaling in relief. He is definitely good at those—
Matt. Matt is good at those.
“Perfect.” The word is supposed to distract from his own inner turmoil, but it’s said a little too late and the rise of Keith’s brow tells him it is also a bit too out of place, and he says whatever comes to mind next in a panic. “Uh, do you offer any tutoring? I could come by and bring Matt and we could go over some things.”
Violet eyes look to him in amusement then, so different from his prior level stare. “We. ”
“Yes.” A beat. “Well, you and Matt, but—”
Keith stands, moving from his chair to a tall file cabinet placed temporarily beside the play area, hiding Matt’s manila folder away as Shiro does his best to concentrate on anything that isn’t the way the man’s shirt rides up when he has to reach a little too high to get to a particular divider. His eyes travel without his consent, however, and as they glide the expanse of the other’s back and make their way to a neat collar—he notes appreciatively the way the fabric clings in all the right places.
The spell is broken when Keith turns back to him, sighing tiredly. “We have tutors, but I wouldn’t be one of them.”
“Oh,” he replies, “that makes sense.”
“I’ll try to take some extra time during class to help him out.”
“Right,” during class. Shiro stands from his seat, taking the hint that it’s nearing the end of their session and figuring it’s time to leave at any rate. Besides, he’s long since promised Pidge that he would cook her all time favorite meal that night: dinosaur nuggets and spaceship mac and cheese. Grabbing for his keys on one of the block boxes, he smiles the other’s way before turning to head out. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else, Doctor Shirogane?”
Shiro immediately turns back at the question to find Keith closer than he expects—so close, he can almost count the strands in his eyes, many and mesmerizing. His mouth opens and closes several times, and it’s almost juvenile, the way his voice cracks when he says, “Shiro.”
He notes silently their difference in height then, only accentuated by Keith taking a step forward, looking up at him and speaking so quietly that he has to lean down to hear the words being spoken. “Is there anything else, Shiro?”
There is.
He wants to ask if Keith would like to go out to dinner one night, or if he’s even single, what with his missing desk housing a picture of himself and another man—because, yes, he noticed Mister Tall, Dark, and Silver-Haired the other day when he was grabbing Matt’s homework. He wants to ask if he would date a parent of one of his students, if he even likes kids outside of his job, if he even wants to deal with someone who has two. He wants to ask if he doesn’t mind the fact that Shiro’s a pining idiot and has been since the beginning of the school year.
“Shiro?”
He quickly loses his nerve.
“No, no, I’m sorry. I’ll just... be going.”
Keith sighs for the second time that night as he walks away and Shiro’s afraid to think that it’s because of him, but what finally clicks in his head is that he’s able to see him again under the right circumstances if he wants to—and maybe, if he’s lucky, during one of those times he might have the guts to follow through.
All he has to do is go back to grade school.
Shiro begins making a habit out of doing his son’s homework.
It starts with a random worksheet he ‘double checks’ for him, erasing the neat print Matt tries so hard on making look nice and replacing it with his own, careful to be extra wrong if he’s working on something he actually knows about—because his plan won’t exactly work if he’s doing all the right things. And it’s a couple of days before he starts to feel silly about it, but when he receives an email requesting he come in for conference, he can’t help but feel a bit of a thrill.
The surgeon makes good on his promises to be at every single one, apologetic about Matt’s grades and feeling more than a little bad each time they’re mentioned, but he gets to sit with Keith at his desk—stare into his eyes and break away from the monotony of school talk and surgeries, and just be. Shiro dares to think that the other man might enjoy it, too. The way he engages in conversation, the playful looks and cheeky comments; it’s almost as if he expects their time there to be more than him drilling a parent about their kid’s sucky work.
And Shiro finds that he likes Keith too much to want to stop.
Diagnosis? Smitten.
One of following moments he shows up to talk about Matt’s still plummeting grades, even though his last test scores were perfect, Keith interrogates him—as he always does, and it never fails to make him feel guilty. But this time, he doesn’t crack down on Shiro nearly as much as he usually does. In fact, he hardly stays on the subject at all, and the light conversation they end up making has him feeling like they’re dancing around each other in perfectly measured steps.
“And he just blows chunks all over my A-B-C rug.” Keith’s arms spread wide, fingers tucked into those black gloves even though they fail to match the red turtleneck he’s wearing; the same could be said for his jeans and combat boots. He’s still a view, Shiro thinks—he’s not sure how a motorcycle-riding, leather-wearing, grade school teacher could possibly look so cute and simultaneously intimidating. When he looks the surgeon’s way, lifting a hand to scratch at the long-healed scar on his face in a manner that actually makes it seem like the man’s a little embarrassed, Shiro begins paying attention again. “No one wanted to sit there for story time after that, even when I had it cleaned.”
Keith’s monotonous drawl has him laughing.
“Can you blame them?” Crossing his arms over his broad chest, scrubs just a little more snug than usual—whether it’s purposeful or not, he won’t say—he leans back in his seat. “We really shouldn’t make fun of kids.”
The man pulls a face. “Hey, believe it or not, they make fun of us, too. Apparently I’m always having a ‘bad hair day,’ even though they can’t keep gum out of their own to save their lives.”
“In their defense, mullets haven’t been a thing since the eighties.”
Shiro’s surprised when the other’s brows shoot up, revealing those heart-stealing violets, seemingly darker despite the filtered light of the room shining down on them. The look fades, and he swears there’s a twitch of a smile hiding behind a serious expression and a pointed finger. “Watch it, Shirogane. This is my classroom.”
He can only grin. “Fair enough.”
The silence between them is comfortable and by now, he thinks he and Keith have become friends—despite the circumstances in which they meet, of course. It doesn’t feel like enough for his growing affections, but he tries to keep that to himself, there is no need to get worked up over infatuation.
It’ll be over by the time spring ends anyhow.
As much as Shiro should be relieved that there’s an end in sight, he only feels more panicked, because how many times more will they be able to see each other this way? It’s not like he’s riding on a good excuse either, screwing up his son’s grades just to get called into a meeting with his attractive school teacher isn’t something a father should do.
But he doesn’t want to regret it anyhow.
Maybe I should just bite the bullet.
It’s getting later by the minute and even though Shiro’s got no place to be but home with his kids, he decides to make up for the last time he ducked out and left Keith without telling him of the ‘anything else’ he really wants.
“Hey, Keith, I was just wondering…”
He’s stopped momentarily by the look on the other’s face, a kind of hopeful that gives Shiro confidence, and the means to not look back with a single word. “Yes?”
“Do you—”
A high-pitched beeping fills the air.
Shiro grabs for his coat hanging on the chair behind him, reaching into his pockets to take hold of the small beeper he keeps near his person at all times, heaving a sigh as he views a message from the hospital requesting his presence immediately. He hates the timing, but as a doctor, he chose not to have a choice in the matter.
When he stands and throws on his white labcoat, he finds it hard to look Keith in the eye.
“I gotta go. I’ve been called in.”
If the look on the other’s face is disappointment, he’s too busy grabbing his things and rushing out of the room to notice.
Shiro spends the whole night saving people’s lives, but he still has yet to keep himself above water and breathing.
The next day, Shiro gives Keith an impromptu visit after school lets out, taking the night off (beeper included) for Matt and Pidge and—hopefully—picking up where they left off the day before. He’s never been good at denying himself the truth, especially when it’s always there in the back of his mind, begging for him to get himself back into gear and to stop being a coward already. It’s why he’s there at two-thirty on the dot, stepping into the near empty room to catch the man reading over a printed out email, index hooked between his lips and hair pulled back and out of his face for once.
Shiro steps in, quietly, setting down his white coat over the chair in front of the other’s desk as he’s noticed. And when the other man looks to him, black glasses clunky atop such a fine nose, he smiles—lifting a hand in greeting. “Hey.”
“I wasn’t expecting you here. Didn’t even call for a conference,” Keith jokes, but he seems glad to see the surgeon either way. “What’s up?”
It occurs to Shiro that he doesn’t have a plan, but he reminds himself constantly that he wants to see the other, wants to know him, wants to talk. And if it’s good enough for him, then, that’s all he cares to do. “We got interrupted yesterday and, I guess, I was just hoping you had some time on your hands?”
Short lashes blink together a time or two in disbelief, but Keith sets the email down on his desk, long and wordy it seems—and pulls out his chair, taking a seat and gesturing to the one across from him.
Shiro is happy to oblige.
He’s just not as smooth as he thinks he’s going to be.
Starting where they left off the night before isn’t easy, and he finds himself quickly deviating from the question altogether, talking about his day and asking about Keith’s—each line clunkier than the next and not once leading down the road of inquiring if he’d like to grab a cup of coffee sometime. It’s boring, he notes, and not because of the man in front of him. Shiro’s nervous all on his own, he knows it, and nothing’s quite coming out right.
It’s a good fifteen minutes in that he decides to think outside of the box.
“How’d you get that scar?”
It’s a question he’s been wanting to ask for a while, always finding it funny that a marred face is something he and Keith have in common. And he would have chalked it up to a childhood accident, much like his own, but as the other’s face grew grim—he instead believes he’s delved into uncertain territory. The eyes he so loves look away from him and to the picture frame on his desk, something he’s seen several times since he’s met the man, and he wonders if he shouldn’t have asked at all.
“Was racing my best friend on my bike.” Keith answers with a shrug, digging an incisor into his bottom lip.
Shiro pushes his luck, tossing a finger toward the photograph. “That guy?”
“Yeah,” the word is clipped, “Lotor.”
He says the name like it’s a melancholy melody, slow and painful, and with a regret that can never quite be placed.
“I’m guessing you lost.” The surgeon watches as sharp shoulders tense, and the other’s face falls.
“I did.” He speaks with sadness. “And so did he.”
Shiro doesn’t like how long it takes for him to realize his mistake, and a part of him wants to bury himself right then and there: time of death, now, with no resuscitation. It doesn’t seem right to just let it be, goes against his inquiring nature and the need for closure, so he reaches forward—placing the hand of his prosthesis gently on the man’s own flesh. “Keith—”
“What happened to your arm?”
The subject changes instantly and he pulls away.
“Accident when I was little. I don’t remember much.” He tries to think of a remedy for the that kicked puppy look on the other’s face, but he knows not everything is cured with soft words and a bandaid. “Don’t ask don’t tell?”
“...Yeah.”
They stray from the topic after that.
And somehow, everything becomes easier.
Keith asks about his heritage somewhere down the line and he shares his own—and along the way, they start browbeating their own customs, joking about how their parents frown upon their westernized ideals. Neither of their families live in America, and it eases that strange loneliness in Shiro, finding out that the other man lives the same way. It’s an easy conversation, and as he gets comfortable, rolling up his sleeves and crossing one leg over the other—it no longer feels like he’s just coming in to speak to Matt’s teacher, but hanging out with someone close to him.
They talk about their younger years, how Shiro got his scar falling from a tree in the backyard of his uncle’s house when he was a kid, how Keith never learned how to drive a normal car even though he likes working on them and that it’s always been him and two wheels. He finds out that the younger man isn’t as young as he initially thought, riding his own coattails at thirty-one, and the surgeon comments passively about very good genes.
The conversation falls into the territory of Matt and Pidge, and Shiro’s delighted to answer every question he’s asked about them, even more so when Keith looks genuinely interested. He spends more than a few minutes rambling about the first birthdays he spent as their father, how proud he was when Pidge started walking and how frustrated he felt when her first word was ‘Lance’ and not ‘Dad.’ And he doesn’t forget to mention how smart his little scientist is, wanting to find the answer to everything.
He stops when he catches Keith smiling at him with lidded eyes, his elbows propped up on the desk and cheeks squished between his palms.
Shiro asks if the red motorcycle in the faculty parking lot is his and the way his eyes light up helps to diffuse the pile of flitting wings making home in his chest.
Keith’s happy to talk about his love for cars and bikes, how his girl’s name is Ruby because he just likes the simplicity of it, how he gives other teachers tune ups for a good price because he’s never met people kinder than Hunk and Allura—teaching 1st and 5th grade, respectively. He talks about how much he loves a vehicle’s body, loves playing with how it works and Shiro’s surprised he isn’t a mechanic, but he also can’t help but be relieved because the only reason they’ve met is by the fact that he’s where he is.
They talk about what feels like everything.
It’s the deepest conversation they’ve ever had and Shiro’s head over heels more than he’s ever been. And proud, because he came to see Keith of his own volition and nothing less.
He only feels it’s a shame when he looks at the time and realizes that he’s late to pick Matt and Pidge up from after school care, having told Lance to take the night off since he wouldn’t be on call, and he stands from his chair more than a little disappointed—even when the bearer of his affections does the same. “It’s about time I go. I’m going to surprise the kids tonight with some documentaries I picked up from Blockbusters.”
There’s laughter in the man’s eyes as he grabs for the leather jacket slung over the arm of his chair, pulling it over his shoulders and zipping it up tight, looking more like he’s meant for the highway than a classroom.
Shiro knows that’s just what he likes about him.
“About space?”
“Yeah,” he exhales mirthfully, shaking his head before turning away with a wave. “Have a good evening, Keith.”
“Wait.” Shiro doesn’t notice that the man’s grabbed onto his prosthetic until he feels a sharp tug in his shoulder, a pulling at the point of severance in his arm that makes him look back in alarm. And when he does, taking in the sight of two gloved hands holding tightly to a broken limb and lips pressed together into a thin line, he remembers why he’s there in the first place—what he planned to achieve by stopping by without rhyme or reason. It seems Keith is quicker to come to that conclusion, though, not once letting go as he speaks. “Is there anything else, Shiro?”
It’s pressing, because a big part of him feels like Keith knows, repeating a question as if the last answer he gave hadn’t been good enough. The way the fingers of his prosthesis curl around the man’s own isn’t particularly helpful either, and he almost wishes it was his real hand being held.
Shiro tries to calm his racing heartbeat. “I—”
“Yesterday,” a rough voice interrupts, and he has to measure his own breaths as Keith steps into his personal space, “you were going to ask me something.”
The only response Shiro gives is a thick swallow, because he’s so sure there’s no possible way he’ll be able to form words, not with those ridiculously beautiful eyes looking into his own—and definitely not when he’s distracted by the angular edges of his mouth or those frustrated, pinching brows. He does the only thing that feels right then, reaching forward with the hand that isn’t already trapped within Keith’s and thumbing across the scar on the man’s cheek, finding that it’s unexpectedly smooth.
He doesn’t even stop to think about what he’s doing when he leans forward, only that the object of his affections as of late is moving to meet him halfway, noses rubbing and breaths mingling until they finally—
“Dad? Why are you here?” Shiro pulls away from Keith so quickly that he bumps into the nearest bookshelf, knocking over a few thin texts before he catches himself on a sharp corner, body twisted awkwardly as he zeroes in on Matt staring at him from the front door. He tries to right himself, though not without knocking over a plastic timer from the reading area—Keith looking at him as though he’s unsure whether he should laugh or be overly cautious of the surgeon’s next move.
“Oh, I’m just, you know—”
The boy’s brows knit together, confused. “I thought Lance was picking us up.”
Stepping back from the shelf and anything else that’s possibly in danger, Shiro reaches up to toss a hand through his hair, feeling like he’s just been caught red-handed by his own parents. “I just had some extra time on my hands, that’s all.”
“Is this another conference?” Wide eyes look between himself and Keith, and he’s not so sure he likes how upset Matt looks suddenly, curling in on himself a little. “I tried really hard on my last test.”
Shiro looks beside him to see Keith watching his son with a sadness he can’t place, but he thinks that—maybe—he hates to see the kid feeling down just as much as he does as his father. And it occurs to him then that he’s why the boy feels this way, because the only reason his grades are even dropping is because the guy who’s supposed to be a dad is using the work of his oldest child as an excuse to come make eyes at his teacher.
Despite his profession, he believes there’s still a ways for him to go before he’s an expert on matters of the heart.
Stepping forward, he kneels down in front of his one-of-two, grasping those freckly arms in his hands. “Of course you did, Matt... Mister K was just letting me know that. And I’m so proud of you.”
With a smile, he looks to Keith for help, and he’s glad to know he’s ready to chime in and go along with his plans—putting on a killer smile. “Yeah, Mattie! Your scores were so awesome, I just had to let him know you’re top in my class.”
“Really?” Shiro’s heart breaks when he sees Matt’s eyes red with the strain of unshed tears, but he perks up almost instantaneously; at least, he thinks, it’s the first step toward a silent and overdue apology.
“Really. In fact, we’re going to pick up your sister and go out for ice cream,” he says, grinning when his son starts for the door, Pidge’s name on his lips. Taking a moment to look back at Keith, he sighs, trying not to think about what almost happened between them—though he can’t help but desire it. “We should go. Thank you for calling me over.”
Wide violets look surprised at his words, as if he were expecting something different, but Shiro doesn’t entertain it. And instead of him stepping away, turning his back like he always does, he stands there as a helmet is snatched from one of the front row desks and gloved hands reach for keys; the surgeon doesn’t say much of a word when he brushes past him.
“Anytime.”
It’s a long time before he sees Keith again.
It’s been weeks since he’s been called in and for some reason, Shiro’s still trying.
He’d briefly stopped using Matt’s homework as an excuse for some time, even going so far as to explain to his son the reason why he’d done it. And though the boy had been pouty for a few days, he did use it to his advantage and teased Shiro relentlessly for his ‘crush on Mister K.’ It had made him feel better, though, to come clean even if it was to his nine-year-old—and he knew that it made his son feel better, too, knowing that the bad grades he was receiving are not at all his fault.
Of course, none of that actually helps ease the real issue.
Keith is still, most days if not always, on Shiro’s mind.
It occurs to him several times that he could stop in for a visit, maybe explain himself and work out his feelings, or maybe actually ask the other man out on a date. Time flies a bit quickly, however, and the days he mulls the idea over end up becoming weeks. And he feels all too suddenly that he’s lost his chance.
Maybe it just isn’t meant to be.
Or, at least, he thinks that to be the case until he gets called into another parent-teacher conference one day.
He arrives to see Keith sitting at his desk, all strapped up in leather as though he’s ready to leave or has just gotten back, arranging a few files on his desk as he speaks kindly to a child in the chair Shiro usually sits in—except it’s been dragged right up beside him. And he’s surprised to see that child is Matt, grinning wide as he talks a mile a minute into the other man’s ear, mouth stained blue from candy he was surely given.
His arrival has their conversation winding down to a quiet close, both sets of eyes on him as he makes his way over, finding the air to be uncomfortably tense on his end—as if he’s walking into a blind operation, unsure of what he’ll find until he opens up the body. Shiro doesn’t want to look too nervous about it, however, and he searches for another chair as big as the one his son’s sitting in.
“Have a seat, Doctor Shirogane.” Keith is the first to speak, pointing a finger at the kiddie stool across from the much more adult one that his boy seems too intent on keeping, and the surgeon doesn’t protest. When he sits down, there’s a telltale creak, and he’s nervous it’ll break under his weight.
Matt giggles, but he ignores it.
“I.. uh, wasn’t expecting a conference.” He admits; what he really wants to say is that he didn’t expect to be sitting there with anyone but Keith.
“You would know when to expect them,” is the response, arms crossing over the man’s chest, expression more serious than Shiro would have liked—especially since pressed lips and narrowed eyes are staring directly at him.
“Yeah, dad. You would!” Matt mirrors his teacher, throwing his arms around his body, though he can’t keep a straight face to save his life.
Shiro’s feels the need to be cautious with his words then, each syllable spoken slowly. “What’s going on...?”
“You’ve been doing your kid’s homework.” Keith accuses after a few moments of silence, and his stomach falls to his knees—something like that, anyway, he doesn’t often joke with the gastroenterologists. “Or, you were, until the last time I saw you. What gives?”
“What?”
“You stopped, and I thought that you would have at least come by to…” It must be the confusion on Shiro’s face that makes the man frustrated, because he frowns and starts speaking a bit more tersely, in slower time. “To get called into my conferences, you started doing Matt’s homework. Badly, I might add.”
“I—no! I didn’t…” The words tumble from his mouth faster than he can properly put them together, and his ears burn like the third degree, Keith’s expression not doing much to help.
“Really? So, he’s been failing all on his own?”
“Yes!” His son’s face morphs into panic, and the surgeon’s protective dad mode kicks in, even if the one he’s fighting is himself. “I mean, no…”
Keith rolls his chair forward, propping himself up by the forearms, brow raised and mouth twisted as though he’s trying to hold back the word ‘liar.’ He turns to the boy on the chair next to him, suddenly looking a bit too self-satisfied, and it’s the first time he sees the man’s perfect teeth when he smiles—more cheshire than sweet, however. “Mattie, why don’t you tell us what’s wrong?”
Shiro looks at his son pleadingly, having faith that he wouldn’t do anything to put his father—the man who buys him everything on his wishlist for Christmas—in jeopardy.
“Dad wanted to do my homework so he could come to conferences because he like-likes you.”
He’s grounded.
Keith softens into a smile that makes his heart flutter, so faint and tender that he’s disarmed, and he can practically feel the onset cardiac arrest.
And then he hears Matt laugh from the chair beside him.
“Matthew!”
The accusation in his voice unsettles his son and he looks to Keith, mildly upset. “You said I wouldn’t get in trouble, Mister K!”
All crooked smile and air of confidence, a gloved hand reaches over to ruffle the boy’s ginger hair. “I promise you’re not in trouble, Mattie. Let me talk to your dad, okay?”
Shirt wants to bristle at the fact that Keith brushes his authority aside—not that he’s planning on disciplining Matt, but it is his right. Yet, he’s warmed by how kindly his son is treated by his teacher, how gently he ushers him away to a pile of building blocks and board games at the other end of the room with a wave and another handful of lollipops.
And then he remembers he’s been caught.
“Look, I—just… I’m not very good at these things and… I just wanted to see you.” It dawns on him by that alluring, smug look on Keith’s face and the way he crosses his arms over his chest that the man not only knows, but he knew, and probably has since the very beginning. Shiro shifts in a seat a few sizes too small for him, pointing a finger the man’s way. “And you knew the whole time.”
“Of course I knew. I teach nine-year-olds who haven’t gotten past ‘the dog ate my homework’ in the creative excuse department. Besides, you signed papers that first conference night that match the handwriting on Matt’s worst assignments uncannily.” Sitting back and throwing one leg lazilly over the other, Keith tosses a thumb Matt’s way. “The kid was quick to rat you out, too.”
“I-I…” Shiro’s at a loss for words, and he feels the man burning holes into his skin the longer he keeps his eyes on him, but he can’t do much but press the palm of his prosthesis over his lips—muffling his words. “This is so embarrassing.”
“I thought it was cute.” Keith stands from his desk like he’s seen him do half a dozen times by now, only instead of walking over to grab his things and leave, he steps over between Shiro and his table itself—leaning against the edge as he knocks their knees together. The air between them feels much more intimate, and the surgeon looks up at the man to find him staring back, shrugging casually. “I was kind of hoping you’d ask me on a date before I had to out you. But, you kind of screwed yourself. Matt’s a little too smart to just go along with someone messing up his green card.”
The admittance makes Shiro sit straight up in his chair, flustered. “Wait, you want me to ask you on a date?”
“Wasn’t it obvious?” Keith breathes, moving to narrow the space between them, reaching out only to thumb over the scar across his the doctor’s face—mirroring his own actions from the week before. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I almost kissed you last time you were here.”
“I just—I thought—” He isn’t sure what to think, only that this could be one of the luckiest or most humiliating moments of his life, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t care if it happens to be both.
“Well, just in case I wasn’t perfectly clear,” Shiro’s cheeks are grasped by rough leather, but he thinks the tips of Keith’s fingers are incredibly gentle, the way they tilt his face upward just so.
“Keith.” And he’s unabashed then, pressing his hands along the school teacher’s hips to draw him forward, eyes fluttering shut as he feels the man’s breath on his lips—expecting a soft touch to his own.
There’s a tender peck pressed to his forehead instead, and when Shiro opens his eyes, he’s faced with the coy smile of a man who believes revenge is sweet.
“Pick you up on my bike at seven?”
Between a flat-line and a jump at restarting his heart, he says yes.