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There are a lot of things Keith hates.
He hates that somehow he always ends up working the closing shift with Lance because they somehow both ended up with an almost identical fall schedule at the local university, which means they also both need the same shifts at work.
He hates that the bus route from his shitty off campus apartment to the Starbucks he works at doesn’t run close to his work schedule, so he’s always an hour early or half an hour late (which means he’s late, always late).
He hates that his job is on the nicer side of town full of all the people who can afford to come in daily and have probably never worked a 9-5 in their lives, because it means he has to spend every moment he isn’t studying making drinks for idiotic teenagers who drop more on one customized drink than Keith has in extra spending money for the entire week. Even worse, the drinks they request all taste like absolute shit, and he’s ninety-nine percent sure they’re only ordering them for their Instagram and not to actually drink.
He hates that every time he tells himself he can ignore the annoying customers and just have a good shift, he ends up with the world’s most annoying fucking customers known to man.
He hates that he hates so much, too.
Once, on a bet in high school, he tried to be positive for an entire twenty-four hours (including, for some reason, no cursing). He only made it seven before feeling like he might implode if he didn’t drop an f-bomb.
The truth is, life isn’t fair. It’s messy and complicated and lonely, and just existing is a lot of fucking work. People like to act like it’s all worth it so long as you meet your soulmate, that suddenly all the world’s suffering and hardships and difficulties you’ve ever endured will suddenly seem worth it because you’ve met one stupid person. As if one person can make life better somehow.
As far as Keith is concerned, it’s a flaming load of shit. His parents had been soulmates and it hadn’t saved them or his family. His mom still left and never came home and his dad still died waiting for someone that would never return. As a kid his dad always told him that his mom was doing something important, that she wouldn’t have left them if she hadn’t needed to, but he’d died before Keith was old enough to find out what the fuck could be more important than your own family.
He grew up knowing that having a soulmate was no guarantee of having someone forever. It was a farce that society liked to play up. Capitalist society exploited it to try and get the lonely and eager to buy shit they didn’t need to try and attract their soulmate, and most of the mental health professionals blamed everything from depression and anxiety to sleep issues on soulburn—the low grade burn you feel in your soulmark from the day you turn eleven until the day you meet your soulmate.
Most people meet their soulmates early on; at least half the people Keith knows have platonic soulmates from their own family. Which means they were spared the agonizing torture of spending day after day wondering if you might ever meet this supposed special person. It also means that for those unlucky enough to have no family, like Keith, their chances of finding their own soulmate are twice as hard. Those who don’t have a platonic familial match still usually find them by the time they’re legally an adult, and those who don’t, well—people didn’t talk about them much.
It’s as if it’s too taboo to speak of those without a soulmate, as if the’re cursed to live miserable lives all alone. Privately, Keith suspects all the soulmateless people in the world secretly fuck off to live in a cabin in the mountains or an island of their own, unattached and unbothered—happy to live out their lives knowing they won’t ever have to face abandonment or rejection when their soulmate inevitably realizes their supposed perfect match is less than perfect.
Keith is twenty-five and technically past the average age you usually find your soulmate by. Hell, it’s practically middle-aged in soul years. Everyone around him seems to be waiting on bated breath for the moment Keith meets his own soulmate and changes his mind. He’s lived with the burn on his cheek for over a decade now, the only constant in his life, and he doesn’t fucking care if he ever meets them (not that he’s even convinced he has one, no matter what anyone else might say to the contrary). He’s pretty sure his soulmate will take one look at him and walk away anyhow, and Keith doesn’t need that.
At this point in his life he doesn’t need a soulmate. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s gotten this far all on his own and he’s surviving just fine.
“You’re late, mullethead,” Lance yells, startling Keith from his thoughts as he walks through the front door. There are only two customers right now huddled in the far corner and both seem too preoccupied with their laptops to pay attention to Lance’s shouting, which is good since Keith hates when people stare at him.
Keith hunches his shoulders, but waits until he’s close enough to Lance to whisper so the customers don’t hear him. Once he’s rounded the small corner that blocks the front counter from the rest of the seating area he looks Lance straight in the eyes and flips him off.
Lance laughs. “Ah, as delightful and charming as ever I see.”
“Fuck off,” Keith grunts, not at all surprised when Lance follows him into the back as he clocks in.
“Why do you always need something from the back when I clock in?” Keith asks.
“Just unlucky I guess. Weird how we always run out of lids or cups when you show up. Maybe if you were ever on time for work like me it wouldn’t happen so often.”
“It’s not my fault the bus was late,” Keith grumbles, pulling on his apron. He’s had this conversation with Lance more than two dozen times in the last six months, and he’s absolutely not having it again.
“As I’m sure you are aware since you do have eyes, I have impeccable time management skills. If you ever need help with navigating your not-so-busy schedule so that you can actually get to work or class on time, you can always come to me. I’d be happy to teach you what I know and be your mentor. I know you probably look up to me and have a deep respect for the type of mentor I serve as for you since I’ve been here longer.”
Keith closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. “You got hired the week before me, asshole. And I don’t need your help.”
“Are you sure about that? Because from where I’m standing it looks like maybe you do. I could also help you with your uh—” Lance pauses, beady little eyes darting around the stockroom before continuing, “I could help you with your soulmate problem.”
“I don’t have a soulmate problem,” Keith snaps.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. I understand. I, too, was once without a soulmate and feeling lost and dejected. But finding Allura changed everything for me and it’s the least as I can do as your best work friend to help you find a way to discover yours.”
“You met Allura two weeks ago,” Keith interjects, pointedly ignoring the best friend comment. Lance had once been convinced they were rivals and somewhere along the line he decided they were friends instead. Keith’s not sure which one is worse.
“Exactly, and my life is already so much better. I mean, my god, have you seen her? She’s an actual goddess. And she’s not just beautiful either. Did you know she’s in law school because she wants to help people? She’s like an angel. A really smart, kinda scary and fierce, but gentle angel.”
Keith just grunts again, trying to tie the back of his apron strings. He did know, because so far in the ten shifts he’s shared with Lance over the last two weeks he’s spent every single one of them doing nothing but talk about Allura. It’s horrifying and annoying, and Keith is absolutely not fucking jealous. He’s not.
“What’s your point?” Keith asks.
“My point is, when you finally find your soulmate, things will feel different and—”
“I have to get out front. I’m on drink duty,” Keith interrupts.
This is another thing Lance has told him every single shift since the moment he met Allura—how his soulmark had stopped burning, how when she had smiled at him he’d felt a calm he’d never known, and how happy she makes him. It’s sweet and disgusting all at once, and Keith is not in the mood to hear one more time about how life feels different when you meet your soulmate. Especially not today when he’s running on four hours sleep, hasn’t showered in three days because the water in his apartment is still off, and is now facing the prospect of an eight hour shift with Lance after having two midterms.
“Fine, fine. We’lll talk about your soulmate problem on your break. Come to think of it, I saw an ad for a pheromone enhancing supplement online the other day that you can get to increase the odds of your soulmate noticing you. They say it’s got an eighty-nine percent success rate. You can even get it without a prescription now and I really think it might help you since you know—” Lance trails off, making a weird gesture with his hands.
“I what?” Keith challenges against his better judgement.
“You’re not the easiest person to like. You sort of have a don’t look at me or I’ll break your face face. Last week you made someone cry for asking for a coffee refill.”
“That wasn’t my fault!” Keith objects, unable to hide his surprise. “It wasn’t even a Starbucks cup. It was from Dunkin Donuts. He was trying to scam me.”
“He was like eighty, dude,” Lance says. “Besides, that's really not the point. You’re just...not exactly an easy person to talk to or get to know which is probably why you haven’t yet met your match you know.”
On a very distant level Keith is pretty sure Lance means well, in his own idiotic and tone deaf Lance sort of way. It’s the only thing that keeps Keith from punching him in the nose. He also needs his job too much to get fired, which is why he also resists the urge to throw a pound of coffee beans at Lance’s head as he ignores him, and instead makes his way out of the break room.
“Okay, so that was a good talk,” Lance mumbles to himself.
Keith flips him off, letting the door slam behind him. No matter what kind of customers he ends up with today, none of them can be worse than having to listen to Lance one second longer.
An hour later Keith’s not so sure anymore. He’s spent the entirety of it slammed with ridiculously complicated mobile orders that no one in their right mind would have the balls to order at the counter.
Two hours later he’s halfway to quitting when the new hire, James, refuses to stop giving Keith tips on how to make the drinks as if Keith hasn’t fucking worked there for two years and wasn’t the unfortunate one who had to spend the last two weeks training him.
Three hours later Keith’s ready to spend half an hour alone in the backroom with Lance listening to whatever stupid capitalist bullshit he thinks might help Keith find his soulmate over having to deal with one more customer talking about the one-eighth of an inch difference in the amount of foam in their flat white, or asking him three times if the decaf latte he made them labeled decaf is actually decaf.
Just when Keith thinks it can’t get any worse, in walks his least favorite customer in the entire fucking universe. He nearly hides under the counter.
“You look like you could use a break,” James observes, in a way that feels both patronizing and judgemental. Keith very much wants him to take over, but would admit that over his dead body. Besides, James isn’t good enough to deal with the world’s most difficult customer.
“Nope. I’m good,” he lies, already getting a grande-sized cup.
“The usual?” Keith can hear Lance ask.
Across the counter the man nods, tossing his platinum blond hair over his shoulder and holding out his phone so Lance can scan his app. Then he pulls out a crisp twenty dollar bill and drops it in the tip jar—it’s the only reason Keith hasn’t politely told the guy to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he says, leaning over the pick up window far past where Keith is comfortable. It’s bad enough being a barista and rarely having more than six inches between himself and another coworker. The last thing he wants is one of the customers infringing on the small personal bubble of space he’s allowed.
Of course, he says none of this, well aware he’s already on thin ice for poor customer relations, which is why he’s been on the espresso machine for three weeks now instead of rotating like everyone else. Not that Keith minds, it’s the job with the least customer interaction (usually) and he likes keeping his hands busy.
Most of the time the customers ignore him completely unless they have a problem with the exact temperature of their coffee, or are upset at the ratio of caramel in their Frappuccino. Not Lotor, though. He’s a micromanager and a pain in Keith’s fucking ass, always hovering as Keith makes his drink.
“Good afternoon, sir,” James chirps like the overeager ass kisser he is.
“You could take a page out of the new hire’s book. Show your customers a bit more congeniality there, Keith?”
Keith clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth grind as he warms the soy milk and doesn’t answer.
“Make sure the temperature is just right. It was a little cold yesterday.”
The sound of Keith’s teeth grinding is thankfully masked by the espresso machine. Lotor’s drink was not cold yesterday and Keith knows this. One, he was the one to make it, and two, Lotor had hovered just like he did today and requested a sample size cup to taste the warmed soy milk to ensure it was the perfect temperature before allowing Keith to add the espresso.
“It’ll be the right temperature,” Keith says when the whir of the espresso machine dies down.
“Good. It’s what I ordered, after all. Nothing wrong with wanting things the correct way, right, James.”
James nearly salivates at being called by name, as if it’s something special and not merely because his name is written on his damn apron.
“Yes, sir.”
It’s almost enough to make Keith throw up in Lotor’s latte, or throw it in his face. It’s only the knowledge that if he doesn't make the drink exactly like Lotor wants he’s only gonna be making more work for himself because he’ll have to make it again that has him intently watching the thermometer in the milk to get it to exactly 175 degrees.
“So I heard next week will be the kick off to soulmate hour. Is that correct?” Lotor asks, in a way that says he already knows the answer.
“That’s right, sir. It’s a new promotion Starbucks is trying out. Every Thursday from four to close if you come in with your soulmate and show off your matching soulmarks you’ll get a buy one, get one free drink.”
“Wow,” Lotor drawls as Keith begins to pour the soy milk into his stupid cup. “What a magnanimous gesture from a large scale company to recognize the massive importance of sharing your life with your soulmate. Wouldn’t you agree, Keith?”
Keith’s hand shakes as he slows the speed of pouring so he doesn’t overflow the milk. Soulmate hour is the single worst thing to ever happen to Keith, partly because he doesn’t want the weekly reminder about who does and doesn’t have a fucking soulmate, and partly because he’s going to be so slammed making drinks he won’t even be able to take a piss.
“Keith doesn’t have a soulmate,” James supplies, as if anyone fucking asked him.
It’s another thing Keith hates about soulmates. Everyone acts so fucking entitled to knowing about whether you’ve got one or not, where your soulmark is, or how it felt to meet them. It’s one hundred times worse for Keith, whose stupid soulmark is slashed right across his face for the entire world to see.
Keith barely tells things to people he likes, so he sure as fuck doesn’t think complete strangers are entitled to know a goddamn thing about his personhood or whether he’s found his soulmate.
“How tragic,” Lotor drawls, the lack of sincerity palpable.
“Here’s your drink. Have a nice day,” Keith grits out, pushing the latte across the pick up counter.
Lotor raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow at Keith as he lifts the drink and takes a sip. “Not a complete disappointment. Until next time, Keith.”
“Don’t forget to come for soulmate hour,” James tells Lotor as he departs. His tone is so disgustingly eager that Keith nearly throws up in his mouth.
“I’m taking my break,” Keith declares, unable to stomach one more minute.
“Your break isn’t—“ but Keith’s expression must be enough to convey how much he doesn’t want to hear the rest of James’s sentence. “Got it. See you in fifteen.”
Keith spends the entirety of his too-short break hidden in the back room with his earbuds in, listening to his favorite band—Monsters & Mana—loud enough that he can pretend he’s anywhere else. Keith knows things aren’t usually this bad, but school has been brutal lately and the stack of bills on his coffee table are piling up, and he’s just tired. As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself—Keith is lonely.
It’s not something he normally lets himself think about. After spending nearly a decade shouting about how much he doesn’t want or need anyone, the realization that maybe it would be a little bit nice to not take on the world alone all the goddamn time feels like a betrayal—even if the person he’s betraying is himself. Keith still believes all the same things he did before, which makes it even worse—that soulmates aren’t a magical guarantee for forever and that the odds of someone looking at him and thinking ah that grumpy hot mess of a human is my perfect match feels really fucking impossible.
So Keith does what he does best and pretends he doesn’t want what he can’t have. Usually he’s really good at it too. Bullshitting is one of Keith’s greatest skills, including bullshitting himself.
Days like today, though, where he’s running on too-little sleep mean that his nerves are shot and his patience is thin. It means that every goddamn thing annoys him even more than usual, especially when every person he interacts reminds him of what he doesn’t have.
It makes Keith feel small.
It also makes it a lot harder for him to pretend, but pretend he must.
The alarm on Keith’s phone goes off and he ignores it in favor of hitting snooze, unable to make himself get up and go back out. Five minutes later when it buzzes again, he gets up despite not wanting to. He doesn’t want to get written up, and he doesn’t want to leave his coworkers short-handed too long either.
Mustering up every ounce of emotional reserve he has, he puts his apron back on and heads out, determined to get through the rest of his shift with positivity. Or at least as much positivity as someone naturally inclined to be a cynic can muster.
His resolve is tested immediately when he returns to his post, taking over for James, and gets a look at the next order waiting to be made.
“Lance,” Keith hisses, loud enough to get his attention but hopefully not the attention of all the customers.
Lance perks his head up from the counter where he’s pretending to busy straightening the stupid bananas. “What?”
“A word please.”
By some miracle Lance doesn’t question the request and ambles over to Keith with all the speed of a centenarian turtle.
“I knew you missed me,” Lance crows, throwing an arm around Keith’s shoulder
“No I didn’t,” Keith snorts, slipping out from Lance’s hold and holding the cup out for inspection, turning Lance’s sloppy writing towards him. “What the fuck is this?”
“Looks like it says unicorn Frappuccino,” Lance says, confirming Keith’s worst fears. Almost immediately he has flashbacks to the day the stupid drink had debuted and Keith had made so many of them he’d gone home covered in pink and purple powders and smelling like a cotton candy factory. Thankfully their location was busy enough they ran out of stuff to make it in less than a week.
It’s not a fond memory, and it’s not something he wishes to relive.
“We don’t make this anymore, it was a limited time only thing, which you know. Go tell the customer to order something else.”
He attempts to shove the cup into Lance’s chest but Lance shakes his head. “I can’t dude. He’s Allura’s best friend.”
“And how exactly is this my problem?” Keith asks.
Lance groans. “Come on, dude? You and I both know there’s one small box of the special pink powder and sour blue powder—” Keith slams his hand over Lance’s mouth to shut him up.
“Don’t say it too loud or the customers might hear you.”
Lance rolls his eyes, prying Keith’s hand off his mouth. “As I was saying. You and I both know there are enough supplies to create the beverage which shall not be named. Besides, you heard me...this is Allura’s best friend, dude.”
“I’m still not sure how this is my problem,” Keith grumbles.
“Look, I don’t know. All I know is they grew up next door to each other and were best friends until Shiro’s grandpa died and he had to move back to Japan to live with some great aunt he’d never met. It’s been a few years and I guess he’s looking at a grad school here. If he likes it here he might move back, and Allura really misses him. It would make her so happy to have him here and I...I want to make her happy. Please.”
Keith’s resolve wavers.
“Please. Please, dude. I’ll do anything.”
“Clean the espresso machine after closing every day for two weeks,” Keith says, knowing he’s going to make the stupid pain-in-the-ass limited edition Frappuccino either way. For all Lance drives him up the fucking wall, he’s a pretty decent person and he’s never asked Keith for anything. Besides, Keith’s already having the worst day ever, he might as well suffer having to make the drink from hell for some sugar addicted idiot.
“You got it, dude. You’re the best,” Lance cheers.
“Just shut up and man the register and stop taking orders for things that aren’t on the menu to impress your girlfriend.”
“Of course, dude. Also...you need to heat him up a chocolate croissant on the house.”
“Who the actual fuck can eat a chocolate croissant with a unicorn Frappuccino?” Keith asks, shuddering.
“Shiro apparently. Though don’t ask me where he puts it, that man is built like a brick house.”
“Why are you checking out Alluras best friend?” Keith asks.
Lance shakes his head. “I wasn’t checking him out, I just happen to have eyes. Now hurry up and make the drink.”
“Whatever,” Keith grumbles, heading to the back room and snagging the supplies—a box that had apparently somehow got hidden behind all the vanilla syrup. Not that Keith knows how, or will ever cop to being the one to hide it so he could stop making the drinks which smelled sickeningly sweet and had too many fucking ingredients.
It takes him less than five minutes before he’s back at his station, letting James take over the espresso machine as he sets about making the Frappuccino. He’s not sure if he’s impressed with himself for still having the recipe memorized, or horrified with the proof of just how deeply the damn thing became in his brain.
It’s simple enough really if you’re a good barista, which Keith is—just annoying because of all the steps. The only upside is it means Keith isn’t the one who has to deal with the snippy customer he can hear complaining to James about the way he’s making her mocha and telling him to use a stainless steel spoon to stir in her sugar and not a wooden stick.
Keith’s not sure why he tries extra hard to make the drink pretty, but he does. By the time it’s done even Keith is tempted to snap a photo of the pretty swirls of pink and blue and mounds of whipped cream. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not making fifteen in a row, but he thinks maybe he can appreciate the aesthetic a little more now than he did a few months ago even if he still thinks it tastes like shit.
“Drink for Shiro,” Keith yells, purposely vague as he clutches the cup in his hands instead of leaving it on the counter with all the rest of the finished drinks. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he kind of wants to see the guy’s face when he sees the drink. That, and he doesn’t want any of the other customers asking what it is and running the risk of having to make more.
He leans his hip against the counter, wrapping his hands around the cup to block the colorful drink from view as he tries to guess which one might be Shiro. No one immediately moves and Keith repeats himself once more.
“Special order for—”
“Shiro,” someone finishes seconds before Keith’s life changes forever.
Keith blinks stupidly, trying to take in the man standing across the counter from him. The guy is at least six foot four and big. So big. He’s got the kind of body Captain America wishes he had—broad shoulders and a tiny waist.
Forcing himself not to stare, Keith drags his eyes up. That only makes things worse. Not only is the guy's body like something out of a museum, his face is so painfully aesthetically pleasing Keith could actually cry. The man—Shiro he reminds himself—is hands down the most attractive person Keith has ever seen in his entire fucking life.
When Keith locks eyes with him, Shiro gasps, the metal fingers of his prosthetic flying up to the scar across the bridge of his nose. It’s an almost identical match for the one across Keith’s cheek.
It takes Keith’s brain a good ten seconds for that knowledge to sink in.
Shiro has a matching soulmark. Shiro is touching his soulmark. Shiro is looking at Keith like he, like he is—
“Soulmate,” Shiro whispers, unmistakable awe in his voice.
He looks so excited, so hopeful. It makes Keith’s brain implode. Only Keith would meet his soulmate looking like a human gremlin who hasn’t showered in days and wearing his oldest apron with coffee stains. He looks like a disaster, and Shiro looks like he walked off a modeling set with his pretty hair falling into his eyes, as pale as starlight with his big doe eyes and wide smile and obscenely symmetrical jawline.
What happens next is a moment that will be burned into Keith’s brain for all of time. He doesn’t mean to do it, isn’t aware he’s doing it until it’s done. Until it’s done and everything is ruined.
One moment Keith is standing there gaping at his soulmate, a man he never thought he’d meet, and the next he’s squeezing the Frappuccino so tightly the lid pops off and sends the brightly-colored drink and whipped cream sailing across the counter to shower Shiro in what looks a lot like unicorn vomit.
Shiro is shockingly calm about it all. Lance not so much.
“Keith what the fuck did you do?” he yells, earning them the attention of at least half the cafe.
“Fuck,” Keith yells, earning them the stares of everyone who wasn’t already looking.
Shiro doesn’t move, hands still hovering midair as globs of pink Frappuccino drip down his arms and stain his perfectly white t-shirt the color of cotton candy. He looks shell shocked. Keith can’t blame him. It’s not every day you meet your soulmate while being doused in enough sugar to put an elephant in a coma.
Before Keith can say anything about, well—anything—Lance abandons the register in favor of coming around to try and wipe Shiro off.
“Oh my god, what the actual fuck,” Lance mutters, looking more horrified by the entire situation than Keith or Shiro. “Oh my god, Allura is going to be so upset.”
“It’s fine, Lance. No harm done,” Shiro insists, grabbing a stack of napkins and scooping globs of pink sprinkled whipped cream off his shirt and chucking it into the trash.
“Oh my god,” Lance mumbles again, looking like he might pass out and clearly not convinced by Shiro’s words.
“Hey, you’re okay. Just take a deep breath and stay calm, yeah?”
Lance shakes his head. “I promised Allura to make you feel comfortable, to make you feel welcome. I promised. This is so important to her. You’re so important to her,” he says, looking like he might faint.
“Just relax, okay? I’ve got an idea. Watch this,” Shiro instructs, pulling his iPhone out of his back pocket, unlocking it and flipping on the camera. “Smile, Lance.”
Lance looks completely confused but if there’s anything Lance is good at it’s taking orders, so he does as he’s told and leans into Shiro who throws his arm around Lance, angles the phone up (presumably so his soiled shirt won’t be part of the photo) and takes a selfie.
“There,” Shiro says, turning to show the photo to Lance. It’s also at the perfect angle for Keith to see it too, and sure enough it’s a heads only selfie with both of them looking happy.
“Wow,” Lance exhales.
Shiro grins, pocketing the phone and patting Lance on the shoulder. “Perfect photo to send Allura and tell her how welcome you made me feel and how we instantly became friends.”
Lance looks like he might actually cry. “Thanks, Shiro. You’re my hero.”
Shiro smiles, as if what he’s just done is nothing. As if he’s not being the kindest, most gracious human being alive making sure Lance isn’t upset when he’s the one who’s just had his clothes ruined, is being stared at by half a dozen strangers, and just met his soulmate in the most awkward way possible.
Without warning, Shiro turns his blinding smile on Keith and it’s enough to ruin his life. It makes his heart beat hard enough it feels like it might leap out of his very chest. How the fuck is someone like this his soulmate? Keith doesn’t even usually put money in the parking meter at school and sometimes he even forgets to return his library books.
“Sorry about that,” Shiro says, as if he is the one who needs to apologize. “I’m just...I’m so excited to finally meet you.”
Impossibly Keith’s heart beats harder, a weird rushing sound in his ears as he finally drops the sticky and empty Frappuccino cup. He can’t do this. He isn’t what someone like Shiro would want.
“My name is Shiro by the way. Which uh...I mean, you already know.” He pauses, coloring rising high on his cheeks. Somehow it makes him even more handsome. “What’s yours?”
“Keith,” he whispers, seconds before he runs away.
He isn’t proud of what he does, but the ight-or-flight response is too strong. One minute he’s standing across from Shiro, and the next he’s hiding in the storeroom. Keith doesn’t even like coffee but the familiar scent is welcome as he pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them.
The sound of the door opening is loud enough Keith can’t miss it, and he lifts his head only enough to be heard.
“Fuck off, Lance, I don’t want to talk to you,” he yells before hiding his face again. Keith isn't in the mood to hear about what an idiot he’s being or how he’s ruining everything. He already knows it.
“It’s, uh, well...it’s not Lance.”
Keith jerks his head up so fast he nearly gets whiplash. “Shiro.”
“Yeah,” Shiro breathes, looking a lot more nervous than he had been earlier. His thick brows are furrowed together with worry, and even covered in pink he looks like something out of a dream. It feels too impossible to be real. “Lance let me in the back. I hope that’s okay. If, uh...if it’s not I can go back outside and wait.”
“Wait for how long?” Keith asks.
“As long as it takes until you’re ready to see me,” Shiro answers, without even needing to think about it.
“What, you’d just sit out there for hours?”
Shiro nods. “Of course.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Shiro counters, shuffling a few inches closer.
“I’m a disaster!” Keith shouts, louder than he meant to. Shiro comes closer again.
“We’re all disasters.”
Keith’s heart skips a beat, unwilling to believe what he’s hearing. People like Shiro aren’t real. They’re a fantasy.
“I’m difficult,” Keith says, unable to stop himself from being more honest with Shiro than he’s ever been with anyone. “I want affection and pretend I don’t. I’m cranky when I don’t get enough sleep, which is most days and I’m naturally pessimistic. I don’t trust people not to leave me and I leave before they can leave me. I haven’t brushed my hair in three days and the most I can offer you as a date would be a bowl of top ramen on plastic folding trays because I can’t don’t even have a dining room table. I’ve never been kissed so I’m probably really fucking bad at it.”
“Is that all?” Shiro asks, for some reason smiling.
“No,” Keith grunts. “I come home smelling like coffee. Everything smells like coffee. No matter what laundry detergent I use it won’t come out.”
“I fucking love coffee,” Shiro whispers, dropping down to his knees.
“Oh,” Keith exhales, unsure why Shiro isn’t the one running away after Keith’s confession.
“I guess it’s my turn,” Shiro says, voice low and warm. It sends a shiver up Keith’s spine. He’d been so fucking sure the stories about something slotting into place when you met your soulmate were a goddamn lie, but even Keith can’t deny the way he feels right now—unexpectedly calm.
Shiro’s smile is hesitant but sweet as he scoots closer—so close to Keith that his knees and wedged up again Keith’s red Converse.
“A lot of people look at me and think because I smile everything is perfect, and I never tell them otherwise. I pretended I didn’t mind being twenty-seven without a soulmate, but every day before today I woke up thinking there was something wrong with me because of it. I can be emotionally obtuse sometimes, and when I get excited about my research I become so one track minded I forget to eat or sleep. I’m not very good at taking care of myself, and the most I can offer you for a date is Netflix and chill because I’m a homebody. Aside from school or the gym, my favorite place to be is my couch.
“Is that all?” Keith asks, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Oh, I’m also a disaster in the kitchen. I once set my toaster in fire so, uh...yeah. And I shower twice a day because I really like being clean.”
“You sound very difficult,” Keith teases. This time he is smiling.
Shiro nods. “I’m very difficult. Allura’s the only one who has ever been able to put up with me. But, uh….maybe you’d like to give it a try?”
Keith exhales a shuddering breath. He never expected to find his soulmate, not really. But the times he did let himself imagine what it might be like if it ever happened, he expected it to feel anticlimactic. He expected to feel trapped and disappointed. He feels neither.
All Keith feels is something warm and joyful bubbling up in his chest—something that feels dangerously close to hope.
“I can try. I want to try,” Keith whispers, unable to believe the way his heart races at the confession. “But I can’t...I can’t make you any promises. I’ve never done this before. I might be horrible at it.”
“Can I touch you?” Shiro asks, lifting his right hand.
Keith nods, mouth going dry as Shiro cups the side of his face, his metal thumb tracing across Keith’s scar.
Unbidden a sob falls from Keith’s lips. He can’t even remember the last time anyone touched him. Not on purpose, anyway.
“You’re so beautiful,” Shiro tells him.
Keith squeezes his eyes shut at the intensity of Shiro’s gaze, unsure how to respond to this level of affection and kindness.
“So pretty,” Shiro repeats, tracing Keith’s soulmark like it’s something beautiful.
Normally Keith would say no if someone told him that, so used to denying anything that even resembles a compliment directed his way. Instead he whispers, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, his touch so achingly tender that Keith can barely breathe. “Yeah.”
The pull to open his eyes is too strong, so he does, overwhelmed again at what he sees. Shiro is looking at him with watery eyes. He looks equally overwhelmed and it’s a lot for Keith to handle. He’d been so sure, so goddamn sure, that his existence would be a disappointment. Instead, Shiro is looking at him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe.
“I really want to kiss you,” Shiro says, his voice washing over Keith like a warm blanket.
“I’m probably horrible at it,” Keith whispers, insecurity surging.
“I doubt that, but you know...we can always practice. A lot.” There’s a glint in his eyes, something playful and mischievous that makes Keith’s heart race.
This time something else surges in Keith, something much closer to arousal.
“Okay,” Keith agrees, with an embarrassing amount of eagerness in his voice.
Time comes to a standstill as Shiro leans forward, his hand sliding back around Keith’s head to cradle his neck as he presses his lips to Keith’s. It’s barely a kiss really, the chastest press of lips together before Shiro is pulling back.
“Was that okay?” he asks, fingers tangling in the longest bits of Keith’s hair at the back of his neck.
“Yes,” Keith shivers. “But...but you should do it again. Just to be sure.”
“Just to be sure,” Shiro echoes, tilting his face forward to kiss him again.
The second kiss is even better than the first—so much better. Shiro’s lips against his own are a goddamn revelation. His lips are soft and so warm and he tastes like strawberry chapstick. Just when Keith thinks it can’t get better, Shiro opens his mouth and lets his tongue glide across Keith’s lips, which is apparently a thing Keith really fucking likes. Experimentally, he lets his own tongue slip out and despite worrying it's awkward or clumsy, Shiro lets out a soft little moan that emboldens Keith enough to do it again.
Before he knows it, Keith’s climbing into Shiro’s lap, hands fisted in Shiro’s sticky shirt as he tries to get as close as humanly possible to him. Thankfully Shiro doesn’t seem to mind, his hand moving the back of Keith’s neck to rest at his hips as he deepens the kiss.
When they finally pull apart, Shiro’s pupils are blown wide, his lips red and kiss swollen, and his chest heaving. He’s so fucking pretty Keith can’t believe he’s supposed to be his.
“Hi,” Keith whispers, suddenly feeling shy.
He can’t believe that not only did he meet his soulmate, but he kissed him too—with his tongue—and is sitting in his lap. It’s a fucking lot to take in, in a good way.
“Hey,” Shiro breathes, bumping his nose against Keith’s and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Keith answers, surprised both at the truth of the answer and how easy it is to share with Shiro.
“Me too,” Shiro says, giving Keith’s hips a gentle squeeze. “I’m so happy.”
Keith flushes, still unable to believe his existence could be the cause of someone else’s happiness like this. It’s going to take a while for that to really settle in but something tells Keith that Shiro might be up for sticking around long enough for Keith to believe.
“So, uh, I bet Lance would cover my shift,” Keith says, stroking his fingers along smooth sides of Shiro’s undercut. “How do you feel about coming over to my place. I make a mean bowl of Top Ramen.”
“Sounds perfect,” Shiro says, looking like he means it.
Yeah, Keith thinks, perfect.