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Shiro goes to the gym at six am.
He likes it better, driving on quiet roads with the sun weak and just rising, likes it better when there are less people milling about and talking and distracting and he can just focus on working out, clearing his mind and concentrating on the exercise.
Another reason — not the only reason, Shiro thinks, not even if it's true that his schedule is less packed nowadays and he could go in the afternoon instead — is that he likes the cute receptionist, who's always just a little sleepy and smiles brightly at Shiro over the rim of the coffee Shiro's never seen him without.
His name is Keith. He has black hair that's always this close to being a mullet, dark eyes that gleam purple in the fluorescent lights, a no-nonsense attitude Shiro's afraid of crossing, and his phone background is a photo of a huge ginger cat who, Keith informs him, is named Red.
“Have a good day, sir,” Keith says as he always does, passing Shiro his card back after scanning it.
“Shiro,” he blurts out.
“What?”
“My name — it's Shiro.”
Shiro gives a quick smile and turns before he can see Keith's reaction, tucking the card into his pocket and walking, at a completely normal pace, out of the double doors.
“You ran away from him, didn't you?” Allura says later, unimpressed.
“I did not,” Shiro protests, but he can feel himself going red and Allura knows him better than anyone.
The next morning, apropos of nothing, Keith scans his card and says, “I’m Keith.”
Shiro manages to stop himself from saying I know from sheer force of will. It wouldn’t be that weird — Keith wears a name badge, after all, but even looking at someone’s name tag can be a little odd, like he was about to follow it up with Can I speak to your manager, Keith?
He goes for a suave nod instead. “Good to know,” he says, and the corners of Keith’s mouth lift slightly as he hands Shiro’s card back.
Excitement powers his whole workout, and Shiro thinks about making an effort to have a real conversation. He doesn’t get much human contact in the office, his only thrills coming from diverting all his energy towards trying not to physically fight the photocopier, in addition to persuading his assistant she doesn’t need to do everything for him. He likes his job well enough — the quiet is a boon after years of nothing but noise, but Keith must get pretty lonely, sat at a desk being treated like just another piece of equipment by the gym’s patrons.
He asks about Red, the only real reference he has for Keith’s personal life, and Keith smiles, really smiles, and tells him how many cats Red has fought over the past month. “I call it her body count, ‘cause it might as well be,” Keith says with pride. “Neighbourhood cats skulk past our house like it’s haunted.” He props his head up with one hand, ignoring a notification from the computer, and adds, “I feel like you’re a dog person.”
“How could you tell?”
“Too awake and bouncy in the mornings,” Keith deadpans, and Shiro laughs despite himself.
“You got me,” he says, fishing his phone from his pocket and unplugging his earphones as he swipes to find a photo. “Her name’s Black — she’s a rescue.” Keith smiles at the pictures, featuring Black in a Santa hat and a variety of adorable sweaters, and Shiro feels warm despite the chill of the lobby. “She’s a godsend, honestly. I didn’t like living alone when I moved back to the States, and it was the best decision I could have made.”
He realises what he’s said when he looks back at Keith’s expression, the right amount of interest but sympathy too, and his cheeks colour.
“You served?” Keith asks. “I thought so, you know.”
“Huh,” Shiro says, and nods. He guesses it’s in the way he walks, the way he carries himself, or maybe it’s that he goes to the gym at 6am six days a week, like he never got used to being a man rather than a machine. “Did you, then?”
Keith’s smile is wry and speaks to a story Shiro will hear some other time. “Almost.”
Shiro’s alarm goes off then, shrill and decidedly unwelcome, and Shiro sighs and turns it off. “Well, that’s me,” he says, exchanging a rueful glance with Keith.
“See you tomorrow,” Keith says, not a trace of doubt in his voice, and Shiro laughs and gives a quick wave as he turns.
“Likewise.”
Shiro smiles at Keith when he walks in, and then someone touches his arm, pulling him from his thoughts. He and Keith had been talking more since the other day, discussing where Shiro served and Keith’s nosy neighbours and other non-gym related topics that give Shiro hope that this could be something outside of their common interest.
“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me?”
“Hi,” Shiro says automatically, and he turns to face the woman. She's pretty, arched eyebrows and a long dark ponytail, and Shiro thinks briefly that she's totally Allura's type. “Sure,” he says hurriedly, realising he's been staring a beat too long. “What do you need help with?”
She shrugs helplessly. “Everything,” she says, smiling ruefully. “I've got my membership and all that — I'm Jean, by the way — but I'd love someone to show me the ropes. There's a couple classes I want to ask about, you know. You seem like you know your way around,” she adds hopefully.
Shiro privately thinks Keith would be better to ask about this — he is the receptionist, after all, and there's more to his job than scanning Shiro's membership card every day — but he isn't about to turn down an earnest request for help. He nods and starts walking.
“I'm Shiro,” he says politely, “and sure. What kind of classes do you wanna ask about? It's a pretty big building.”
“Oh, stuff like zumba," Jean says. "I hear that's what the kids are into.”
Shiro laughs, and the sound draws Keith's attention, as he looks up as they approach the desk. Jean doesn't seem inclined to sign in, though, leaning against the desk and continuing, “But, you know, I'd like to try new things too.”
“I hear yoga is interesting,” Shiro says, trying to exchange an unimpressed look with Keith, but Keith’s focusing on the clipboard with a look so studious Shiro’s surprised it doesn’t burst into flames. Shiro gets this sort of thing more than he’d like — and he understands, really, the muscles kind of imply he knows what he’s doing when it comes to the gym — and he never gets used to it, the brash confidence of people who’d rather ask a stranger minding their own business than bother consulting a website or, God forbid, the receptionist.
“Too slow for me,” Jean says with a grin. “What about you?” she asks as Shiro's passing Keith his card. “You seem pretty — experienced.”
Keith fumbles the card and it drops to the table with a clatter. Shiro waves off Keith's mumbled, “Sorry,” and moves back so Jean can sign in too. He hopes Keith’s alright, thinking perhaps he was up all night or the 5am shift was particularly brutal this morning.
“I've been coming here a long time,” Shiro acknowledges. “Guess I count as a regular.” There's a hint of a smile on Keith's face at that. "I work on everything — all muscles, you know — but I prefer the treadmill or weight-lifting. Something where I don't have to think."
After Jean's signed in, they head off down the corridor so Shiro can show her to the lockers. Allura says he’s too nice for his own good, going out of his way to help for no good reason, but he hates to say no when asked for help, and he feels somewhat of a responsibility to women at the gym, always stepping in when another guy is being untoward.
It turns out there's a ton of classes Jean wants to attend today, and they go their separate ways soon after that, leaving Shiro to work out and sign out alone. Relieved, he gets out his earphones. He was dreading the prospect of having to make conversation while training, because he knows that he would've ended up cutting corners in his routine, and that added guilt on his Wednesday rest day is something he’ll happily live without.
Keith takes his card without comment and doesn't drop it this time, merely scans it and passes Shiro the clipboard. Shiro looks at him with some concern.
“You okay, Keith?” he ventures.
“Can't complain,” Keith says flatly. He looks up for a moment, and his gaze is hard before he conceals it behind the retail employee mask Shiro knew all too well as a teen. It hurts to have it directed at him, as if his access to Keith as a person has been revoked. “Where's your girlfriend?” Keith adds, almost a challenge.
Shiro laughs, amused, and Keith's eyes narrow. Shiro’s smile fades at that, detecting for the first time a note of jealousy in Keith’s voice, and when he realises how it must have looked, how the woman was laying the flirting on thick, he immediately feels stupid. He’s always had a unique talent for being oblivious to flirting.
“She isn't my girlfriend,” he tells Keith. “I met her on the way in. She asked me for help with classes — I’m used to it.”
“Oh,” Keith says absently. Their fingers brush when Shiro hands the clipboard back. “You guys seemed pretty friendly.”
Shiro shakes his head. “Maybe on her end,” he jokes weakly. He almost adds a comment about not looking for love while he’s this sweaty, but doesn’t want to risk it backfiring — he’s trying to get to know Keith, after all. Keith’s smiling shyly now, almost to himself, and it looks good on him, makes Shiro’s heart flip in his chest, and compels him to add, “Women aren’t my type, anyway.”
Keith’s eyes widen just a fraction before he gets his expression back until control. “Huh,” he says, and grins. “Me too.”
The last thing Shiro wants to do after a sleepless night plagued with nightmares is get out of bed and go to the gym, but he knows — in that part of his mind that pushes him further, harder, got him through chronic illness and basic training and PTSD — that he’ll feel better for going.
So when Shiro walks into the gym and Keith isn't behind the desk, it's fair to say he's justified in hating the entire world at that moment.
The kid at the desk looks like he feels the same way, head propped on his hand and squinting at the lights. Shiro tries to hide his crushing disappointment, and doesn't even mind the man's borderline-rudeness.
“Here's your card,” he — his name tag says Lance — says, holding it out and waiting for Shiro to take it without looking up. He’s got his phone in one hand, screen lit up, and Shiro suppresses his eye-roll — the guy’s only young, and not everyone their age is ancient beyond their years like Shiro is.
He wasn't going to be obsessive, or notice, or even think about the fact Keith isn't here — he's just the receptionist, Shiro reminds himself — but Keith's been here every day without fail for weeks, and okay, maybe Shiro is a little worried.
“Keith not in today?” he asks, trying very hard to be casual. It's perfectly normal to notice when someone you're accustomed to seeing every day is gone, Shiro reassures himself. It's not weird.
He reconsiders this thought when Lance finally glances up, and his eyes widen in recognition.
“You're Shiro!”
Shiro nods, bemused and a little embarrassed, because God, Keith must talk about me.
“I'm just covering his shift,” Lance says, and there's a peculiar smile on his face when he says, “Keith's sick today.”
Shiro's immediately concerned; Keith’s not taken a sick day since before Shiro really started to notice him. “Oh,” he says quickly. “Well, could you tell him I said get well soon?”
Lance nods as he hands Shiro the clipboard to sign in, but Shiro can't seem to stop himself continuing, “And that I hope he's okay, and to keep hydrated, and—“
He finally shuts up when he notices Lance's smile is bordering on smug.
“I'll do that,” Lance says, looking pleased. “I'm sure he'll be very happy to hear from you.”
“Thanks,” Shiro says, sure that his face is bright red.
The second he starts walking away, Lance is typing furiously on his phone, a shit-eating grin on his face, and Shiro smiles to himself, caught between humiliation and the bright spark of hope blooming in his chest.
It brightens Shiro's day beyond belief when he walks in the next day and Keith's behind the desk.
“Keith!” he says enthusiastically. “Are you feeling better?”
Keith smiles at him, and Shiro's stomach flips over. “Yeah, thanks,” Keith says. He holds out his hand for Shiro's card, and it's a moment before Shiro registers it, hurrying to fumble it from his pocket. “Did you miss me?” Keith asks, and Shiro tries not to blush.
“Barely noticed you were gone,” he says smoothly, and Keith laughs.
“Lance said you were worried about me,” he says as he passes Shiro's card back. His expression is indeterminable, and Shiro bites his lip.
“Didn't feel right seeing someone else at the front desk,” he says honestly, glancing at Keith but looking away when Keith meets his eyes. “I've seen you almost every day for weeks.”
“Wednesdays off,” Keith says, smiling. “I remember.”
Shiro's glad to see Keith's smile again, but he's also wondering what Lance told Keith about his embarrassing rambling yesterday. Only out of concern, Shiro tells himself. Nothing to do with the fact he has a tiny crush — okay, maybe not tiny — on Keith.
There’s something unfamiliar about Keith today, and it takes Shiro a moment to realise the absence of Keith’s travel mug. It’s monstrously ugly, patterned in plaid, but he misses it, somehow. Because it’s Keith’s, and Shiro likes teasing him about it, and he remembers well the sluggishness of being dependent and going without caffeine. Keith seems spirited enough, but maybe… maybe that’s more to do with Shiro.
It feels conceited, but that bright spark of hope blossomed into something bigger, something that Shiro is sure of every time he looks at Keith and gets that smile back.
“No coffee today?” Shiro says with a frown, peering exaggeratedly around Keith’s desk. “I barely recognise you.”
Keith laughs, rueful. “I’m all out,” he says. “Didn’t realise until it was too late.”
“Didn’t get your milk and two sugars?” Shiro asks, affecting a fake-sympathetic voice.
“Hey, milk and one sugar,” Keith says, with a smirk. “I'm no junkie.”
They say their goodbyes without incident, but Shiro hesitates when he gets in his car. It’s still early, and he’s not due at work until later, and he’s just sentimental enough to go through with it. He’s careful with the coffee in his car’s cup holder, driving into the gym’s car park for the second time that day, and checks his hair in his rear-view mirror.
Keith goes pink when he hands it over. After a minute, so does Shiro.
“Thank you,” Keith says, clearly repressing a smile, and then, slowly, “You know, I don’t think one coffee’s gonna cut it. Maybe we should go out later for another one.”
Shiro curses himself, thinking of the conference with other department heads that’s been booked in for weeks now. And then, because he’s spent a lifetime twisting misfortune into success, he says, “How about I buy you dinner instead?”