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“This won’t fit me at all ,” Shiro laughed, holding the black hoodie in front of him; it may look oversized on Keith’s smaller frame, but once he’d try it on, it would be a miracle if he didn’t rip it off the seams.
“Just try it; beats freezing to death,” Keith insisted, pretty comfortable and immune to the cold of the night in that loose tank top he wore. An absolute monster. “Be sure to check the weather report before you leave the house next time.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did that,” Shiro countered with sarcasm.
“I didn’t, but I don’t need to either.”
It was true, Shiro observed; Keith would wear heavy hoodies even if the sun burnt the soil and melted street signs; he’d wear a T-shirt if the rain fell in icy shards with a chilly breath of a harsh winter wind. Maybe for the sake of going against the tide, or maybe because his body worked funny. It was so like Keith, too.
“You’re just weird,” Shiro joked, playfully shoving Keith’s arm with his elbow.
After slipping on the hoodie—which was actually quite comfortable, despite being a little short—Shiro felt a lot warmer at once. It smelled of Keith, of that natural scent, one that could only be described as what the last rays of sunset felt like. A faint hint of smoke, even though he didn’t smoke. Desert and cacti, of wilderness and earth. Of uniqueness and comfort. A fleeting thought told him that it was all the warmth he needed.
The night was quite young in the Arizonian desert, they had a load of snacks to feast on, beers to drink, and a meteor shower to witness. Not Shiro or Keith’s first, but it was always awesome to hang out together. Just the two of them, one single blanket and the crushing expanse of the night sky above them. It had become a sort of yearly tradition. A look at his wristwatch reminded Shiro that the event was estimated to begin within an hour or two.
“Y’know, the Lyrids are one of the oldest recorded meteor showers—”
“—according to ancient Chinese texts, they were first seen around 2500 years ago, and the fireballs in the meteor shower are actually created by debris from comet Thatcher, which takes around 400 years to orbit around the Sun; yes, Shiro, you remind me of that every single year. I went to the same school as you.”
Shiro snorted on his first beer, “Smart ass. It’s 415 years , actually.”
Keith grimaced, scooting closer to Shiro where they sat and popping the can of Pringles open. “‘ Around 400’ englobles 415 too!”
They woke up hours later, their backs on the hard desert soil, the sun just shy of the horizon. Around fifteen minutes to six in the morning. Moving on a lazy autopilot mode, they cleaned up their trash (more cans of beer than either of them recalled drinking) and hopped on Keith’s truck to grab a quick bite at their favourite diner, before Keith drove Shiro home.
As usual, Shiro invited Keith to crash in for a couple hours. And as usual, he politely declined.
They were both beat, really, having stayed up so late talking, laughing, drinking. Not to mention that the end of Shiro’s back was complaining at the lack of a comfortable mattress, so for once, Shiro didn’t insist. He hardly made it to bed himself, just dropping on top of it face down, arms spread wide, and it was in that same position that he woke up around lunch time.
It felt like no longer than a blink. The headache was still there, a bit of the dizziness as well. Good thing he and Keith had eaten earlier.
When he went to the bathroom, a look in the mirror reminded him that, a) he looked like a bag of shit with a hangover, and b) he was still wearing Keith’s hoodie.
Before giving it back, he ought to give it a wash, though; the back was all dusty from laying down on dirt and there was a dumb mayonnaise stain from the omelettes they had shared at breakfast, so it was the least he could do.
Off to the laundromat pile you go , Shiro mused, pulling the hoodie over his head and tossing it to the side. He took a shower, finally brushed his teeth (a bit of sugar from the candies they had eaten was stuck on his molar) and headed out.
With all the other pieces of clothing he had carelessly scattered around the house during the week, he had more than enough to fill up the washing machine at the laundromat down the street. Unlikely for a Saturday, however, the establishment was empty. The TV was off, no radio, no magazines with news from years past in the corner. It was bound to be a very boring hour for Shiro.
Whatever , he sighed, shoving his clothes into the drum of one of the washing machines—from underwear to gym sweaters and pajamas, he couldn’t bother to separate his whites, and finally, Keith’s hoodie. He was closing the circular door when he noticed a white wire on the kangaroo pocket of Keith’s hoodie.
“Uh. Keith’s iPod,” Shiro talked to himself, inspecting the device, “Good thing I noticed before shoving it into the washing machine.” That would’ve been bad .
As if answering Shiro's untold prayers, that iPod would be a lifesaver. He would at least be able to listen to some music while waiting for his clothes to be ready. He started a random program on the washing machine and sat on one of the plastic chairs, next to a potted plant which hadn’t seen any water for at least a year. Putting the earplugs on each ear, he was all set for the next hour, provided the device had enough battery for that.
Keith’s collection of songs was something that was to be expected from him. Some rock, a bunch of indie, The Smiths, Radiohead, R.E.M., The Black Keys, Coldplay, Fall Out Boy. Lots of old school country and some classics as well, in memory of his late father, compiled in a single playlist beautifully titled “ « blueberry pancakes & bedtime stories » ”.
There were no blueberry pancakes like the ones Keith made and whenever Shiro would compliment him on that regard, he’d always reflect the praise to his Pop’s secrets. It wasn’t often that Keith would talk about James Kogane; when he would, however, it would come with tears on the edge of his dark lashes and immense pride in his trembling voice.
Out of respect, Shiro kept swiping; it was then that it occurred to him that he could be butting into a very personal aspect of his dear friend’s life without meaning to. It wasn’t like Shiro to intrude anyone’s privacy in such a way, and when he was just about to turn the device off and face the boredom of an hour-long washing machine cycle without music, the cover image of another playlist caught his eye.
What…?
Now, Shiro wasn’t too photogenic; there weren’t that many pictures where he didn’t look like a total nerd with a stupid grimacing face or like he hadn’t had any sleep for the whole week prior. Maybe the photograph looked so good because he wasn’t looking at the camera, or at all aware he had been photographed.
That day, he remembered it well, from years ago, when he had taken Keith out to an old arcade place. Keith had actually won a dumb straw hat from the awards showcase, but it had been Shiro who made a point to wear it for the rest of the day, when they went for milkshakes at their usual spot, and then to watch the sunset in the desert. In the picture, the bloody orange and fading yellow of the sun framed his face and the hat as he laughed his ass off, probably at something Keith had said, to the point of tears which gleamed at the corner of his eye.
The playlist title, displayed right next to the cover, read: « this charming man » . True to the title was The Smiths’ song with that same name on top of the list. Perhaps against better judgement, Shiro pressed play, the songs shuffled randomly.
The Beatles’ Across The Universe , Sinatra’s Fly Me To The Moon , Muse’s Starlight , Elton’s Your Song ...
Song after song, Shiro’s smile grew wider; some he knew, some he might have heard on the radio once or twice, but they all resonated beyond his ears, every note hitting him deeper, to the point of synchronizing his heartbeat to thoughts of Keith.
How their hands delayed whenever they accidentally touched. How the stars looked so much brighter when they were looked upon by the both of them, or how breakfast tasted better when they shared it. How Keith would lend him his hoodie, how he always seemed like he was about to say something, that nerve wracking “ Shiro, I—no, nevermind. ”
Maybe that playlist was loaded with the words Keith had never learnt how to say.
And to that, Shiro had the perfect response.
“So that’s where it was,” Keith accepted his iPod back. “I couldn’t find it last night.” It was Sunday, as early as the last time they’d seen each other, and they were about to head for a jog. They had met up at the usual park, planning to take the same old running trail until their legs gave out.
Stress relieving. Maybe more so for Shiro than Keith, but he appreciated the company beyond anything.
“I even charged it for you, that’s how good of a person I am,” Shiro winked, pulling his left ankle against the back of his thigh in a pre-workout stretch. After doing the same for the right leg he began jumping on the spot, altering the main leg for support. “Ready when you are.”
While Keith double checked his shoelaces, Shiro took in a deep breath, taking in the partial silence of nature, with very few chirping birds, and the nearby highway, with even less cars at that time. He had woken up with one of those feelings, when the horoscope was spot on, the weather felt right, he hadn’t forgotten to lock the car nor misplaced his keys, and everything seemed to go according to some higher plan.
For a brief moment he wondered if he was ready for that plan to go right.
When he saw Keith slip the earbuds into his ears and press the touch screen to start his music, he took that as a sign that what was done was done, and what would come of that would be nothing but what was meant to happen. Stars aligned, cosmos in sync, the yearly Lyrids cutting through the night sky of their lives just when they were supposed to.
In an attempt to hide the smile that stretched his lips, Shiro propelled himself ahead of Keith, gaining an immediate head start. “Try to catch up!”
“Hey! I’ll get you, oldtimer! Your knees will start complaining a few miles in!”
The running track was pretty straight forward until one point; after the fifth mile or so, it became irregular with some ups and downs around the hills, making it rather challenging for an average jogger, but both of them knew the place like the back of their hands. They knew when to hold their breaths, when to press the concrete ground with the tips of their toes, when to slow down and then to push themselves.
As time advanced in its natural pace, so did the warmth of April, the sun beginning to burn at the back of their necks, creeping up painfully slowly to remind them to drink some water along the way.
It may have been close to their third round when Shiro realized Keith was falling behind. Peeking over his shoulder he saw that Keith had stopped altogether.
“What’s wrong? Quitting already?” He stopped by the oak tree to look back at Keith, noticing the dark frown on his face. “Who’s the old timer now?”
“... I don’t… listen to Arctic Monkeys.” Completely out of context, that would’ve been confusing. Keith removed only one of his earplugs, swiping the screen of his iPod, as if making sure he was listening right, making sure he was playing the playlist he had selected, looking for some sort of explanation.
Such an explanation, that only Shiro had.
“You don’t?” Shiro smiled, all smugness and tease, if one were to ignore the blush at the tips of his ears, “Maybe you should. They’re pretty alright.”
“How is this song here…?” Keith mumbled, determined to unveil the mystery on his own. There was a certain panic rising in his chest, making him wheeze more than the running did. It made Shiro feel a little bit sorry, but the smile on his lips was going nowhere. “It can’t be there—”
No turning back.
“I’ll teach you the lyrics,” Shiro began, taking a deep breath. It felt automatic to reach for Keith’s hands, and only natural that Keith wouldn’t resist the touch. His voice wasn’t the most perfect for singing, not at all, he’d be a happy man if his singing never left the private karaoke rooms, but with no one else around in the running track, there wasn’t much to lose, “It goes like this: Baby, I’m yours, nanananaaa… And I’ll be yours until stars fall from the sk— !”
The words were cut out with a clashing of lips; too hasty, confused, hopeful, but absolutely terrified at the same time. All impulse and very little control; mostly instinct and little coordination. Were they able to hold their breaths any longer, then they may have found a synchrony. It didn’t make the kiss any less passionate, however.
When they parted, Keith’s breath was hitching—the song still playing from his earphones, audible to both of them from that enclosed distance—and he looked like he could use a hole to hide. Shiro could only pray that the caress he traced along Keith’s jaw would be enough of a grounding gesture.
It’s okay. It’s okay. I know. You don’t have to hide any longer.
Keith covered his face with his hands, futilely hiding the redness of his cheeks. “The playlist—y-you listened to it, didn’t you?”
“I did, yes,” Shiro leaned in, nudging Keith’s hands away from that beautiful, teary face with the tip of his nose. “And Baby, I’m Yours , that’s my answer.”
Keith’s arms closed around Shiro’s neck, both of them folding over one another in such a way that felt like they had been designed, by fateful default, to be in that same position at all times.
Oh, the time that had fallen to waste; never untreasured, no, for that was the time that wovened their fates so tightly together. Perhaps if Keith had said something earlier, or if Shiro had bothered to hear the things that weren’t said.
But if the Lyrids had taught either of them anything, it was that beautiful things were worth waiting for.
'Til the stars fall from the sky
(Baby, I'm yours)
'Til the rivers all run dry
(Baby, I'm yours)