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The first time Keith wakes up in this bed, it’s to the sound of silence. His breathing is erratic and fast. He finds that his blanket is tangled by his feet and he kicks it away with anger. He tries to blink away the dream, but it sticks to him like honey — sickly sweet.
As he sits upright, he tugs the shirt off his back and stares intently at the wooden ground beneath him. Sweat makes the shirt sticky in his hands and he feels as if his heart is about to explode in his chest. His eyes flicker and for a moment, he’s staring at the body. Blood drips down the man’s face and though he's smiling, it's strained.
“Why do you look so pale, Keith?” he says.
The words shrivel on his tongue and Keith isn’t able to speak. He just continues staring. The sound of the engines whirring above distracts him for a split second, but as his gaze settles on the man in front of him again, he bites his lip in worry.
“It’s not your fault,” he says again. “Keith. It isn’t your fault.”
But it is.
He built that plane. He didn’t get the calculations right, the way that the wings were created didn’t create enough lift to do the manoeuvre the air force wanted. As the head engineer of the project, it was his job to make sure everything was safe. Make sure that even the near silent engines wouldn’t leak petrol when flying at high speeds. He should've known. He should've properly checked. It wasn't the first time that properly happened.
“Keith,” the man says again and his face is blurring. “It’s part of the job description. It’s nothing.”
"I killed you," Keith says, squeezing his eyes shut. "I killed you."
As soon as he opens his eyes again, the man is standing. His face changes and the whites of his eyes turn black.
"You're a monster." His words morph and he turns into shadows. "You murdered me."
The next thing he knows, his shoulder blades slam against the floor and he’s staring at the ceiling above him. His eyes are hot with tears and as he painfully turns over in an attempt to get up, something inside of him snaps. Like a violin string, tuned too tight. His body shakes and he slams his fist hard on the wooden floor.
He had the opportunity to stop it.
“I am K — Keith,” he whispers. “And I am in control.”
It’s Lance who welcomes him back.
After spending so much time in big cities, being lost in training, being away from here , he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know why he’s back. Ten years, never staying in one spot and trying to make his mark in the world has led him to this. A shell of a man whose failures cling onto his back, like a shadow sucking the life out of him.
“Hey bro,” Lance grins. There’s such familiarity in that, so much lost time, that Keith doesn’t know what to do. “I’m glad you decided to visit.”
Keith tries to muster up a smile that seems more skeletal than human.
“Too bad Pidge and Hunk left town,” Lance replies as he looks to the sky. He’s wearing a suit with the tie half done, his hands in his pockets. He has a blue-tooth set on and between every darted glance, it’s as if he’s trying to decipher messages pouring into his ear. Once he isn't distracted by those messages, he continues, with a wry smile, “I would’ve joined them… but the family. That’s all you have really, in the end.”
Keith nods. A family he thought he found when he joined the air-force, a displaced family when he left for bigger things. The family he left here. His heart echoes a lonely tune in his chest and he wonders how many people are still here. Part of him wonders if Shiro is still here.
(Don't think about him)
“You still in contact with them?” Keith asks.
Lance waves his head about. Everything about him seems far more constrained than the boy he knew a decade ago. That’s it, isn’t it? People change. And Keith doesn’t know if he particularly likes this Lance. The seriousness doesn’t seem to suit the image he has of him. But memories are fickle and it’s hard to know which parts are true anymore and which parts are simply his mind playing tricks on him.
“I mean, as much as Facebook contacts go. I see their feeds, I comment. It’s all so impersonal,” Lance shrugs. He looks at his feet, drawing Keith’s attention to his unpolished shoes. “It all really changed when you left. The group didn’t feel like a group anymore. So we went our different ways. I think Pidge is working for a startup and Hunk is a chemical engineer at Hershey’s.”
There’s a sharpness to Lance’s tone. It jabs at the once impermeable wall around Keith’s defences. And now, it strikes a chord.
“I’m… sorry,” Keith sighs. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Then I saw what happened on television,” Lance says. His eyes gloss over and he’s trembling. “And I was worried about you. I knew you would blame yourself because you always fucking do. And I knew you wouldn’t tell anyone about it. I knew you wouldn’t and I just wanted to call you. I wanted to ask you how you were.” Lance draws his fingers across his face. He let’s out a long breath and turns his head to the sun. “Fuck. I promised I wouldn’t say this. I said I wouldn’t even fucking cry.”
Keith doesn’t know what to say. He’s stunned at the way Lance managed to analyse him. But why is he so surprised? They grew up together. They spent most of their awkward adolescent years together — even if it was filled with annoying competition on Lance’s behalf.
Lance takes a couple of steps forward and spins on his heel. “At least one message, Keith. At least one fucking message. You show up out of the fucking blue. Ten years after you’ve left, and you have the nerve to ask to meet up.”
“I —”
“Shit,” Lance says again. “I’m sorry. But I’m done hearing your excuses. I just —”
He bridges the gap and pulls Keith into a hug. At first, Keith doesn’t know what to do, so he stands their rigidly. After a few moments, he eases into the embrace and holds Lance closely.
“Don’t do that again,” Lance whispers. “Don’t leave us all like that ever again.”
Keith’s managed to fit himself in a tight routine since he came back. He makes breakfast at eight in the morning — cereal and a coffee with two sugars — and then he goes for a run along the river’s edge. He doesn’t put music on because he finds it too distracting, but he enjoys the rhythmic way his feet hits the concrete. Every day, he tries to run just that little bit faster.
He then comes home and has as shower. He’ll emerge from there, smelling of patchouli and lemon. Then he’ll meet up with Lance for his lunch break. They’ll talk for a while, but it’s mostly Lance talking and complaining about his employees. Keith doesn’t mind it, because it means he doesn’t have to talk.
“So, Vince Marlow is just an absolute pain to work with. He thinks he’s doing a good job, like with customer service and stuff but he really isn’t. Customers complain all the time about him and I keep telling him that he has to be better at this job otherwise I’ll fire him. But I can’t? Because every time I look at that kid, I see me. A little lazy, a little loud spoken, but a good kid. And he needs the job.”
Then he’ll buy a new vase and pot plant to replace the one he’s broken on his bedside table.
He doesn’t eat dinner.
Rain erupts from the sable clouds. Keith bounces on the balls of his feet as he sprints down the the footpath, taking care not to slip. Sprinting is better than running long distance. He of all people knows this, but long distance running makes it easier for him to relax into something else.
As he reaches cover, he sighs loudly and leans against the window, trying to predict when the rain is going to stop.
It’s messing his routine. He wants to go back, he wants to keep running. He just wants to feel the wind against his face and the heavy breathing as he runs. But everything grinds to a halt and he’s left staring at the place that he should be.
“Sir,” an awfully familiar voice calls to him. Keith freezes. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s less wet and you look like you need some warm clothes.”
Slowly he turns, to face the man. His mouth opens wide as he tries to stumble back, tries to move. Tries to get anywhere else but here. But he’s rooted on the spot.
Shiro’s expression glazes over and recognition makes his features go stiff. “Keith.”
“Shiro.”
The silence that spills between them seems to go on for an eternity, but they’re both too stunned to make another move. Before he knows it, another face joins the fray and despite the tension, Allura says, “You two are going to catch a cold if you keep ogling at each other.”
Like a zombie, Keith stumbles towards the glass doors. His fingers brush against Shiro’s prosthetic arm for a split second and he pulls away so suddenly — as if he’s touched fire. Allura simply smiles and pulls out a chair.
“It’s quiet today. And coffee is on me,” she nods. A couple of cats sit on the tables with their heads held high as they survey Keith with cool detachment. When Keith gets close to one of them, he let’s out a loud meow and huffs.
“Don’t mind him,” Allura calls from behind the bench. “He just likes his space.”
"Oh okay. Can I have a latte with two sugars?" Keith asks.
"Of course," Allura's smile is so warm and unstrained that Keith can't help but smile back. He looks over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Shiro, but the man is long gone.
As Allura begins blowing the milk, a couple of the cats move away from the coffee machine. One takes a seat by Keith's legs and nuzzles it. He leans down and begins scratching at the cat's chin and is rewarded with a satisfying purr.
“Shiro, get your ass here,” Allura calls. She drops the coffee down on the counter and raises her hand to her mouth. “I need someone to serve the coffee to our one customer.”
Keith swallows hard. Part of him wants to flee, part of him wants to fling himself out from the room and never come back again. But the one part that’s forcing him to stay is the guilt. He looks at his hands when he sees Shiro emerge from the kitchen.
The coffee mug rattles in the saucer as Shiro walks towards him, his steps painfully slow. By the time Keith’s coffee is in front of him, at least half of it is has been emptied. He swallows hard and lifts his gaze up to see Shiro’s intensity.
“Why did you come back?” Shiro whispers.
A heartbeat later, Keith replies, “Because I had nowhere else to run to.”
Keith’s realised that he’s been running all his life. Going from one place to another, never forming relationships because he’s scared . He’s too scared to get close to anyone ever again. He remembers the night that he left and he remembers the strong smile that Shiro gave him, despite everything. It’s the one thing that haunts his dreams most nights, it’s the one thing that prevents him from ever forgiving himself.
“You promised me you would call. You promised me you would at least tell me what you’re doing,” Shiro sighs as he draws his hands across his face. “And in the last ten years, I get nothing. Didn’t our time together mean anything to you?”
Keith remains silent.
“Of course it fucking didn’t,” Shiro turns around quickly. “Of course it didn’t.”
Keith looks at his hands and he pulls out his phone. “Shiro.”
"And I had to learn all about your escapades on the news. You didn't even tell Lance! Just picture him, waiting for some sort of message from you and let me guess, you probably messaged him first when you came. My god, Keith. Do you not think about anyone else? You just forgot about everyone."
"Shiro," Keith repeats, trying to stop the words from tumbling from Shiro's mouth. Each one pierces him like an arrow. So many shots. And he wonders how many he can take before he falls, before the blood loss gets to him. "Shiro, I'm sorry."
“Don’t talk to me,” Shiro shouts. "Don’t fucking talk to me like that."
“Shiro, please,” Keith whispers. He holds out his phone and pulls out all his drafts texts. In the last ten years, he’s tried to message Shiro every day, but the frequency changes every so often. Instead of being a message directed to Shiro, it’s become a sort of diary for Keith. He thrusts the phone at Shiro, hoping that each message he’s almost sent means something to him.
As Shiro looks at them, he sighs. “Why didn’t you send them?”
“Time grew too large between each message,” Keith replies. “I thought you moved on, so I thought it would be rude if I introduced myself back into your life again.”
It’s Shiro who breaks first. He opens up his arms and brings Keith into a hug.
“Shiro,” Keith whispers. “Is your number the same?”
Shiro’s voice is still small but there’s a certain curl to it that makes Keith’s heart flutter. “Yeah. It is.”
Keith grabs a piece of paper and scrawls: control is an illusion.
And scrunches it up, aiming it at the bin seconds later.
The thirty-first time Keith wakes up in this bed, he forgets where he is. His arm manages to knock over his bedside lamp and the lampshade shatters. He shivers and tries to turn the light on, but dully realises that he’s broken the lamp. A mangled scream leaves his mouth. It startles him so much that he gets to his feet, eyes wide as he tries to search for the source. When he realises that it’s his own scream, he trudges to the fridge.
At least, he thinks, that he doesn’t dream anymore. It’s better than seeing all the bodies he’s destroyed, all the weapons he’s helped made in the name of destruction. His hand hovers on the fridge door and no matter how much he wills himself to open it, he finds that he can’t.
“I’m home ,” he breathes. “I’m Keith .”
His hands are shaking furiously.
“I’m Keith,” he all but shouts. “I am not a killer. I am not a murderer. I am in control.”
Groaning loudly, he punches it and crumples. His knees hit the ground and he finds that he can’t move. He can’t even think . As the nights go on, they’ve been becoming more and more routine. He thinks that he’s in control, but at the time his defences are at its lowest, he finds that he’s going back to his old routines. He finds that he’s falling back into the abyss.
Numbly, his hands pulls out the phone in his pocket and he stares at it for a moment before dialling.
“The door’s open,” Keith calls. He still hasn’t moved from the fridge. His head leans against the cold metal. A part of him turns to face the clock, watching how the hour hand drags itself across to three in the morning.
As he hears the door open and the steps grind to a halt, he casts a long, forlorn glance at the man who stands there. The light halos him and shadows his expression, but Keith knows he doesn’t want to see it. He predicts there would be a mixture of pity and disappointment, something that he never wants to see directed at him.
“I came as quickly as I could,” he says. When Keith doesn’t say anything, he continues rambling, filling up the silence. “Do you have a parking space — I think I might get a fine if I leave my motorbike parked like that.”
And it’s so achingly familiar.
From a past life.
(One that he regrets leaving.)
“Keith.”
His bottom lip quivers.
“Keith, are you okay?”
Strong hands grip him and he finally turns around to see concern gracing his figure. Keith crumbles under the grip and he turns, flinging his hands around Shiro. The proximity is familiar and it’s something that hasn’t seemed to change. Shiro’s hand runs through Keith’s hair and he let’s Keith stay there for as long as he wants.
"You still smell of that stupid Abercrombie and Fitch perfume," Keith says and he inhales between watery breaths.
Shiro lets out a small laugh. "Why do you remember that of all things?"
"Because you would spray it like crazy before every date," Keith says but then the words hitch on his throat.
"I wanted to smell good," Shiro says. He notices the increased tension in Keith and the pad of his thumb strokes his shoulder blades reassuringly.
"I'm sorry," Keith says as he pulls away. He looks into Shiro's eyes. "I'm sorry I left."
Shiro's hand traces his cheek and although he's trying to smile, it fractures to pieces. "You did what you thought you had to do."
"But was it the right thing to do?" Keith asks.
Shiro shrugs. "Are you okay, Keith?"
“Yeah,” Keith breathes. “Thanks for coming, Shiro.”
Loud thudding draws Keith’s attention. He trudges towards the door and opens it.
Shiro turns up at his doorstep early morning, with a carton of milk in one hands and groceries in the other. Despite Keith’s sleep-ridden haze, he manages to mumble something incoherent. The man takes that as an invitation inside and he waltzes around the apartment, dropping the groceries onto the kitchen counter and begins unloading.
“What’s that?” Keith asks.
“Vegetables,” Shiro says. He pulls out more items from the bag. It’s all a loud complaint against the state of Keith’s fridge, but he doesn’t mind. Finally having a stocked fridge is better than just having milk and cereal in the house. “Eggs and bacon . Do you want that for breakfast?”
“I have cereal usually,” Keith says.
“There’s no harm breaking that,” Shiro says. He gives him a gentle smile. “Or pancakes. I prefer you say pancakes because...” He then pulls out some blueberries and whipped cream. “Look at all of this. Look how delicious this is.”
Keith shakes his head. “Cereal.”
Shiro sighs and opens up the cupboards. He then takes the last remaining carton of corn-flakes and peers into the plastic. “I think you’re out of corn flakes.”
“What? Let me see,” Keith holds his hand out.
There’s a defiant smile on Shiro’s lips and he tilts his head to the sky, beginning to unload the cereal into his mouth. He then makes his way to the fridge and pours some milk before chewing. And the chews are so loud that it grinds on Keith’s nerves. He balls up his fist and turns his head away.
“Why did you do that?” he asks, once he hears Shiro swallow. “I wanted cereal.”
Shiro’s drinking from the carton and that makes Keith’s blood boil.
“You always have cereal,” Shiro says with a pointed stare. “I vote you have pancakes.”
The two of them form some sort of schedule. Shiro turns up on his doorstep at 7am with a new box of cereal. They eat breakfast together while Shiro reads the news on his iPad. Each day, he’ll always frown and then nod to himself, which always causes Keith to ask him what happened.
Today it’s, “Well. They just landed a satellite on a comet. I thought that was pretty cool.”
Then they go for a run.
Keith runs without music. Shiro runs with music.
Shiro’s runs for far longer. Keith tries to match his pace for that length.
Then Shiro says he has to go to work at the cafe.
And Keith has lunch with Lance.
“So, I actually fired the kid,” Lance says this time round. “I’m really sad to see him go. He’s really good, but his customer service is just appalling. I hate to see such talent leave me though, but I think it’s for the best of the company. Too many complaints about him. Even my second in command told me, Lance, you have to let the kid go. So I did. Just — I hope he does well in life, you know?”
And then Keith goes home.
He doesn’t eat dinner.
Keith pulls out a piece of paper. With childish handwriting, he scribbles: I’m in control.
And then he scrunches it up moments later.
There’s a light knock that rouses Keith from his sleep. His shoulders ache from falling asleep on the couch and he dimly acknowledges the television in the distance. It shifts to the Voice and he quickly turns it off, deciding that he doesn’t want to watch anymore.
He makes his way to the door to see Shiro holding a box of pizza and he’s smiling warmly.
“Don’t you have someone else in your life?” Keith says.
Shiro shakes his head. “Not right now. I had a couple. Mostly never worked out.”
Keith takes a step back and lets Shiro cross into his apartment. Shiro is already by the couch and he drops the pizza box onto the coffee table. “You’ll probably want this. It’s your favourite.”
“Huh?” Keith replies dumbly.
He opens up the box.
“You remembered,” he breathes as he pulls away a slice.
“Why would I forget?” Shiro replies.
“Why didn’t they work out?” Keith asks as their silence becomes too much.
Shiro casts a look over Keith and he sighs. He begins fiddling at his metallic arm. “They said that my mind was elsewhere. That I wasn’t focusing on this relationship, but trying to distract myself from another.” Shiro lets out an abrupt laugh. “That was what the psychologist I dated said. Really good people analyser.”
“Another?”
Shiro wraps his hands around Keith’s and looks into his eyes. “I’m just… really glad you came back. Even after all the shit you’ve been through. I just…. am really happy.”
Keith sighs. "You shouldn't be. I only came back because it's the one place I'm not recognised."
"You made a mistake," Shiro says. He tucks Keith's hair behind his ear. "Everyone makes mistakes."
"But I'm a monster. I killed them." He wants to describe how he's feeling, truly. But all experience is personal, all experience is hard to share with others. Words make everything seem more incomplete.
"You didn't," Shiro says gently. "It was equally everyone's fault on the project as it was yours and I know that isn't going to make you feel better. But every time someone enters a plane, they know that there's a slight chance that things aren't going to go well. Especially if it's a plane that is undergoing testing."
"Yeah. I guess you're right..." Keith’s breath is shaky. He wonders what he should do about this. He wants to bridge the gap, he wants to give the man a hug, but he doesn’t. He just stays there, staring dumbly at him.
"And, selfishly, I'm going to say this..." Shiro’s voice is small and his gaze is intense. “ I guess I’ll remember this as the time you decided to come back.”
Keith holds his breath as he waits for Shiro to open the present. The man tears it with such precision, Keith's worried that by the time he'll open it, they'll both have aged another ten years. He sits there, anxiously staring.
Once the wrapping breaks free, Shiro just laughs. It's one of those hearty laughs. One that comes from the low part of your stomach and rumbles out.
One that always touches your eyes.
Keith hides a smile behind his hand. "I thought you could use a new cologne."
"I guess I did," Shiro nods and dips a bit onto his fingers. He dabs it on his neck and angles his body close to Keith. "How is it?"
"Better than the one you had before."
The sixtieth time Keith wakes up, it’s to the sound of Shiro readjusting himself. His arm is draped around Keith’s neck and he looks peaceful.
Keith smiles.
And he nuzzles his head against the man’s chest.
"I am in control," he whispers.
And for the first time in a while, it feels like the truth.