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“You’ve been on a date before, right?” Keith asks him, abandoning his bitten-into toast for Shiro’s stare, for Shiro’s slowly lowered spoon, (the drip of milk); Keith waits.
“Well, yeah?” Shiro answers and Keith nods, pleased, his mouth looks happy and Shiro doesn’t know if he’s being asked out here, if someone asked Keith to ask for them or if it’s just something Keith thinks he should know, about Shiro, because they’re co-pilots now, because Keith thinks it’s what friends ask, what they talk about, when they meet.
“Have you?” Shiro asks, in return, because -- it’s polite, and noisy, and he wants to know, wants to know if anyone took Keith to the movies, if they let him drive their car, did they have dinner and did they hold Keith’s hand because -- because Shiro thinks he would.
Thinks he’d ask Keith to be his date for graduation and Keith would show up in his uniform and he’d be too shy to ask Keith for a dance and Keith wouldn’t know what to do but he’d probably grab Shiro’s hand and drag him to the dance floor, thinks he’d probably ask Shiro if he’s hot, when he’d blush and he’d make him laugh, like he always does, so easily, effortlessly --
“So you know what to wear to a date,” Keith confirms, with a mouthful of toast, like he’d never doubted Shiro, in the first place, like Shiro’s the solution to all of his problems, the solution to all of Keith’s unanswered mysteries, all of his aches.
“Would you go shopping with me?” he asks, next, fishing out a torn off page of a magazine, holds it so Shiro can see the glossy print, the smudged numbers, some stains, seeping through the lines, like kerosene, or oil, fingerprints, see through but clear, obvious.
“Where did you get that?” Shiro asks, suspiciously and Keith shrugs, stuffs it back into his pocket.
“Stole it from an engineer.”
“Keith!”
“It was in his trashcan!”
“You went through someone’s trashcan?”and Shiro should be appalled, or disgusted, or both but -- somehow it fits Keith, his weird sense of being alive, being human, just -- living, beside Shiro, beside countless cadets and officers, within a world he doesn’t seem to understand.
“I don’t own any magazines,” Keith says, like Shiro forgot his name, forgot that Keith’s allergic to shellfish (of all things), like it’s not something to question, at all. “He was done reading it.”
“You could have asked him for it.”
“I -- didn’t think of that,” Keith pauses, concerned.
(And Shiro falls in love, just a little bit, just enough to feel happier, to feel brave.)
“When do you want to go? Shopping,” he asks and swallows down the soggy, milky cereal, swallows down the protective concerns, doesn’t ask who’s Keith dressing for, if he’s shopping for a date, this weekend, if Keith found someone to love.
Keith asks him if Friday’s okay and Shiro can’t figure out who Keith is trying to look good for, trying to look tempting for, for the rest of the week.
---
“What kind of style are you looking for?” Shiro asks as Keith holds up a T-shirt, cotton soft and with Saturn’s rings enclosing a pale planet, in repetitions of sevens; Keith puts it back on the rack.
“Aren’t you supposed to wear something the other person likes?” Keith asks, pointing at the shirt, at the small print; is it a cadet then? Shiro’s mouth bites.
“Do they like space?”
“Who?”
“The person you’re going on a date with.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, he does. And dogs.” Keith nods, looking for something new, something with dogs, Shiro’s sure, and he suddenly doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to pick out clothes for Keith to impress someone else, for someone who likes space and dogs and Keith -- and suddenly, Shiro’s ashamed of himself, terribly.
(He’s Keith’s friend. He’s someone Keith relies on, should be able to rely on, always.)
((He wants to be that person in Keith’s life.))
They wander, go through the shops like they’re simulations of space, star explorations, Keith a little bit lost, finding it all disorienting, finding it exhilarating, having Shiro with him, having Shiro be here, because of him, throwing away hours, throwing away his afternoon, to help Keith, just to help him -- it’s a strange feeling; (he feels loved).
They buy Keith jeans, they buy him a shirt, they buy him new shoes and then Shiro -- Shiro buys him a jacket Keith can’t afford, could never afford and wouldn’t accept, Shiro knows, so he buys it secretly, presses it into Keith’s arms when they’re back, outside of their rooms, says: “I’ve probably missed your birthday, anyway,” through Keith’s silence, Keith’s awkward stare because Keith’s never had to deal with anything like this, with kindness like this and he’s -- Shiro clasps his shoulder, turns him to face the door.
“Have fun on your date,” he wishes him, hopes the guy’s someone nice, someone good, someone who can get Keith to laugh; someone he can trust.
Someone Keith can rely on, too.
Someone like -- him.
---
Keith has the jacket on, over his uniform and it’s against the rules but there’s rain and it’s lunch break, they’re on field duty, huddled under Shiro’s fighter jet and it shields them enough for them to dry, for them to stay a little bit damp, for Keith’s shoulder to touch his, through their clothes.
Shiro slurps on his soup, Keith’s picking out the carrots and it’s probably not the best time to ask, not the time to talk, the weekend still fresh on their skin, the other pilots surrounding their shelter, but Shiro does, anyway, looking over at Keith, with a smile.
“How did your date go?” he asks and Keith freezes, a piece of carrot between his fingers, slipping back into his soup; he just looks -- lost.
“Date?” he asks, confused.
“Yeah. The one we were shopping for.”
“There isn’t a date,” he answers and proceeds to pick his soup apart, his fingers slippery, wet.
“There’s not?”Shiro asks and -- he’s not understanding this, one tiny bit.
“No. It was for a dare.”
“For a -- a dare?”
“Yeah.” Keith nods, cupping his bowl, his lips red, heated, chapped. “Some cargo pilot from my class dared me to go shopping with you. He didn’t believe me that I know you.” Keith shrugs and Shiro thinks -- he thinks he’s relieved, confused but relieved and warmer, even if it shouldn’t matter, even if he wants for Keith to be appreciated, for Keith to have fun, even if he wants Keith to have more friends.
“Bit of a shame though. The clothes suited you,” Shiro says, gathering a bit of the rain, to wash his lunch bowl; Keith watches the drops, slipping down his sleeve.
“I’m not going to throw them away,” Keith answers, puzzled, and Shiro laughs.
“I meant that your date would be fond of your outfit, for sure,” he explains and Keith smiles at that, soft.
“Some other time then,” he says and Shiro thinks -- he thinks he’s going to ask Keith to go to graduation with him, anyway.
“Some other time,” he repeats, firmly and then lunch break’s over, Keith’s throwing out the rest of his soup and throwing his jacket into the cockpit, they get ready for flight.
Some other time, Shiro’s going to tell Keith.
(Some other time, Shiro’s going to be brave.)