Chapter Text
January 1st, 1908
Dear Diary,
Though I find myself blessed with my current circumstances in life, I continuously find myself appalled by the devilish tricks of the universe. Since beginning my patronage, my patron Shirogane has bestowed upon me every form of kindness he could imagine. While in my growing years this allowed me to study under many of the bests, it also has allowed me, since turning twenty, to become aware of a particular void within my artistic experience.
A focus. Something to say.
Many of the greats have gone without a particular focus in their time, however unlike my predecessors, I find myself bored of the flowers and grasses and landscapes I have become so used to. My strokes hold little light and little thought outside of a mere reflection of each gentle breeze we all find ourselves too aware of.
I find I have grown bitter, much more than before. Through a lack of inspiration, my impression of the world has become nothing more than mere realism, and I struggle to find a meaning behind each stroke I carefully push upon the page.
I believed I could break this slump by offering to do a portrait of my patron and his husband, however despite the beauty of their connection, the paint added nothing to truly highlight their love. It's still a beautiful portrait, but it's a portrait made of paint rather than a display of emotion. There is no depth to how I see the world, and I fear all any critic would see of my current work is my lack of focus.
Upon sharing the portrait with my patron, he believed the work bodacious and even made a point to hang it within the home. However, now each time I enter the foyer of the residence, I am simply reminded of my own frustrations with my craft. I know myself a very skilled artist, even in a slump I find myself being praised, but it does not reflect the work I wish to produce.
Shirogane enjoys the work I produce, and he especially enjoys boasting to his colleagues about my work, but upon my personal comparison of my landscapes to my older portrait work, I yearn for a subject within humanity, something that reflects both beauty but also the finesse and flaws all humanity has to offer. My inspiration need not come from a single person if I could simply find a proper focus to my work.
Shirogane has done me the greatest kindness by allowing my residence within his home, and he continues to bestow me with potential and opportunities I find myself grateful for. Though he insists I am not indebted to him, I yearn to create something that I believe will reflect the time he has poured into my life.
He believes my slump is nothing more than a bout of melancholia, and he believes that my upcoming stay at University will solve this slump I find myself in. I hesitate to share his belief, though excited as I am to study and perfect my craft, I worry melancholy is simply a permanent state of mine. While again, I am incredibly grateful for the opportunities he has provided me, it would be remiss to believe anything but my own ambition could deliver me safely from this stagnation.
However, today marks a new year. I have never been a hopeful person. I still exist in a state of constant and preemptive flight, and while I am not naive enough to believe I will change any aspect of my temperament solely on this new stage in my life, I still find myself emboldened and excited by the prospect of university.
I don't imagine all my issues will simply change overnight. but perhaps the new scenery will be good for me. At least, that's what Shirogane tells me.
* * *
"You're going to do perfectly fine, Keith," Shirogane spoke, patting Keith's back after he set down the final trunk, "I know you have your resignations, but you're a fantastic artist."
"I know, Mr. Shirogane. I won't let you down, I promise." Keith spoke, trying to keep his hands from fiddling too much with the latch of his art trunk.
Shirogane smiled at him, resting a hand on his shoulder, "You couldn't possibly let me down, Keith, and how many times must I implore you to refer to me as Shiro. Mr. Shirogane is far too formal."
"Sorry," Keith sighed.
"You're going to be alright. I have full-faith you will excel here. And of course, if there's any issues, the University has a phone. I do expect a call at least once a week to see how you're doing. Not your art, you know I don't understand any of that fanciness, but I wish to know how you're adjusting, alright?"
Keith nodded, "Alright. I will call."
Shiro frowned, "Keith. You've got too much on your mind. Share."
"I apologize, it's simply… are you sure this is worth it?" He gestured around the room, all dark wood and fancy windows, "I understand as my patron it's your choice how you spend your money and how you sponsor my education, but this… seems excessive."
"Nonsense," Shiro smiled, "It brings me a great deal of pleasure to see you succeed, Keith. I know you are destined for great things, and I fully believe in your ability to rise beyond your station here."
"As long as you're sure."
"I'm certain. Take advantage of it. There's so much to learn about outside of your courses. Try not to stay cooped up the entire time, alright?"
Keith nodded again, taking a deep breath, "I'll try. At least to familiarize myself with the campus."
Shiro laughed, "Of course. Well, in any case, be safe. I have to go meet with Adam on the other side of town, but I'll return in a few days to bring you out to lunch and check in with you, alright?"
"Alright."
"I'll see you then, Keith," Shiro nodded before beginning to make his leave. Before he could, Keith spoke up once more.
"Wait, Shiro?"
Shiro turned, raising an eyebrow, "Yes?"
"Thank you," Keith smiled ever so slightly, trying to not let the nerves show on his face.
A smile slowly made it's way across Shiro's face, "Of course, Keith. And remember. Patience yields focus."
Keith chuckled softly, waving as Shiro finally left the small dorm room. It was small, but it was absolutely perfect for Keith. It wasn't as well-lived in as he was used to, but once he had his easel set up, he had faith that he would acclimate well.
There was only one window in the room, and while it was supposed to be aligned with the bed, Keith knew that simply wouldn't work for his purposes. With a careful push, he used his body weight to shove the bed up against the wall, trying not to cringe when the bed frame made contact with the wall.
It gave him the perfect light. He quickly got out his easel, setting it up as well as preparing all of his painting supplies. He pulled out a piece of graphite, moved the chair from the desk to settle in front of his easel, and then…
Nothing.
He had no inspiration.
Not that he really thought he would. As beautiful as the room and campus was, beauty enough could never grasp him so immediately.
So, with a sigh, he returned his graphite to the edge of the easel, forcing himself to begin the slow, tedious process of unpacking his clothing. He didn't have much, a few sweaters Shiro had given him, a couple of old slacks, an old and tattered brown suit he'd bought for cheap, and a few shirts. He had a coat as well, a hand-me-down from Shiro as well, that was long and black, and, though it was well-loved, Keith found that the age only added to the warmth it provided him after all of these years.
Once he finished setting everything away, he stared around the room. Even unpacked, it still felt foreign. Of course, that wasn't an unfamiliar feeling to Keith. After all, the several years in orphanages before meeting Shiro meant unfamiliar bedrooms were second-nature to Keith. But after so long living in the Shirogane Residence, he'd found himself soft to the emotional turbulence change provided, where it once comforted him, it now unsettled him once again.
Perhaps it was because, for the first time in several years, Keith was on his own again.
He was good at being on his own. He was never quite good at making friends after all, so he spent much of his childhood alone. However, an unsettling feeling was swimming in his chest; the acknowledgement that, perhaps though he boasts his ability to be on his own, some quiet part of him does yearn for companionship of some kind.
It had only been around an hour since Shiro had left, and already, he found his mind wandering far more than he was currently comfortable with. He would adjust. He always did. He just needed a moment.
So, pulling his old black coat on, Keith left the dorm. A nice walk, just to familiarize himself with the campus, and the chill of early January air would ease his maladies.
There were people all over. With move-in day abound, families and young scholars flooded campus. While Keith's courses didn't begin until tomorrow morning, there were some students who already found themselves rushing to classrooms, speaking with professors, and making their way to the library to prepare themselves for their studies. And Keith simply observed them all as he walked along the cobble path.
He watched families embrace, lovers lips meet, and colleagues laugh. He watched verdant grass crunch beneath boots, wind billowing papers from a young man's grasp, and the rusted red brick of each building around the campus quad. He watched the world, and for the most part, the world did not watch him.
He could at least be certain one man didn't watch him.
"Look out - look out!" A voice behind him yelled. On instinct, Keith moved off the path, just in time to watch a wobbly bicycle rush past him.
"Sorry about that, thank you!" The man yelled, looking over his shoulder and making fleeting eye contact with Keith.
The other man was all tanned skin, trim brown hair, and the most stunning opalescent eyes that met Keith's for only a mere moment. If his breath was taken from him, at least the near-miss of his spine and the other man's wheel gave him a proper excuse.
"Are you alright?"
He turned, broken from his brief spell, by a short young woman next to him.
"I'm sorry, what?"
She snorted softly, adjusting her round glasses, "I was asking if you were alright."
"Oh, uhm, yes. I am. Thank you."
"It's no worry. Lance has a habit of not watching his path."
"Lance?" He asked.
"The man who almost hit you. You don't recognize him?" She tilted her head curiously.
"No, sorry," he shook his head.
She nodded, "I see. Lance McClain."
She looked at him as if that should ring some bell in his mind, and well it failed to, she continued, "Of McClain Hall? His father is a patron of the University."
Keith's mouth dropped open slightly as a quiet "oh" escaped him. He remembered reading about McClain Hall in one of the many papers Shiro had given him about the institution. It was a grand hall, beautiful in both design and intention, as the McClain family became a major patron for the school and is partially responsible for the University's growth in both fields of studies and admittance numbers.
"I'd suppose this is your first day if you haven't heard of Lance yet, he's… quite well-known on campus."
"Yeah, I just arrived today. Why is he well-known, outside of his families contributions?" Keith asked.
The young woman laughed softly, "Mostly his behavior and looks. My father is a professor for arithmetic, and he says anytime he has a McClain in his class, half the students stare at them in awe and the other half stare in curiosity and envy. Lance, in particular, is something of a eccentric man. Nearly everyone on campus has a story about running into him."
"Is that so?" Keith thought for a moment, "What's your story with him? Aside from your father teaching him."
"Well, one of his close friends is a good friend of mine. I hear plenty of stories from him in passing about Lance's behavior, his conquests, and Lance has popped in during our study sessions from time to time."
He nodded, committing every detail to memory like one savors the juice of a delicate fruit.
He focused more on the young woman in front of him. She was short and almost frail looking, and her outfit was nothing short of untraditional. She wore a pair of deep green wide-legged trousers and a simple white shirtwaist, along with a large sage blazer, likely a hand-me-down from the slight hang of the fabric off her shoulders, and the bunching around her wrists. Her amber hair was cropped short, a clearly rebellious style, but one that suited her, and what he'd seen of her temperament, quite well.
"Study sessions?" He asked, "Is his friend your tutor?"
She laughed, a loud and boisterous sound, "Goodness, no. We're colleagues." She wiped at her eyes from beneath her glasses, grinning still, "I'm a student here as well. Accelerated mathematics and engineering, actually. His friend, Hunk, is my mentor within the program."
"Oh, sorry," An embarrassed flush rose to his cheeks slightly, cutting through the pale rose of his cold cheeks.
"Don't worry about it. It happens constantly," she shrugged, "The amount of times I've been refused from seeing my own father's classroom due to confusion over my age could pay for my entire university tuition."
"I see," he chuckled lightly, relaxing as the weight of his social blunder passed, "I can't say I'm doing anything rather miraculous on campus, unlike you. I'm studying art."
"Ooh, an artist?" She grinned, "There's plenty of merit in that. Art and math are central to the human experience, I'd say."
Keith smiled softly, reaching a hand out, "Keith Kogane."
She took his hand, shaking it, "Katie Holt, though most people call me Pidge."
"Nice to meet you, Pidge."
She grinned at him, "You as well, Keith. Now, since you're clearly as green as I like to dress myself to be, how would you like to go on a specially-guided tour of this beautiful house of Hades we call a campus?"
He snorted softly, giving a quick nod, before they were off.
While normally he'd appreciate solitude on a walk like this, he had to admit that it could be enjoyable to have some company. Perhaps, with her aid, he wouldn't get further lost when it was time for his courses in the morning, and, perhaps, he'd be able to uncover more about McClain hall and the comely man sharing its name.
The next three days passed in rapid succession. Syllabi and professor's names all rattled among Keith's brain, setting him aflame with so much new information he felt like he would burst. He had arithmetic, civics, and English every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and his Tuesdays and Thursdays were filled with only art, art history in the early morning.
His studio hours began at noon, and while they were scheduled to end at three P.M., his professor, Dr. Smythe, made it extremely clear that they were not just encouraged, but expected, to spend longer in the studio, to work on personal projects and perfect every minute detail as they saw fit. The main benefit of the time block was that, beginning next week, they'd have a nude model sit for them, and the pose work they would do with the model would be what the course assignments were actually based on.
They were, of course, required to log at least an entire hour of studio time outside of their six-hour weekly time block. Keith didn't expect that to be a problem for him.
The studio was gorgeous. A large circular room, half of it adorned with these giant, ornate steel-rimmed windows that provided the most beautiful golden light from outside, diffused by the pale walls, reflecting the light in a way so stunning that Keith had to pause before fully entering the room when he first walked in. There were statues along the back wall, and a small stage in the center of the room, semi-circling around it were tens of easels, all in far better condition than Keith's own, and while each student was expected to be prepared with their own personal kit, there were shelves upon shelves on the back walls with any backup supplies he could dream of.
Turpentine, charcoal, tacks, linseed oil, a whole reservoir of pigments, graphite, canvas, gesso, brushes of all sorts of variety, stretching blocks, rabbit glue, palettes and palette knives, the fancy and new premixed and ready-made tin tubes of paint, mastic shellac, anything and everything beyond Keith's wildest imaginations. There were pigment colors he'd only imagined being able to see before, and he could spend days alone mixing them to discover what new colors he could make.
The possibilities were so vast and endless it felt all-consuming. Even after he left the studio, he remained in a daze for the rest of the day, pondering the prospects.
He was in this daze when he finally met the other members of his dorm hall, all sat chatting in the sitting room next to the entrance. One of them, who he'd later learn is named Ryan, called him in to give his introductions.
All of them were the first floor residents, it seemed, and he barely listened to half their words, outside of getting their names. The most he knew was Ryan Kinkade, the first and as it seems kindest, James Griffin, who Keith immediately stopped listening to after his comment on Keith's overgrown hair, their resident assistant who only introduced himself as Matthew — but to call him Matt —, and a tired-looking man called Rolo who insisted that was, in fact, his name at birth (Keith was almost certain it was Roland, but he wouldn't be the one to say that).
Keith could only provide a quick comment about himself, his name and major, before he found his mind already drifting from the conversation. Griffin made another comment, this time about Keith's major, and for a moment, Keith greatly praised Shiro for having the foresight to teach him to control his anger years ago when he was a scrappy teen.
He could not afford to lose on this opportunity. If not for himself, for Shiro.
So he would choose to rise against it, against Griffin's attempt to get under his skin, only God knows why he did it in the first place, and he made his way back to his room. He spent a long while throwing himself into work, studying his syllabi, preparing all his course materials, getting an early start on homework.
He waited until seven-thirty on the dot to make his way to the communal dining hall, ate his meal quickly while reading through the beginnings of his Hamlet manuscript for his English course. He sat in a small table in the corner of the room, and he did not even make an attempt to socialize. As far as he was concerned, he had already succeeded in making one friend. Why push his luck and try to make more?
After he finished his meal, and had done a good bit of reading about a dead father and depressed son — a bit close to home, he had to admit — he made his way to the tea room in his dorm building, on the second floor. One of the perks of going to one of the fancier and more established universities meant the school was able to provide a phone to each dorm building, rather than having one communal one shoved in the administrator's office and deemed 'emergencies only'.
He closed the door behind him, locking it quietly, before picking up the receiver and pushing down the crank.
"Operator, how can I connect your call?"
"Uh, yes, Shirogane Residence?"
"Please hold."
A bit of shuffling later, and he heard the slightly gruff voice of his benefactor through the phone.
"Keith! How are you doing?"
Keith could practically hear the smile in the other man's voice.
"I'm… good. Really good, in fact."
"You don't say? Tell me everything."
"Well, there's not much to tell," Keith hummed, leaning against the wall, "Everything is gorgeous. Classes are… a bit overwhelming, to say the least, but I'm keeping on top of it. And the art room here. Shiro, it's…" He takes a deep breath, smiling. "It's better than I could have ever expected. I'm speechless, and honored, all at once. I really can't thank you enough-"
"Enough of the thanks," he chuckled softly, "I'm glad you're enjoying it. I truly believe you'll thrive there."
"There's a chance you might just be right about that."
"Mm, I often am," Shiro hummed, "Have you made any friends?"
"As a matter of fact, I have."
Shiro let out a mock gasp of shock, "No. Adam!" He called out, away from the receiver, and after a moment he continued yelling to his husband, "The unexpected has happened! No, no one has died — Keith's made a friend!"
"Okay, okay, I get it," Keith rolled his eyes, "Surely it's not that big of a deal."
"Keith. You've engaged in social activity without being forced. This is momentous. Who is this mysterious, elusive person you have chosen to befriend."
He sighed fondly, "Their name is Pidge Holt. Their father is a professor here, and they showed me around campus."
The line went silent for a moment, "Is their father Samuel Holt?"
"I couldn't tell you," he frowned, "all they told me was that he's in the mathematics department."
Shiro let out a deep belly laugh, and Keith could practically see the man doubled over in his old leather sitting chair in his mind, wiping at the tears forming from his chuckles, "Only you, Keith, could somehow manage to befriend the child of my former commanding officer. I was first lieutenant in his research division, and his son was my second."
"Oh." Keith had to admit, that… was quite funny. "Small world, I suppose."
"Seems so," Shiro laughed. "I'm glad you've found at least someone out there. It's still early, but I'm proud of you already."
"Thanks, Shiro."
* * *
January 10th, 1908
I have officially arrived at university. Shirogane helped me deliver my belongings and move into my residence hall a few days ago, and I was quickly swept up in a whirlwind of classes and first-week lectures on behavior and etiquette and what is to be expected from us.
There is no explanation for my feelings right now other than I am a live wire. Shirogane has done the absolute most for me, and my gratitude could never be fully displayed for him truly. While I have some classes focused on aiding me in becoming a well-rounded member of society, such as my arithmetic course, civics, art history, and my English course, I am also incredibly exhilarated by the promises of my first painting course. We meet twice a week, however we are expected to spend at least one hour per week day enduring study on our own.
The state of the painting room alone ensured my presence will soon become commonplace in that space. They are to bring in a nude model for our sessions in the following days, and I find myself giddy at the thought as I have been yearning to practice the body and all its complex forms.
Aside from the curriculum, I don't find myself particularly enlightened by my experience within my college. My dorm-mates all seem quite alright, but I could not imagine myself finding much to bond with them over. It seems while I am privileged enough to have secured a scholarship through my patron, I am an outlier among the cake-eaters of the world here. Many of my peers, though fine and not directly antagonistic, share little with me aside from snide looks toward the patches in my clothes. I find that while annoying, I care little about the opinions of these peers. Even if Griffin elects to make smarmy comments, I am too enamored with my realm of study to let these comments and looks find their way beneath my skin.
Well, there is one peer who I find myself intrigued by, however I would be ignorant to believe that this makes me special in any capacity. Within moments of courses beginning, I found myself being made aware of one Lance McClain. An air tight big timer, full of eccentricities and, of course, well known for the connection of his family name. I have gathered much information about the man solely through the whispers of my peers.
I, like many others, immediately took note of him through reason of his beauty, which, from how he carries himself, he is quite aware of the passing stares and makes no attempt to make himself an inconspicuous man. In my personal opinion, as since I find myself and many others are drawn to beauty, I am thankful for the occasional sight of the man's tanned skin, his chestnut hair, and even studying the slight curves of his shoulders as he bikes his way through the campus block.
After his beauty, I found myself intrigued by how much of a case he is, and while initially I wondered if his resplendence allows him to be more queer and peculiar, I get the sense, from afar, that perhaps he would act no different if he was not so beautiful. In part because I don't believe he is entirely aware of his own eccentricities, as he seems incredibly earnest in passing. Also because I find that, unlike the rest of my peers and I who are aiming to discover pieces of ourselves as we further our education, Lance McClain is a man who seems to fully understand what he wants and wishes for.
I don't imagine I will cross paths with him in any serious measure as so far I have found I rather enjoy keeping to myself for my education's sake. He seems to exist in a realm opposite my own. I quite like viewing him from afar.
* * *
The following Tuesday, Keith was up bright and early and extremely ready for the day. He could barely pay attention in his art history class, excitement for his studio course running rampant through his veins. Even with the January chill seeping through his coat down to his bones, he felt like pure flame, burning for the inside out.
When he arrived to the studio, there were a few students already setting up, and he got to work setting up himself. He opened his kit, and with meticulous effort, he set up his supplies, cleaned any tool he could conceivably use, and got his canvas set up. It was their first session with their nude model, so they would likely be focusing on values and shape language rather than color theory, but Keith still kept his palette close by, just in case.
After all, he'd probably spend a good bit of time after the model left, re-drawing the piece over and over until he understood the values, how the light played with the curves of the body, and how he could translate it into his pieces better.
He knew the basics, and he'd gotten fairly good at them, in his experience, but it was different now, that he was going to be surrounded by a class of his peers, all with their own art expertise as well. He was fairly nervous he wouldn't stand up to his professors critiquing eye, especially with his own struggles, his frustration at his inability to imbue his work with some sense of emotion, something to say or build on.
As more students trickled in, Keith kept his head down, sketching random things in charcoal, the dead fern he passed while walking to class, the way the morning frost clung to his shoe, a side profile that had become familiar in Keith's sketchbook at this point. One that matched a man inconspicuously making his way into the room, just a step behind Professor Smythe.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" Professor Smythe bellowed, his accent cutting through the din of students setting up. He was a cheerful man, but one well respected in the art community. Silly on the outside, but a very keen eye for art and artistic value. At one point, he accompanied Alfor Altea, an extremely well-respected artist, even before his passing, and worked directly with him and his family.
Despite his qualifications, he remained just as kind.
"Today, we begin our first modeling session. I want you to focus primarily on forms today, as well as beginning with values. Now," he rolled a blackboard over, flipping it to show a pre-detailed drawing of a circle, well-shaded (though in reverse, due to the nature of the blackboard, after all).
"I'm sure many of you have seen this diagram before, looking at the different values of a sphere. But when we look at the human body, it's easy to get focused on body parts. Your brain sees a hand, and you, in turn, draw a hand. However!" He turned, sketching an… interesting looking face, to say the least, "When we get caught up in what we should be drawing or painting or creating, we lose the important details. So, as you draw today, I want you to forget that you are creating an image of a person. Focus instead on the shapes you see, the blur of the lines, and what values on the body create those shapes. Don't be afraid to use your darker charcoals and graphite's, I want to see exaggeration, but also understanding, of these shapes. And make sure you focus on not just the shadows and highlights, but that the midpoints are smooth as well. When we move into more color-focused study, you need to have a good grasp on your midpoints! A lack of understanding with them could break an entire piece!"
He grinned, and Keith tried to catalogue all of the quick-teachings he spewed into his brain, especially with the added distraction of a certain lurker. He knew all of the information, on a surface level and in practice, but as much as he wanted to work on big things, he reminded himself of Shiro's words, patience yields focus. He knows how important revisiting the basics will be, and, he thought, it might be good to have his basic understanding not just tested, but reviewed, for any improvements.
"Now, our first model actually joins us thanks to my niece, who so graciously volunteered him," Professor Smythe moved to the side, a sweeping arm gesturing grandly to Lance as he made his way onto the raised platform. He didn't look nervous at all, in the thin white robe provided to him. He had an easy expression on his face, looking over everyone. For the briefest moment, his blue met Keith's grey, and it was nothing like grand waves cresting over a shore.
Instead, it was like the gentle wash of a mid-morning rain, eyes glinting ice of early January in the mirror Keith provided, and Lance's expression shifted, the slightest smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, before he broke contact.
Keith thanked himself mentally for knowing how to prioritize professionalism as Professor Smythe brought a chaise lounge onto the raised platform for Lance to rest on.
"If you could so kindly get into position, you can all get started whenever you're ready. Do not hesitate to ask any questions, and I'll be walking around occasionally to look over your work and give any guided help, if I deem necessary."
He stepped off the platform, leaving Lance alone. He rolled his shoulders, back muscles on full display, allowing the robe to move down slowly, his hands occupied with untying the small knot at the front. He was captivating, especially with how the pale fabric played against the tan of his skin, he was the picture of beauty and grace. There was never a single sense of hesitation as he finally undressed, draping the robe on the chaise lounge and laying himself down on it.
Keith allowed himself one moment to lose his professionalism. One moment to admire the other man's physique, the wide berth of his shoulders, the curve of each bicep, the way the natural light seemed to glisten off his chest, even to the way his hair curled just so subtly.
With that moment out of the way, Keith returned the oxygen to his chest, and he got to work, translating every hypnotizing curve and shade of Lance's body into charcoal dust and gentle smears of black and grey.
When Professor Smythe called time, Keith could have sworn only thirty minutes had passed. Lance didn't speak to anyone as he re-dressed, simply pulled his robe on, tied it, and made his way from the classroom. Keith wasn't leaving though, he was far too focused on mental images of deep browns contrasted against ghastly whites. He covered his charcoal sketch with a sheet, took a moment to wash the dust and stains from his hands, before sitting himself right back down, free-handing from memory the way sharp, tan muscle contrasted the drape of pale white fabric.
By the end of the week, Keith had practically run out of pages. He felt aflame, lit anew, a phoenix of ambition rising within him. He'd sketched any and everything — from the way the morning sky hit the pale pavement, the cracks in between the wood of his floorboards, tens of pages of sleek, smooth muscle and the curvature of a particular man's face, he'd even gone as far as to carefully and delicately detail the gravel and grit of the red bricks making up the buildings. Every time he made his way across campus, he was lugging his large arts bags and as many pages and canvases as he could possibly carry.
By the time Shiro came to visit, Keith was perfectly and, shockingly, gladly prepared to tell him that he had been right. His hands could barely stop moving long enough to leave his room and meet up with the man, and even then, he found himself stopping along the path to sketch the way the streetlights cascaded over the snow and frozen ground.
The Leblanc cafe had a warm interior and served some of the best coffee Keith had tried in his life, paired with a delicious and filling Japanese-style curry. Shiro paid to keep the business open years in the past, and ever since, the man who ran it considered Shiro, and now Keith, sons. Keith much preferred this spot to the fancier restaurants Shiro had lugged him to in the past. It felt more comfortable, like Keith could disappear into the background as one of the many patrons who came in.
He didn't stand out, unlike the fancier dinners where it was clear that Keith had never been great at grasping the whole "etiquette" thing.
Over the years, this spot had become a favorite of theirs, and while it was closer to the campus than the Shirogane estate, it only meant Keith would be able to stop in more often.
"So, Keith," Shiro hummed in between sips of his coffee, "Tell me everything. How are classes going?"
Keith smiled lightly, sitting up. "I have a confession to make."
"Oh? Should I be worried?" Shiro frowned, his fingers crossing over his lap.
"You're going to think I'm ill. But…" he sighed, "you were right. I am deeply enjoying myself."
Shiro gasped, his frown quickly being replaced by a grin. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital. Or perhaps the government. Clearly, you've been replaced by a faux Keith."
He laughed softly, "I know. I feel like I must have been. I've never felt so… awakened."
"I told you. A change of pace is good for you."
"I hate that you're right."
"I know, kiddo." Shiro smiled, "I'm glad you're enjoying it. Make any other friends yet?"
"Nope." He shook his head, "I made my friend for the year. I think knowing any more people would greatly lower my ability to be a functioning person."
"I wouldn't call you functioning," Shiro joked.
Keith couldn't help the laugh that got from him, though he lightly punched Shiro's arm in retaliation.
"I've been doing good. Seriously," Keith took a sip, relaxing back into his seat.
"I'm glad, Keith," Shiro frowned softly, "you know, I hate to ask, but… you haven't been overly fixating on that night again?"
Keith smiled tightly, tension returning to his body. He fiddled with the edge of his mug.
"No. I haven't."
Shiro nodded, "Good. That's good. I know how change can sometimes…"
"Yeah. No. I know. But, uh, no. I've been — I'm okay."
"You know you can tell me if not, right? It wouldn't be a burden on me at all if you need more time to adjust."
"I know. And- and I will. But, no. I'm fine."
"Okay," Shiro nodded again, relaxing back himself. The moment passed, and they were thankfully back to the relaxed, casual conversation. But the tension never fully leaked away from Keith's body.
When they walked back into Keith's dorm room, he felt deeply satiated and satisfied with life in a way he could never truly describe. Shiro made no mention of the hundreds of papers littered across the room, adding to the surmounting evidence of Keith's inspiration-driven insanity.
He simply smiled at Keith.
"You seem happy here. I know it's perhaps too early to be certain that you'll enjoy it here, however… you really do seem awake. Brighter."
Keith could only give a soft smile in return, but the joy he felt ran deeper than his mere facial expression.
"I am. I really-" He paused. Impulsivity overcame him, and he rushed forward, hugging Shiro tightly.
"Thank you," he whispered, as the man's arms slowly encircled him, "I couldn't — I don't know how I could possibly thank you deeply enough, Shiro."
"I'm just glad you're happy, Keith. That's all the return in thanks I need."
They embraced for a moment longer before they slowly pulled apart, Shiro resting a hand onto his shoulder reassuringly.
"You have so much potential, Keith. And I'm just glad that I have the ability to give you this opportunity. I know you're going to do great things."
Keith looked up at him, a myriad of emotions flooding through him — gratitude, joy, and for the first time since he'd began his patronage with Shiro, hope. Genuine and clear hope, as bright and overwhelming as the morning sun glinting off the white of snow.
Another emotion filled him rather quickly, though. Confusion.
A loud voice rang through the halls, and within a moment, Keith turned his head at the sound of his partially-open door being pushed open. Even more confusing, was the man he saw stumbling against the door.
Lance McClain had about one moment to stare back at Keith before he, clearly inebriated, vomited across the floor, holding desperately onto the doorknob to keep from falling over.
He had one next moment to mutter out a slurred, "I'm so sorry," before he was stumbling back, pulling the door shut along with him.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Finally, Shiro spoke.
"What in the absolute world."
Shiro helped him clean the floor, but it took a lot for Keith to remember the numerous self-calming methods Shiro had taught him over the years. Thankfully, none of his sketches had been damaged, but regardless it had been a nice night before he had to resort to using an old towel to clean up another man's vomit. Even then, the scent lingered enough that Keith had to open his window up.
"I recommend speaking with your resident assistant. Or perhaps the dean," Shiro spoke as they walked out into the cool night.
Keith gave him a look of confusion.
"Students shouldn't be drunk on campus in the first place. Regardless, I don't know how comfortable I am with you continuing to stay on the ground floor," He frowned, "It's clearly not safe. And I'd hate for one of your pieces to get ruined, or for you to end up hurt."
"I see," Keith nodded softly. "I'll look into it. I promise."
"Thank you," Shiro sighed, "For an old man's sanctity of mind, I'd appreciate it."
Keith nodded again, pausing his stride as Shiro turned to him.
"I trust you, Keith. And I believe in you. I know you will do great things here."
He smiled up at him, "I'll make you proud, Shiro."
Shiro pulled him in for another tight hug, rubbing his back gently, "you already have."
They embraced for a long moment before Shiro slowly pulled away, checking his watch.
"Be safe, Keith. I'll visit again shortly, alright? And don't forget — weekly calls, minimum."
"Yes, yes, I know." He smiled fondly. "Give Adam my regards."
"I will," Shiro smiled, "He'll be happy to hear you're doing well. Have a nice, hopefully vomit-free, rest of your night."
Keith snorted softly, grinning, "Can't make any promises. Have a good night, Shiro. Get home safe."
Shiro rolled his eyes fondly, ruffling Keith's hair, before finally walking off and making his way home.
If Keith's dorm room felt colder than usual when he returned, he knew it wasn't just from the open window.
Keith woke up late the next morning. He didn't know how it happened, but even the stream of sunlight across his eyes couldn't even wake him. He was in a rush from the second his eyes opened, his old pocket watch displaying only twenty minutes before he needed to be in class halfway across campus.
He pulled on clothes without a care, grabbed his bags and lugged them along, not even pausing to use the restroom at the end of the hall or tamp down his hair. He didn't care if he looked a mess, he did not want to risk being late for his English course. He saw people looking at him as he passed, and there was no doubt he looked like a madman sprinting through the quad with all his supplies, but as he made it to class with a moment to spare, he couldn't even be bothered to mind how wild he looked.
The rest of the day followed similarly. He was off-kilter. He'd stumbled over his words, mistook Claudius for Polonius during their Hamlet quiz, dropped his arithmetic homework in a puddle, and he tore a hole along the side of his trousers. By the time he returned to his dorm room, he was entirely ready to collapse into bed and wait for the rest of the day to pass.
Life seemed to have different plans.
For when he pushed his dorm room open — which he'd also forgotten to lock — he was quickly overcome by an overwhelming floral scent. And the sight was no different.
Every previously free corner of the room was now covered in vases with flowers inside, tens of arrangements of hundreds of gorgeous flowers. Even if Keith couldn't tell the value from the flowers alone, the vases were also extravagant and extraordinary, covered in beautiful designs and filigree.
He paused to set his bag and coat on his bed, since his desk no longer seemed to have the space to hold them, before noticing a simple white card inside one of the bouquets, contrasting beautiful blues and rich purples. Picking up the card, even though addressed to him, he assumed this must be some sort of mistake. Until he opened the card.
'Keith.
Is it alright if I call you that? I know we have yet to meet properly, but I wanted to apologize for my rather uncouth behavior last night. I hope the flowers will help cover any residual smells or disgust. Flowers can only help so much, so I'd quite like to apologize in person. I'd understand if you would rather forget this entirely.
However, if you so agree to meet with me in person and allow me to apologize properly, I'd like to take you out for lunch. Today, at 1 P.M. Fully taken care of, of course. Simply meet me at the address below. If I don't see you, I'll assume rejection, which I would, of course, understand.
I rather do hope to see you though. I'd like to say I'm a man who prides myself on manners and charm, after all.
- Lance McClain.'
There was an address near the far side of campus scribbled on the bottom of the card. Keith wanted to scoff. He wanted to roll his eyes and throw out all the flowers. He wanted to burn the card, slap Lance McClain right in his gorgeous face, and curse him out for years to come.
Instead, Keith Kogane leaned down, pulled his coat on, and left his dorm room.