Archive of Our Own ^beta

Keith Kogane. 16. Year 3. Fighter Class. 

Shiro stares at the single sheet of paper on his desk, no longer warm from the printer. It’s mostly blank, one fuzzy monochrome photo and some details about his new roommate taking up the top quarter of the page, stark black and grey against white, plain font. Nothing of substance, nothing that tells him about his personality. Just facts, short and businesslike.

He feels like he’s heard the name somewhere before, mixed into the rest of the rumor mill, a skilled but reckless trainee pilot, unsociable, hotheaded. His skin prickles, soft tension of recognition in the back of his head, like something on the tip of his tongue. Something familiar. 

He shakes it off. The chances of it being the same person are slim, and besides, the person in the rumors doesn’t sound like the type to sign up for a mentoring program. If anything, the rumored cadet and Keith share a name, it’s not an impossible occurrence. He’s met three Jacobs in the past four years, a second Keith is no surprise. 

Still, he takes a closer look at the photo as if it’ll tell him the truth, confirm or deny his suspicions.

In the photo, Keith is close to scowling, his shoulders stiff and defiant. He faces the camera head-on, the look of someone who has nothing to lose, eyes that seem to say that he’s been through more than his fair share and has come out of it wounded but alive, wary, guarded. Aggressive, even when sitting down.

Shiro blinks, and uncertainty starts to rise in his gut.

But these photos have a way of turning out bad and really, it’s no use trying to figure someone out through one mediocre picture. The only way to really understand a person is to see them and listen, and he’s gotten pretty good at that. According to his grades, interpersonal communication is one of his strong points.

He almost laughs, remembering the first time someone told him that. He never would have guessed, years ago, but that’s the nature of things. They change.

He sets the paper down and leans back in his chair, plastic against his white and orange uniform.

It’s going to be an interesting year. He can feel it.

Well.

Interesting is certainly a word with many meanings.

“Hey Shiro! How’s the mentoree?”

Audrey waves him down in the hallway during lunch, their eyes bright and expectant. Shiro tries keeps his expression neutral, because he knows that Audrey was one of the first to join the program, and he knows that they love it almost as if they made it, and that it would break their heart if he said anything more than vaguely negative.

“He’s…” He searches for an acceptable word. “Shy. It’s been awkward.”

“Ah yeah, that happens at the beginning a lot. Bet it’s especially hard for him to get used to the fact that it’s the Takashi Shirogane that’s his roommate. Big expectations to fill.”

Shiro is fairly certain that isn’t the problem, or if it is, it’s only one of many, but he refrains from saying that. He also refrains from pointing out the implication that he’s the sole reason they’re awkward, despite the fact that it bothers him, because in many other cases, he could believe that.

Just not with Keith.

Keith, who, upon seeing Shiro’s face, had scowled and somehow managed to fold in on himself while keeping his back straight, like he was used to having a literal shell.

Inwardly, he winces at the memory. He’s experienced plenty of cold shoulders, but none like that, and none so dedicated to keeping it that way. Keith is absent from the room until lights out, and when he comes back, he goes straight to his bed. Shiro’s only seen him a handful of times, and it doesn’t really count if he can’t talk to him whatsoever. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t understand how he ended up with him in the first place. It’s clear to Shiro that he’s not interested in the program, but it runs on a volunteer basis, meaning that he'd had to have signed up to be considered for it. His prior and current actions contradict.

“Shiro? You still with me?”

“Yeah,” he breaks from his thoughts and gives Audrey a weak smile, “sorry.”

They shake their head. 

“It’s okay. Remember, if you really don’t think it’s a good fit, you can always ask Professor Olsen for a switch. I’m sure a ton of cadets would love to room with you.”

Right. He had forgotten that was an option, not thinking that he would need it.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

Audrey’s smile is sympathetic in return.

“Really though, there’s someone that even you can’t handle? Unbelievable.”

He can't be serious. 

“It’s just that Kogane is an excellent pilot, almost years ahead of the rest of his class when it comes to flying. An unbelievable amount of raw talent for someone his age.” Professor Olsen rambles as Shiro stares at him, incredulous. “Fairly decent grades in other subjects as well. His scores in the flight simulators practically match yours, or they would, if he knew how to get along with a crew. We gave it a year, but…”

“But he’s still ‘acting out’.” Shiro says, finishes the thought, voice flat. “And you forced him into the program because of that. Forced him to room with me, specifically.”

“Shiro,” Judging by his tone, he’s crossed a line he wasn’t supposed to cross, “it...It’s not that simple. He’s similar to how you were your first year, before you got your act together. Kogane doesn't seem to have any plans to do that, and so all of us were hoping that by putting you together, he’d learn from your example. A more hands-on approach, if you will.”

He bites down a retort. This isn’t fair to him. This isn’t fair to Keith. He understands their concerns, if Keith’s disciplinary record is as bad as it sounds, but — if Keith is anything like how he used to be, he’s not going to change unless he wants to change. Forcing him into something like this isn’t going to do him any good, in fact, it’ll probably make him listen less, not more. They've already set him back by forcing him into something he didn't ask for, something they had no real right to do.

Olsen shuffles the papers on his desk, waits for a response. He begins to speak again when he realizes he won’t get one.

“Listen, Shiro…” He starts softly, avoiding his gaze, “Just try to watch over him. Please. We’d hate to lose such an otherwise capable cadet, and you’re really the only one we can trust to show him the right direction. He refuses to go to any of the counselors, and well, we thought he might open up to someone closer to his age. Someone less...Official.”

He sighs and rises from his chair, placing a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “You know, we do care about our cadets. As callous as this seems, we did consider other options before deciding on this course of action. Kogane, he...His life was a difficult one, before he arrived here. It’s not my place to tell you the details, but...I really do think that he could benefit from your experience, Shiro.”

He looks him in the eyes, then, meets his gaze. “You’re more alike than most would think.”

Shiro takes a deep breath. Counts the inhale, exhale.

He considers what he’s been told. Looks at the floor, then up at the ceiling, then back at Olsen. Reflects.

“Shiro’s trying his best. We ought to give him another chance, don’t you think? Look at how hard he’s worked since then.”

He hesitates before he opens his mouth, but he's already made his decision. 

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

Olsen brightens, smiles a hopeful smile. Grateful, even.

“You always do, Shiro. That’s how you got here.”

It’s one of his easy days when he happens to catch one of Keith’s flight runs. He almost misses it, walking through the hallways, only stops because he sees his name on the monitor from the corner of his eye when he glances through the glass. It’s the first time he’s ever seen him anywhere in the Garrison and awake, so he stops and watches the best he can from two floors up.

It’s a decent run. There are more than a few risky moves made, but “raw talent” isn’t an exaggeration, not by any stretch of the imagination. The way Keith drives the sim is unconventional, sharp turns and full throttle, every chance taken, but he does it well, obviously has the skills to back up the moves. Even with a large amount of damage sustained, he makes top time — just shy of the top five. Had he been a little more careful, Shiro’s sure he could have done even better, looking at the overall scoreboard.

“That was reckless, cadet!”

Shiro inwardly winces at the sudden outburst, loud enough that he can hear it clearly from two floors up. He cranes his neck to try and see who the instructor is, but he can't catch the details, and he doesn't recognize the voice either.

Instead, he sees Keith shrug, seemingly oblivious to what the instructor meant. Whoever they are, they get angrier, muttering something at him, waving a hand around. Shiro strains to catch the words but fails to hear anything, he can only watch the scene unfold below him. Whatever they're saying, it's setting Keith on the defensive, arguing back and forth until Shiro sees the instructor point at the door — they’re kicking him out.

Or at least, they're trying to. Keith keeps arguing, holding his ground, gesturing at the monitors. His teammates shrink away from him as he does.

Then, loud enough that they reach the upper floors again,

“Stop your glory-hounding and do things the right way for once! Think about your team like a team instead of like your personal servants, Kogane!”

It’s hard to catch, almost seems like a trick of the light, but Keith locks up after that. He freezes, then thaws with anger, all in the span of a few seconds, fast enough that if Shiro wasn’t paying close attention, he would have missed it. He snarls something and turns around, pausing at the doorway, hunching further before walking out entirely. The rest of the class stares after him, including his bewildered crew, both who slink to the back of the group when the instructor waves them off the platform.

Shiro turns away from the window and heads to the dorms. He can probably make it back before Keith does, assuming that’s where he’s going. It’s a hunch in his gut.

They need to talk. Keith might not be in the mood for talking, given what just happened, but Shiro’s always been an opportunist, and this is as good an opportunity as he’s going to get. Lucky that he’s got the time now, considering that Keith had managed to avoid him so thoroughly before this. This might be the only chance he gets.

Something has to change. He feels bad about the circumstances that forced them into this, about knowing that it’s his presence that’s keeping Keith out of a room that’s his too, about not making things clear between them. About the fact that this whole thing has, probably, stressed Keith out to the point where he's lashing out the way he did today.

It might not do much, but it’s better than saying nothing at all. Now is better than never. Opportunity only knocks once.

He manages to get there just in time to see Keith slam his fist against the panel that opens their door. Not good for the sensors, but they’ll survive one beating.

He waits a minute. Then another. Five. He deserves some breathing room.

When Shiro finally opens the door and steps inside, he’s greeted by the dark. He blinks as the lights from the hallways behind him flood the room, it takes him a minute to adjust to the change.

Keith is sitting on his bed, head turned towards the door. It looks like he shot up from lying down, hair a mess, uniform skewed.

For a moment, they stare at each other.

“Hey.” Shiro says, wavering between soft and casual, unable to decide which would be better now.

Keith swings his feet to the edge of the bed like he’s about to stand up and leave.

“Wait, hold on. We need to talk.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Shiro realizes that he’s in bed with his shoes still on. “It’s important. Please.”

If Keith tries to get out, Shiro will let him. He doesn’t want to cage him, and he makes that known, stepping to his side of the room, slightly away from the door. A truce.

Eyes locked, they size each other up.

Japanese, he decides in the midst of what is essentially a showdown between them, but uncertainty follows. He wonders if Keith is mixed, or if he’s just gotten worse at being able to tell. His hair looks self-cut, and messily so, uneven at the ends and only a little more carefully done in the front. His eyes are a strange violet-tinted grey, illuminated by the light from the hallway in the otherwise still dim room.

An unusual color, but Keith doesn’t seem like the type to wear contacts for fashion, and glasses would be required for the simulations, so Shiro assumes they’re hereditary and moves on. He’s thin, but not in a fragile way. Lean and sharp shouldered with closed off body language, leave me alone. An odd paradox, attracting attention by trying not to. By insisting on it.

Shiro switches his attention to the door, checks that no one is listening in from out in the hall. He wants to close it, refrains, giving Keith a look instead.

“What is it.” Keith grinds out.

Carefully, he sifts through tones, phrases, different starting points. The right words.

He closes the door and begins, room lights flickering to life with the flick of a switch.

“I know you didn’t want this. I talked with Professor Olsen, they told me why you’re here,” he sits on his bed, sighs, “I’m sorry. I’m not happy about this either.”

Wrong start. Keith hunches a little more, glowers. He keeps going.

“I don’t plan on being your mentor or anything like that, okay?” It’s an open statement, not meant to be rude, just honest. “Not unless you want me to. It’s not fair to you otherwise.”

“I don’t.” Keith says, Shiro nods. That’s what he expected.

“I figured.” He scratches the back of his neck. “We’re just roommates then. That all right with you?”

Keith nods.

“Not like I have much of a choice.” He mutters, arms crossed.

Shiro looks down at the thin carpet when he says that, guilty by association. It’s true that he doesn’t have much of a choice, and he has a right to be mad about that, even if he’s partially to blame. Bad behavior shouldn’t mean you get tethered to a watchdog. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be here either, and they both would be right where they started, never closer to the sky.

Good for you, Takashi.

He struggles with himself, turning his hands in his lap.

“I know you’ve been avoiding the room because I could be in it.” He says after a moment of thought. Keith goes rigid in defense, opens his mouth. Shiro cuts him off before he can start. “I just want you to know that I’m not going to try...Counseling you, or getting you to open up, or anything like that. I understand why that’d bother you.”

He frowns, thinking back on his conversation with Olsen, thinking past that. “It bothers me.”

Keith isn’t a problem he’s going to solve for them. If Keith wants to grow, if he wants his help, he’ll be there to give it — but he won’t try to jumpstart the process. He never promised that. He can only be there and give him a chance.

“I know you probably don’t trust me when I say this, but I am serious about it. I’m not going to…” He pauses to think, considering his words, “...Police you, or anything like that. Even though they want me to, that’s not something I want to do.”

Keith looks away from him, stares hard at his bed.

“You don’t have to talk to me.” Shiro says, “But we do have to share this room for a year. I’d like it if we could be...Cordial, at least.”

He waits while Keith continues to stare at his bed. Patience. Time to absorb the little details, like the starkness of Keith’s end of the room, the edge of a knife hilt too hastily shoved under his pillow, barely there.

Shiro doesn’t mention that. He decides to forget about it, for now.

“Okay.” Keith says, looking back at him, drawing his attention. Facing him head on.

Shiro smiles. Keith doesn’t trust it.

That’s obvious, but it’s fine. It’s a start.

It’s a small blessing that the atmosphere in their shared room improves after they talk, goes from terse silence to indifference, flat out oblivion. Something tells Shiro that for Keith, that’s usual, two people who happen to sleep in the same place, nothing more.

He can work with that. By all means, it’s not the worst arrangement he’s been faced with; in fact, compared to a few of his past roommates, Keith is downright pleasant. He doesn’t leave anything on the floor, everything that’s his stays on his side of the room, he keeps everything clean, mostly. It’s just his shoes in bed habit that throws Shiro off, and that’s not even something worth criticizing. People do it. Shiro’s never understood why.

Faint memories of his life flicker through him, shoes stacked near the front door on the tile, never carpet. Don’t bring in the dirt, Takashi.

“What.”

Shiro snaps back to attention, looks at Keith.

“What?” He blinks, returns in full. “What is it?”

Keith frowns, seems defensive, Shiro can’t understand why. “Did I do something?”

A look crosses over Keith’s face, frustration, resigned irritation. He shifts away, turns his body towards the wall and away from Shiro.

“Never mind.” His arms are crossed.  

“You sure?” He doesn’t know why Keith’s suddenly on the defensive, but if he’s caused offense in some way, he’d rather know about it than not.

“Yes.”

And thus end of one of the few conversations they’ve had so far in the month and a half they’ve been rooming together. It was one of the longer ones, he muses, and he hadn’t even known what it was about. 

Shiro’s not going to push him though. Pushing him doesn’t seem to work — according to some complaints that he's overheard professors and instructors say, the more you push him, the harder he pushes back. He’s stubborn, more stubborn than Shiro ever was, and apparently brutally honest, painfully straightforward.

Not a popular mixture. Of the few times he’s seen Keith since the last time, he’s only seen him talking to someone else once. Most of the time he seems to maintain a certain distance from the other people in his class, sticking to the back of the crowd, all his attention on the monitor displaying the run. He keeps his arms crossed, a natural barrier between him and the world, never letting anything in.

He gets it. Keith’s not a people person. He’s a do-it-yourself, rough-it-out kind of person, the sort of person who’s learned how to get by on their own for so long that they doesn’t know how to do it any other way. The kind of person who, Shiro thinks, probably doesn’t trust offers of help, expects a catch at the end. That’s something learned from experience, repeat offenses where people go wrong. It’s familiar, in a weird sort of way; Shiro’s never been that volatile, but he finds that he empathizes, rather than sympathizes. Keith’s his own adversary, adding fuel to fires he starts, even when he knows it’s a bad idea. The sort of person who acts first, thinks later, does everything at breakneck speed. Bites before barking. Always waiting for the knife hidden behind the back, and always trying to be ready for it.

Shiro wonders what the history is. Doesn’t ask, because he knows it’d get him nowhere. It’s not like they’re friends, after all.

He can’t help but wonder if Keith even has any friends. It doesn’t seem likely.

“Hey, Shiro! How you been?”

Jeremiah — once his engineer, now just a friend — waves at him from across the cafeteria and Shiro smiles, waves back, letting his thoughts fade to the background.

“Pretty good.” He shrugs, answers when Jeremiah reaches him. “How are you? Any luck with Yuen’s class?”

“Ugh.” Jeremiah seats himself across from him, theatrical as he sinks into the chair. “No good. We’re talking about antimatter now, and I can’t get my head around any of it. I’m a hardware kind of guy, you know? What’s particles gotta do with that?”

“It’s not just about particles though.”

He waves him off dismissively. “Yeah, I know. But I just can’t deal with stuff I can’t see.”

He gives Shiro a knowing look, raises a hand to shield his mouth, like he’s about to whisper a covert secret his way. “But my failin’ grade in Yuen’s class aside, how’s that mentoree of yours? The infamous Keith Kogane?”

He says the last few words in a real whisper, curiosity thickly laced into the question. Shiro frowns. Last he knew, that was still a secret. Especially the mentor part.

“Where did you hear that from?”

Jeremiah rolls his eyes, tosses his hands halfway up in the air. “Oh come on, Shiro! You know Harris is my uncle, and you know how the professors and the staff talk. I hear everything, whether I want to or not.”

He leers then, smirking, going further into Shiro’s space. “I could tell you which professors are having a fling and which ones are going to town, so to say, if you really wanted to know. Just yesterday—”

Shiro blanches. “No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“All right.” Jeremiah grins playfully before leaning back a few inches, voice low and conspiratory, “So instead, spill about Kogane. Have you gotten him to open up to you yet? Loosen up? You’re like, better than all the counselors at that kinda thing, that’s why they picked you, and I know you know that. They treat you like another one of the med students, sometimes.”

Shiro snaps, “It’s not like that,” because it isn’t, and he’s always hated that particular rumor about him and the medbay staff anyways. He is, and has always been, a pilot. In training. It’s insulting to both him and the medbay staff to say that he’s better at their jobs when he’s never been formally trained. He’s listens and allows silence to be an answer, and sometimes, that's all it really takes. He's only helped a few people like that anyways, hardly enough to say he's good at it.

Jeremiah reels back, surprised at his outburst. Guilt creeps up Shiro’s ankles at the expression on his face; even though he hasn’t done anything wrong, he still feels bad for snapping. It’s not usual of him.

He tries to soften the blow, more neutral when he says, “We’re just roommates. We talked about it — I’m not his mentor.” Or his therapist. “He never wanted to be a part of the program.”

His attempt at neutral doesn’t quite work, by the looks of it. Jeremiah raises an eyebrow.

“Okay then, sorry. Didn’t know it was a sore spot.” He shrugs, lets it go, a gesture for peace. “Don’t let it get to you that badly. I’ve seen the guy before, seen his type of guy before. Some people just want to take the world down with them.”

Before Shiro can retort, Jeremiah leans in, a little grin on his face. “Like Iverson. Pretty sure his face has been stuck in that pissed off expression since he was in the womb.”

When he had been called to do a simulation demo, he hadn’t thought much of it, at the time. Demonstrations were common, especially if an instructor was introducing a new scenario to the class, they often called in the older cadets to sit in the pilot seat while they taught from the sidelines via the external monitors. Shiro had found them incredibly helpful as a younger cadet, and therefore almost never said no when asked — it was important to give back where he could. A natural passing of responsibilities, and frankly, an ego boost, proof that his time learning hadn't gone to waste. 

So when he enters the room and Lacoma, always full of good intentions, points with their eyes at Keith in the back of the crowd, Shiro holds back a pang of irritation for the sake of the rest of the class.

It’s a little thing, but his pride is slightly wounded, knowing that he was called to this class specifically because of Keith. As he waits for the chatter to die down, he wonders when, exactly, the entirety of the Garrison staff had decided that Keith should be under his wing, and why he hadn’t been informed until after the fact. 

Really, there's no one to blame but himself and the reputation he let cultivate behind him. An unexpected consequence of hard work; you fix yourself once and everyone thinks you can spread the knowledge, like it isn’t a personal experience to live.

He holds in a sigh and smiles at the bright-eyed cadets in front of him, choosing to ignore Lacoma’s signal.

“Hey, I’m Shiro, one of your senior cadets. I’ll be demonstrating for you today.”

He rolls through his introduction, keeps the mood light, open. He avoids looking at Keith, tries to spare him from questions that’d come if they did exchange looks. It’s not like Keith likes him, or that they talk more than three sentences a week, but when you share a room, eventually you become acquaintances in a faint sense that people pick up on. Already, people know that they share a room, but they don't know the details of how that happened, and he’s going to try to keep it that way. Nobody needs to know how it happened except for Keith and himself.

Lacoma continues on from the end of his introduction, gesturing to the monitor displaying the name of simulation.

“Shiro will be demonstrating your next simulation, showing you one of the many ways it could go. The entire map is partially randomized, so what you’ll see here isn’t a given — I suggest you study the star maps after class, as well as the recommended flight paths. With, of course, the rest of your coursework.”

A collective groan ripples through the class. Shiro chuckles. He understands the feeling well.

Lacoma assigns two of the cadets in the class to fill the other positions, a timid boy named Vincent Monroe and a girl who introduces herself as Melanie Cortez. Both take their respective positions — Vincent as their communication’s officer, and Melanie, their engineer — while Shiro slips into the pilot seat. It’s been some time since he sat in this particular model, but his memory of it is still fresh; he eyes the controls and digs through his brain until everything is back at the front. Model number and make of the machine, specs, its best and its worst, typical issues, weak points, extra features that usually go unmentioned but can prove useful at times, how hard he can push it before it starts to protest.

In front of him, the screen starts up, lighting the pit with a pale blue. It flashes the name of the simulation before switching to launch, fast-forwards to deep space, the dark of the universe, smatters of constellations running across the view.

This is the best part. The simulations of on-land flight are nothing compared to the ones where they float through deep space, where Shiro finds a strange sort of peace, drifting in the endless spectral sea, navigating through meteor belts and coasting along the edges of empty planets, miniature moons.

Their destination is Callisto, Jupiter’s fourth moon, a coordinate-specific landing. Shiro remembers this sim, remembers the weeks spent learning each and every edge of it, every error it could throw at him until he could recite them in his sleep. A frustrating one, then, he considers it good practice now.

It’s wrong to be cocky, but there’s a twist of certainty that crosses over his face in the form of a smirk. If he had the right crew, they’d be there in no time, no problem.

That being said, this isn’t the right crew, and scaring the other two with him in the metaphysical cockpit would only lead to more mistakes down the line. He knows Lacoma already boosted the difficulty to match his own level and give the cadets a shock, jolt them into actually studying. It’s better to take it a little slow and give them time to learn, let them observe properly. Guide them through it.

That's fine too. He doesn't dislike teaching.

It’s smooth sailing for the first five minutes, about a sixth of this particular simulation’s estimated ideal time, and then it’s all downhill from there. He deals with the internal errors, walks the cadets through what to do while maneuvering through deep space debris, letting them work out solutions by themselves instead of telling them straight what he knows would work. Lacoma’s set it to brutal this time; Shiro’s certain that this sim is almost never this awkward to navigate, left, right, weaving through the messy remains of a broken dwarf. It’s so busy and complicated that it isn't realistic.

Really though, the hardest part of the whole thing is keeping Vincent calm and Melanie contained, two personalities that don’t mesh well. He’s certain Lacoma plotted that too, the difficulties that stem from their poor communication, passing orders back and forth, reassuring both of them that they’re all in this together. Listening and replying in turn.

Patience.

“Stay calm, stay focused. We’ll get through this,” he tells them during a particularly rough patch of rock. He already can guess that the landing isn’t going to be easy, with part of their left wing damaged, but he doesn’t tell them that. Instead, he reassures, “by working together. I’ll keep us in the air the best I can as long as you put in the same effort, I promise.”

As much as he’d like to do it the rough and tumble way, skating the line between crash and landing, he doesn’t. The joy, the exhilaration of the flight, those are always second to the safety and comfort of the crew, despite the itch deep under his skin that begs for more, seeking the adrenaline of the first time he nailed the landing despite the odds. He sticks with steady, because steady works, and they land relatively gently with a decent time and no large problems.

As the simulation ends, it flashes his results: modest, overall decent. Not bad, with an inexperienced crew and a lack of practice.

Lacoma beams at them when the door opens. Melanie and Vincent look frazzled as they stumble out, Shiro gives the both of them a solid pat on the shoulder, helping return them to reality. It’s a longer simulation than they’re probably used to, and more complicated too.

“You all were fantastic! Especially you two. Excellent job for a first run, and on one of the highest difficulties at that.”

Their eyes pop open when the words hit them, incredulous, as well as the rest of the class. Shiro holds in a laugh, teases instead.

“Couldn’t have gone easier on us, Professor?”

Lacoma grins at him. “Wouldn’t have been enough for you if I did, Shiro.”

They’re not wrong. Shiro grins back, avoiding the awestruck stares of the class. He's never been great with open admiration.

He chances another glance at Keith while Lacoma lectures on the finer points of the run. He looks downright uninterested in her words, more intent on the scoreboard and the recap playing on the sidescreen.

He’s figuring it all out on his own, seems like. The sight is, funnily enough, familiar, even though he shouldn’t think so. He remembers standing just like that, observing, learning what the instructors never mentioned. The little tricks, the personal ones that every experienced pilot has to navigate through tight spots.  

Seems arrogant, calling himself experienced when he’s only been on a few real missions, short, week-long excursions with instructors, practically an intern. He brings it back in. Humility. Be humble, Takashi.

“Shiro? Any last words?”

He switches gears, acts like he was fully listening. “Ah, no. But if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask.”

He should have anticipated the rise in volume, but that’s what he gets for not paying attention.

“What’s your favorite simulation?"

“Where’d you learn how to do that cool turn?”

“How much do you know about hydraulics? Does every pilot have to know that much?”

“How’d you land so smoothly with a half broken wing?”

“Have you really memorized every constellation?”

He fields the questions best he can, stays for a half an hour longer than planned.

Keith’s not as stealthy as he thinks he is, or maybe Shiro’s just been paying more attention lately, or maybe he's let his guard down this once. It doesn’t really matter what it is.

What does matter is that Shiro hears him, about an hour after curfew, sneaking out into the hallway. The soft whoosh and click of the door, light and darkness playing behind his eyelids as it slides open and closed on well oiled grooves.

He considers his options. To follow, or not to follow?

It’s not really much of a choice, he decides, rising from his bed and shoving on his shoes. Keith will get yet another mark on his record if he’s caught breaking into one of the simulators — Shiro knows that’s where he’s going, intuition tells him so, and he can even hazard a guess at which one — after curfew, which he’ll have to do, because they’re locked at this time of night. He’ll get one of those lectures, and probably take none of it to heart, and the whole thing is a process that Shiro is absolutely sure Keith has been through more than enough times. It’s risky, going alone, especially without authorization and a reckless reputation.

Shiro, however, has had full access to all of the simulators since a year ago, after running himself ragged as a teaching assistant, sacrificing his time, volunteering over weekends to help stragglers. If he’s there, Keith probably won’t get any flak. Probably.

It’s funny, he thinks as he walks the halls, careful not to go too fast, quiet steps, how things change and stay the same in tandem. A few years ago, he was Keith, sneaking through the halls, fiddling with the sensor locks until they gave way. Nervous but determined all the same, desperate to get his hands on the controls and practice until he could practice no more.

He shakes his head, watches Keith fiddle with the panel for a few minutes before the door opens up quietly. They really should do some kind of update on these locks, or go back to a more old fashioned method. Key and chain are harder to break, for the kinds of people that gather here. Computer systems are nothing special to an engineer with some software experience, or anyone with a programming hobby.

Though, he has a sneaking suspicion that Keith knows plenty about picking all sorts of locks. He’s not the kind of person who’s easily deterred.

He waits until Keith is in the simulator, then follows him in, leaning against the wall after properly resetting the lock and tapping his hand against the panel for full clearance.

They should be fine now. He’ll figure something out if anyone asks.

His attention goes to the monitor that displays the simulation from the outside. He watches Keith fly past whatever comes his way with sharp turns, rough rolls, always quick, full throttle. He’s good, even without anyone watching his back, he navigates the stars with relative ease, somehow managing the few technical errors that are beginning to crop up through flight tricks alone. Raw talent. Something like instinct, Shiro thinks, knowing about what to do and how to do it without really thinking. Reckless. Adrenaline junkie, always looking for more. Impatient.

Patience, Takashi.

He jerks off the wall when the beeping indicating a failed run starts, jarring him from his thoughts. The recap plays on one of the screens, and he winces at the image of a destroyed ship, a metal smear on a large asteroid. A pretty grisly ending.  

The door to the simulator opens, and Keith stumbles of out, clearly shaken. That tends to happen after crashes like that.

Shiro waits until he seems steady before speaking.

“You know, it’d be easier to do the torque roll if you went a little slower.”

His head whips up, whole body tensing at the sound of Shiro’s voice. He stands straight, squares his shoulders.

“What,” the expression on his face betrays his cool tone, “are you doing here.”

Shiro shrugs, goes with honest. “I followed you after I heard the door open.”

“Gonna report me?” Keith huffs, crossing his arms.

Shiro thinks about it.

He should. It’d be the responsible thing to do, as his senior.

He shakes his head.

“Nah.”

Keith’s expression goes from wary to puzzled. Shiro continues.

“Don’t think I will.”

“...Then what are you doing here?” He sounds frustrated, unsurprisingly. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got clearance for the simulators.” He says in answer, gesturing towards the door and the sensor. “I know they don’t really appreciate it when cadets break their security locks.”

Immediately, Keith says, “I don’t need your help.”

Shiro wonders, once again, what exactly Keith’s life was like before. His own wasn't exactly easy, but he had accepted help, in time. Kindness wasn’t easy to accept, but it wasn’t necessarily unfamiliar.

With Keith, Shiro thinks that kindness isn’t just unfamiliar, it’s almost...Dangerous, in his eyes.

It’s concerning. He won’t make it if he can’t trust anyone. He’s got the skills and the talent, but if he can't trust people, especially the people he's flying with, he’s bound to crash and burn eventually. 

“Look, Keith,” he almost takes a step forward, decides against it, “I know you don’t need my help. Honestly, I’m impressed. You got a full third of the way in before you crashed, and you did it alone.”

Keith keeps his arms crossed, face flat, expecting a lecture. Shiro's not going to give it. He's not going to give him more grief than he would anyone else.

“But you definitely don’t want another mark on your record or anyone else to catch you in here, trust me. They'll ban you from the simulators for a year if you keep doing this kind of thing. It's not pretty, and it sets you back."

Keith's eyes narrow, and he draws further into himself. Shiro’s not sure what to make of it.

“You've looked through my record?” 

“No,” though he’d definitely been curious, he had refrained from asking much about it, “but professors talk.”

They exchange a look then, a reminder of the unspoken, the reason why they had ended up in the same orbit in the first place.

Shiro shrugs again, finding himself faintly amused by the turn of events, he and Keith's bizarre stalemate.

“You’re pretty famous, you know? Phenomenal skills, good grades…”

He hesitates, then figures, why not take the shot? “...Unsociable, ‘in need of discipline’.”

Keith bristles, bites the hook. “I don’t.”

“You did just break into a high cost flight simulator.” Shiro counters, “Most people would think that calls for a little discipline.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Keith shoots back, arms crossed. “Or did you change your mind?”

Shiro considers that, searching for the right words. He’s already crossed the line, might as well keep going.

“I’m not, because I don’t think it’d actually do anything.”

Things meant to contain, he’s starting to realize, are not things that work with Keith, no matter the who or what of it. The Garrison's style of discipline probably doesn't do much but make him act out more, not less. 

He pauses, considers. 

“Would it?”

There’s another short pause before Keith frowns, deflating slightly.

“...No.” He mutters, looking like he’s lost a fight. In a way, he has. “It wouldn’t.”

He looks back at him, angrier than before. “But you didn’t have to follow me. I know what I’m doing.”

There's something about the look on his face that causes Shiro to say, as if discussing the weather, “Patrols are easy to get around, right?”

Keith stares at him, bewildered. He keeps talking.

“They haven’t changed them in years, and they only go around twice before calling it a night.”

“What?”

“Locks on the doors aren’t hard to break either. Could do it in my sleep.”

“What? ”

Keith’s expression slowly morphs from frustration to disbelief. It’s new on his face, and Shiro thinks it’s probably one of the most open expression he’s seen on him so far. He takes a moment to appreciate it, the sudden shift, so unlike what he's used to seeing, although it vanishes as quickly as it came. It’s the first face he's seen without suspicion coloring his features. 

“The point is," Shiro says, "I know you know what you’re doing, and I know how you did it.”

He shakes his head, trying to explain it in a way he'll understand.

“I’m just trying to watch your back, Keith.”

“I don’t,” Keith hisses through his teeth, “need your help.”

“I know you don’t need it,” Shiro answers, “but it’s not a bad thing to have.”

Before Keith can retort, angry steps thud down the hall, and through the glass, they both see Iverson marching their way.

He gets chewed out for letting Keith into the simulator. It’s to be expected, especially after insisting that he did so out of his own volition.

Keith turns to look at him when Shiro swears that it was his idea, halfway to protest, but he changes his mind before actually speaking. It might be the look Shiro shoots him from the corner of his eyes, or the timing, or Iverson’s midnight lecture about responsibility and rules, but he stays quiet instead of speaking up, silent indignation billowing out into the atmosphere, arms still crossed.  

Shiro hopes he’ll let him take the blow. He’s got more traction for it, and while Iverson has never liked him that much, he doesn’t hate him either. With luck, they’ll be able to talk this out to some extent, and he doesn’t miss the way Iverson’s eyes dart back and forth. He's not surprised that they're here together.

He knows. What he doesn’t know is the rest.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, Shiro thinks. If it gives them a little leeway, he is content, at this moment, to let him think whatever he wants.

In the back of his head, Olsen’s words come to mind.

“Just try to watch over him. Please.”

He’ll do what he can, in his own ways.

“—And I do NOT want to see either of you back in this simulator after lights out ever again.” Iverson snaps, glaring at the both of them. Shiro puts his focus to the forefront. “Or any of them, for that matter.”

He leans down, gets to eye level with Keith. Shiro holds his breath.

“If I catch you in here again, Kogane, you won’t be seeing the insides of these ships for a very. Long. Time.”

He leans further into Keith’s space, mouth curled into a snarl.

“Do I make myself clear, cadet?”

The five seconds of silence that follow may be the longest five seconds Shiro has ever experienced.

And then, Keith says, clearly snide, “Yes, sir.”

Shiro takes a measured breath and prays silently that Iverson will let it pass, that it's enough, that the day has been long and he doesn't want to drag this out.   

Iverson straightens. A strong pulse of relief runs through him, he nearly relaxes.

“And you,” Iverson begins again, turning to face him, arms behind his back. Shiro stands as straight as he can, tension returning to his shoulders. “Senior Cadet Shirogane.”

The way he says it, Shiro can feel the point.

Iverson gives him a once-over, disdainful.

“I don’t want to see you abusing your privileges like this ever again.”

He swallows. “I promise you won’t, sir.”

He means it. Reality’s weight drapes over his shoulders, heavy with guilt.

“We’ll see.”

Their eyes lock, and Iverson’s gaze is steely, searching. Like he’s looking for something he’s sure is there.

“Don’t think that everyone has forgotten about your stunts, Shiro.” He murmurs, voice low, vaguely threatening. Shiro tenses. “One wrong move could cost you everything you have.”

“I’ll be more careful in the future,” It’s a genuine effort to not swallow the lump in his throat, “sir.”

Use your head, Takashi.

“You’d better.”

They’re dismissed. Keith trails behind him as they walk through the dimmed hallways. Shiro can feel his eyes boring holes into his back.

He has questions. Shiro guesses he has answers.

But it’s silent the whole way back.

Three weeks after he’s moved into the Garrison dorms, she stops answering his calls.

It doesn’t surprise him as much as it should. In a way, he had already known, he had already seen it coming years ago, the moment he had expressed an interest in the place. 

Her eyes had drifted further away, thoughtful. Her fingers had tapped against their worn tabletop, seeing something he could never see, something far beyond him.

“If that’s what you want.” She had said, still looking somewhere else. She always was. “But only if you can pass the test.”

It’s unspoken, the fact that they could never pay his way in the way some people do. The test is his best shot, his only.

“Okay.” He had answered, nodding once. “I’ll study.”

She had nodded back, and that was the end of that.

A year later, he had been accepted, fourteen years old, fifteen within the year. She had ruffled his hair, less organized then, still longer in the front but also scruffy in the back. He had sunk into the touch, rare as it was, and the faded smile on her face.

“You did it.” She had said on the way back, “Good for you, Takashi.”

He hadn’t been paying as much attention as usual when she had said it. He had been burning with excitement, anticipation, shocked that he had passed the test that was years above the curriculum at his current school. The idea of all the known universe in his hands, the stars within his reach, the Earth nothing more than a pebble in the vast sea of space, it had set his heart on fire, ready to fly.

He thinks he can see the rabbit in the moon wave, that night. See you soon.

They had flown there a month later, coach. It was a night flight, he had fallen asleep despite his best efforts.

Her hand had woken him up, shaking his shoulder, calling to him gently. Still bleary from sleep, he had gotten the luggage down from the compartment for her, nearly knocking into another person in the process. He had waited for his own luggage, too big to bring on board, to roll his way on the carousel while she had gotten coffee. He had been bouncing on the balls of his feet, half nervous, half excited. They had taken the shuttle there, he still can remember the clouds of dirty red-tinted dust blooming from the wheels, rushing away in the wind.

When they'd reached the main doors, she had stopped. Had refused to go any further, as if a barrier had been put there, pushing her out.

He hadn’t thought much of it, at the time. She had always marched to the beat of her own drum. He was used to it. Hardly embarrassed, even.

“It’ll be a long time.” She had said, and he had nodded. “Don’t forget what I’ve told you.”

Little phrases, memories piling into one. Things she’d said a thousand times, the moments where she had looked him in the eye, advice, old adages. Words passed down from people he had never met.

She had pulled him close before she had left. Hugged him in a way she hadn’t since he was a child. Since before his father had died, seven years ago, a memory he could never quite reach.

“Be humble, Takashi.” She had whispered in his ear, a parting reminder. “Don’t rush. Be careful.”  

It was strange, how hollow he had felt when she'd left, her words ringing in his ears.

"—the number you have dialed is not in service—"

He hangs up the phone and slams his fist against the wall. Someone in the hallways jumps, he remembers he’s not alone.

Not physically, anyways.

Four days after their after-hours escapade, before lights out but after dinner, Keith looks him in the eye and says,

“Hey.”

He’s dressed down, out of the uniform into what Shiro is fairly certain are his workout clothes. He doesn’t think further about it, is occupied with trying to figure out the best way to say the least amount. Prep for what he’s sure is coming.

“Spar with me.” 

He says it like a statement, but he waits for an answer like it’s a question. It throws Shiro off guard, and he blanks on a response, staring at Keith in confusion.

He answers after pausing a few seconds too long, “Sure.”

He changes out of his uniform fairly quickly, organizing his thoughts as he does. The curiosity waves over the trepidation as they walk to one of the gyms, he can't help but wonder why Keith suddenly wants to spar with him, and why sparring in particular.

Maybe he wants payback, his mind suggests. For getting in his way.

The idea is, unfortunately, a little too believable to discount. Yet, at the same time, he really doesn’t think that's the case. It’s not as if he had sounded angry when he had asked for — said? Requested? — a sparring session. He had seemed neutral, an odd measure of control in his voice, like he was making a conscious effort to be cordial.

Maybe it’s his version of an olive branch, then. Some sort of awkward attempt at apologizing. That’s plausible in a different way, but it’s also preferable, and so that’s what Shiro chooses to believe in. A roughly cut offer of peace.

The gym is empty when they get there. It figures, considering the time, but it’s still a little eerie compared to what he’s used to. It's mainly the slightly uneven rumble of the air conditioner combined with the low volume of old pop songs, plus the flickering of a dying light in the corner. In the mornings, the lights are off and the sun streams in through the windows instead, and there’s no music. Nothing but his own breath. Similarly empty, but that's it.

Keith seems comfortable though, satisfied, even. The lack of people is probably a big draw for him, and Shiro has a building suspicion that this isn’t going to end at sparring. It’s a front for something. For what, he isn’t sure, but he can definitely feel it in the atmosphere, a charge building, incoming storm.

The wood gives way to mats in the back of the room, lines painted on the floor that mark the ring. The Garrison teaches basic self defense as well as a few higher levels of a variety of martial arts, but all of them center around disarming and neutralizing the opponent in different ways. It's always scripted scenarios of crew mutiny or “rogue attackers” too, never anything all that believable.

He takes the far side to the left, Keith, the right. End to end, though the distance isn't huge. They turn to face each other.

Keith rushes him.

He hardly has time to get out of the way, rolling on the thick foam over painted lines. He’s certain the ring isn’t what matters here, not with the way Keith charges, movements crisp, constant. For a while, all Shiro can do is hang on, dodge and block his way around while Keith hits him with sharp kicks and knuckle punches, attempts to knock him flat. The way he fights has a desperate undercurrent to it, a fluidity that suggests he’s been doing this for a long time, a well trained edge that isn’t Garrison smooth, sharp-and-polish, but jagged, full of teeth. Knifelike, not necessarily precise but aiming for where it hurts, within reason. He doesn’t go after the face, nor the groin, though Shiro is sure that if he were allowed to, he would.

It's an honest surprise when he sweeps him down, nails him to the floor with a clever kick, hands around his wrists, sitting on his torso. Shiro blinks, a little winded.

He’s barely broken a sweat. Something like a smirk lights up his face, like he's thinking, nothing special.

Shiro pulls his knee to his chest.

In the moment Keith’s attention shifts, he pulls his other leg in and kicks out at the same time, knocking into his hip. His grip on his wrists lighten enough for him to pull out of it before coming back in with his elbow, jabbing him in the center of his chest. Keith wheezes, pulling back, and Shiro shoves him off with the momentum of his elbow, forearm to fist pushing him off.

Keith is fast, Shiro realizes, because he’s light. In terms of raw strength though, Shiro’s got the upper hand, as well as in mass. If he can manage to pin him right, he’ll have won whatever this is.

So it’s a test of endurance, then. Whoever folds first.

He steadies himself in the short time he has before Keith is back on his feet, roots himself to the floor, waits for his next blow.

When Keith comes at him again, he doesn't hesitate. He reacts.

He’s no expert, but he does know a thing or two about brawling dirty. If this is how Keith is going to play it, Shiro will meet him halfway.

He’d be nothing special otherwise.

He stares up at the ceiling, panting, various degrees of hurt spreading across his body, though mostly concentrated near his ribs. A few feet away, Keith is in the same position, sprawled out, arms and legs like a starfish. Completely worn out, Shiro guesses, as he should be after three rounds of brutal, no-real-rules brawling with someone about twice his size.

It’s a weird thought. The way Keith carried himself, he had never seemed that small, but during their free-for-all, Shiro had realized he was almost concerningly thin, and he only came up to his shoulder.

He cranes his head towards the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes until lights out.

With regret, and foresight that tells him he will regret it more in the morning, he sits up, shifting towards Keith.

“Hey. Better get up.” He cricks his neck, cautiously rises to his feet. “It’s almost lights out.”

Keith stays down, steady rise and fall of his chest.

Shiro edges closer, half-worried that he’s actually hurt. He hadn’t held back much during the last round, with the adrenaline and the pace of the previous runs pushing him on. He may have ended up actually injuring him seriously somewhere.

His imagination acts up. Keith stumbling his way to the infirmary while he follows, awkwardly explaining why he’s got a sprain, why the both of them are bruising so badly. He almost laughs, thinking of it. So much for “watching over him”. Olsen would ask how he could have thought sparring was a good idea, and why so mercilessly, and he’d have to shrug and say it was a try at bonding gone wrong.

He looks down, crouches despite the protest from his legs, and sticks out a hand.

“Come on.” He says, quirking a little grin. Keith’s eyes are closed. “I don’t want to get another lecture on being out after hours.”

When his eyes open, there’s a glimmer of something different, but it’s the smirk that draws Shiro’s attention the most. It's different. Approving.

“Yeah,” Keith grabs his hand, pulls himself up, “okay.”

They leave the gym. Shiro turns out the door just as part of the custodial staff comes in to clean and lock up, nodding at the both of them.

“It’s late boys. Don’t stay up much longer.”

“We won’t.” Shiro answers as Keith turns down the hallway. “Have a good night.”

The lights start to dim, and somewhere, a patrolling officer chimes that in five minutes, it’ll be curfew. Stragglers rush through the halls while Keith walks at a relaxed pace, seemingly unbothered by the warning.

Shiro’s still not sure what that whole sparring session was about, but he’s starting to think it doesn’t matter. His initial suspicion has faded out. He’s perfectly content to think that it was an odd truce, or actually, a test of sorts. Of what, he doesn't know, but he can tell he’s passed it.

Just as they reach their door, the final call is yelled. Not a second to spare.

He needs a shower, but it can wait until the morning. He changes and lays back, head hitting the pillow, tired muscles pulling him down, sinking into the stiff mattress. Weariness takes its shot and aims well.

Keith turns off the light. It’s quiet, and Shiro keeps his eyes closed, slowly reaching sleep.

“Thanks.” Keith says, cutting through the calm.

“It was fun.” Shiro replies, hazy. A laugh huffs out of his lips, small chuckles that cause one of his bruises to ache. “Haven’t done that in a long time.”

It’s a slip of the tongue, but Keith doesn’t ask for details. Keith doesn’t say anything, and Shiro drifts into a dreamless state, adrenaline unwinding, drowsy, silent.

He’s skating by on the skin of his teeth and he knows it. They all do. He barely passes written tests and fails nearly every flight simulation test he takes. He’s on a line. He’ll probably become a cargo pilot, despite having started with the desire to be in fighter class. He’s not sure he cares enough for it to matter.

They can’t force him to go to the counselors. They can’t really force him to do anything, because he plays by the rules, except — not really. The bare minimum, arriving back from the city only fifteen minutes before curfew, lazy answers when called on, sometimes none at all. The smallest of efforts.

Once or twice he comes back with clear bruises and cuts, but they can’t prove anything. They can only look at him and shake their heads, mutter to each other that something is wrong. Ask him, and turn away when he refuses to answer.

They don’t know. He doesn’t let them know. He beats the bags and goes to the city and ruins his knuckles, he goes to sleep late and wakes up early to avoid his roommates, he finds the quiet corners and hides until late. Climbs the stairs to the roof of the main building and opens the doors they never lock right to look up at the stars.

He wants to go. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.

The sky is empty and full, welcoming and cold, the moon waxing, waning, little rabbit disappearing and reappearing. The stars are billions. He starts to remember constellations to pass the time, sitting in the cool desert breeze, a book open, tracing Polaris through Ursa Minor, following down to Ursa Major, Leo to Cancer to Lynx. The interesting part, rather than the chemistry and the mechanics behind the ships, is the places they go, the things they touch. The parts of the universe they come close to, somewhere untouchable, yet near enough to try and grasp.

He thinks of her, of what used to be home. Little apartment, little town, a variety of small businesses that spoke dozens of different languages. Pocket money from the errands they had him run, hush-hush. A different kind of untouchable universe.

He looks out towards the direction he thinks it is. Wonders if everyone knows what she’s done and condones it, or if she’s left that place and gone somewhere else, packed up without a word, gone. Somewhere where nobody knows her past, where she can start over without him weighing her down as a reminder of what she lost. He looks somewhere far off, edge of the desert and beyond the cliffs, old words going through his head. All her little phrases, all her looks that never met his eyes entirely, all the ways she took care of him and yet never cared enough. All the things he had to do on his own, all the things he had to learn by himself, all the times he realized that she was just human, and hurting, and also untouchable, unreachable, a world of her own he was not allowed into.

Something tickles the back of his neck. His hair has gotten long.

Somehow, it’s the last straw. They corner him when he makes a mistake while trying to shear it off in the bathroom, bleeding, razor in hand, up later than he should be. It’s probably a concerning image from the outside. He’s not surprised when they force him to go to the counselor's office, set him up for biweekly appointments due to “self harm”.

He’s tired. So tired.

After their impromptu sparring session, he had thought that they were on better ground. He had thought that Keith was maybe the sort of person who just didn’t have much to say, didn’t mince words, didn’t ask questions. Someone more perceptive than initially thought to be.

He had forgotten that Keith was, according to everyone who had spent time teaching him, painfully straightforward, brutally honest.

He blindsides him with a question when they’re both in the room, a stray hour break between classes. When he’s trying to cram for a physics test he should have studied for earlier, all while finishing tedious flight maneuver homework, fill-in-the-blank questions that don’t take much thought but do take time to write.

Suddenly, startling enough that he drops his pencil, “What’s your deal?”

“Huh?” He twists in his chair, looking up at Keith, who looks like he's been standing at his side for who knows how long. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t hesitate. Keith crosses his arms and starts talking fast, staring him down all the while.

“You’re apparently the best pilot here in years.” He says, and Shiro doesn’t miss the slight skepticism in his voice. “People know you as the best cadet since this place opened, but then Iverson chews you out.”

“Iverson’s good at being impartial.”

“The only thing he’s good at is making people deaf.” Shiro snorts, amused. “But what he said, it’s weird.”

He asks what Shiro was afraid he’d ask a week ago.

“What did he mean by ‘stunts’?” He waves a hand, no longer crossing his arms against his chest but gesturing in the air. “Nobody’s ever said anything like that about you before.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me, I see.” Shiro says dryly. He takes a breath and swallows, trying to keep steady.

“I’m not.” He snaps, and Shiro raises an eyebrow.

“Not really.” He amends after a moment, looking away slightly. “The instructors compare me to you all the time.”

He crosses his arms again, speaks in a crude mimicry of his instructors. “ ‘Not bad cadet, almost like our best, Shiro.’ ‘Communication is key, watch one of Shiro’s flights to understand.’ ‘Stop being reckless and have more control, or else you’ll never reach Shiro’s level.’ It’s annoying.”

Shiro blinks, gapes at Keith, baffled.

“Have they been doing this to you since you started the flight simulations?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t keep track.” He shrugs, shakes his head. “I’ve been hearing it for a while. It’s like you’re some celebrity.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to hear that.” It sounds terribly demoralizing. “It sounds awful.”

Keith pauses when he says that, looks almost guiltily at the floor.

“They don’t always say your name. Just sometimes.” He looks back up, eyes narrowing. “I thought that was why they saddled you with me, but Iverson’s lecture keeps coming back to me. What did he mean?”

Shiro keeps quiet. Unconsciously, he purses his lips, looking for an out, but Keith doesn’t seem like he’s going to budge from the subject.

He’s a bit taken aback, honestly. This is the most he’s ever heard Keith say at once. It’s a shock, sort of, a vast difference to the two word responses that he’s used to. It takes him time to process, and then more time to soften the climbing swell of stress building in the back of his head.

“It’s a long story.” He tries, without success. Keith stares him down.

Silence wraps around them, content to make everything as uncomfortable as possible.

Shiro licks his dry lips, thinks that he could get out of here if he really wanted to. Keith may be blocking the side with the door, but it’s not hard to imagine maneuvering around him, and he can muscle his way through, should it be necessary. He could always refuse to answer, continue keeping quiet until Keith gets fed up with him and quits, because between the two of them, Shiro knows he’s the one with more patience.  

But there is something about the hard look in Keith’s eyes that strikes him, causes him to reconsider. Behind the curiosity and the antagonism is something vulnerable, something unlike everything else Keith has shown him so far. Almost timid. Open. Reluctant and expectant at the same time, like hope pushed down to the bottom of the box.

Alike, he remembers, and wonders, not for the first time, how, exactly?

He pulls his eyes from Keith’s.

“My first year here was...Rough.”

His throat is dry. He swallows and continues on, tracing the lines of the papers spread across his desk. “I did some things I’m not proud of.”

It’s not a satisfying answer, but it’s all he’s willing to share at the moment. All he really has time for.

“That’s it?” Keith says, incredulous. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

Shiro shakes his head, steels himself and looks back up at Keith.

“For now. I’ve got to study for a test that’s in,” he checks the clock, “twenty minutes.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it and backs off, though he looks unhappy about it. Shiro has a feeling he’s not going to let this go.

“It really is a long story.” He says, trying to make amends. A part of him knows that it isn’t fair of Keith to get upset, that he has no real right to this information, but guilt comes without reason. Or maybe with — Keith did get the shorter end of the stick, in this arrangement.

Keith hesitates, then nods.

“Fine.” He huffs, stalking out the door.

Shiro watches him go, mixed feelings stewing in his gut.

He’s not the only one with problems. He knows that, he’s reminded of it every time he walks out of the counselors' office and someone else walks in, he’s not the only one who’s dealing with something. He’s just one in the crowd, a nameless face in a mob. One cadet with depression that seemingly sprung out of nowhere who refuses to speak more than three words every appointment. The kid whose mother they can’t contact.

Puzzle pieces that are easily put together as more time passes.

This is, he counts back, the fourth appointment since the first.

“How do you feel today, Takashi?”

Her name is Carol Xu, she's been here for two years, and she insists he call her Carol. She’s young and pretty, but Shiro sees the stress lines around her eyes, the weariness behind her gentle smile. He’s sure her job isn’t easy. He wonders what keeps her motivated.

“Okay.” He answers with a shrug.

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a lull. This happens often. It’s most of his hour-long session, honestly, this silence that stretches between them, vast and empty like the desert outside.

“Takashi—” She tries, about fifteen minutes later, and he just. Breaks without warning.

The ticking clock that’s both soothing and irritating. The overgrown plant on the windowsill that needs a trim. The mug of coffee on her side of the table, lukewarm on his end. The way the cushions of the chair he’s sitting in sinks, well worn, the reality that he is never going home again, that home doesn’t exist, that it never really has—

—his name, the way he can still remember her voice but finds it harder and harder to recall, how he's starting to hear all her words in his own voice instead, how fucking ridiculous all of this is, how he knows. He knows why he’s here, he knows what’s wrong, and he can figure out how to fix it without taking up their time, without having to sit here and waste an hour because they want to help him and yet he knows they can’t.

“Don’t call me that.” He snaps, raw and angry. She draws back, surprised. “Don’t call me Takashi.”

She collects herself quickly. It’s probably part of her training to be able to.

“What do you want me to call you then?”

Gentle, soothing. Neutral.

He thinks.

Shirogane belonged to his father, once. Takashi belongs to his mother.

“Shiro.” He says, nodding once.

“Shiro it is.”

For some reason, she sounds pleased. He guesses it’s because this is the first time he’s spoken up on his own.

“So Shiro, why the sudden change?”

“I just felt like it.”

“Do you want other people to call you Shiro as well?”

He thinks about it.

“Yeah.”

“I see.” She nods, “Would you like me to tell your professors about this? Or would you rather tell them yourself?”

“Go ahead.”

She writes down a note on a clipboard full of papers. "I’ll do that then.”

He looks out the window at the dusky red earth.

He decides, watching the sand turn maroon as the sun sets, that he’s tired of thinking that this was a mistake.

Keith catches him on the weekend. The Garrison is empty, as it usually is during the weekend break, because nearly everyone has gone down to the city to relax.

Shiro is currently the opposite of relaxed. Keith's stare could melt a hole through concrete. 

“Can we go somewhere else?” He asks, looking at the space between them, the four walls. He feels claustrophobic, suddenly, like they’ll draw closer to him if he stays put.

“...I guess.” Keith mutters after a minute, crossing his arms. “Where?”

He leads Keith to the stairs up to the roof. The worn down “NO ROOF ACCESS” sign has nearly come unbolted in the top left corner, scratches on the metal. It takes about three jiggles for the lock to give way, as always, and he shakes his head and sighs. They really need to do something about this.

Keith looks surprised though, which brings him some mild amusement.

“Used to come up here a lot. It’s never been hard to open.”

If Keith hears him, he doesn’t respond. Instead he steps out onto the roof and stares at the vastness around them, rocks and sand and the city in the deep distance. He seems mesmerized by it, turning his head slowly, taking it all in.

It is a nice view. It always has been.

Shiro closes his eyes and appreciates the soft breeze, even though it’s warm in the mid-morning sun. He hasn’t been up here in a while, and he’s missed it, sand swirling in the air, the smell, dry heat, slightly metallic.

Keith eventually stops looking and turns back to him. He’s gone back to his usual expression, which Shiro finds unfortunate. He looks better when he’s not so closed off.

But that’s not what’s important right now, so he takes a breath, summons his courage.

“Before you ask,” he starts, and Keith frowns, “I have some rules.”

“What are they?” Keith squares his shoulders, stands his ground as if Shiro is going to tackle him off the roof.

“I’ll answer your questions if  you answer mine, too.”

Keith draws back, curls inward before he starts to protest. Shiro cuts him off.

“You can pass on any question, but that means I can pass a question too. It’s only fair.”

He holds up his hands.

“That’s all I’m asking for. Take it or leave it.”

How many times are they going to end up in standoffs?

Keith scowls.

“Fine.”

Shiro sighs in relief, sinks to the ground, leaning on the staircase enclosure's wall while sitting with his legs crossed. The shadow from it covers a part of him, a respite from the bright flaring sun.

He pats the spot next to him. Keith declines his invitation, though he does shuffle closer, choosing to lean against the part of the wall that the shadow fully covers.

“You can have the first question.” Shiro offers, as if there's really a choice.

Like lightning, Keith asks, “What did Iverson mean?”

Shiro sighs, shakes his head.

“Straight to the point, huh?”

He looks out, eyes searching for stray cacti, shifting dunes. Hesitates, considers giving an answer that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

He can't remember the last time he really thought about this. He usually tries not to.

“It’s a long story,” he begins, not unaware of Keith tensing, “do you want to hear all of it? Or just the ‘stunts’ I pulled?”

The question seems to take Keith by surprise. Shiro waits for an answer, thinks to himself that the desert wind sounds like a storm, even in the light of day.

“Both. Tell me both.” He eventually says, just as Shiro expected. 

“You might want to sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so.”

He begins again.

“My first year here, my mom…”

He takes a deep breath. Centers himself.

“...She stopped answering my calls. I couldn’t get a hold of her. Soon enough, nobody could.”

He licks his lips, wishes that he’d had the foresight to bring a water bottle up with him. “It wasn’t easy for me to accept. I stopped paying attention in class. Started failing on purpose. I went to the city a lot, hung around a bad crowd sometimes. Snuck out after curfew and came up here, or just. Wandered through the halls. Didn’t do anything I didn’t have to do.”

“What about your dad?” Keith asks, expressionless. His voice has gone flat, mostly, but there’s a hint of curiosity that he can’t seem to rein in. He’s trying though, and Shiro appreciates the effort.

“He passed away when I was seven. I don’t remember much about him.”

He shifts, uncrossing his legs and resting his arms on top of his knees. Thoughtless.

“So those are what Iverson meant by ‘stunts’. Breaking curfew. Purposely failing classes. Going out and coming back with bruises. It took me a year to stop all of that, and another to get completely back on track.”

Keith is quiet. He’s stopped looking at him. 

Shiro asks, “What about you? What’s your story?”

“You don’t know?”

It’s strange how genuinely shocked he sounds, how his eyes open wide as he looks at Shiro once more.

“Should I know?”

“I thought they had told you before—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, narrows his eyes, confused.

“They really...Didn’t tell you?”

“Keith,” Shiro leans back just enough to rest against the wall, “they aren’t allowed to disclose that much personal information without your consent. And even if they wanted to, I wouldn’t want to hear it from them. It’s not right.”

Very quietly, Keith says, “Oh.”

“Did you think I knew?” If so, it makes sense as to why Keith was so hostile when they first met. He'd be wary too, if their positions were reversed.

“I thought…” It sounds like he’s struggling with his words. “Yeah. I did.”

“Well, I don’t.” 

Shiro meets his eyes. “And I won’t, unless you want to tell me.”

“I…”

Keith looks away again. The wind chooses to settle for a few minutes, the same amount of time that Keith falls silent, and Shiro's left listening to the soft hum of the Garrison’s pipes, the faint sound of people yelling, a buzzsaw in the distance. Engineering, most likely.

He won't deny that he wants an answer, feels a little entitled to one after sharing his own. But if Keith really doesn't want to, he won't push. It's not the way he does things.

He’s about to remind him that he doesn’t have to answer if he doesn’t want to when Keith says, all in one breath,

“I don't know who my parents are.”

And Shiro stares instead, taken aback.

“I was in foster care for a while. Took the test for this place to get out of it.”

His voice is rough, the words rushed like they can’t help but pour out. “Got lucky. Here I am.”

“Here you are.” Shiro repeats, for lack of better response.

“That’s,” he waves a hand, “it. That’s it.”

“Oh.” Shiro says, very quietly.

He suddenly understands where alike came from.

“It’s just,” Keith starts, stops, starts again, “this place, it’s— I—”

His words are stumbling over each other, like he has too much to say and yet can’t figure out how to say any of it, and all Shiro can do is watch, perplexed.

“Keith—”

“Doesn’t any of it bother you?”

It’s like watching a bomb go off, almost. Keith explodes into life.

“This place, and all these rules,” he sweeps an arc over the entire building and beyond, the whole base, “and all these people who don’t— Isn’t it— Don’t you get tired? Of being here and having to do everything they say?”

“I do.” He answers before he thinks about it. The quickness, the honesty from his own mouth, both surprise him. “Sometimes. But I don’t hate it.”

He shrugs, smiles ruefully at Keith, who looks baffled at his answer. “That’s just the way things are. Rules exist for a reason, and that aside — nothing worth it is ever easy.”

Though his expression sours, Keith drops to sit next to him, leaning back against the wall.

“I guess.” He mutters, clearly disgruntled.

“You don’t have to like it.” Shiro says gently, “I know that it’s hard to deal with, sometimes.”

“They get on my case for not flying by the book.” He’s looking at the seams running on the roof, still speaking roughly, too fast. “But then they tell me I’m 'talented' when I don't. It doesn't make sense.”

“You’re a little reckless sometimes, that's all. Especially when you’re in a pinch.” Keith makes another face. It's a surprise to Shiro that he's actually been listening to what they tell him, that he cares. “I’ve seen some of your simulation runs. You pull off moves that take most people weeks to perfect without a problem, but the little things end up slowing you down. They cost you a lot, in the long run. If you followed the guidelines and relied on your crew more often, you’d be breaking records in no time. That's why they nag you about it, because they know what you could do.”

Keith huffs. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, seems like. 

He looks back at him with a dry expression, asks, “That how you do it?”

“I prefer to do it that way.” Shiro grins, shameless, and takes the bait. “But it’s more about necessity than anything else.”

He explains, “During a complicated flight, I can’t keep track of everything. Debris, stray signals, every damaged part...I try, but it’s just not possible. It’s best for me if I can dedicate my focus to flying the ship while the rest of the crew works on what they’re best at to keep us all afloat. 

In the end, the goal is to get everyone to the destination, and then complete the objective. If it takes longer than I’d like or requires some slowing down — those things aren’t what I’m thinking about. First and foremost are the lives of everyone onboard. They’re relying on me to get them where we need to go, and I’m relying on them to keep us flying smoothly. They listen to me, I listen to them, we trust each other. Everyone counts because we’re a team, and I try to make sure that we're all on the same page about that. That's what a pilot is supposed to do.”

When Keith doesn't say anything in return, Shiro starts to feel awkward, shuffling his feet against the floor.

Keith may be younger than him, but he's got talent, is more skilled now than Shiro was at his age. He's actually capable of keeping track of nearly everything; Shiro hasn't forgotten how far he got on his own, that one night in the sims. He feels like he sounds pretentious, rambling like this, not even a graduate but talking like he's been through it all, like he has the experience to know without a doubt what he's talking about.

His method works for him. He has no idea if it'd work for anyone else, especially someone like Keith.

“That’s, uh, my way of looking at it, anyways." He says, laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I think it’s different for everyone though. Every pilot has their own way of working with their crew, it really depends on the situation.”

Keith nods, curling into himself, pulling his knees to his chest. The motion is surprisingly childish, with his shoulders hunched and expression unsure. It seems to Shiro that he's thinking about what he's said, contemplative sort of look on his face. 

“How do you…” He starts, then stops, groaning. He hangs his head in-between his knees as his shoulders slump with a sigh. "Never mind."

The sight is a stark contrast from what Shiro’s used to seeing. The hesitation, the awkwardness, the uncertainty — it feels like he’s looking at a whole different person, a side that Keith isn’t used to showing. Shiro finds the difference kind of charming, in a way, cool and clumsy on the same coin, one face now flipped to the other. An unexpected but not unwelcome shift.

He could get used to it. He would like to, actually. It seems like something only friends get to see, and, well, he realizes while watching him — he would like to be friends with Keith. Thinks that Keith could use a friend who understands where he’s coming from, to some extent, and, more than that, he finds him interesting. For all his difficult moments, Shiro thinks that there’s something about him that makes it hard to look away. His natural charisma, maybe, as funny as that sounds. Or maybe it’s his similar scars that still need to heal, the way he tries to hold everything in but can’t manage to stop from overflowing. Shiro knows that track, knows it almost too well, and — nobody should do it alone if they don’t have to. Keith still has a lot to learn, still has time. He has all the makings of a fantastic pilot, a future that could be so much bigger than his past, and Shiro knows that he could become something incredible. He can feel it. 

Or maybe it’s just because they’ve been living together for long enough that Keith’s grown on him. Maybe it’s just proximity. The reason isn’t important, really. At the end of it all is the same conclusion: he’d like to be Keith’s friend.

After a few minutes of silence, Shiro says, “Let me ask you a question.”

Keith tilts his head to look at him, raises it from his knees, curious.

“Why do you keep that knife under your pillow?”

At that, Keith sits up, ramrod straight. Panic flits across his face, though it quickly settles into some sort of detached look, except Shiro hears his nails scrape across the surface of the roof before his hands ball into fists at his sides. 

Alarmed, Shiro starts to apologize.

“Hey, I’m sorry if that was a bad question—”

“No, just,” Keith looks at him, perplexed, false composure already broken, “how did you know it was there? I don’t take it out when you’re around.”

“I saw it once, a while back.” A long while. “Didn’t have a good time to ask about it until now.”

“You didn’t tell anyone, right?” Shiro nods quickly.

“I didn’t. I figured you had your reasons, and you don’t strike me as the type to try and kill me in my sleep.”

The last part is meant to be a joke. He’s not sure if it actually makes contact, Keith still looks panicked.

It is true that weapons aren’t allowed in cadet hands, and that it should have been confiscated ages ago, but it’s not as if Shiro is going to rat him out, not after all this time. He hasn’t even seen it since that one time, he doubts it ever leaves the room. If he had really thought it was a problem, he would have done something about it by now.

“You know I’m not going to report you for it, right? If I was, I would have done it a long time ago.” He says softly, trying to reassure him. He thinks he sees him relax, if only by an inch. “I just want to know why you have it, but you don’t have to tell me if it’s that important. It’s okay. I'm sorry I asked.”

Keith sizes him up, searching for some sign that he won’t keep his word. It's as if they hadn’t just had a talk about their respective checkered pasts, like he hadn't just shown him a whole different side.

Shiro guesses that it takes more than one talk to really gain his trust, not that the idea is all that surprising. He lets it go. Everything takes time.

The desert buzzes with noise even as the air around them is still and quiet, and Shiro is faintly aware of the sun hitting his leg, burning through the uniform. They should leave soon, before the heat in the air becomes unbearable.

Keith says, turning his head, looking away, “It was the only thing they found with me.”

The rest is unspoken, but Shiro understands. 

Wherever he started, that was all he had.

He nods.

“Ah.”

“It’s all I really…”

He stops, mouth a tight line. Shiro doesn’t ask anything else.

Instead, he gets up. Keith immediately looks back at him, wary, watching. It doesn't look quite the same as it used to though, not in Shiro's eyes.

He holds out a hand to help him up. The sun is hot on his back as he waits, palm outstretched.

Keith hesitates.

“Come on,” Shiro reaches a little closer, “let’s get out of this heat and go get lunch. It’s better on the weekends anyways.”

A moment. The dust swirls in the air, chalky grit under his boots.

Keith grabs his hand and pulls himself up.

Shiro lets him go. He walks to the staircase doors and waits for Keith to follow. He lets him go inside first before closing the doors to the roof firmly behind him, a satisfying thud as they settle back into place. The staff will relock them later, he’s sure, as they always have.

Before they go down the stairs, he claps Keith on the back. It’s all he can offer that he's sure he'll accept.

"Thanks for being honest with me." 

He starts going down the stairs.

Behind him, Keith says, "You too."

To say things change after that would be an understatement.

For one thing, Keith talks. A lot. Or at least, a lot more than he used to. More than one word once a day; often, he’ll start talking about something the minute he gets into the room. It’s usually mundane, or some sort of complaint, but everything he says gives Shiro a new glimpse at what his world is like, how he sees it. Sometimes it’s not much more than a sentence or two, sometimes it’s a whole twenty minute rant, but it’s always fascinating to listen to. It’s fascinating to watch Keith’s face make more than three expressions, to see him unwind, vibrantly alive with everything he does. It makes Shiro question if he’s ever had anyone to really talk to, if he’s ever sought anyone else out to listen, if he's ever really felt comfortable around anyone else before.

He shoves down the swell of pride in his chest. No need for ego when he’s just trying to be a good friend.

Speaking of listening, another change is Keith’s newfound receptivity. He nods along when Shiro shares old flight tricks and tips with him, when he tells him about the new test simulations they’re doing and how they work. He accepts when Shiro offers to help him with homework, he takes his advice about working together with his flight crew and actually uses it, reporting back when it works like he can’t quite believe it. Shiro finds the whole thing more endearing than he should, but it’s hard not to with the way Keith’s face lights up as he recaps his most successful test yet, all because he waited an extra minute for Danny — his engineer — to figure out what the true internal issue was.

The most noticeable thing that changes though, in Shiro’s eyes, is how mindful Keith is. Far from his past oblivion, he now pays so much attention to him that it’s flustering. He picks up on his moods quickly, and the awkward concern he radiates, the unconscious hovering, the stumbling over his words when he tries to ask if he’s okay — it’s impossible to ignore. How Keith always realizes when he's run-down, Shiro doesn't know, but it'd be a lie if he said he found it anything other than likeable. 

Once, he shows up during one of Shiro’s simulation runs, which causes a ripple of hushed chatter and actually makes him nervous. He’s well practiced, he has the skills, he knows he has some of the best scores in Garrison history — but Keith has talent miles high and sharp eyes and expectations that Shiro cares about meeting. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to prove his reputation right.

He does perfectly fine that day, but he’s more nervous at the end than he’s ever been until he catches the impressed look on Keith’s face. He grins and waves in his direction, stunned when Keith smiles and waves back before making a quick escape.

A good chunk of the year passes blissfully like that, sparring every once and awhile, back and forth good-natured banter on classes and homework and hobbies — Keith points out the row of history books on his desk and asks how he can bother to read any of them, and in return Shiro lends him a few of the thinner ones with specific subjects he thinks he’ll like. He doesn’t get hooked the same way Shiro is, but he does begrudgingly admit that one or two were interesting a few weeks later. They watch movies borrowed from the library, old war films that Keith has a strange affection for, and Shiro ends up enjoying them too. Their weekends are almost always spent together, not that either of them mind.

There are things they don’t talk about, thing they refuse to talk about. Keith won’t say anything in detail about what his life was like before he came to the Garrison, and Shiro doesn’t explain the biker gloves that fall out of his dresser one evening on accident. Some things are better buried, locked and sealed airtight.

But everything is working out despite that. Keith has apparently gotten less rebellious and better at communicating, it’s smooth sailing in all of Shiro’s classes, and there’s something, he’s been told, special being planned in relation to the Kerberos simulation he’s been pretesting for weeks with his classmates. Something big.

The door slides open well after curfew, and the light from the hallway seeps in, even though his eyes are closed.

He doesn’t move from his bed, only mutters, halfway to sleep,

“Don’t forget. Three shakes, but be gentle with it. Too strong and they’ll stay locked.”

When it rains, it pours, he’s heard. It’s been a long time since he’s seen much more than sparse one-day rains, but it still rings true for life, which is why he’s currently sitting in a soundproof office, speechless as ten people, four very officially dressed and six of them professors that he recognizes, tell him that he’s been chosen as the pilot for the very first human expedition to Kerberos, fourth moon of Pluto, further than anyone has ever gone before.

“You wouldn’t be traveling alone, of course.” A composed voice breaks him out of his daze. “The acclaimed scientist Samuel Holt and his son have also been chosen as candidates for this mission, and should they accept, they would be your aircrew.”

He starts to sputter, words unwinding from the back of throat.

"I— It would be an honor, but— but why me?” He looks at his professors, some who look back with a smile. Lacoma and Olsen both grin at him, which helps his nerves but doesn’t serve as an answer. “There are plenty of skilled pilots with more experience than I have. I don’t understand why you would choose me when there are hundreds of other options. I haven’t even graduated yet, and I’ve only been on a few out-of-atmosphere missions, none of them further than the moon.”

It’s like they don’t hear everything he says, or if they do, they ignore half of it.

“Are you saying you would rather we find another pilot? We do have file of individuals we were considering, should you decline.”

He shakes his head quickly.

“No, I would love to go on the mission. It would be an honor, it would be incredible, but...”

“Shiro.” His eyes dart to the voice — Professor Gurrera, two years of physics, never too close but friendly enough. “You were chosen through a combination of recommendations, discussions, and a very thorough number of disguised examinations. You’re young, you have a bright head on your shoulders, and you’ve passed the Kerberos test simulation a good number of times with a variety of crews and a variety of difficulties. Out of everyone who could go on this mission, you have the specific set of skills we’re looking for, and that’s why you’re here right now.”

He doesn’t know what to say after that. He sits, a world of possibilities, and tries to breathe.

“Mr.Shirogane," The first time he's been called that in years, it sounds like they're speaking to someone else, "we hope you’re fully aware that this wasn’t decided lightly. We were hesitant when we first heard your age and past setbacks,” he flinches slightly, “but your records in the past three and a half years are remarkable otherwise. Spotless, almost.”

One of the suits casually continues, “One small infraction recently, but we’ve been told that it was related to your...Tutoring of another notable cadet, Keith Kogane. There are no doubts that he’ll follow in your footsteps with time, as impressive as he currently is.”

“Keith’s his own person.” Shiro says, vaguely miffed. What's that supposed to mean?

“Of course.” They answer, smooth as silk. “But it was good of you to help him. Young talent is always hard to find.”

He changes tacks and switches topics, something sour in his mouth at the way they talk about Keith.

“The mission...How long will it be? When will it launch?”

“So you’re interested?”

“I’ll do it.” He shakes his head. “I mean, please let me do it. I won’t let you down.”

“We have full faith in you, Mr.Shirogane. Now please...Let’s begin with the clearance forms. Confidentiality is of the utmost importance...”

He’s not allowed to talk about it until they announce it to the nation in three months, right after his graduation date. It’s an agonizingly long time to stay silent, but he understands why that’s the the case. News like this, if spread improperly, could become a massive scandal all over the globe. It’s better to grit his teeth and hold a front until everything is fully in place and ready to go.  

However, two weeks after he’s told about the mission, he gets to meet the famed Professor Holt as well as Matthew Holt for the first time. The moment they meet, Shiro understands why so many people recommended taking a class from him — Professor Holt is exuberant and yet, adult, the air of someone who’s seen plenty of hard times but still believes in the good of the universe. Inspirational to look at, full of life, and holding out a hand to shake with a smile.

“If it isn’t Takashi Shirogane, star of the show! Or actually, it’s Shiro, correct? Alec mentioned that you preferred the nickname, but I thought I’d ask before I started using it, just in case. Don’t want to offend, you know?”

Shiro pastes a reminder in the back of his head to thank Olsen as he shakes his hand.

“Yes sir. Shiro’s fine by me, and you’re really the star here. I’ve read some of your reports and seen your past flights — I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“Of course not!” He leans in and winks. “I’ve done my homework on you too, Shiro, and I think you’ll go above and beyond my expectations. And please, call me Samuel. Everything else gets stuffy when you’re in a ship together for longer than a week. You’ll probably be hearing Matt call me ‘Dad’ anyways.”

He waves over a head of messy brown hair who, Shiro learns, is Matthew, also known as Matt. Both Samuel and Matt have the same grin, the same bright eyes, and the same incredible intellect. Despite being younger than Shiro by a year, Matt has already cleared half the courses necessary for a molecular biology degree, all in addition to being a skilled engineer. He’s chatty from the get go, talking about everything that comes to mind, topics ranging from his younger sister — “Her name’s Katie, here’s a picture, she’ll be coming here in two years for sure! Don’t tell her I told you this, but I think she’s smarter than me, even though she’s just a kid, her brain is mighty” — to his dislike of peanut butter, because what’s the point when he can just eat regular peanuts?

“It’s not that I hate the stuff, I just think it’s too much sometimes. Like, you lose the main peanut-y flavor to the sugar and the oil, and the stickiness gets annoying. The whole point is the peanut, right? Why mess with it?”

Shiro finds himself laughing a lot in the eight hours they spend together that day, getting briefed on the machine, the goals of the mission, the ideal path to Kerberos, everything. Both Holts are warm, funny, and have an enthusiasm for space that’s infectious; they even invite him to stop by their home anytime for dinner if he feels like it. Really, they’re the best kind of crew he could ask for, on a mission like this, and it’s a weight off his shoulders. One thing he no longer has to worry about.

So naturally, something he does have to worry about appears, and it appears in the form of Keith asking, “What are you hiding?” when he gets back from the not-brief briefing.

“Nothing.” Shiro answers, nonchalant as he puts his bag full of papers down. It’d work on anyone else, but Keith stares him dead in the eye and he can almost feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

For someone who doesn’t really like getting involved with people, Keith really likes to pry. When he gets hooked on something, he rarely lets it go.

This doesn't look like something he’s going to let go of anytime soon.

“It’s not ‘nothing’. Your whole schedule has changed in the last two weeks.”

“You noticed?”

“Yeah, obviously. We share a room.”    

Shiro resists the urge to point out that Keith wouldn’t have noticed had they been in the stalemate they were in months ago, because it’s an easy diversion tactic and Keith will probably get mad if he does.

“I’m just helping out some of the professors.”

“With what?”

“You know that Kerberos simulation I told you about? They’re refining it now, adding in things, testing different ship models.”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. Half-truths work better than full lies. “They want detailed feedback on how realistic it feels, what we think would be best, what we would expect during flight. The simulation is about two hours, so it takes a while.”

Keith doesn’t particularly look like he believes him, but he doesn’t say anything else either.

In truth, Shiro would love to tell him everything. He knows Keith won’t tell anyone, and he’s dying to share it with the world, share it with someone, but rules are rules.

Besides, Keith has midterms he should focus on, and Shiro can’t ask him to carry around a huge secret for two and a half months. It wouldn’t be right.

“You should study.” He says, changing the subject, and Keith’s look of disgust makes him laugh.

He makes it two months before he finally caves.

In his defense, it is incredibly hard to come up with a good enough cover story to satisfy Keith’s skepticism, and all the evidence piles the longer he has to hide it. The extra books on Kerberos and Pluto. His staying up late, going over the paperwork — endless, endless paperwork — his new workout regime, his changing classes, his sudden access to every part of the base, including the restricted section that requires a pass no matter who you are.

His fault, leaving the pass on his desk and falling asleep without hiding it. Straw that broke the camel’s back.

“You’re flying to Kerberos?!” Keith shouts, and Shiro lunges across the room to cover his mouth.

“Shhh!” He hisses, looking nervously at the door despite knowing the rooms are relatively soundproof. Wide violet-grey eyes stare at him.

He takes his hand off his mouth. A fleeting thought he shakes off — his skin was soft.

He nods, holding a finger to his mouth, quiet.

“Yes.”

Keith whispers, “Since when?”

“Since two months ago.” Shiro whispers back.

He leans forward into his space. “Listen, Keith, this is seriously confidential information—”

“I won’t tell anyone.” He interrupts, annoyed. “But Kerberos? Isn’t that one of Pluto’s moons?”

His whisper drops lower, slightly confused. “I don’t remember anyone doing that before.”

Shiro can’t help it, he grins. “I’ll be the first.”

There’s a stretch of silence as Keith processes everything that Shiro’s just dropped on him with that sentence.

“No way.” He says, and Shiro grins wider.

“Yes way.”

“Seriously? That’s— The first—”

His face splits into a crooked grin, big enough to match Shiro’s own.

“That’s awesome. When?”

He breaks like a dam. Everything rushes out in one excited breath.

“In a month they’re going to announce it, basically after graduation, and then launch is two weeks after that. I’m working with Samuel Holt and his son — you’ve heard about him, right? He’s amazing. They're amazing. Everything I've had to do has been amazing. I’ve been put through so many physicals and I’ve had to do so many trials and so much paperwork, so much paperwork, but it’s happening, Keith. It’s really happening.”

He pauses, then, awed, “I’m going to be the first pilot to fly to Kerberos.”

The reality of it hits him without warning, speeding at a hundred miles per hour. He staggers backwards, legs giving way when he reaches his bed, sitting down heavily. The sudden change surprises Keith, who reaches towards him as if to steady him, grin turning into a concerned frown.

“Shiro?” He says cautiously, still standing in the middle of the room, leaning forward.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “It’s still sinking in, even after all this time. I just can’t believe it, you know? I never would have thought that I would...That this...”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he trails off, fumbling into silence. Telling someone not involved in it has made it real in a way it wasn't before. It had been like a dream, a whirlwind of things that had kept him too busy to think much about it, but now, after telling someone, after telling Keith — now he sees it from the outside, and it's almost terrifying, how huge it really is. He looks up at the ceiling, sinking deeper into his thoughts, doubts creeping out from somewhere deep, like ants from the dirt.

Do I really deserve this? Am I really good enough?

There's a light pressure on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze. He looks at Keith.

“You’re gonna be the first person to land on Kerberos.” Keith says, voice softer than Shiro has ever heard it before, and Shiro believes him.

It’s not easy.

It’s like fighting his way through sludge, swimming to the surface in a pool with clothes on when he’s sunk to the bottom. Nothing makes sense. The past months have been a blur. He’s in cargo class after failing his last round of tests, none of his scores are high enough to go further. Everything feels new, uncomfortably so, uncertain. Unstable. He breaks down twice on his own, privately, in the shower and on the roof, wondering if he’s too late. If he’s hopeless. If she had good reason to leave him without a word. If he’s made a mistake, begging Carol to sign him off as fine, insisting that he knows what he needs to do, that her help should go to someone who’ll use it.

She had said to him that day, after a long silence, “You can always come back here if it gets too hard, Shiro. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“But I want to.” He had said, pushing, “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

It’s not easy. He’s not always okay.

But it gets easier.

He settles into study habits. He starts talking to his classmates, trying to reconnect, trying to learn. Some admit to being worried about him before, but unsure of what to say; their concern is, strangely, motivating. He starts going to tutoring, starts putting his everything into what he’s got, honing his talents, his memory and his apparent adaptability. He stays late in the simulators, even sneaks his way around once or twice, practicing until his eyes blur and his head aches. He stays behind and asks questions, becomes familiar with several of his professors, his flight instructors.

And on the days where he burns, angry and upset, he practices containment. Patience, understanding, reminders to himself that things take time, that he has time.

Some people, he remembers Carol saying once to fill the silence, stay at the Garrison for ten years to complete their degree and doctorate. Some only stay to graduate with a basic degree, realizing that they want something different but don’t want to waste the time they've already spent. Some leave within a year. Some can't let it go. It all depends on what they want, what they consider worthwhile.

“You’re only sixteen, Takashi. I promise that you have plenty of time to figure out what you want.”

If that’s what you want, he remembers.

And when all else fails, he lets off steam at the gym. A reformed habit, not necessarily bad. For when he's too restless for anything else.

It takes months. It takes forever, retests, extra credit assignments, late night studying, stretching himself to the thinnest, trying to become whole again. Long days, longer nights. No time to think past the next assignment, the next flight test.

In the end, he doesn’t even do it entirely alone.

“Shiro’s trying his best. We ought to give him another chance, don’t you think? Look at how hard he’s worked since then.”

Professor Olsen speaks for him first, at his plea to test back into fighter class halfway into the current year instead of waiting until the next year. It’s unexpected, unanticipated help. He had thought no one would vouch for him, that he would have to make his case alone, trying his best not to shake in his boots.

It gives him hope. Feels new in his chest, but not bad.

Weeks later, he stands straight, smiles and means it when he’s given clearance for a retest.

“Only one chance.” Iverson warns, “This isn’t common, Shirogane — Shiro. Don’t waste it.”

“I promise you I won't, sir.”

He almost doesn’t want to take off his new uniform, despite how starchy and stiff it is. The thrill of graduation, graduating, is still fresh, all four hundred graduates in the quad, two hundred in research, one hundred forty in engineering, and sixty new pilots. That’s all he remembers before his name, and, he looks down, his award.

Excelling in all courses, outstanding performance. An award only given to graduates who have proven to be the hope of the future.

He hopes he can live up to it.

When Keith slinks in an hour after curfew, he doesn’t ask where he’s been. There’s a certain intimacy in the dark, this night, and something bittersweet runs through him when he realizes that in about three weeks — no, less than that even — he won’t see him for at least a year. He won’t be his roommate, won’t get to help him with his homework, won’t be around for sparring sessions or old movies. Won’t be able to listen when he has rough days, won’t get to talk with someone who gets it, whatever it is, the intangible something they both understand about only really having yourself.

He wonders if she’s heard. If she cares. If she’s proud of him.

“Hey,” he says into the dark, knowing that Keith is listening, “I’ll miss you.”

Keith holds his breath, seems like. There’s pure silence, for a moment, and then a whoop from the hallway. People can’t help but party tonight, and the patrols turn a blind eye to it every year.

“I’ll take care of your stuff.” Keith replies, and something funny happens in Shiro’s chest. Kind of painful, kind of sweet. He doesn’t let himself dwell on it.

“You can always let—”

“I’ll keep it.” Keith says, firmer this time, "It's not a lot."

Shiro chuckles, soft laughter coming out in a few huffs, and concedes.

“Thanks.”

It’s quiet, for a few minutes. Maybe more, maybe less.

“When you get back, I’ll have beaten all your records.”

There’s a smirk in his voice that Shiro can hear. He laughs again.

“Good luck. I’ll look forward to it.”

He waits a beat, expecting a reply. When none comes, he starts to settle into sleep, clearing his mind, emptying his head.

“I’ll miss you,” Keith whispers.

It’s raspy, almost nothing at all. If there was any other noise, Shiro wouldn’t have heard him say it.

It steals his breath away.

We come in peace —

w̴̵̛̕e̴͞͠ ̴̢̕͢͞c̛͝o̴̡m̷̨̧e҉̛ ̢͟i̷̡͢n̕͜ ̶̸p̨͝e̛͘a̢͘c̶̨e̷̢—

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I don’t want to kill you I don’t want to kill you I don’t want to be here I want to survive—

What are you— Don’t touch me— Don’t touch me! DON’T TOUCH ME—!

What are you doing to me?!

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?

WHAT HAVE YOU D̸̨҉͟͞O͟͝҉N̸͡E ?

Three taps. The left hallway. Right.

Voltron?

Don’t put me under—!  You don’t understand— The whole universe is in danger— DON’T—

He’s groggy when he wakes up. His head is slow, heavy.

The light, it’s strange. Not artificial. Feels warm, brighter than usual.

The sun, he thinks hazily.

He bolts upright.

There’s a pale line of sunlight coming through a thin sheer curtain, worn and patchy. The glass is grimy, tinted from sand, but still clear enough for him to see out of.

He pushes the curtain aside, staring at the horizon. Blue sky, cloudless.

That’s right. He made it to Earth.

He made it back.

Someone is in here with him.

He turns quickly, scanning the room for potential threats and potential weapons. His shoulders are tense, his body hurts, but even aching, he won’t go down again without a fight. Garrison or not, if he has to—

—Standing still in the corner is Keith, eyes wide and wary, watching him. His hands are raised, empty, though his stance is firm. He’s wearing casual clothing, not a uniform. He seems older, rougher around the edges, but it’s clear who he is from his face.

Same eyes. Grey-violet.

Slowly, his heart stops pounding, and he lowers his fists, relaxes his shoulders.

“...Keith?” His voice grates in his throat. Water would be nice. “Where…?”

“My...place, I guess.” It’s an answer that brings more questions. It makes him wonder how long he’s been gone. “You...Are Shiro, right?”

Shiro supposes it’s a fair question, looking down at himself. He’s dressed in some strange clothing, dirty and rough to the touch, and his arm—

—Oh, his arm.

He can’t remember how he got it. The only reason he doesn’t panic is because despite not knowing where it came from or why it’s there, it feels familiar.

He raises it, aware that Keith tenses when he does. His reaction hurts, but it’s the only response he can have, given the circumstances. Shiro wouldn’t do anything less, if their roles were reversed.

The arm is almost as responsive as the one still attached, and it’s capable of feeling. He tests it by trying to feel the texture of the thin blanket draped over his legs, similar to what the curtain looks like. The sensation is a little weaker than his other arm, but still there, grainy. The arm itself almost doesn’t feel artificial; it moves smoothly with the rest of him, rather than metal and gears, it almost seems powered by his own muscle, his mind.

“It’s me.” Shiro says at himself, barely a whisper.

He raises his head and looks at Keith. “It’s me.”

It’s enough, somehow. Keith lowers his guard and immediately hands him a plastic bottle full of water from seemingly out of nowhere, which Shiro takes gratefully. It’s lukewarm, but it’s one of the greatest things he’s ever felt as he drinks it down.

He hears something through the far wall and grips the bottle tightly without meaning to. Keith picks up on it.

“Three people showed up when I was trying to...” He waves a hand in the air, looking for the right words. Shiro realizes he probably hasn’t slept much, if at all. “...You know. They wanted to help.”

He mutters under his breath, “Didn’t do much but slow me down though.”

“What are they?” Shiro asks, clarifies when Keith tilts his head, confused. “Are they Garrison staff, or…?”

He shakes his head. “Cadets. Snuck out, I think.”

“Ah.”

He has a lot of questions, but suddenly none of them matter as much as the intense need to move. The four walls seem too tight, too cramped despite being so much more than the little ship that brought him back.

It’s not enough. He has to move. He has to get up. He has to do something, anything besides sitting, lying down.

As he rises, Keith pulls something from a shelf. It looks like some kind of pile of cloth, but folded and half hidden, Shiro can’t tell exactly what it is. In the back of his mind, he registers it as nonthreatening.

“If you want, there’s a pump in the back.” Keith says, more at him than to him. “The water’s clean, safe to drink.”

It takes him a moment to understand, but the idea of washing off has never been so gratifying when he does.

“Please.”

Keith looks happy to hear it, sort of. The expression on his face is mixed, as it has been since Shiro woke up, but he does look a little brighter than before.

“Here.” He passes the bundle of cloth to him. Settled into it is a bar of soap, somewhat used.

“Thanks.”

Keith shuffles awkwardly towards a door in response. Mannequin-like, as if he doesn’t know what exactly to do, what he wants to do.

Considering the past who knows how many hours, it’s expected. A lot has happened. He probably has questions. He should have questions. It’s not everyday that someone you know crashes back into Earth’s atmosphere in an alien ship with the news that said aliens are looking for some sort of superweapon.

For now though, he’s thankful that Keith isn’t asking. He’s not sure he even has answers.

He follows him out the door. True to his word, there’s a pump, and next to it, a tree that provides a decent amount of shade. It’s out in the open, no fence, concrete floor with some sand, but that’s surprisingly more reassuring than awkward. He’ll take it over a cramped bathroom.

It’s not like anyone is around, he thinks, looking at their surroundings. It’s desert cliffs as far as the eye can see.

Keith follows the turn of his head. At first, he seems confused, but after a minute he quickly turns around to face the door, mumbling a rushed apology. He’s gone red, which Shiro can’t help but find a little funny. It’s not that much different from a communal shower, really.

“Sorry. I’ll go and, uh, tell the rest of them not to bug you.”

He’s already inching back towards the door as he says it.

“Where are they?” Shiro asks, quelling the slight anxiety in his chest that comes at watching Keith go.

“Garage, probably.” He doesn’t turn around to look at him, but he does point. Shiro turns his head, sees the square block next to the house, something red and white sticking out from the side. Strange, whatever it is, but he doesn’t ask. “They stayed in there last night.”

He goes through the door after saying that, closing it behind him gently. It rattles nonetheless.

Shiro turns towards the pump, noting the makeshift shelf and hooks hanging from the tree nearby, cinder blocks and some metal wire. Hanging from a hook is a bucket that, when looked into, is relatively clean, just mildly dusty.

He sets down the cloth on the blocks, takes the soap and puts it off the side before unfolding everything.

There’s a shirt, some pants, and a vest. Underwear and socks too, which is a little embarrassing to find.

From the inside of the shirt, a pair of gloves falls with a soft thwap, a small cloud of dust erupting when they hit the ground. It startles him, he flinches.

They’re his, he realizes when he picks them up. All of these clothes are his, actually, and the questions continue.

However, he puts them all aside and grabs the bucket, pumps for water to clean it out. He hangs the clean clothes onto one of the hooks the best he can, strips with a bucket full of water next to him, and scrubs at his skin with the odd bar of soap.

The water’s cold. It’s a good feeling.

He goes back into the house after getting dressed. Despite the heat of the desert, he had put everything on, long sleeve shirt, pants, vest, gloves. They’re all tighter than he remembers, but not terribly so. The gloves fit well, though he only wears one, leaving his metal hand alone. The pads of the palm already have a similar texture, and he doesn't want to cover it, any of it. The sleeve is a slight bother already.

He contemplates the shoes, in the end, chooses to put them on again over his socks. No other option, really.

Keith is sitting on the couch, looking at something, or maybe nothing, it's hard to tell. He starts when the door opens, a hand behind his back — Shiro notices the knife holster then, obscured by the pouch belt. He tries not to tense at the sight of it.

Instead, for lack of better word, he says, “Hey.”

Keith stops, slowly pulls his hand away from his back. Empty.

“Where’d you get my clothes?” He asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Keith’s eyes go towards another door. It looks like a closet, halfway open, things strewn on the floor around it. Miscellaneous papers and metal parts.

“Took ‘em with me when I got kicked. Wasn’t really thinking.”

He speaks roughly, almost coarse. An I really don’t want to talk about it right now.

Shiro obliges, with one small exception.

“Are my shoes in there?”

“I think so.”

“Do you have scissors?”

“Why?”

Shiro bites his lip, tugs at the sleeve covering his metal arm. It doesn’t feel right.

“This. I’m going to cut the sleeve off.”

Keith nods, rising from the couch. He passes him, pulls open a drawer and hands him a pair of scissors that have probably seen better days, holding the blades. Shiro takes them without complaint.

He then turns to the closet, sticking his head in and rummaging around while Shiro slowly cuts the sleeve off without taking off his shirt.

There are scars he doesn’t remember across his chest, his legs, his other arm.

Keith emerges from the closet with a pair of boots. They’re old, but Shiro recognizes them, trusted footwear from a long time ago.

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t answer. He just leaves them next to him and waits, watches.

There’s no sight or sound of anyone else, which makes him wonder where the three other people Keith supposedly picked up are.

“They wanted to look around.” Keith says, as if reading his mind. Shiro shivers at the thought, it makes him uncomfortable. “Don't know why. There isn’t much to look at.”

“I’d like to take a look around too, actually.”

He finally gets the sleeve fully cut. One tug, and the extra material slides off the metal easily. The shoes go next.

He’s pulling on his boots when he remembers, flashing through his mind, don't bring in the dirt, Takashi.

It’s like a lifetime ago.

There’s a creaking noise, and his eyes shoot up.

Keith is standing at the side of the presumable front door, holding it open.

Shiro smiles at him, because the sight of the dunes, of open space — it relieves him.

Before he goes outside though, he asks, “Do you have another one of those belts?”

He spends a long time staring at the sky, the horizon, the endless cliffs and dunes. Feeling the breeze, the sand under his boots, the sun over his head, sweat dripping off his brow.

The desert has never felt so much like home.

As the sun sets, he looks down and flexes his strange arm, testing it again. He gets the feeling that there’s something he’s missing, that there's something it can do that he doesn’t know. Something that he used to know, should know, but can’t remember.

With the wind, he doesn’t hear Keith’s steps in the sand until he’s next to him on the little dune. He can feel the heat of his palm when he touches his shoulder, unsure.

“It’s good to have you back,” Keith says softly.

“It’s good to be back,” Shiro replies.