Keith

He's studying in the senior lounge, sent on his way by the librarian; clearly his fault, must be something he does that has the constant flares ups going. Certainly not because he refuses to conform to whatever mold the other cadets came out of. Frowns at his books.

"Hey," a voice jolts him, looks up to see a short, dark-haired woman in an engineer's uniform before him. "Fly Boy le deux."

Stares, mouth slightly agape. She snorts, "And here I was told you were smarter than you looked." His brain catches up with the meeting, memory asserts itself, and "You're Shiro's friend. The one with the bad nicknames."

She laughs, "Lisa. And you're the ace with the attitude." Narrows his eyes, tells her that he does have a name. Her eyes dance, "Mm-hmm. And I've been hearing it a lot lately." He feels the tips of his ears burn, turns to annoyance at her opening salvo to hide his discomfort, the way his heart had changed its constant rhythm at Lisa's words.

"Fly Boy le deux?" Sarcastic, sneering. "You can't think up anything original?" But she just winks, saunters off, throwing out a "Once you've done something original, we'll talk." She misses his scowl, attempt to burn holes through her back for throwing him so off balance.

Every so often Shiro will clap him on the shoulder, fingers lingering. Sometimes he'll bump Keith on the shoulder, laugh softly in a way that Keith's pretty sure doesn't happen for anyone else. Each time he hopes for the touch to continue, feels a pit of dread at what caring for someone this deeply will mean; pulse beats hard at the laugh, holds the dual beat of competing emotions. The times he's shoved Shiro in annoyance, fire lingers on his skin, in the adrenaline rush after sparing the punches and grips of the holds ghosts dancing on his skin. Hyper-aware around Shiro, he's noticed that he sits closer to the other man than he would anyone else, that even on the bad days, when he can't stand being near other people, he leans toward the comfort that Shiro's company provides.

Yet at the same time that he yearns to respond to Shiro's touch and light laugh, fear draws him back, a tension that holds him in taut limbo, uncertain and unsure. He can name them all, describe their faces, those he loved and lost. There's no Venn Diagram, with a small oval of overlap; they're one and the same. His parents, the few kids at the orphanage that he befriended, Nan… all gone. Experience fuels the fear that Shiro would join that list. It was already long enough, painful enough, more than painful enough.

Everyone always left, willingly or not. He couldn't bear it if Shiro did too, for real; hard enough, when Shiro left on assignments.

But moth to flame, he can't stay away. So he torments himself, leans close to the man whose company he knows he should avoid, stop the pain that fuels the constant ache before it can be augmented by new loss.

And so the next time he sees Shiro, he's complaining about Lisa's nickname for him, soaks in the startled laughter that 'Fly Boy le deux' elicits. He should be running, but for once he's content to stand still.

He used to get in fights all the time, no surprise there, sure. But not all were about him, how many, what percentage, he doesn't know; doesn't like to quantify things. They happen or they don't, no need for numbers to muddle the actuality of something. As if 20% makes it less real than 70.

Those fights not about him were about others, about protecting the little children, the new kids, the ones who still cried in the night, wet the bed, sucked their thumb long after the jaded kids, the older ones thought it appropriate. Keith stood up for those kids, a scrawny protector of what remained of a childhood marred by loss. He couldn't say why he did it; it certainly wasn't because he was looking to make friends or saw himself as some great hero. The littles half the time were just as scared of him as they were the bullies. He'd never been effusive, after his parents' death even less so, a serious countenance that was off-putting on a child. Perhaps he did it because he'd been bullied in school, back when he still had a family, and he didn't like bullies. Or perhaps because life had already been so unfair to all of them; picking on the new kids didn't make it more fair for the bullies, just horribly more unfair for the littles. Maybe having someone stand up for them could interject a little fairness, something to try and make up some of the balance wanting.

So Keith drew the ire of the bullies, got in fights, fought back. He was fast, hard to hit, catch. When he was thirteen, a foster family enrolled him in martial arts with their children. A few months later he was sent back, but the social workers praised the decision to send him to the classes, said it helped instill some discipline in him. He had progressed quickly, and the instructor let him continue to come, even after he had been returned to the home. Same city, his service to karma and good deed of the year.

A few weeks into the new term, and he notices a first-year cornered by the Russian thickwits and their weasel friend. Doesn't even think about it, just wades in; still doesn't like the three, even after he wiped them in weapons, and knows that whatever's going on, it's nothing good.

"Lay off," he says quietly, and all three jerk away, look at him in shock then pleased anger. Two sets of balled fists about to come up, weasel steps back, eyes darting side to side. Keith considers the merits of kicking him into the wall, since there are no classmates to aim for. Maybe later. For now, he just raises an eyebrow, waits for it.

"Gentlemen," comes the rumbling voice of Commander Wade, displeased and ominous. Wade hates cadets, considered his tenure overseeing them as a personal hell. They disrupted the perfect order to which Garrison regulations aspired, and he especially loathed cadets like Keith whom he thought took particular delight in disrupting his attempts to instill order (only partially true; Keith did take a twisted pleasure in tweaking the commander's perfectly trimmed mustache). "Don't you have somewhere to be? Demerits for loitering, all five."

The first-year's eyes widen, but he has the sense to keep his mouth shut. All five salute, turn away under Wade's demanding stare. Keith shares a hallway with one half of the thickwits, quietly tells him to leave the first-years alone; answers the sneered "or what?" with the promise to get an actual fight going in front of Wade, informs the thickwit that he knows exactly how to make the other look like he's in the wrong. "And your record is worse than mine. So lay off." Leaves his erstwhile companion looking stunned, heads for flight class, puts the incident to the side.

A few days later he gets a whispered thank you, nods, expects it to be done. Has a shadow for another few days, until his shortened temper and exasperation makes it clear to the first-year and the other shadows he picked up that hero worship might be tolerated by some cadets, as Shiro had, but not by Keith. Harrison teases Keith about it for a while after the incident, gets pens thrown at him for his pains. Kyle keeps his nose out of it, probably because he isn't in the room much these days.

Keith doesn't think much of it, doesn't really notice to be honest, until Harrison complains about how Kyle has a girlfriend and has left him alone with the functioning mute. Takes a minute, but Keith realizes that's him (later, when the complaint raises itself again, Keith considers pointing out that Harrison does have friends, but then realizes that he's being baited and so remains silent), decides to ignore Harrison and focus on his flight homework. Focuses to the point that he can almost obliterate the unsettling hiss of envy, want.

There's been a tired set to Shiro's face these past few days when Keith sees him in the morning, gone by the time he passed Shiro in the halls, off to instruct new cadets in sims, standing in for Jansson (when Keith's year found out, there were loud groans, complaints about how they were only off by a year, how unfair; missed the chance to be taught by the fabled Takashi Shirogane. Keith shifts, emotionless as best he can, uneasy with the hero worship happening around him. Shiro's a person, not this ideal construct; they need to remember that). He doesn't like these conversations about feelings, always the risk that they'll rebound on him, but he likes the weary look Shiro's been carrying, hiding, even less.

"Hm?" Shiro shrugs when Keith asks if everything's alright, "Yeah, fine. Just tired." Keith doesn't buy it, raises an eyebrow, gets a wry laugh. "It'll pass, I'll be fine." Pauses, eyes distant, back on the sun, "It's just…" Shakes his head, stops.

Keith nudges him, "It's just what?" Silence answers him, the gathering kind, that speaks to thoughts being compiled, feelings shifted and weighed. He waits, patient for once.

Shiro sighs, "It's just I had hoped to just be another pilot once I graduated, be done with everyone watching all the time. Someone in brass seems to want me to stick around, so I guess not. It's just more tiring with everything else now." He frowns, then shakes his head, shrugs. "It's okay, I guess. I'm used to it."

Keith frowns at those last few words. Sometimes they're okay, but he's far more familiar with the times those four little words show the wear, the canyon gullies worn through by endurance and life. "That doesn't make it right," he says quietly, hotly. "If you don't want the attention, you shouldn't have to deal with it; their wants aren't more important than yours." He holds Shiro's gaze when he looks over, surprised.

"It doesn't always work that way Keith." There's a weary acceptance of the way things are there, and Keith suddenly has to fight the urge to protect Shiro. Because if there's anyone who doesn't need that, he would have thought it would be his friend. But something is shouting that this time, maybe that's not the case, that someone needs to protest the way things 'always work,' since Shiro clearly won't. He's learned to trust his gut over this past year, since he arrived and found out he could actually do something constructive, and so in he wades.

"No," he concedes, "but it should." More surprise, then a slow smile at the conviction in his voice, and Shiro nudges him back.

"Thanks." Shiro's voice is warm, low, full of gratitude, relief that someone gets his reticence and won't say that he should be happy to have the attention. And there's now even less distance between their shoulders, the fabric of their uniforms almost touching. It's the closest Keith's ever been to someone, and he can feel Shiro relax without turning to look at him.

"Anytime," he says self-consciously, trying to focus on the sun and not the closeness. But then he shifts, and suddenly he can feel the edge of Shiro's hand against the tips of his fingers. He should move, he knows it, but Shiro doesn't give any sign that he's noticed, and so Keith stays where he is, hoping that the thud of his heart isn't actually as loud as it is in his ears.

Shiro

Lisa gave him a couple of pictures that she took on her new camera, face caught somewhere between teasing mirth and serious support. He's not sure how she managed to get them without him noticing, but these days, well, he's not exactly the most observant when Keith's around. It's in one of the back corners of the second floor study hall, where hardly anyone goes, he's helping Keith with his advanced physics homework. Lisa had been there too, reviewing the schematics for the ship she'd be joining soon, laughing at Keith's face at her nicknames for them both. In the photo they're both relaxed, at ease, an intent focus on Keith's face, and Shiro's still surprised when he looks at it how close he's to Keith in the picture. You gonna make your move anytime soon? Lisa had asked when she handed them over; he had just stared in surprise, blushed furiously. Good thing Sven was off somewhere, away from base; his advice had remained the same: ticking time bombs should be avoided.

He wouldn't have thought, but the photo has him thinking. Remembering how sometimes his fingers will brush Keith's, how they'll sit so close they might as well be touching. Maybe. If he can get his heart out of throat whenever he thinks about actually asking. If he can do so without scaring Keith away.

A few days leave has him waiting for Sven, kicking around the town near base after returning from visiting his parents, where he spent far more time than he thought he should have dodging questions about "that nice boy, the skinny one. Keith, yes?" than he thought he should have (his mother's nonchalance far more obvious than she thought it was). Their schedules finally overlapped; time for a beer or two, catch-up, gripe about commanding officers in the bar that caught complaints and held them, soaked its walls and imbued the air with the venting of generations of Garrison's graduated officers and NCO's.

A box of old books, quarter a piece, has him pause, remind himself to return the book Keith leant to him (he had enjoyed it, but it had been a slow read, painful almost). Peers in, sees a title that sparks a memory, double checks it, then grabs the book, offers the charity store his custom. The book is battered, but pages are all there, intact and legible; small enough to fit in his jacket pocket. And then he sees the shuttle from Garrison, hails his tall friend, and they're off, laughing at old jokes and complaints; too hot this southern sun, late again as usual, not all of us have clocks wired in.

Keith's face when he gives him the paperback is something that Shiro will never forget (and he won't, though one day he'll bury the memory so deep somedays it will feel as if he has, a hole from the loss of something more precious than words or weight can equal). He had been right, it was the one title from that fantasy series Keith liked that he had never been able to find; feels a glower of satisfaction at that. But at the same time, it's just a paperback, 25 cents at a thrift store found on chance. Shiro doesn't know how to handle the feeling that arises when he realizes that the panic lingering below Keith's delight at the book is that this hasn't happened that often before, someone remembering something said off-hand, long ago, and making good on that unexpressed desire. So he just smiles, tells Keith he doesn't mind if Keith wants to start reading it, but, to his surprise, Keith shakes his head, says he can wait, asks Shiro about the Dog Stars instead. They spend the morning alternating between the sun and the stars, quiet conversation that seems easy and light but peels back pages of feelings and responses to the pain and stubborn hope echoing through the stained paper describing a world destroyed, lost.

When they get up to leave, Keith to class, Shiro to his debriefing, Keith looks over, thanks him again; then pauses, pensive, gathering words. Shiro waits.

"I know to most it's just a book," Keith says finally, "But to me, they're more than that." And because of that, there aren't the words to thank properly, but he hears the conviction, the depth.

He smiles. "I know Keith." He feels he should say something more after that, but he's not sure what, so he stops. But the relieved light, the joy at the shared understanding, in Keith's eyes tells him that he's said exactly the right thing, offered the right amount of words.

The way the sunlight falls across them right now, it does something that lights Keith on fire, and it just looks so right, so perfect that Shiro wishes he could capture the moment on camera, save it forever. But life waits for no one, nothing, not even the solar light show, and they must leave. Duty calls and all, and he won't let Keith skip class, so on they go, moment gone forever, etched only in memory.

Keith's got a sleeping bag wrapped around him when Shiro arrives in the morning, and he restrains the urge to demand if Keith's ok, what possessed him to spend the night outside when the temperatures probably dropped below zero. Just shucks off his jacket instead, drapes it over Keith's shoulders, gives him a pointed look when Keith makes to hand it back. But the expected huff of annoyance doesn't come; not the usual complaints from roommates or classmates this time. So he sits, waits. There's an expectant weight on the air, and before long Keith hunches in, eases of, sighs in an impatient, annoyed way that Shiro's come to know.

"Turns out I don't do great in a team." Mid-thought, so much skipped over; it's obvious, can be inferred, no need to be said. Normally he can catch up pretty quick, but this time Keith's jumped over a lot, has left a lot out. Shiro frowns, thinks back to this time his second year, forces memory to fire. "Team trials?" he asks finally, and Keith nods, fingers picking at the sleeping bag. When Shiro tells him not everyone's cut out for team work, that it's fine (even expected in Keith's case, but he doesn't say that), Keith shakes his head, sighs, goes silent. Then rushes forward again.

"It's just … y'know how some things stick around, never leave?" Shiro nods, thrown by the change in topic. It's connected, but Keith sees patterns no one else can; Jansson, finding out he and Keith were friends, demanded an explanation of Keith's flight logic, but Shiro had none to give. "What they said, it was just the same."

Now he's really confused. "I'm sorry Keith," Shiro says quietly, "You're going to have to spell it out for me more." Keith hunches in, and Shiro nudges him with his shoulder. "Hey hey, it's ok. I'm just not as fast at picking things up as you are." That gets a soft snort, an unfurling. But the shoulders remain touching, barely, and Shiro could almost swear that Keith leans into the touch. Doesn't dare move.

"There was this one family," Keith's voice is low, hushed, a secret, something never to be admitted, voiced. "No kids of their own. Four of us." There's pain there, old and raw; Shiro shifts, leans so there's no doubt, arms touching, I am here. Keith doesn't run, must be the right thing. "We messed everything up, so they said; weren't their real kids, otherwise we'd be better, they'd be able to love us." And there it is, suddenly so much makes sense.

"They lied," Shiro says softly, firmly. Keith smiles weakly, eyes unfocused on the sky, but he relaxes a bit, keeps the contact. Then softly admits to self-detonating, to getting himself kicked out of school because he knew that would call social services in, get it to end. Silence after tells Shiro that that's not all, soft proddings get Keith to tell of one of the girls who found solace in cutting, bloodied rags and shirts that Keith would hide under his pillow for her, under-the-bed too high and sparse to be of any use in hiding secrets. Who he couldn't get to stop, no matter what he did, so instead he did what he could, helped hide a secret that she wore on her arms. A secret that hid a pain as deep as that Keith kept bottled up.

"They were right though," Keith says finally, eyes bleak. "Nothing special, just cast-off kids. Why bother?"

Suddenly, he's so angry he can barely think. There are so many reasons why someone should have bothered, number one being it's Keith, number two that they were just children. And so it takes Shiro a moment longer than perhaps it should to respond, to get the urge to throttle these nameless foster parents who preferred to gaslight their wards instead of care for them. But perhaps that's ok; he's not sure if Keith would have accepted an immediate answer as genuine, not right now.

"There are a million reasons to bother," Shiro says, still wrestling his emotions into order, "And you are special Keith." A cynical shake of the head; "Right. To who?" Keith asks, voice burdened by years of experience of new families and broken hope, shattered promises.

"To me," Shiro says, not thinking about what those words mean, just needing to get Keith beyond the pain of the past, to give him something other than a scar opened by the anger of classmates at a botched exercise. "You're special to me Keith."

Keith looks up surprised, shock clearly stamped on his face. Shiro can feel the tips of his ears going hot, but he holds Keith's gaze, serious, intent. He's done it now, no going back. Not sure if this is the 'move' Lisa had in mind, but it's what's happened, what was needed. A flush suddenly stains Keith's face, and he ducks his head, hiding under the long hair that has him constantly in trouble, receiving lectures about how the dress code for officers isn't as lax as it is for cadets, and Shiro smiles, feels his own blush slide from ears over to cheeks.

"'Sides," he says softly, teasing, "it's 'to whom'. Not 'to who.'" He jerks out of the way as Keith elbows him, settles back with a quiet laugh. And then has to resist the urge to jump as Keith resumes the contact, shoulder against shoulder, his fingers brushing against Shiro's. After a few minutes Shiro takes a chance, moves his hand so that his fingers slot over Keith's, waits until he feels Keith slowly curl his fingers around Shiro's, responds in kind.

"I mean it Keith," he whispers, feels Keith tighten his grip momentarily. "You sure about that?" Keith asks him, quiet, voice trembling. Shiro presses back, nods; "Yes, I am."

Keith lets out a ragged sigh, tension exhaled for now. He's silent, and Shiro decides to take that as a good thing. But then, "No one's ever thought me special before, not since… y'know. And not anyone I thought was special too." It's awkward, confused, and quiet, and Shiro almost misses that last bit, but then it processes, and he has to shove down to the explosion of butterflies that it sets off; not helpful right now. Keith looks up, face caught somewhere between run now! and I don't want to leave. So Shiro smiles, holds on to Keith's hand a little more firmly, feels the heat across his cheeks. Asks, stammers actually, if he really is special to Keith.

And then he gets the most amazing smile, slow and soft, suddenly devoid of all self-doubt as Keith nods, says that he is. A smile that he'll never tire of, will do anything to have directed his way, a smile that he knows immediately that is for him and no one else. The look that he gives Keith in return must have adequately conveyed the joy and nerves that rushed in at Keith's words, because the soft look Keith's giving him brightens with shy amusement.

"Good to know I'm not the only one freaking out," Keith whispers, smile teasing. Shiro laughs, leans so his head hangs close to Keith's, almost touching, not quite. "Oh yeah," he admits. "We'll freak out over this together." Keith grins wryly; it's a deal.

The next while is a mess of leaving on assignments, figuring out where this is going with Keith, putting Lisa and Sven off as best he can. Wouldn't change anything for the world though.

He's going to be gone for almost a month, an assignment that has him nervous, lamenting the timing. That has him ask quietly if it will be okay, then broach the question if maybe they could talk about what was happening, where it was going when he returned. Keith's a steady, still presence beside him; rock against the face of change. A pause and then a nod, a promise they could, just give him a few days once Shiro returns. "Whatever you need," in response, a hard look to make sure Keith knows it. A smile in assurance, and then they turn back to silent watching, a theatre of the sun's light, shoulder to shoulder and fingers interlaced. This is one of the better days, when they casually accept the other's touch. Sometimes Keith can't take it, other days Shiro feels like he can't ask for it. But it's a funny thing; their hands fit into one another, spaces between the fingers the perfect size. Same too, with this. That Keith will lean, share his fire, or that on other days Shiro will just sit back, wait, close but not pressing. They're both tripping and stumbling, awkward blushes, but they can get this right. It's been a year and however many months of surreptitious watching, confused replays of encounters, and watching one another; they've learned to read each other, give and take, stand firm and even push.

"Tell me all about it?" Keith asks finally as they leave, official day about to begin, and Shiro knows it's an offering to signal that this will be okay, regardless of how they feel right now. He nods, promises that he will, and then off their separate ways, regimented patterns to fall into.

The assignment has him piloting a group of scientists, one of them about Shiro's age. Matt, he introduces himself as, excitement fair bubbling over on the trip to Mars and its moons. Nerves too, which Shiro can read as Matt sits up with him, rambling about the oddity of naming the planet after the Roman version of the god, the moons after the Greek god's partners. "I mean," Matt continues, staring at the distant figure of the red planet before them, "If they were going to do Greek and Latin, shouldn't the Latin moons orbit the Greek planet? Planet comes from the Greek planetes, 'wanderer', and planan, 'to wander', after all." Shiro can only laugh, say sounds about right, will have to take Matt's word for it; etymology and ancient history was never really his thing. Once Matt leaves, finds his memory turning back to that day in the summer when he came upon Keith reading, Marcus Aurelius' Meditations pressing through on paper. Would have to ask if there were any other ancient books that Keith liked to read.

He remembers to do so when he gets back, hears about the Education of Cyrus, the Histories, one by an Athenian, the other by someone named Herodotus who claimed to travel the majority of the known world in the fifth-century. And then Keith's jumping over to Chinese literature, and Shiro settles back to listen, to watch. To smile broadly when Keith finally looks over, notices him watching, and blushes furiously. "Don't tell anyone," he begs, and Shiro can only laugh, promise that Keith's secret is safe with him.

He gives Keith a good week before he broaches the subject of them. It's a thorny subject, and not only because of Keith's past; officers and cadets weren't exactly allowed to be in relationships. Shiro's not teaching staff, so things are a little more flexible; Lisa had suggested that they just say it started before Shiro graduated (since, she claimed, they were both committed (she runs over Shiro's protests) long before graduation, probably since you two made up after your first fight), but it's not an easy get-around in any case.

It's kind of a blur, because his nerves are on overdrive and it's hard to hear his words for the thud of his heart in his ears (what, did it suddenly relocate? Random thoughts, ridiculous ones, a sign of nerves). But he knows that he tells Keith it doesn't matter what they call themselves, just could they maybe be something? Hears himself say that he doesn't care about Garrison regulations, that he cares about Keith (so far gone, to admit that…), and then Keith has angled up for a kiss, surprises him, has him grinning like a fool, a quick one in return as Keith blushes, and there it is, they've done it. Whatever they are, they are something, and Shiro feels so happy he doesn't know what to do with himself, and so he just pulls Keith close, smiles in the red rays of the dawn sun. Keith's leaning in, fingers twitching against the press of their bodies, seeking to explore but unsure how to do so.

It's a Saturday, and he doesn't have anywhere to be; there are no classes, and the admin building is silent. So they sit there, close in the opening moments of something new and unsettling and wonderful. A memory from a long moment, one that will soon be painful in the face of loss and displacement. But neither will give it up, not for relief, not for the world.

Keith

It's a rush, pure and exhilarating and overwhelming and all he can think of is never let this end. Hangs on a precipice, in that cockpit, somewhere on the edge of loft and gravity, fighting Newton's fame with the roar of jets and engines firing, of combustion and defiance of if man were to fly, he'd have been born with wings.

He could live in this moment forever.

But like all good things, it must come to an end. Shiro takes over the controls again, finishes the supply run, reminds him that his official open air flight is still for a few days, so don't talk about it hiding behind the reminder. He nods, adrenaline racing, too hot to take away the lure, call, brilliant being of actually flying.

"It's going to be years before anyone beats you," Shiro grins, pride fairly radiating out of him. "No one flies like you do Keith." He grins, can't deny the rush that adds to the mix.

First official open air assuages the need to get back out in the wind, sail over the desert's sun-stained rocks, but the presence of classmates and the drone of instructors dulls the radiant joy he had felt on that first flight. No one can deny, though, Shiro's statement, unsaid as far as they're concerned; instructors shake their heads, beam, classmates stare in awe, jealousy. He flies like he was born in a plane, someone says. Maybe.

Sims cut the edge, but he's built up a tolerance; addicted now, yearns for the high of flight. But he knows the knife-blade on which he dances, the sharp edge of the sword hanging above him. Sure way to get tossed, that, flying when he's clearly not allowed to out of sight of responsible personnel. So he pushes himself in class, on the sims; long hours at the gym, sparring with Shiro, to turn his mind inward and away from the air. He'll get there, one day, just needs to be patient.

"Cadet Kogane," crisp, sharp voice has him freeze, turn and salute as sharply as he can. A tall, saturnine (he'd never say the word, has never used it, only read it, but for whatever reason, it fits this officer) woman stands in front of him, hooded eyes, dark and chary with their thoughts, appraising him. She's silent, he waits; only notices when she shifts to look behind her that Shiro's there, and Jansson as well. Both are studies in silent attendance.

He fights the urge to twitch, fidget, run under her scrutiny. So hard to keep still, but he manages it.

"I've been told you're the one to watch," she says finally. Not sure what to say, so just mumbles a "ma'am," hopes this will end, whatever it is. Jansson makes a few comments about his flying abilities, Shiro agrees.

"Oh so you've met," the sharp admiral says, surprise that no one believes. The non-question is directed at him, has to say something now.

"As senior cadet," Keith says softly, wondering if he should still be so straight, ramrod attention, but can't make himself relax, "Shirogane supervised one of my punishment details last year." Raised eyebrow, go on. "Commander Wade believed that I could learn how to conduct myself as a representative of Garrison from him."

"I see." Oh the urge to wince, how hard it was to restrain, stay still. "You've made strides in that direction, I'm sure." Was that sarcasm? Can't tell; Jansson's and Shiro's faces are expressionless, no help there. And eagle eyes are fixed on him, can't ask for help either.

"If I have failed to live up to expectation," he settles on finally, "It is my fault, not Shirogane's. Ma'am."

That gets quick smile, flick of the corner of her lips. "Cadet, you fair destroy expectations, for better and worse. Dismissed."

Sweet escape, can't get away fast enough once he salutes. Whispers follow the admiral's trail through the cadet buildings in Garrison; decorated, mysterious, hallowed: she's a cipher wrapped up in brutal efficiency and ability. Everyone breathes easier once she's gone, staff and students alike. Shiro finally unwinds, collapses in a relieved heap; complains about the stress of attending on her, then brightens in what that means, her requesting him to serve on her detail during the visit.

"Think the pilots will let you go?" Keith asks. Shiro shrugs.

"Likely not, but we'll see. She doesn't outrank our commander, but I haven't met anyone more intense than her, so who knows who'd win if it came down to it." Keith snorted; his money was on her.

"You've impressed her though," Shiro added, crooked smile teasing. "Maybe you'll be assigned to her detail once you graduate." Keith's eyes widen in shock and oh god please no. Shiro apologizes, though the fact that he's laughing makes it hard to take it seriously. But then a quick kiss, a series of them, and Keith figures he can let it go.

Shiro

It happened so fast that it takes them both by surprise, or it must have, but Keith's freaking out and Shiro can't really tell. There's a thrilling of the blood vessels along the side of his head, below his ears, that speak to the adrenaline coursing through his body, but all he feels is a detached calm; whatever this is, Keith needs him to be steady, nerves are no use to anyone right now.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches over to rest first one arm then the other on Keith's arms; they're shaking, wrapped around knees clutched to his chest.

"Hey," Shiro whispers, "It's ok. You're ok." He's not exactly sure what has set this off, but wonders if maybe it's the fact that this was the first time their kisses had been anything more than the quick run they usually were. These had been fast, hard, bodies pressed against each other, demanding an intimacy that, on reflection, Keith probably wasn't ready for. "You're ok Keith," he repeats, a cold pit in his stomach wondering if someone had hurt Keith this way before (a tentative question a few days later reassures him that the answer is no, but the cynical add-on that it's just Keith's broken brain quickly quashes that relief).

"J… just go," Keith finally forces out, voice ragged from the emotions warring within his chest.

Keith won't look at him, and he's shaking, curled up, trying to calm his breathing. Shiro's almost an arm's length away, still grasping Keith's arms lightly, rubbing circles with his thumbs, giving Keith his space but he will not leave, not yet at least.

"I'm not leaving," he says quietly, firmly, trying to find Keith's eyes hidden behind his hair and the shadows of his hunched posture. "Not unless you really want me to. Not," he stresses the word, unsure why, but feeling it necessary that Keith know he would stay, "because you think it best for me, or that it's just accomplishing now what may happen later. And not because you think you're not good enough, don't deserve this, or whatever it is that you're afraid of but won't say." Keith tenses and he realizes he's leaned in too far; settles back a bit, but maintains his light touch, continues looking for Keith's face, finds it, smiles reassuringly through the worry coursing through his body. "Whatever it is, it's ok Keith. I mean it." Pauses, whispers, "If it means anything, I want to stay."

Keith shakes his head, but leans forward so that he can rest his forehead on Shiro's shoulder, falls slowly into his embrace, accepts its tentative support. "I want you to stay too" comes out, Keith's voice rough and catching on the syllables, so quiet Shiro can barely hear the words. But he does, and it's relief that washes over, has him press his cheek against Keith's head, smile into the hair pressing against his face.

"Then I will." Keith's fingers clutch at his jacket in response. And then, a little while later when he feels Keith relax a little, shifts so that he's sitting, gives his knees a break. Keith settles against him, back to chest, head tucked under Shiro's chin, holding onto the arm that wraps around him.

"'M sorry I'm such a mess," Keith whispers finally, voice soft and miserable. "It's ok," Shiro reassures, "We'll figure it out." Keith doesn't say anything, just intertwines his fingers with Shiro's, clings as they both wait for Keith's heartbeat to slow, tension to release.

Eventually Shiro has to leave, though his heart shouts to stay. Keith grabs his arm, stills him for a moment. There's silence in the air, heavy; it almost obscures the whispered "It means more than you can know," and Shiro feels his heart lurch, pulls Keith in close, tight embrace, forehead pressed to forehead as he lets go. Keith won't look at him, not until Shiro asks if he is ok; meeting be damned, he'll miss it if he has to, figure something out (one of the older pilots swore by food poisoning as an excuse, Garrison's food being atrocious enough that no one questions it). Keith gives him a weak smile, squeezes his arm, nods.

"I'll be in the second floor study room, after class." Shiro nods, smiles as best he can, ok then; see you later.

It's slow moving from then on out, Keith pulling back when he feels the tension of too close pushing forward. Shiro doesn't complain, doesn't push, just accepts. They'll get past it, one day.

The news he has fills him with a quiet pride and excitement. Piloting a run out to the farthest reach of the sun's system: Kerberos, Pluto's moon. Ferrying two scientists, the eager and nervous Matt Holt and his father, Commander Samuel Holt, to the moon's cold surface to collect ice samples, analyse what they said about the history of the system. But it means a year away from Keith, and that's going to be hard.

He tells Keith in the course of the sun's masquerade as a painter, sees the wrench it throws. But Keith puts it aside as best he can once Shiro promises to be back, reminds him that this run is routine now, even though it's the longest of the runs; he asks Shiro about the mission, space flight. Shiro promises to tell him all about it, admits that he's not sure how interesting it will be, this run for ice samples. Keith's smiling again by the time he has to leave, go to class, but it didn't escape Shiro's notice that Keith's touch lingered a little longer than it usually did. Thought to be honest, his probably did too.

They're in some weird, complicated place that has no name and won't, because he's not going to push Keith into something he's not comfortable with. Now's not the time either, a few weeks before he takes off for a year, jets off into space. He can only hope that Keith will have waited, will decide that this whatever they have is worth hanging onto. Not going to lie, he's a little worried about that; things can happen so fast here, and a year is a long time. Who can know what will be?

But then it's the night before departure, and Keith's joined him on the deserted admin building under the cover of stars. There's a subtle awkwardness between them, silence. And then Keith's suddenly seeking the press of his arm against Shiro's, contact that reassures in its solidity.

"I'll be back Keith," he whispers, drawing Keith's hand into his, "I promise."

He doesn't break his promises, even the ones that take him forever to complete. Two years, once, to finish the siding on his grandmother's house that he promised he would do. So he'll be back.

He gets a weak smile as Keith rests his head on Shiro's shoulder. "I know," Keith says finally, "and I'll be here when you get back."

A promise to match his own, and he feels that lingering worry that things might be gone when he returns dissipate. He's not the only one who keeps his promises.

"You're going to be great," Keith continues after another moment. There's an assurance, firmness to his voice, a pride that overshadows the terror of departure. "You're the best there is."

He smiles, leans in towards Keith, wondering how it is that Keith can make him feel the way he does. "Thanks Keith," he says softly, gets that soft smile that's his alone in response, presses forward to kiss away the worry lingering in Keith's eyes.

It's not a good-bye that sees them depart the secluded spot on the roof, but an I'll see you soon, when you get back. No good-byes; good-byes were for forever.

Keith

The Kerberos report throws him to the ground. The ruling on the exploration team crushes him into it. He can barely look at Shiro's parents as they pick up their son's belongings, faces steady but betraying the cut of emotions locked inside. A quiet pat on the arm from Shiro's mother, a clasp of the shoulder (so familiar it burns) from his father, and Keith just wants to crawl under a rock. They have lost so much more than he has; what right does he have to ask for comfort, receive it, from them?

He's back to the close-mouthed, anti-social loner he was when he first arrived by the time he manages to get himself expelled. A ticking time bomb of emotion, fury and anger intermingling with confusion and guilt. He leaves with a defiance that proclaims he knew it would never work anyways, that he was just killing time before something better came up. Or until he just couldn't help himself.

A knot of classmates watch the sub-commander load him into the old Jeep on hand for Garrison officials. One's the loudmouth whose name Keith puts out his mind; no need to remember it now.

The desert is a silent relief of emptiness, freedom. There's no one to disrupt his space, jar the lie that he's happy this way. No jokes to laugh at, no friends to tease. But no shared spaces with stabbing memories, not ghosts in the tall figures of strangers.

Before he'd left, Shiro loned Keith a book. It's coffee-stained, battered; cover faded to the point that Shiro had felt the need one day to trace over the block letters of 'CATCH-22.' Keith now traces the pen lines, neat and precise over the remnants of an original printing.

The first time he read Catch-22, he had pored over the pages in the heat of the dawn sun, immersing himself in the pages to forget, momentarily, the distance between him and the book's owner. Despite his reservations, he enjoyed the read, laughed quietly to himself. Hated Cathcart with a passion, but who didn't? Saw himself in Major Major, secretly yearned to be Yossarian.

When they kicked him out, he had piled his books into his old duffel, clothes tossed unceremoniously on top (and then gone, Kyle and Harrison off at class, but why say good-bye? Was inevitable, this). It wasn't until he stopped living out of the duffel in the spare room at Sheila's that he unpacked the books in the dusty old cabin, pulling out the old hardback in shock. He had meant to return it to Shiro's parents. Overwhelming guilt that he hadn't, crashed away by the relief that he something of Shiro left. One old book and a hand-me-down pair of gloves that he wears constantly.

There's a special feeling that books give off, one learnt from fingers brushing cover, spine, and pages, brushed in turn, as gentle as any lover's touch. Keith knows this Catch-22 as he knew, knows, Shiro.

It's a comfort to open the pages, immerse himself in the story again. He finds himself reading the small, grey penciled notes in the margins, remnants of some English class years ago. Lingers over them, their precise forms, slight imperfects in the press of the spine, or evidence of long nights in the open margins. He takes savage delight in Yossarian's treatment of the corporal in eyeglasses (Où sont les Neigedens d'antan?); that should have been his response to Iversson, though he was still proud of the fuck you sir he gave the man.

But then he gets to that part, that scene which Yossarian lives over and over, and suddenly he's crying, hunched over, tears falling to stain anew the pages before him. He refused to believe in 'piloting error,' but he couldn't get away from the grey void of disappeareddeaddisappeareddead.

He finishes the book that night, reading long past the fall of darkness, alternating between tears and ragged breathing in emotion's aftermath. He's drained when he finally sets the book down in the small hours of morning; he hasn't cried, hasn't mourned, since Garrison's cover story blasted itself across the news channels. And though he's been up all night, he can't sleep. All that waits him is a broken ship, blood and shrapnel everywhere. Shiro, torn open, dying, whispering that he's cold. Knows Shiro's dying, can't do anything about it but sit there, ineffectual, useless, watch him die. Tries to say those words, words he's longed and feared to say since before Shiro left, but unable to make the syllables stick, turn into words. So he sits there, panic steadily rising, until suddenly he's thrown himself from the bed and the crash on the cold ground saves him. Can't get back to sleep after that, shudders through the next while as the nightmare resurfaces.

Où sont …

But eventually it goes away, replaced by silent nights and the occasional nightmare, odds even between this one and one where memories of Shiro taunt him, will-o-wisps where he's never left. Not sure which is worse, but that's irrelevant; knives slicing the flesh of his psyche either way.

Despite it all, however, he doesn't hate the book. Sure, he doesn't read it all again (selective passages, on certain days), but he doesn't grudge the book, or blame it for the nightmares. It's what he has left, several hundred pages of stained paper, stiffened within the faded, penciled cover over cardboard facings. That and a memory of a sure smile, one Keith knows was for him only, and the quiet assertion that Shiro's lending him the book because he thinks Keith will like it. He still wasn't used to those sudden acts of kindness, fondness; now just a memory to cherish. So he hangs on to the book (short flashes of guilt on occasion; shouldn't he return it, to parents who have lost so much more than he? But selfishness overcomes, hangs on to it), brushes the spine with fingers that long to touch the curve of Shiro's chin, run along the lines of his arm instead of the edge of dried pages. It sits in a special spot, the only shelf remaining in a battered bookcase, his other books stacked below, the one Shiro gave him on top, another gift to cherish.

Eventually, though, it moves. Still alone on the only shelf, it now leans against the vertical side, hidden by shadow, visible only to the one who should look at the bookcase directly. Which Keith never does, for reasons he doesn't know nor cares to think about. Like avoiding town because of the strangers that haunt the corner of his eye. Soon the book on the shelf is just another dull pain, constant and familiar, able to be ignored, so he tells himself, added to the hardening shell that claims to protect him. The gloves he keeps on, comfortable and worn as a pair of jeans, a familiar hand over his, a second skin he doesn't think about anymore, just wears, silent reminder of a pair of hands that guided his over the controls of the jet as he cuts through the desert, searching for something he can't articulate.

And so he waits, him and his books, wondering what calls to him in the desert sand. What happened out there, what lies out among the stars?

Where are the Snowdens, Shiros, of yesteryear?

A/N: Catch-22 is by Joseph Heller, and if you haven't read it yet, you should. Où sont les Neigedens d'antan?, "Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?"