Chapter Text
Every Move You Make
When Keith received the first letter, he didn’t think much of it. He lived in an apartment complex within walking distance of the campus and 95% of the occupants were students. 40% of the student residence was going into their senior semester and, as such, were becoming a tad unhinged.
Just this week he walked up to his building only to bear witness to a water balloon fight occurring between the occupants of the third floor and a group of people on the street. He had somehow managed to cross the battlefield unscathed but others had not been so lucky. The week before that he had lost sleep to residents on the first floor deciding to have a karaoke contest of nothing but Taylor Swift songs.
So weird shit happened at the red brickstone dormitory off of 3rd and High.
Finding a weird letter amongst his mail wasn’t even the half of it.
Keith scooped up his mail from where it had been slipped in under his door and eyed the unmarked, surprisingly clean white envelope at the top of the pile. It was the size of a small card.
Keith opened it because what did he have to fear? Besides maybe a card laden with glitter that he would spend hours trying to scrape from his fingertips, thanks Lance.
A folded sheet of stationary fell out, nondescript and innocent. No glitter in sight.
Keith smoothed it out to see a heavy hand had inked three words onto the paper, the strokes large like they had been traced over many times.
I.
See.
You.
Keith wasn’t sure what they had seen. Him with a near empty bag of cheetos, orange dust smeared across his chin, falling asleep on his couch to some true crime documentary? Or that time his stove was broke and he tried to use his dishwasher to make ramen? (It hadn’t worked, mind you.) He was about exciting as a senior citizen, maybe less so.
He assumed, after some thought, it was a prank, either misdelivered to his dorm or meant for him in order to draw him into the senior prank wars going on between the third and first floor.
Keith tossed the letter in the trash and didn’t lose a wink of sleep.
X
It was the arrival of the third letter when Keith began to worry. Either someone didn’t know how to take a hint or someone was seriously drunk when they went about the prank and didn’t know how to read the numbers on the door.
The second one had arrived the same way, slipped under his door alongside his mail sometime during the day. Same white envelope, no postage or return stamp to be found.
I. See. You. In a heavier hand that time, the letters bigger, the ink darker.
Again, Keith had tossed the letter, opened a beer, and hadn’t thought much of it.
But after a grueling study session—quantum psychics just did not make any sense—Keith opened his door to a sense of deja-vu when another small white envelope was perched atop his stack of mail. Keith looked back into the hallway, as if the perpetrator was there, lurking and waiting for his arrival. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Keith shut and locked his door behind him in a hurry. Feeling angry now that he was in the safety of his own place, Keith scooped the envelope up and tossed it into the trash, unopened.
He had meant to ask someone, discreetly, while he had been doing laundry that week but hadn’t followed through with the action. What could he say? “Hey, gotten any stalker-ish letters lately?” He already had a reputation for being a loner and unfriendly, though Keith didn’t know what he did besides not smile twenty-four/seven to be labeled as such. He wasn’t keen for gunning for the creep title as well.
The only people he knew well enough to ask outright were Hunk and Lance. Hunk couldn’t keep anything from Lance, though, and if Keith asked Lance it would be across the entire campus before lunch and Lance always added his own embellishments to any story. By the time Lance got through with telling the tale, Keith would’ve had eighty-nine stalkers/ninjas, one bomb scare and an evil twin.
Keith chewed on his lip and glared at this trash can where the letter sat.
Whatever was happening, meant for him or not, he refused to play.
Eventually, they would have to take the hint.
Keith threw his deadbolt after a moment’s thought.
X
If you had told a fourteen-year-old Keith that he would actually have a group of friends to sit with and eat lunch with every day like a normal person when he reached college, fourteen-year-old Keith would have laughed.
Fourteen-year-old Keith was a dick like that.
The Garrison’s cafeteria was a wide, open area plaza, half-inside and half-outside, with grand sweeping ceilings and a space that would have felt cavernous it hadn’t always been so crowded. People used it as a hang-out area, game room, and study room all at the same time.
Keith got a ham sandwich from the line and walked over to where Pidge was flagging him down. Shiro, sitting across from her, twisted to smile at him as he approached and moved his backpack to the floor from where he had been saving Keith a seat, per usual.
“And I’m asking you, haven’t you ever thought of it? Why don’t dogs have thumbs? Apes have thumbs; we have thumbs. Why not dogs?” Lance made his appeal to the table with the vigor of a man who was haunted.
“I think,” Hunk said, “don’t they already have thumbs?”
“Their dew claw,” Pidge reminded him.
“But it’s not the same!” Lance stressed. He wiggled his own appendages like they needed visible proof.
“Do I want to know?” Keith asked quietly.
Shiro hid his chuckle by putting his hand over his mouth. “No you don’t.” He eyed Keith’s only sandwich and turned his bag of chips towards Keith, offering. After a bland bite of his sandwich and Shiro’s continued stare, Keith relented and snacked on a few.
He supposed they did make for an odd bunch: the five of them. Hunk and Lance were film majors. He and Pidge were on the flight path, her ground, him air, the perfect pair. They had met during the high school and been attached at the hip since. And Shiro… Well Shiro was an enigma all himself.
Keith still remembered the first time they had met. He had popped over to Pidge’s for a study session and this god made flesh had been over there, Keith’s brain short-circuiting upon seeing him. Shoulder and waist ratio of a fucking Dorito chip. Biceps that had strained against his prayer of a T-shirt. A smile and gaze that could probably stop traffic.
Keith had hated him on principle alone, had bristled and braced himself for what he was sure to be a douche-of-the-year personality.
Shiro was Matt’s friend, Pidge had explained, there to help them with Iverson’s thermodynamics as he was one of few survivors of the course. Keith had grudgingly stayed because, God, they did need help. Iverson was going to flunk them and that was not an option because Keith was not sharing a cardboard box on the side of street with Pidge.
He loved her but she could bitch like there was no tomorrow when even slightly inconvenienced.
Keith would take all the help he could get, even it was from a frat boy who looked like he would fit better on the cover of a magazine.
That was three years ago. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop with Shiro because no way did God bless you with those looks and a stellar personality and brains to match. Golden Boy Scout in the body of an Adonis. It wasn’t possible. Karma had to take something.
Granted, you could say karma had already taken something.
Shiro dusted salt off of his metal fingertips, pausing to clean a clump that had gotten stuck in the joints of his knuckles
Shiro had been on the same flight track he and Pidge had been on before an accident in the field had derailed all that. The accident should have killed him. Instead it had only taken all of his right arm and the skin across the bridge of his nose. (And scars across his body if Pidge’s claims could be believed.) Shiro’s flight path had deviated from the pilot course to Aviation Safety because of that.
“You looked tired,” Shiro commented when Hunk and Lance continued to argue over whether or not dew claws counted as thumbs.
“I have Sablan’s physics course,” Keith mumbled. “How can numbers be imagery?”
Shiro winced in sympathy. “I could help,” he said after a moment. “I could swing by tonight?”
One day Keith would stop being surprised by Shiro’s selflessness. He couldn’t imagine a less fun evening.
“I can manage,” he tried, staring fixedly at a corner of his sandwich. There really was nothing there besides ham and cheese. He had thought at least it would’ve had mayonnaise.
“Keith, it’s no trouble.”
Keith was only so strong. “Alright then.”
“I’ll swing by around eight?”
Keith shrugged as an answer.
“They do not have thumbs!” Lance said, slamming his hands down.
“Koalas do, man!” Hunk insisted. “They do have thumbs.”
“He’s right,” Pidge said, her nose deep in her phone. She twisted it around to show off a picture with Koala with a very distinct looking thumb.
“That’s just a fourth finger!” Lance argued.
“It’s a thumb,” Pidge stressed. “The fourth finger is their thumb. And actually their first finger, too. Fourth and first finger are both considered thumbs.”
“It’s wikipedia,” Hunk said, squinting at Pidge’s phone. “Are you going to argue with our lord and savior wikipedia?”
Keith sometimes wondered if these conversations sounded as absurd to everyone else.
X
They were knee-deep in going over Sablan’s material that evening, Keith still feeling like it was a second language he hadn’t learned, when Shiro made the offer of getting them some pizza. Keith’s stomach still felt hollow since that bland sandwich he had for lunch so he agreed without much fuss.
“I get coupons in the mail sometime,” Keith offered because he wasn’t a complete moucher. “Hold on and lemme see if I can find any.” Shiro’s hand grabbed his knee before he could get up.
“You stay and finish the problem.” Shiro tapped his pencil across Keith’s notebook. “You’re almost there, I know it.” He got to his feet before Keith could protest. “I’ll check real quick.”
At the time the weird letters were far from Keith’s mind. He was too busy trying to puzzle out if zero counted as an imaginary number.
“Keith…” When Shiro’s voice called to him from the kitchen, it was in a tone Keith hadn’t heard before.
Keith glanced up from his notebook. “Yeah?”
Shiro appeared fist braced around something. “What’s this?” He snarled it. Keith hadn’t thought Shiro was capable of snarling.
It took Keith a moment to register the yellowy, faded stationary and the dark ink strokes. It all came crashing to the forefront of his mind. “You opened my mail?!” was what came out of his mouth and Keith wanted to kick himself.
Shiro’s jaw flexed. “It was sitting on top.”
“But they’re usually in an envelope—.”
Shiro’s gaze snapped to his. “Usually?! Keith, what is this?”
Even from his spot by the living room coffee table Keith could make out the dark, choppy letters. More than three this time.
Didn’t you like my letter? ;(
Keith felt icy terror grip him. He remembered chucking that letter, unopened, three nights ago but there was no way, no way they could have known—.
Shiro was before him all of a sudden, massive frame taking up the entirety of Keith’s vision. The mangled note had been tossed onto the coffee table. “Keith, breathe. Breathe for me, okay?” Keith’s lungs had shrunk and he hadn’t even noticed. Shiro spoke in that tone that made Keith think it was criminal he hadn’t gone on to be a doctor and here he was wasting that excellent bedside manner on Keith.
“Keith,” Shiro said again, hands still tight on his shoulders. “What is going on?”
In broken sentences, Keith told him of the other three letters. Shiro’s fingers flexed on Keith’s shoulder to the point where Keith thought he might have bruises. Keith cringed at how it sounded: both under-playing and over-blowing it. Because what had the letters even said? I see you? Big whoop.
But, still, that was four letters now, one sans envelope like it had been taunting Keith for his earlier action.
“And you haven’t told anyone?” Shiro exclaimed. He looked like he wanted to shake Keith.
“There isn’t anything to tell!”
“Someone is harassing you—!”
“They’re letters, nothing else!”
“Targeting you—!”
“It’s a prank,” Keith tried, clinging to the one logical hope he had. “You know how the seniors get around here.”
Shiro paused in his tirade. Keith could see the gears working in his head. “They’re doing this as prank?”
“I’m almost sure of it.”
“Almost?!”
“Well, no one’s come out and said it but—.”
“So you’re guessing?! Keith, this is serious.”
Keith’s hackles rose. He crossed his arms and held them tightly to his body. “I can handle it, Shiro.”
Shiro stepped back from him, finally releasing his shoulders, to glare at the crumbled letter. “We could dust it for fingerprints,” he mused aloud.
“Oh my God, Shiro. This isn’t CSI! It’s someone who thinks they’re funny being an asshole.”
Shiro took a step forward and then a step back like he wanted to take up pacing. “You don’t know that for sure, Keith. What if something had happened? To you?! And we wouldn’t have had the first goddamn fucking clue—.”
It was the cursing that struck a chord with Keith. He rarely heard Shiro curse and even when he had imagined it (no he did not have imaginations often) it wasn’t that vehemently.
Keith tucked his crossed arms close to his belly. “Shiro, it’s fine—.”
“It’s not fine, Keith!” The words exploded out of Shiro, making Keith jump. Upon seeing Keith’s face, Shiro took a long breath, bracing his hands against the back of his neck. “I’m not—,” he tried, then again with more conviction. “I’m not mad at you, Keith, or blaming you, but damnit you should have told someone when these first started happening.”
Keith had the sneaking suspicion that Shiro watched too many crime dramas and that was confirmed when he went on, like he was the lead investigator on the case, “Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt you?”
Keith snorted. He didn’t mean to be flippant but the thought of anyone caring enough about Keith to go out of their way was a wild concept.
Shiro’s teeth snapped together with a click. “Be serious, Keith.”
“I am, but, really Shiro? I’m a would-be-pilot who’s in debt up to my eyeballs. The most expensive thing I own is that coffee Allura brought over and left because she hated my instant so much. Really, what would anyone have to get out of harassing me?”
“I don’t mean…” Shiro floundered around the words, a blush rising up his neck. “I don’t mean for monetary value, Keith.”
“What other reason would—?”
“Romantic, Keith.” Shiro spit out the words like they were dirty. “An ex perhaps or maybe—.”
“No,” Keith tossed it out there too fast, making one of Shiro’s brows rise and his fist clench. “No, there’s no…spurned lover plotline.” He would have had to have a lover for there to even be a spurned one. When Shiro continued to stare at him, Keith offered up, “I haven’t had time for relationships or any of that shit, okay? Look, I’m taking this seriously now. I’d tell you if I had a suspect list.”
Shiro continued to eye him like he didn’t believe him. If he pursued this, Keith was willing the floor to consume him whole and leave nothing behind because he was not having this conversation at 8:30 pm with imaginary numbers still floating through his brain and a hollow stomach. He was not. He would will himself to death first.
Thankfully, Shiro dropped that line of questioning. “Okay.” His gaze dropped to the crumbled letter again and any softness that had entered his face evaporated. Shiro snatched it up. “I’m going to ask around about this, see what I can dig up. If it is a prank, I’ll know and I’ll make it stop, okay?”
Well, when a man with a visible eight-pack and an expression like he was about to hurl down thunderbolts offered to fight your battles, what were you supposed to say?
No, really, what were you supposed to say? Because Keith sure as hell didn’t know.
“You have a deadbolt, right?” Shiro didn’t wait for a response, stalking towards his door. He checked it, then continued to scowl at the tiny bit of metal as if it wasn’t up to code. “What about your window? It’s locked, right?” Again, he walked over to it without waiting for Keith’s reply, inspecting it himself.
If this was how all future inspections were to be conducted, Keith felt bad for whatever flights were put on Shiro’s route down the line.
“Shiro, I live on the third floor.”
“With a fire escape right next to you.” Shiro opened his blinds to punctuate his observation with a visual. “Someone could very easily shimmy across—.”
“And what? Cat burglar their way into my place to steal Allura’s prize coffee? All while being in view of 3rd Street which never sleeps?”
Keith would be the first to admit he should have probably taken the letters a little more seriously. But Shiro was crossing over into ridiculous territory.
Shiro let his blinds slide back over his window and didn’t comment further. The letter was still a mangled heap in his clenched fist. Keith wanted to snatch it from and study it on his own because surely he could solve this problem himself, but Shiro’s stormy expression kept his actions in check.
He had seen Boy Scout Shiro, Mother Hen Shiro, and even Dark Humor Shiro.
This was a Shiro he hadn’t met and Keith found himself unmoored, unsure where he fit now.
Shiro turned on him and his gray eyes took on a familiar warmth. “I want you to lock the door behind me, with the dead bolt, okay? Don’t open it for anyone but me and if you hear or see anything—if you even just feel uneasy—I want you to call me.” Keith opened his mouth but Shiro plowed on. “Promise me, Keith.”
Well, Keith would be a dick not to. And it wasn’t like it cost him anything anyway. Keith doubted anything would happen besides maybe another creepy letter. The worst thing he could get from that was a paper cut.
On his way out, Shiro grasped his shoulder again. “I’m going to figure this out. You’re going to be safe Keith. I promise.”
It wasn’t until Keith had thrown the deadbolt behind Shiro and was standing in his empty, quiet apartment with nothing by physics homework to do that the thought occurred to him.
He had never considered himself unsafe, had never considered the letters could the prelude to something bigger and much more threatening.
They were just letters.
Right?