Archive of Our Own

***

February

It is with unsympathetic eyes that Shiro watches Matthew Holt draw his final breath. 

“Shiro—” Matt gasps, doubled over. His knees hit the ground; his body folds. 

Without interrupting his pace, Shiro circles around his friend. “Take five if you need to!” An older lady with one of those teacup Yorkies walks by them on the park’s path. “Good morning!” Shiro greets her and makes sure that there’s enough room for passersby. The dog has on a little bowtie. 

“Stop looking so happy and perfect while I die,” Matt grumbles. He’s still mostly facedown. 

“You’re not dying,” Shiro tells him. From the other direction, a woman is jogging with a stroller. Shiro gives the baby a wave as she passes. Tiny fingers wiggle back in delight. Shiro can’t help but smile.  

“Objectively, I am.” Matt says. He groans and, with great effort, flips himself over. Eyes narrow. “Ohmigod man, why are you running in place like that? Stop it.” 

Shiro will not stop it. “Do you remember the calculation we did regarding your target heart rate? You should stay in range as much as possible.” 

Matt says something under his breath about math never betraying him like this before. Shiro laughs. 

“Alright, buddy,” Shiro says, pulling Matt back to his feet, “We’re wasting the whole morning. And look at what a perfect day it is! C’mon.” Once Matt is upright, Shiro taps a finger to his smart watch. “Target heart rate,” he reminds him. And, with an encouraging smack to the back, Shiro resumes their morning run. 

It really is a beautiful morning! The air is crisp and bright, and the sprawling park is full of people taking advantage of the sunshine. This time of year in California the weather is just perfect. They complete their route— just a light three miles, roundtrip— and Shiro feels fresh and full of energy. An excellent start to the day! 

“What kind of shake do you want?” Shiro calls to Matt from their kitchen. (Matt is once again horizontal, now sprawled out on the floor of their apartment’s living room.) “I can do peanut butter, chocolate, vanilla—” 

“UGHGHHHHHH” Matt gurgles from the living room. 

“My choice then,” Shiro hums, reviewing his impressive collection of protein powders. The chocolate one is really good. The immersion blender whirrs and Shiro reviews the chore chart on the fridge. It’s his turn to do the dishes so he’ll do that this afternoon before he starts working. 

“Good job today,” Shiro tells Matt, handing him a protein-packed chocolate shake. His roommate-slash-best-friend is lying on the ground with a wet towel covering his face. Matt begrudgingly sits up and accepts his shake. Shiro touches his shoulder. “I know that getting started is the hardest thing and I just want you to know that I’m proud of you.” 

“This tastes like ass,” Matt tells Shiro in response. “Chalk and ass.” 

“Can’t say I’ve ever tasted chalky ass!” Shiro proclaims. The endorphins color his routinely dark humor a shade lighter.  

Matt takes another sip and makes a face. His disgust is only deepened when he sees Shiro going for the free weights stacked against the wall. Their apartment is only so big, but fitness is a priority! “Dude, really?” 

“Just a few reps,” Shiro assures him. Afterall, he has a lot to get done today. He’s aiming to make some good progress on his dissertation since it’s Sunday and he won’t be going into the lab. 

More mumbles and grumbles from Matt. The words ‘torture’ and ‘masochist’ and ‘insane’ surface but Shiro knows that Matt has good intentions overall. 

*

Matt does not have good intentions overall. 

Shiro decides as much a few hours later when the sun has set and it is dinnertime in the Shirogane-Holt apartment. Like he planned, Shiro had a productive day: after the invigorating run, he did some basic strength training, a few chores, and then got all nice and cozy with his research. He’ll be presenting his dissertation in the spring so there’s no time to waste. 

Matt, on the other hand, presumably spent the entire day making a powerpoint. About Shiro’s lovelife. 

Or lack thereof. 

“Let us begin!” Matt clicks to the title screen. The title reads: ‘Rigorous and efficient computational data analysis of the statistical probability that Takashi Shirogane will remain single for the foreseeable future.’ Another button is pressed and the subtitle bounces into place (Matt loves the bounce effect; it’s a problem): ‘A multimodal approach.’

“I don’t like this,” Shiro says. 

The first slide is a pie chart showing the number of dates that Shiro has gone on in the past 14 months. The pie chart is a circle and the circle is a single color. It is red. Shiro has gone on zero dates. 

“That’s not true!” Shiro protests. “There was that one—” 

Waving a chicken wing around— it’s an S-Dash Day (S-Dash is when Matt orders take out and Shiro goes to pick it up— not to be confused with Uber Holt wherein the opposite occurs) and today Shiro dashed for chicken wings— Matt silences him and clicks forward. A large block of text swoops down to cover the pie chart: 

“The coffee ‘date’ where your student’s friend asked you to do his statistics homework does NOT count,” Matt and Shiro read the text aloud together. Matt pairs the statement with aggressive air quotes around the word ‘date.’ 

“Everyone needs help sometimes!” Shiro says. It’s true that Josh (the guy’s name was Josh) did seem to have romantic intentions right up until the time he asked for Shiro’s impeccably detailed notes— but maybe Shiro was just reading the situation wrong. 

“It was applied statistics,” Matt scoffs. “We’re not even talking about theoretical mathematics, Shiro. How hard could it be?” He rolls his eyes, dismissing Josh in favor of dunking a chicken wing in a cup of ranch dressing. “Anyways, stop interrupting. We’re just getting started.” 

Admonished, Shiro nibbles on a chicken wing. These wings are from his favorite restaurant— ‘The Little Red Hen.’ It’s owned by the sweetest Chinese grandma and she always gives Shiro extra sauces and a smile when he picks their order up— but this was clearly a trap. Matt only suggested wings to attack Shiro while Shiro’s defenses were down. That much is becoming clear. 

After Shiro suffers through an endless rundown of his lackluster experience with singleness, Matt brings the oral defense of his prospectus to a close. The closing argument is basically that Shiro is doomed. It’s compelling. 

“Well, that was heartening. Thank you, Matt.” 

“Do not fear, Shirogane.” Matt slams a hand down on the table. He’s really getting into it— data sets always do it for him. “I know exactly what to do.” 

“Listen, I know anime figurines are good for you, but I just don’t,” 

“Okay don’t talk about my waifu like that, first of all.” Matt interrupts Shiro. “We’re very happy together. And this isn’t about that. This is about our Resolutions .” 

Ah. 

That’s what this is about. New Year’s Eve. The two of them. Here, in their apartment. Drunk. The clock struck midnight. Fireworks were booming. The video game was paused on the television in front of them. They were on the couch together.

“This year, I want to be different,” Matt said. 

Thoughts pleasant and syrupy in their slowness, Shiro turned his head to look at his friend. Matt’s eyes were closed. “How so?” 

“I want,” Matt belched and then began anew, “Shiro, I want to run a marathon!” Abrupt, he stood up! And climbed on the couch! “I’ve always been the skinny dorky computer guy! I know no one thinks I could do it! I don’t even think I can!” 

“You can!” Shiro told him. “Why not!” 

“Why not!” Matt rallies, flexing his (admittedly, skinny) bicep. 

“I’ll help you!” Shiro tells him. He closes his eyes, already putting together a training regimen. It may have been the idea of peak physical fitness or the alcohol, but Shiro was relaxed and happy. He turned and hugged one of the couch pillows, ready to drift off. 

Matt paused in his flexing to consider: “And what about you? What’s your resolution for this year?” 

Shiro sighed. A sound of longing. “I want to be in love,” he admitted. “Real love.” 

They say ‘in wine, there is truth.’ This was precisely two tequila shots and three beers, not wine. In two tequila shots and three beers, Shiro finds, there is regret. There may be some truth too, but mostly regret. 

“Drunk me has poor timing,” Shiro tells Matt and his damning presentation. “This is a busy year.” 

“Too busy for love?!” Matt asks. 

Shiro motions to the enormous white board in their kitchen with their schedules on it. It’s packed. “Arguably.” 

“Ah, ah, ah.” The esteemed Matthew Holt walks to said board and picks up the black dry erase marker. This is the one that Shiro uses for all of his meetings and appointments. “I already thought of that.” 

“Matt. You didn’t.” 

On the board, on the 14th of February, Valentine’s day, tomorrow , Matt writes ‘MOVIE DATE.’ He caps the marker. 

“No.” 

Matt grabs another marker and circles the words in red. “Yes.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can.” Matt gives him an encouraging smack on the back. “Don’t forget about your target heart rate. Buddy.” 

Shiro sighs. This can’t be happening. 

*

The next day, the date is indeed happening. Shiro processes it as best he can. Shock gave way to denial. He made his morning coffee, and stared at the words on the dry erase board. They were still there. He told himself, shrugging on his riding jacket and getting on his bike, that he would simply explain to the man that this was a misunderstanding; he wouldn’t actually be meeting a stranger for a movie date on Valentine’s day. Bargaining with himself about how he could resolve the situation. But the thought of letting someone down, especially on a holiday, sends Shiro into a deep depression that even his favorite students (as a PhD candidate, Shiro leads lab on Mondays and Thursdays and lectures Tuesdays and Fridays) can’t shake. By the end of the day, he’s accepted his fate. He’ll go on this date. 

Of course, the idea of finding love is appealing. Drunk-Shiro wasn’t wrong— he’s tired of casual sex and situationships. He wants something more. This year contains a huge milestone for him, and having a significant other to share it with would be amazing. But sober-Shiro is a realist, and an elder millennial,  and a mutually fulfilling emotional connection feels about as realistic as owning a home. In this economy? Still, as Shiro freshens up in the nicest bathroom that the science building has to offer, something akin to hope lights up in his chest. His motorcycle helmet tends to flatten his hair, but it seems the gods of good hair days are smiling upon him on this fateful Valentine’s day (premature gray notwithstanding). Some might say that Shiro’s designer sweater is too smart of a choice for the movie theater, but the lab gets cold during the day, and his leather riding jacket dresses the outfit down. He’ll admit it: he looks good. By the time he’s on his way to the date, Shiro is beginning to feel excited. 

Earlier, Matt texted him the location of the movie theater. It’s a local place instead of one of the big names. Sun Crest Cinema, it says, in tall red letters over the old fashioned marquee board. It appears that the place is only big enough for two screens. Charming, Shiro decides, parking his bike. He’s early. He doesn’t have the man’s number— in fact, he has no idea how Matt even found this guy— but he does have a name. 

Curtis. 

Would it be better to wait inside or outside? It’s been so long since he’s been on a date. A real date. With romantic intentions. Excitement gives way to nerves. Shiro goes inside, decides against it, goes back outside. Checks the time. Checks his email, finds that one of his students has asked him a truly engaged question— he gets excited! Shiro begins drafting a response right there on his phone but then realizes that he’s supposed to be on a date. He closes the application for now. Checks the time again. 

From outside the theater, Shiro watches traffic on the city street. What will this guy be like? What kind of car does a ‘Curtis’ drive? An expensive sports car, one that would impress? Something small and sensible and common? A Prius stops at the light and makes the turn towards the movie theater— but no, it keeps driving. The man isn’t late yet. 

A red Chevy pickup truck— must have been new in the 90s— makes the same turn, rattling and wheezing as it does so. 

It slows, the driver clearly surveying the minimal street parking available. There’s one spot open, barely enough room to be called a spot, between two cars. “No,” Shiro says, under his breath. He wouldn’t. 

Yes. This driver would. 

The driver slings one arm past the back of the seat to look over his right shoulder. Zero hesitation, the vehicle swings and reverses into the tight spot. With a hair’s width of room between the back of the truck the driver stops and rocks the truck forward, just a smidge, straightening it up. Perfect. Shiro has never seen anyone parallel park with so much confidence and so much skill. Shiro likely never will again. Who is he?

He hops out of the cab, disappearing from Shiro’s view for a moment. 

He reappears, with a hammer in hand. 

A hammer? 

A hammer. The man, holding a hammer, opens the back of his truck. The hammer gets tossed in the back— Shiro can hear the clang of metal on metal from here— and he takes something else out. This object he shoves in the pocket of his red sweatshirt. He closes the bed of the truck. He starts walking towards the movie theater. 

Shiro swears under his breath. 

The man isn’t dressed for a date— jeans faded at the knees and work boots accompany the red sweatshirt— but fuck if he isn’t stunning all the same. He’s shorter than Shiro, wiry. One strong looking hand pushes messy hair out of his eyes— his dark, soulfilled eyes— and then those eyes find Shiro. 

Nervous (and questioning how in the world did Matt find this remarkable man), Shiro concentrates every single iota of his consciousness on not making a fool of himself in front of someone this beautiful. He extends his hand. “Shiro. Nice to meet you.” 

“Woah.” The man— who must be Curtis— takes Shiro’s prosthetic and turns it over in his hand. He even bends closer to see it. “Cool.” 

It’s not the reaction that Shiro is expecting. Most people act like his prosthetic doesn’t exist, or spend too much time staring at it and apologize. Both are equally bad. Curtis’ obvious interest is a breath of fresh air. 

“Thanks,” Shiro says, giving him a nervous smile. “It took some getting used to, I’ll admit, but it’s been well worth the time.” 

The man nods. 

“Do you go by Curt?” Shiro blurts out. 

Curtis looks confused. He shakes his head. “No?” 

Shit, Shiro might have offended him. “Got it. Well, should we head inside?” 

One dark brow raises. “Guess so?” 

Shiro pushes the door open. “After you, then.” As the man walks by, he smells not like cologne, but like Ivory soap and lumber, like he’s spent the day building something. Or inside the Home Depot, at the very least. Shiro is charmed. 

Oh no, Shiro is charmed . 

Curtis walks to the box office where a tired teen is selling tickets for the show. There’s not much of a line, or any crowd to speak of— though there is one man standing off to the side. He has a deeper complexion than Shiro and is just as tall, but the reason why Shiro notices him is the Birkin on his arm. The handbag is black, classic, in pristine condition. He makes eye contact with Shiro from across the room, and even looks like he might approach, but the moment is interrupted. Ahead of Shiro, Curtis is ordering a ticket. There’s a romcom and one of those big budget superhero movies playing. Neither are Shiro’s first choice, but he assumed that they’d be seeing the superhero movie. The man in front of him is buying a ticket for the romantic comedy. 

“One ticket for Never Give Up on You ,” he says to the cashier. 

“Make that two,” Shiro says, setting a hand on the man’s shoulder. He smiles down at him. “My treat.” 

“Oh..kay?” He seems equally confused when Shiro follows him to the snack counter and pays for his red ICEE as well. 

“Hope that wasn’t too much,” Shiro whispers to him, hand gently resting on the small of the man’s back as they walk into the dark theater together. Some people are particular about that kind of thing. And it’s been a long time since Shiro has been on a date, so he doesn’t know if the unspoken rules have changed. 

The man shrugs. “Pretty good deal. They’re $6.29 at the AMC,” he says, sticking a straw into the drink. “And almost eight dollars for popcorn.” 

The theater itself is small. A few people are already in seats, but Curtis must already know what he likes. Without hesitation, he heads to the very back row. He chooses a seat directly under the projector window. 

Shiro sits at his right. If everything goes well, maybe he’ll find the courage to take the man’s hand by the end of the movie. Or not. Curtis gives him a look and then takes a sip of his slushie. His mouth will be red by the time he’s done with it. Shiro needs to not think about his mouth. 

He makes an attempt at quiet conversation— the movie has yet to start— but Curtis places an index finger over his own lips, shushing Shiro. He’s wearing fingerless gloves. It’s cute. So cute. Shiro is smitten. 

Oh no, Shiro is smitten . 

The previews begin; the dark room gets darker. 

Everything seems normal until the movie begins. 

Because, as soon as the title card appears on the screen, the man reaches into his sweatshirt pocket, and pulls out a large plastic package. 

Shiro squints in the dark. He can barely make out the words: ‘BIG PAPA. Hearty Dill Pickle.’ Underneath this lettering, there is a cartoon of a pickle—presumably Big Papa— smiling. 

“...Cur—” 

Whatever Shiro might have been about to whisper dies in his throat. Because the next thing the man takes out of his sweatshirt pocket is stranger than a hearty dill pickle. It is a knife. A very large bowie knife. He unsnaps the leather sheath from the blade, holds it out, and then uses the knife to slice an opening in the top of the pickle pouch. Even in the dark of the theater, the blade shines. He slurps some of the pickle juice out so it doesn’t spill, then carefully maneuvers the knife back into the sheath. And pockets it again. He slips the tip of the pickle out of the plastic package. Takes a bite. 

It’s quiet enough in the theater that the snap and crunch of the man chewing the pickle is very audible. A few people turn around to look. Shiro cannot watch the movie. He can only watch the man. 

Forty minutes later, Shiro has no idea what Never Give Up on You is about. He only knows that Curtis had a second pickle which he promptly started crunching on as soon as the first one was gone. He drank the pickle juice of both. When the movie is about halfway done, the man pulls the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands and crosses his arms— cold. Shiro feels compelled to place his leather jacket over the man’s shoulders. He does. His jacket is far too big but the man slips his arms inside and gives Shiro a nod of thanks. 

Curtis gets teary eyed during the final kissing scene. Shiro watches him—he rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes. He blinks, and swallows, and sucks down the last dregs of his slushie in one emotion filled slurp. 

Shiro might be in love. 

Oh no, Shiro might be in love . 

“Would you like to get a drink?” Shiro asks, following the man out of the theater in a daze. The night air is cool. It lifts the man’s messy hair from his forehead as he looks up at Shiro. His mouth is stained red from the slushie. His eyes are dark and solemn. Shiro would like to kiss him. 

“Um.” He shakes his head. “M’good. Thanks though.” 

Taken aback, Shiro nods. But he’s an adult. He’s been to therapy. He can handle rejection. “Well, regardless, I had a great time tonight. Thanks for the company.” 

Curtis gives him a small smile. “Yeah. Movie was, uh, pretty good.” He takes a step back and waves, just a little wave. “See you!” And then he jogs back to his red truck. 

Dumped on a blind date. Shiro sighs and thinks about Matt’s presentation. This is not going to be good for the dataset. 

*

“Dude, I can’t believe you!!” Matt is waiting for Shiro as soon as Shiro opens the door to their apartment. Their television is on; a video game is paused. 

“What?” 

“You stood Curtis up!” 

Shiro looks up from where he’s untying the laces of his shoes. “Excuse me?” Shiro is the kind of man who follows through with the commitments he makes to people. Even in fifth grade when Jennifer Brown asked to be his Valentine, Shiro made sure to get her a chocolate heart at the grocery store with his mom. He didn’t like girls but Jenny Brown deserved that much at least. Shiro doesn’t stand people up . “Matt, I just got back from our date. What are you talking about?”

Matt is a genius and also has known Shiro since about fifth grade— he knows about Jenny Brown and he knows that Shiro is telling the truth. He pushes glasses up his nose and looks appropriately befuddled. “Then why did I get a text from Curt saying that he never found you?”

“He said he doesn’t go by Curt?” Shiro says. 

“He said he didn’t even talk to you!” Matt says. 

Problem solving and de-escalation are some of Shiro’s strong points. He takes a deep breath. “Now hold on. Let’s take a step back. There must be an obvious explanation for the disconnect here.”  

Muttering under his breath, Matt gets up from the couch to retrieve his phone from the kitchen. Instagram is opened. A few taps— he turns the screen to Shiro. “ This is Curtis.”  

“I don’t—wait.” A tall man. Deep complexion. Black Birkin. Shiro is horrified. “The black Birkin…”

“You saw him at the movie theater?” 

Shiro nods. 

“But you didn’t talk to him?” Matt confirms. 

Shiro shakes his head. 

“Then who the F did you see a movie with, Shirogane?” 

Shiro sinks into the couch. “It appears that I don’t know?” 

“Unbelievable,” Matt says in a tone that sounds more like data collection than sympathy. He takes a seat next to Shiro and resumes eating cheese puffs out an industrial sized plastic barrel. (His default state of being). “What was he like?”

Shiro says everything he can say in a single lovelorn sigh. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back on the back of the couch. Even with Matt’s crunching and the ambient smell of radioactive cheese powder, he can picture the man’s beautiful dark eyes. “Perfect,” he says. “He was perfect.” 

“Perfect?” Matt echoes. In mathematics, as Shiro understands it, sometimes one can reach the correct answer with a process that is entirely wrong. Matt must think that is what’s happening here. He has miscalculated. “Well. At least you had a successful date,” Matt says. He picks up his headset, ready to go back to playing whatever game he’s playing.  

“Not at all,” Shiro admits. In retrospect, just the opposite. He gives a brief summary of current events. By the time he gets past the previews, Matt’s understanding of the situation has deepened. But duty calls. Thoughtful, he picks up his headset and controller. He unpauses the game, considering Shiro’s situation, and then he comes up with: 

“That sucks dude.” 

“Thank you,” Shiro says. It means alot. 

Matt smashes some buttons and whisper shouts into the mic: “Hang on Pidge, I’m comforting Shiro about his sucky love life—yes, again ,”

“And you’re doing such an excellent job,” Shiro says, smacking Matt on his skinny leg before he gets up. “But I think that’s my cue to leave.” He’s going to drown himself in emails from his students and then go to bed. Happy Valentine’s Day. 

*

March  

As an apology for the confusion, Shiro contacts Curtis (the actual Curtis) and sets up another date. The romantic in him thinks of what a story it would make to tell years from now if it works out with— this mis-start, their fateful first meeting gone wrong. Curtis chooses the restaurant; Shiro makes the reservation. But his heart’s not in it. He finds himself thinking of the other man instead as he gets ready. The way he felt as he stood next to Shiro in line. The way he smelled. The way he parallel parked. With regards to his New Year’s resolution, it’s almost as if he already achieved it, but somehow it’s gone wrong. 

On paper, the tall man with expensive taste seems like Shiro’s perfect match. Curtis arrives, Birkin in hand. He’s smart, successful, attractive. It is the single most excruciating dinner of Shiro’s life. 

To reiterate: it is the single most excruciating dinner of Shiro’s life . 

“So. Did you find a rando in the parking lot or did you actually meet with Curtis?” Matt asks him when Shiro walks in the door after the date. 

Shiro motions for Matt to hand over the barrel of cheese balls. He needs the empty calories. Just the thing to fill the black void in his heart. “I did. Unfortunately.” 

The surprise on Matt’s face is obvious— he watches Shiro knock back two handfuls of the cheese balls with wild abandon. “It was that bad?” 

“He corrected my pronunciation of the wine,” Shiro says slowly. “That was after we sat in silence for ten minutes.” 

“Oof.” Matt says. 

“Oof,” Shiro agrees. Curtis has all the charisma of a wet blanket. The personality of a saltine. There will not be a second date. 

Shiro doesn’t forget about the beautiful man in the movie theater. In part, this is because the man took his jacket. Shiro didn’t realize it right away— about a week after the premiere of Never Give Up on You , Shiro is looking for the jacket and realizes that the last time he saw it was on the shoulders of the beautiful man in the movie theater. He pictures the way it draped over his narrow shoulders. The small smile he gave Shiro. Shiro stands there, thinking about it. 

“Huh. That was my favorite jacket,” he eventually tells the contents of the coat closet. He’ll never be able to replace it. 

This loss, combined with the man’s arresting presence, means that Shiro hasn’t stopped thinking about his mysterious Valentine even a month later. With lecturing and his dissertation looming in the near future, Shiro doesn’t have a great deal of free time. He does, however, spend some of that precious free time searching for the man, both in real life and on various social media, but comes up short. For weeks, he does a double take at every red pick-up truck on the road, but the man with the messy dark hair is never the one behind the wheel. 

*

April, May, June, July  

The following months are a blur. All of Shiro’s time and energy is spent working on his dissertation. The day that he presents his research is exhausting and triumphant— the culmination of years worth of work. He is successful. He is, officially, finished. After the hectic spring, he spends the first half of the summer celebrating and recovering and reshaping his life post-doctoral. 

“To Shiro!!” 

Shiro clicks the tiny glass against Allura’s next to him and takes the shot. On his other side, Romelle is laughing loudly— she has the kind of laugh that carries— too caught up in a conversation with Hunk to make the toast in time. 

“Oh I missed it!” she says, and then, “Shiro, c’mon, do another one with me!” 

Grinning, Shiro does. Romelle has her long blonde hair tied up in voluminous space buns— it tickles when she pulls Shiro close enough to take a video of the second toast. 

“Man. I can’t believe you’re not gonna be at Altea with us this year,” Hunk says. 

“As bereft as the university will feel without my presence, I think you’ll survive,” Shiro retorts, dry. It’s difficult to believe that he’s finally Takashi Shirogane Ph.D. “And I don’t think I’ll ever fully escape. Slav already has me guest lecturing twice in the fall.” 

Allura shudders. “Shiro, darling, how on earth did you get roped into that?” 

“The evil you know,” Shiro says with a smile. Professor Slav is the embodiment of a counter argument for tenureship. But Shiro continues to love academia despite his overfamiliarity with all her flaws. It really is strange to think of the school year beginning in just a few weeks, and now, at long last, that has nothing to do with him. 

“Next round is mine!” Allura announces after they’ve spent a good ten minutes trading horror stories about Professor Slav. She slips down from the high top and makes her way to the bar through the crowd. 

When she returns, her lips are pursed into a not-exactly smile. 

“What happened?” Romelle asks. 

Allura groans, and then gives them all a knowing smile. Shiro looks to the bar and sees a tall, lean guy with floofy hair looking their way. Ah. 

“And?” Shiro prods. 

“He was…sweet.” Allura admits. 

“But…” 

“He asked for my ‘snap.’” 

The table dissolves into loud dismissal. Once a human being is past twenty years old, snapchat is simply not an acceptable way to approach a woman. Shiro looks back to the guy. Wait— 

He’s arguing with someone. The incompetent-flirt is arguing with a man who’s back is to Shiro and the table. And there’s something about that man’s hair and build that’s familiar …

This bar is far enough from campus that running into one of Shiro’s students is unlikely. So how does he know…

Whatever conclusion he might have come to is immediately forgotten as the tall lanky guy drops to the floor. The man he was arguing with makes a quick exit amid shouting. Shiro sees him shake out his hand; he’s wearing fingerless gloves.

“Oh man, yikes,” Hunk cringes. “An actual bar fight.” 

“Oh dear,” Allura says, once again getting out of her seat. 

“Sooo Allura has this thing for pathetic men,” Romelle whispers to Shiro. Loudly. She laughs. 

“Clearly,” Shiro responds. He shifts in his seat and looks at the door. And he’s tipsy enough to admit that he has a thing for a man with an impressive right hook. Moreso if he’s wearing leather in the California summer. “I’ll make sure everything is okay outside.” 

Which is a thinly veiled excuse to follow the man with the gloves. Could it have been Shiro’s One True Love (as he’s taken to calling the man from the movie theater)? But once Shiro is outside in the warmth of the night, the man is gone. 

*

August, September

Shiro gets home from the gym to find that his living room has been transformed. Into…what, exactly , it’s impossible to say. The couch has been pushed against the wall and there’s a plastic tarp over the television. 

“Don’t move!” Pidge shouts, throwing a hand up in the air to stop Shiro. They are not looking at him, but when Shiro fails to follow their direction, they flail in a very convincing way. He closes the door behind him. He stops. 

“I’ll be honest, Pidge, that’s going to make getting to my room difficult.” 

Pidge and their brother ignore Shiro. Matt pulls goggles down over his eyes. Pidge’s hand hovers over the keyboard of their laptop. In between the Holt siblings, on Shiro’s IKEA coffee table, there is an amalgamation of metal and wires and lights. The poor FRÖTORP does not deserve this. Also, worryingly, there is a fire extinguisher sitting on top of Shiro’s free weights that was not there this morning. It is unclear as to whether or not it has been used. 

“Ready?” Pidge asks. 

“Ready.” Matt confirms. 

“I need some additional information before I can make that call,” Shiro tells them. 

His vote of concern goes unheard. Pidge clicks the button. The metal twitches. Matt yelps. 

A high pitch whirring sound. A click. A squeak. 

A spark. 

A fire. 

“Fucking shit!!! SHIT SHIT SHIT! Matt, now!” 

Matt lunges for the fire extinguisher. “PASS!!” He’s shouting. “Pull, Aim— Shiro, what does the ‘S’ stand for?!” The acronym doesn’t matter because Matt can’t get the tab loose on the handle. He’s wrestling with it— 

“Squeeze. And Sweep.” Shiro takes the extinguisher from Matt and squeezes the lever appropriately. He, indeed, sweeps. The fire is out. The smell of burning plastic and metal remains. 

Pidge is typing furiously on their laptop. 

“That was exciting!” Matt gives Shiro a lopsided grin. He pulls his goggles down around his neck. 

“I wouldn’t use that word,” Shiro says, setting the extinguisher down. 

“We need to make some adjustments before the next run,” Pidge says. 

“How many fires are we planning on starting today?” Shiro asks. 

“Realistically?” Pidge asks in return, pushing their glasses up their nose, thoughtful. 

“I mean,” Matt shrugs, “It was just a small fire.” 

“Right.” 

Pidge leans forward and snaps some pictures of the metal frame. “Hang on a sec, I’m going to send this to Keith and see what he says.” They text. Shiro surveys the impressive black ring now burned into his living room ceiling. 

“Oh nice!” Pidge gives their brother a thumbs up. “Keith says that the damage to the structure looks minimal and that the base he’s making is almost done. This Wednesday he’ll bring it over.”

“Not here.” Shiro says. He has no idea what any of this is about, but there’s only so many pyrotechnics one man can tolerate in a leased two-bedroom apartment. “Pidge, my grandparents have a big backyard and live about thirty minutes away. As long as you can promise to keep the fire hazards to a minimum, I’m sure they’d be amenable to letting you use some space.” 

“Sweet! I’ll tell Keith to bring it there!”  

It sounds like a dangerous proposition, but Shiro comes from a long line of adrenaline junkies. Knowing his grandfather, he’ll be right there with the Holts, cheering on the combustion. 

*

October  

“Annnnnnnnnd, time!” Shiro clicks the button on the stopwatch. “Excellent!” 

Once again, Matt flings himself towards the ground. He sprawls out over the grass like a starfish, red-faced and huffing. Shiro hands him a water bottle. 

“Excellent,” he repeats. “You’re really making progress!!” 

“You’re doing it again.” Matt says. “The overly optimistic happy thing.” 

“What can I say?” Shiro says, taking a seat next to him with a grin. At this rate, Matt is going to do just fine in the half-marathon they have coming up. “Endorphins are real.” 

“Shhhhh.” Matt shushes him. 

The action calls to mind the stranger in the movie theater. It’s been months — eight months, to be exact— but Shiro still remembers him. While Matt is making progress on his resolution, Shiro is stalled. His One True Love is lost. 

“When are you going to go on another date?” Matt asks him. 

“Don’t do that.” Shiro says. 

“Do what?” 

“Read my mind.” 

“Ooogly booogly~” Matt wiggles his fingers in Shiro’s direction. “No, seriously, dude. You can’t just think about that pickle guy for the rest of your life.” 

Shiro makes a non-committal noise. “Can we come up with a better name for my One True Love than ‘pickle guy’?” 

“Objectively, no.” Matt sips the water and smacks his lips in an aggravating way. “Because that was freaking weird. And it’s funny.” 

“So glad to be entertaining,” Shiro comments. 

“Here’s what you do,” Matt continues to advise, even without being asked. How charitable. “You buy another jacket. You download a dating app— literally any dating app— and you meet a new and better guy. Get this! You’ll even know his name.” 

There is no better guy . Matthew did not see the man parallel park. He simply does not understand. 

At the risk of sounding insane, Shiro does not say that. Instead he asks: “What makes you think it will be that simple?” 

“Baby, somebody ought to tell you not everything has to be hard,” Matt says, in a fake southern accent. 

Shiro makes a face at him. “Stop that.” 

*

Not immune to life advice (and also not immune to retail therapy) Shiro drowns his sorrows at Nordstrom. He does, indeed, replace his leather jacket. Finally. 

He does, indeed, download a dating app. Begrudgingly. 

He does, indeed, have a date lined up by the end of the week. Surprisingly. 

Matt can be annoyingly correct. Sometimes. 

Adam. 

The guy’s name is Adam. He’s adorable. Curly chestnut hair. Freckles. Glasses. He has a cat named ‘Rocket.’ (Shiro loves cats.) He has a degree in biochemistry that meshes ever-so-nicely with Shiro’s expertise in biomedical engineering. By the time they’ve matched and exchanged numbers, Shiro is already picturing white picket fences and two-and-a-half children. (Shiro is the type of man who plans.) 

(Shiro would prefer the house and the children to be with his One True Love.) 

Unfortunately. It becomes exceedingly clear exceedingly quickly why Adam is still single. 

Red flag, after red flag, after red flag. 

Adam is rude to the waitstaff. 

Shiro can become accustomed to the man’s use of proper punctuation and grammar in text messages. He can forgive the snide comment that Adam makes about his own choice of University. He can even look past the unholy combination of sweater vest and sneakers— but. 

Being rude to a waitress? 

Absolutely not. 

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Shiro says, getting up from the table. He finds the waitress and hands her a twenty from his own wallet. He apologizes. And then he walks out the door. (Normalize leaving men.) 

“Rocket deserves a better dad,” Shiro mutters. He blocks Adam’s number as well as his profile on the dating app. He drives away. 

He’s on his way home from this unfortunate date when he sees him : 

Or rather. Shiro sees the red truck. 

Months of looking at red pick-up trucks in vain, and finally Shiro sees the one . He knows it in an instant. The rust around the wheel wells, the cracked finish of the hood. The gorgeous man behind the wheel. It appears that he’s eating a red popsicle while he drives. One hand holding the treat, the other on the wheel, the truck turns out of a hardware store parking lot, lumber sticking out at an angle from the bed. 

He’s going the opposite way. Shiro makes the first U-turn that he can— the legality of the maneuver be damned. He can see the truck up ahead, but he gets stopped at a light. When the light finally turns green, it’s for naught. “What would I have even said?” Shiro asks himself, glum, as he looks down side streets and past intersections. The man is lost again. 

*

November  

Shiro finds him again, sooner than expected. And closer than he would have ever imagined. 

“Shiro!” Matt bursts into Shiro’s room. His face is red and he’s still wearing his shoes even though they both always take them off at the door. 

“They won?” Shiro takes his headphones out of his ears and watches the face of his best friend transform into perfect joy. “They won!!!” 

“Not only that!” Matt is waving his phone around, and jumping at the same time, unable to contain his excitement. “They got a grant to further their work in robotics!!! My baby sister!” 

“Yes!! Congratulations!!!” Shiro gets up from his desk and Matt launches himself at him. Shiro laughs and gives him a hug. “Matt, that’s great. Pidge deserves everything. They’re brilliant.” 

“I know, I know.” Matt says, teary-eyed. “Look.” He stops waving his phone long enough to show Shiro a photo of Pidge with their winning research project. 

And in that photo, 

Is Pidge.

And their academic advisor, Dr. Ryner. 

And, of course, the large piece of machinery that they’ve been pouring their blood, sweat, and tears into for years . Pidge has been writing code for it since they were a teen. 

But behind them:

The man from the movie theater. 

His One True Love. 

Shiro takes the phone from Matt. He goes stock still, in shock. And then the realization truly hits him and he shouts: 

“Matt! It’s him!! It’s him?! Stop, stop jumping around for a minute , Matt, and look at this. It’s HIM!!!” 

“What? Huh?” 

“This man.” Shiro pinches and spreads his fingers, zooming in on the man until his face is taking up the entire screen. The messy hair. The dark eyes. The tilt of his mouth, a tentative, beautiful smile. “This is him .” 

It’s the man from the movie theater. 

“Keith?” Matt frowns and looks from the screen to Shiro. “That’s Keith. I’m sure you guys have met before.” 

“We have,” Shiro confirms. “One time, and one time only. That day at the movie theater.” 

“The pickle guy?! Keith is the pickle guy??” Matt’s exclamation gives way to thoughtful acceptance. “Actually. Yes. That tracks.” 

“I can’t believe you’ve known my One True Love this entire time.” Shiro says. A thought strikes him and he pales. “Matt. Tell me Keith is single. Actually. No. Don’t tell me.” Shiro sinks onto his perfectly made bed (military corners, because old habits die hard). Shiro’s luck, generally speaking, tends towards the catastrophic. “I can’t take it.” 

“Dude, I don’t think Keith has ever not been single.” Matt shrugs. “He’s Keith.” 

“Tell me everything.” 

Through a grueling interview— Matthew Holt is a genius in many ways, but his social skills are lacking— Shiro ascertains some important information about his fated beloved. Or, if everything does not work out like it is in Shiro’s mind, the human known as Keith Kogane. 

There’s not much to know. According to Matt, Keith is a man of few words who generally keeps to himself. Pidge knows him because ‘he can build just about anything’— they hired Keith to help with their robotics work. 

“Is he a carpenter? A contractor? A construction worker?” 

Matt shakes his head. “He just does this random building stuff on the side. I don’t know what his actual job is…” He gives Shiro a sly look. “So what’s your next move, big man? Creepy online stalking?” 

Absolutely not— Shiro holds himself to a higher standard. When it comes to pursuing a romantic interest, he’s direct. Shiro’s methodology for love is like his methodology for everything else: he’s personable, he’s generous, he’s realistic. 

He’s hopeless. 

He does, in actuality, spend the rest of the evening scouring Keith’s barely-there instagram. There are exactly four posts on his grid: most recently, a photo of a swing set that Keith built for a local community center, then a picture of a very large, very wolf-life dog, a picture of the inner contents of a half-eaten burrito, and a photo of an impressive view from a hiking trip dated six years ago. His profile picture is his truck. 

Not much to go on. 

Shiro is not so easily deterred. 

A simple google search reveals more information about the community center. ‘Swing set’ doesn’t do the structure justice. It’s an entire jungle gym, complete with a tree house and a miniature ladder for the kids to climb. They love it, based on several pictures that the article includes of beaming, happy children. Shiro scrolls past these, and finally finds what he’s interested in: there’s one picture of Keith. He looks startled, like he wasn’t expecting his photo to be taken. He’s sitting on a bench, tool box at his feet, clearly caught in the act of packing up his things. He’s wearing a leather jacket and the same fingerless gloves. 

“Wait…” 

He’s wearing a leather jacket. 

“That is my leather jacket,” Shiro realizes, sitting up in bed. The coat is too big for the man’s narrow shoulders, and it looks like Keith has turned up the sleeves at the cuffs. A slow smile starts across Shiro’s face, warm and sweet and bubbly. It’s his jacket. 

Before Shiro can lose his nerve, he opens instagram again and finds his way back to Keith.Y.K’s profile. Specifically, his DMs. 

Shirogane.Takashi : Do you happen to have a leather jacket from a man you met at a movie theater?

The message is shown as ‘sent.’ A moment later, the message is shown as ‘read.’ 

Three little dots appear at the bottom corner of the screen. Keith is typing. The ellipsis disappears. Reappears. 

It’s true that this is a strange way to start a conversation. But something in Shiro’s gut tells him that this is right . Shiro can feel his heart pick up in his chest, waiting as he watches the screen. 

Keith.Y.K : yes 

And nothing else. A minute passes, and then five; Keith does not send another message. Not ‘who is this’ or perhaps, more appropriately, ‘what the fuck?’ Nothing. 

Matt did say that Keith wasn’t much for talking. Shiro remembers being shushed in the movie theater. It’s okay— he can work with ‘yes.’ Once Shiro has set his sights on a goal, he’s not the type to let it go. And for the better part of a year, his goal has been Keith. 

Shirogane.Takashi : I’m a friend of Matt Holt’s. He mentioned that you have a jacket that looks very similar to the one I used to have 

This is, of course, untrue. Regardless. The next response takes even more time than the first one. Clearly Keith is trying to work out what all this means. Finally:

Keith.Y.K : did you want it back

Shirogane.Takashi : That depends. Are you giving it a good home?

An extended pause. 

A notification pops up— Keith just liked one of Shiro’s posts. Not a recent picture, but one from around the holidays. One that would require several minutes of dedicated scrolling. One in which Shiro is wearing a suit for job interviews. 

Shiro smiles. That ‘like’ was not intentional. Keith’s next message comes one panicked second later: 

Keith.Y.K : yes 

Shirogane.Takashi : Then I don’t need it back

Shirogane.Takashi : I saw the work you did for Pidge, amazing stuff Keith 

Keith.Y.K : thanks 

Keith.Y.K : Pidge is good to work with 

Shirogane.Takashi : once you get past the general occupational hazards that working with Pidge entails

Keith.Y.K : lol 

Keith.Y.K: not the worst 

Shirogane.Takashi : now I want to know the worst 

Settling back into his pillow, Shiro grins down at the screen. The ellipsis bobs; Keith returns with a story about an elderly woman who insisted on paying him in clementines. Boxes and boxes of clementines. ‘Story’ is generous. It’s all of ten words, this anecdote, but if Shiro’s first impression is correct, ten words from Keith might as well be an essay from another person. Shiro continues to flirt— if not money or clementines, tell me what would your choice of currency be, Keith — and Keith continues to be game with his responses, until, eventually an actual conversation blooms between them. 

Shiro is delighted that Keith seems to not only understand but actually enjoy his arcane sense of humor— after only a few minutes of messaging, he’s biting back with his own offbeat joke. It’s easy, talking to Keith. Surprisingly so. ‘A few minutes’ slips into an hour like nothing at all. 

His One True Love. 

*

December  

The notification pops up on Shiro’s phone just as he’s turning the burner on. It’s Keith. Shiro adds a considerate amount of salt to what will become pasta water, sets the pot on the stove, and clicks the notification. 

Keith.Y.K : hey 

Shirogane.Takashi : hey yourself. I’m making dinner, mind if I call?

Since that first message exchange— a month ago, now— they’ve been talking almost every day. Shiro has learned what Keith does for a living (he’s a social worker who specializes in children who have been displaced from their homes), what he does for fun (woodworking, mostly, but he loves taking his dog on adventures), even what the ‘Y’ in his user name stands for (‘Yorak’ — “I dunno, it’s Slovak, I guess, from my mom,” Keith said). Keith has a big heart and a bigger temper, Shiro has found. He’s moody and loyal and strange. Shiro’s crush on him has only grown. So has his unwillingness to let Keith go. 

This is the first time that Shiro has suggested calling. Just like after that first message, his heart is in his throat, breath tight and excited in his chest while he waits for Keith’s response. 

Keith.Y.K : sure 

Shiro hits the ‘call’ icon. His face appears on the screen, in a tiny box in the top corner. Keith picks up after the first couple of rings. 

At first, he’s squinting down at the phone. Unflattering angle aside— mouth screwed into a frown, chin tucked to his chest— he’s every bit as arresting as Shiro remembers him in person. Those eyes. 

“Uh.” Keith blinks at him. Adjusts the phone. Raises one hand. “Hi.” 

“You didn’t know it was a video call,” Shiro guesses. 

Keith scowls. “I didn’t know it was a video call,” he admits. 

He’s wearing a gray hoodie with the hood up, and there’s a navy blue blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Behind him, there’s a sliver of window. The day is overcast and gloomy— for California, at least— and Keith must be nestled into the coziest corner of his couch. 

“Are you talking to me from the arctic?” Shiro says, propping his phone up on the counter so that he can cook and talk at the same time. Keith is dressed for warmth, whereas Shiro has on a sleeveless muscle tee and a pair of sweatpants. He throws a kitchen towel over his shoulder and pulls ingredients out of the pantry. 

Another scowl. This one comes with a nose wrinkle. Adorable. “It’s 57 degrees? It’s freezing?” 

“Freezing,” Shiro agrees, grinning to himself as he crushes garlic cloves with the flat of his knife. 

“You forget that I grew up in the desert, Shiro.” Keith plays with the strings of his hoodie, tugging at them while he talks. “This is cold.” 

“Come over here, I’ll warm you up,” Shiro says, now dicing the garlic. He looks up to wink at Keith. 

Keith’s face is red. He mumbles something unintelligible. Pushes hair behind his ear and then un-pushes it. “... Anyways ! Uh, yeah. SO. What are you making?” 

“Pasta.” Eggplant prepared earlier goes into the skillet along with the garlic. Tomatoes will be next. A simple meal, but heavy. “Carb loading. The marathon is the day after tomorrow.” 

“Are you excited?” 

Shiro nods. “Well, this is my fourth. I’m more excited for Matt. This is the first time time he’ll be running a marathon! We’ve been training for it all year!” They’ve done half marathons together now, and long distance endurance training. Matt has come a long way since the beginning of the year. 

Keith hums, thoughtful. 

“What?” Shiro asks. 

Shrugging, Keith admits, “Dunno. Matt just doesn’t seem like, um, the marathon type.” 

Laughing, Shiro tells him, “He’s not. This is a challenge he made up while he was New Year’s Eve drunk.” 

“Huh?” 

The tale of the New Year’s Resolutions is told. Shiro alludes to his own, but conveniently omits the details. Especially the part involving Keith. And falling in love. That part. 

“Huh. Okay. Pretty cool of you to help him out with that, Shiro.” Keith gives him a small smile. Genuine. Adorable. 

“You should come,” Shiro tells him, before he can think better of it. “And see us cross the finish line.” He spoons the cooked rigatoni from the boiling water into the skillet, tossing it with eggplant and tomatoes and the rest of the simple dish. “Pidge will be there, cheering him on. Our friends Hunk and Allura might show up too.” 

“Yeah?” Keith’s mouth does something funny, not the smile, something else, and he continues, flushed, “You’d want me to?” 

“I want you to, Keith.” Shiro smiles at him. “Put Kosmo on the line, I want to tell him something.” 

Keith snickers—a perfect sound— and does, actually, turn the phone around. His oversized husky-mix is laying on top of his legs. The dog is so big that it takes up most of the couch. 

“Kosmo,” Shiro says, very stern. The dog cocks his head. “You need to warm up your dad. His face is so red, I’m starting to worry about frostbite.” 

The phone screen blurs and wobbles as Keith makes a choking sound and drops it. “Shiro!!” There’s the sound of snuffling and tail thwapping and Keith trying to get his dog to lay back down. “Stop it!” 

“Me or the dog?” Shiro asks. He plates up pasta for himself and saves the other half for Matt to have when he gets home. 

“Both of you!” Keith says, exasperated. 

Shiro takes a seat at the kitchen table. He sets the phone down so Keith is across from him. “Tell me about your day.” 

Keith does. He cares deeply about the work he does and it’s something really special to see how invested he is firsthand. Matt wasn’t exactly right— with the right audience, Keith has plenty to say. Shiro eats and listens to him talk. 

*

“That’s it, Matt, that’s it! Go, go, go, you got this!!” Shiro touches his friend on the back, urging him forward towards the finish line. “Go!! Be great!!” 

Ahead of him, Matt crosses the finish line amid feral cheering from their friends. Pidge is screaming so loud it can be heard halfway down the block. Hunk and Allura have either end of an enormous sign. Shiro crosses the finish line right after Matt, arm and prosthetic in the air in triumph. He tackles his friend, both of them laughing, and shouting, and exhausted. Their friends swarm them in one big hug as soon as they make it off the official route. Shiro happens to look over and sees Keith grinning at him. Keith. In person, right here with him! 

The finish line is a blur of activity. Other runners and their friends, the crowded water station, volunteers handing out granola bars and protein drinks and bananas, healthcare workers helping people to the med tent. Someone wraps a foil blanket around Shiro’s shoulders. It’s better to walk the muscles out for a few minutes than to just stop abruptly, so Shiro stays upright— Matt is spread out over the sidewalk, joking with Pidge even with tears streaming down his face. 

But despite the joy, Shiro is exhausted. Only a person who has run that kind of distance can understand this level of exhaustion. He stumbles— an arm wraps around his waist. 

“Woah.” Keith is there at his side. “You okay?” 

“You came!” Shiro leans into Keith, taking advantage of the support. Keith is wiry, but stronger than he looks. That much is obvious. He’s solid, and warm. “Never better,” Shiro says with a sigh. A happy, fulfilled sigh. 

Keith may not interpret as such: “You sure?” 

“Of course. Right now my glycogen stores are depleted, my pulmonary function is slightly decreased, markers of inflammation like troponin and C-reactive protein are elevated, and statistically speaking, my levels of lactate dehydrogenase are at an all time high.” 

“Oh…kay.” 

Shiro looks over at him. “Keith. If I don’t make it out of here, I want you to—” 

Keith squeezes Shiro against his side. “Don’t say that!” 

“Actually, I do think I’m ready to sit down now,” Shiro admits. This trauma is self-inflicted, but still. 

“You got it.” Keith directs them over to one of the few benches not already taken in the park. “Be right back!” 

Keith returns a moment later, snacks and water bottle in hand. He’s dressed in that same gray hoodie as before on their phone call, but now the leather jacket is layered over it for warmth. Shiro just noticed. 

“You’re wearing my jacket,” he says. Fuck it looks so good on him, the way the shoulders sag, the way he swims in it and yet is still so solid, so strong. 

Wetting his lips, Keith pauses, and then replies: “Yeah. Should I, uh, take it off?” He shrugs one arm free, not waiting for the reply. 

“No.” Shiro puts a hand on him to stop. “Please don’t. Absolutely not.” 

The texting, the talking, Keith coming to see him today— without even realizing it, the two of them have become friends. It might be partially attributed to the magic of endorphins, but happiness wells in Shiro’s chest, overwhelming. It takes him a moment to say: “Thanks for coming, Keith. It means a lot to me.” 

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Keith sits next to him on the bench. Close enough to touch. Shiro doesn’t. 

“Now Matt’s New Year’s Resolution is complete,” Shiro muses. He’s thinking about his own promise. “Mine, still a work in progress.” 

“What was yours?” Keith asks. He’s distracted by a happy dog in the crowd, tugging at its leash and jumping in joy. 

“Falling in love.” 

Keith swivels around to look at him. A mix of bewilderment and uncertainty is clear in the way that he’s squinting. He raises his brows. “What?” 

Sober-Shiro does shy away from the saccharine; it’s true. “What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.” 

Keith snorts. “So how are you gonna do it?” 

“I’m working on it,” Shiro says, lightly. 

“Oh.” Keith turns away. Looks down at his hands. “Yeah. Well. That’s good, Shiro, I’m glad.” 

The year is almost over. But Shiro has always worked well under pressure. 

*

January (almost January— the night of December 31st) 

Allura’s house is more castle than house. 

It’s an estate . That’s what she says when anyone brings it up. The driveway is long and winding. In the night, as it is now, lit by a series of lamp posts that seem like lighthouses in the endless dark. At the entrance, up the stairs on either side of the heavy wooden doors, there are two stone lions, white marble, life-sized. 

“Wow.” At Shiro’s side, Keith whistles and looks up at the three other lion heads made of stone hewn above the entryway. “What the hell.” 

“I know.” Shiro says. Rich people have horrible taste. On the other hand, Allura is a dear friend and it’s not her fault that her family is disgustingly wealthy. 

But it is her fault that she’s dating, well, Lance.

“UHHHH!!! Ex cuse me, why is HE here?” 

The floofy haired, pathetic boy from their celebratory night that summer flings an arm in Keith’s general direction just as soon as they walk inside. 

Keith juts his chin out. “Am I not supposed to be here?” 

“You are.” Shiro says. “Lance. Can you calm down?”  

“Oh yeah, cool, cool. The guy who punches my lights out is here and I’m just supposed to be ‘calm,’ yeah that’s nice . Real nice.” He flails around and adds air quotes and a finger gun or two. His NYE glasses are askew on his head from all the flailing. 

“What are you talking about? Lance?” Keith spreads his arms, completely confused. 

“That night? The bar? Your fist, my face?” 

Shiro watches Keith smirk as realization dawns. “Oh. I. Huh. Don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?” 

“Uh. Yeah . I would recognize that—”

“Okay.” Shiro cuts the two of them off before any actual violence can occur. “I’m going to give Keith the grand tour. Let Allura know we’re here.” 

“What, am I, the butler?!” 

The New Year’s Eve party is in full swing by now. Though he didn’t attend the previous year, Shiro has been to many of these soirées since becoming close friends with Allura in undergrad. Her ‘estate’ boasts a full bar, a mini movie theater, a dance floor. “Through there is the swimming pool,” Shiro says, pointing as they walk past a group of people drinking and playing billiards. Upstairs, there’s a grand piano in the entry hall. Here, much more modern music is pulsing through the conversation— Allura has a widely varied group of friends so there’s no doubt at least one of them is a DJ. 

“A pool? Inside?” Keith says, mystified. His eyes are as big as saucers. 

“Inside and outside, technically.” Shiro says. He has an idea. “You and I can check out the hot tub later.” 

Keith laughs, bumping Shiro with his shoulder. “Yeah right!” 

There might be some confusion on Keith’s part as to Shiro’s intentions. Shiro intends to clear up any ambiguity tonight. 

“I think my whole trailer could fit in just one of these,” Keith says, peeking in the various rooms. 

The two of them move further away from the crowd. Far enough that Shiro can hear the little mumbles that Keith makes as he explores, and watch every expression cross his face. Close enough that Shiro could take his hand. He doesn’t. Not yet. At the far end of the house, there’s a spiral staircase. It rises, up, up, and out of sight. 

“What’s up there?” 

Shiro smiles. “Go on and check. This is my favorite room.” 

Keith’s heavy work boots clunk on the metal slat stairs. Shiro follows him. 

“Woah.” 

The library is easily the most impressive room of the house. Shiro could not believe it when Allura first showed him this place. Half the ceiling is a skylight displaying the midnight sky, constellations and celestial maps are painted everywhere else, and two huge leather chairs sit in front of a beautiful fireplace. Walls and walls of bookshelves, all bursting with books. But none of that is why Shiro brought Keith here. Mounted on an island in the room, there’s a display. 

Keith walks up to it with wide eyes. “Holy shit.” He looks at Shiro. “Shiro. Is that a sword?” 

“Allura’s grandfather had some ties to royalty,” Shiro explains briefly. He doesn’t know all the details. He only knows that anyone who carries a bowie knife into a movie theater probably has an appreciation for a very large, very real sword. 

He is correct. 

“This is so sick,” Keith says, bending forward to look at the etchings on the folded steel. “Dude this is so cool. I bet you could kill so many bad guys.” He mimes holding the weapon above his head and slashing down through the enemy. 

Who these alleged ‘bad guys’ are is unknowable, but Keith looks so cute lost in thought about felling them, that their identity is a moot point. Shiro puts a hand over his mouth, trying to conceal his smile and put himself back together. 

“My favorite part is over here, actually,” Shiro says, once he’s recovered, tilting his head for Keith to follow him. A bronze telescope sits on a similar display. Keith joins him, looking with interest at the star maps mounted under glass next to the antique. “I was one of those kids who wanted to be an astronaut,” Shiro admits. “Never entirely grew out of it.” 

“Yeah? Why didn’t you?” Keith asks. Messy hair falls into his face as he leans down and examines the maps. He asks the question so simply; like, if Shiro wanted it, he could reach that goal. Like Shiro is capable. Inherently.

It’s refreshing. There have been times in Shiro’s life where that vote of confidence was sorely lacking. They haven’t talked about anything like that. They’re not there—yet. But Shiro feels that he can trust Keith with this. He holds up his prosthetic. “I can’t imagine why they might say I’m ineligible for spaceflight, but if I had to wager I’d bet it would have something to do with this.” 

Keith blinks at the movement, taking in Shiro’s bitter response, processing it. He touches Shiro’s hand, taking it between his own, examining it like he did the first time they met. Appreciative, comfortable. “It’s well made,” he says, matter-of-fact in the way that he turns it over. “Functional. Pretty. A work of art.” 

“I’ve never had someone describe it like that,” Shiro says. 

Looking up at him with dark eyes, Keith is direct. “They should,” he says. 

“Keith…”

Distant, there’s shouting from the rest of the house. The sound is muffled, far away. Further away still, a boom. Fireworks. Shiro looks up to the skylight just in time to catch the first one as it rockets up. Pink and huge, it sparkles across the sky overhead. Downstairs, Allura will be opening new bottles of champagne. Toasting to the new year. 

“Must be midnight,” Keith shrugs, dropping Shiro’s hand from his own. Another boom sounds, and this time the sparkles are golden as they flower across the sky. It’s bright enough that, for a moment, it casts a light over Keith’s face. He’s looking up at Shiro. “D’you wanna go back?” 

“After you,” Shiro says, gesturing to the staircase. Keith’s cowlick bounces as he walks down the metal slats in front of him. 

“Hey,” Keith pauses, midway, looking up at Shiro. “What about your resolution?” 

“From last year?” Shiro deadpans.

Keith rolls his eyes, “This year, last year, you know what I mean. Did you,” he swallows, “I mean, did it work out?” 

“I think so.” 

Frowning, Keith turns towards him, barely balancing in the confines of the narrow staircase. Shiro touches his elbow to steady him. He looks down at Keith. 

“You think so?” Keith asks.

“It depends.” Shiro says, smiling as Keith’s frown predictably deepens at the vague response. 

Keith makes a face and spreads his hands, like, depends on what, 

“Depends on if I kiss you tonight.” 

“ What ,” Keith says the word all in one exhale. He turns back around and finishes going down the staircase— this time his boots are deafening; he takes the remaining stairs two at a time. 

Shiro follows him, slower, heart thumping hard and fast in his chest. He reaches the floor, both shoes back on solid ground. “Keith—” 

“So. C’mon,” Keith says, cutting him off. There’s a jut of his chin. “Try it already.” 

The way he’s looking at Shiro is all fire— an expression that makes it seem as though getting punched in the face might be just as likely as the kiss being reciprocated. But that’s a risk that Shiro is willing to take. 

Keith watches him— he doesn’t close his eyes, even as Shiro bends forward, touches his cheek. Leans in. Catches his mouth with the slightest press of his own. Shiro straightens up, 

Only for Keith to loop one of his arms around the back of Shiro’s neck and pull him back in. The kiss is toothy, like a smile. Like Keith is laughing even as he takes Shiro’s mouth. Enthusiastic, bold. As he drinks Shiro in, Keith’s arm relaxes, his hand on the back of Shiro’s neck not so heavy. Shiro deals with the loss of that weight by pulling him closer, the hand cupping Keith’s face sinking into his hair, the thumb against his cheek sliding back and forth over his skin. 

Shiro pulls away, breathless, heart pounding like it might burst. The grin that Keith gives him lights up the room— his dark eyes are bright with it. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, and he can’t help but smile too, swooping down to kiss him again, 

His lips are met with a finger instead. 

“No?” Shiro asks, frowning under the press of Keith’s finger. 

Keith shakes his head. He removes his hand from Shiro’s mouth and runs it through his hair instead. Ducks his head and then looks sideways at Shiro. “So. Uh. Fancy parties n’shit like this aren’t really my thing. D’you wanna go makeout in my truck?” 

There can be no better way, in Shiro’s opinion, to start the new year. 

*

February, again  

“Fuck, baby,” Shiro sucks in a breath as one of Keith’s canines scrapes against his collarbone. He learned very quickly that his One True Love has an affinity for leaving marks, “Keith,” 

“Yeah?” The word is a heavy breath over Shiro’s neck, but Keith doesn’t stop long enough to wait for an answer. His hands have found their way under Shiro’s shirt. Those hands are rough with the kind of work Keith does— the feeling of calluses skating over Shiro’s nipples when coupled with Keith’s mouth makes Shiro feel lightheaded. 

“I feel,” Shiro says, his own hand dipping low enough to squeeze Keith’s ass through his jeans, “That we are missing crucial plot points here.” 

“Huh?” Keith sits up enough to look at Shiro. His mouth is glossy— he blinks and rubs the back of his hand over it. “What?” 

Pointed, Shiro looks at the television at the foot of Keith’s bed. Adam Sandler is doing his best to woo Drew Barrymore despite her lack of a memory and his own numerous personal problems. (It would seem that Keith also has an affinity for romantic comedies. His mobile home has an entire wall of DVDs, most of them with pink spines or ‘love’ in the title.) 

“Oh.” The remote for the tv is lost in the folds of Keith’s flannel comforter. He takes a moment to locate it, turns the television off, and then flings the remote out of the way. Shiro can see his own bemused expression in the now-black screen of the tv. 

“Better?” Keith asks. 

“Much.” Shiro takes his tee shirt off and enjoys the way lust colors Keith’s dark eyes even darker. “Come here.” 

Keith follows his lead and pulls his sweatshirt over his head before climbing into Shiro’s lap. He runs appreciative— and rough— hands down Shiro’s neck to his wide shoulders and back down his chest. 

“You’re so— big , I—” Keith doesn’t finish thought, but that’s likely because Shiro encircles Keith’s waist with his hands and encourages him to grind into Shiro’s lap. “Oh god, Shi- fuck ,” 

Shiro kisses his jaw, turns Keith’s face toward him to take his mouth. The kiss is loose, uncoordinated, more panting breaths against each other’s mouths as Keith continues to grind into him. 

Lovers in the past have avoided Shiro’s prosthetic hand—to the point where he sometimes felt self conscious of it in bed— but not Keith. He doesn’t shrink from Shiro’s touch and now, unbidden, he takes that hand and breathes one hot exhale into the palm before his lips wrap around Shiro’s index and middle fingers. Keith sucks, and Shiro swears, his cock jumping at the feeling and the way Keith’s mouth looks wrapped around him. 

It’s difficult, but not impossible, to un-do the button of Keith’s jeans with just one hand. Shiro manages it as he does everything, through dedication and sheer force of will. Keith is hard in his briefs; Shiro tucks a hand inside and Keith thrusts into his palm, beautifully desperate. 

“Baby—” Shiro wants him in his mouth, 

“Shiro, haah,” Keith drops Shiro’s hand and runs his fingers through Shiro’s hair. Mouth wet, he kisses him, and then grabs either side of his face. 

Shiro looks up at him, at the steely resolve in Keith’s face, just inches away from his own. 

“I’m gonna suck you off now,” he says. He does not leave room for argument. 

Shiro agrees; he pushes down his track pants and boxes, stroking himself to fully erect. Very aware of Keith’s eyes on him. Very aware of the appreciative noise Keith makes before he moves, changing his position—

His mouth is so hot as it envelopes the head of Shiro’s cock. He pulls off a moment later, replacing his lips with his hand, jerking Shiro with the wetness from his mouth. 

“Keith,” Shiro grunts, watching his dick disappear in the circle of Keith’s fist. Fuck, it’s good, but. “Keith,” he repeats, running a hand through Keith’s messy hair as Keith takes Shiro in his mouth again. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, behind his ear. It’s so unruly-soft it comes loose just a moment later. 

Keith’s eyes flick up to Shiro, but he insists on another rebellious bob of his head before he responds. “Yeah?” 

Showing rather than telling, Shiro changes position, spreading out more comfortably over Keith’s bed. 

“You wanna watch?” Keith tilts his head with a smirk. 

“No, baby, I want to participate.” Shiro corrects, watching the smirk fall away from Keith’s face as he realizes what Shiro means. “Come here.” 

Shiro steadies Keith, hands around the gorgeous lean muscle of his thighs, holding him as he settles a knee on either side of Shiro’s shoulders. In this position, Shiro has a close up view of the dark and coarse hair over his pale skin, thick around his cock and sparser over the back of Keith’s thighs, between his ass cheeks. “That’s right,” Shiro coaxes, watching Keith’s head drop as Shiro jerks him off, “Now back to what you were doing, Keith.” 

He doesn’t wait for Keith to respond, but instead takes Keith’s dick into his mouth. He runs his hand over the small of Keith’s back, guiding him as Shiro lifts his head to get the angle right. Keith’s cock is lush on his tongue, already bitter with pre, just big enough to fill his mouth in the most luxurious way. 

Keith curses, loud, and then, much softer, Shiro can hear him mutter, “Okay, okay, focus ,” under his breath to himself, 

And starts bobbing his head up and down Shiro’s dick again. He moans as Shiro mouths at his balls, playing with his cockhead over his lips, getting him wet enough to jerk, only to swallow him down again. Keith whines around Shiro’s dick, hips bucking forward. 

That’s right, baby , Shiro encourages him wordlessly, hands on Keith’s hips, mouth loose, 

His One True Love is a quick study. Without realizing it, he’s thrusting into Shiro’s mouth at the same pace as he is swallowing Shiro’s dick, perfect, just exactly like Shiro wanted him to. 

He stops, abruptly, hand spasming around the base of Shiro’s cock, pulling off with a gasp, 

“Shiro,” he rasps, voice throaty, “Fuck,” 

“Come for me,” Shiro says, replacing his mouth with his hand and jerking fast. “Keith,” 

The noise Keith makes is a breathy groan— and then, “Shi-ro, anh, fuck,” Keith’s thighs quiver as he comes a messy streak over Shiro’s chest and abs. He breathes heavy for a moment and then, as if determined, his hands curl into fists. He returns to deep throating Shiro with renewed focus. 

Shiro curses— the wet sound of Keith on his dick, the groan he made, the sound of Shiro’s name in that rasp— the the feeling of Keith’s messy hair against Shiro’s skin as he moves, his calloused hands around Shiro’s dick and over his balls, his inner thighs— the fierce want — 

He comes, whiting out with overstimulation as Keith continues to suck, swallowing around Shiro’s cock even as he spills into his mouth. 

Shiro tilts his head back, chest heaving, eyes not quite focused on the ceiling panels of Keith’s mobile home. “Fuck,” 

Eyes closed, he doesn’t see, but instead feels Keith moving around. Fuck, that was good. Fuck that was good . 

“Be right back,” Keith leaves the room, returning just a moment later, before even Shiro’s breath has evened out. He hands Shiro a washcloth, then sets about unpeeling something in his hand. 

“What is that?” Shiro wipes off his chest and then tries to focus on what in the world Keith is eating. It looks like a Kraft single— American cheese. 

It is. That’s exactly what it is. “Recharge,” Keith explains, folding the orange square into smaller squares of orange before he peels it out of the cellophane wrapper. “Do you want one?” 

Shiro declines. Politely. 

Keith shrugs. He’s still wearing his wooly socks— Shiro just noticed.

“Oh yeah.” Keith nods towards the nightstand on the other side of the bed. “Lube’s in there.” 

“You want to keep going?” Shiro’s cock stirs in interest. 

Keith nods. “Or we can finish the movie. Either way.” 

“You’re perfect,” Shiro tells him. 

Keith grins at him. “And. I was thinking…” Naked (except for the socks) he crosses the room and starts rooting around in his closet. The closet contains mostly flannels and sweatshirts and jeans and work boots, well-loved— but eventually he pulls out: 

Shiro’s leather jacket. 

“Keith.” Shiro runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Keith,” 

“I thought so.” Keith says, wicked laughter dancing in his dark eyes. The laughter smolders into something deeper as he slips the jacket on and watches Shiro’s expression. “Yeah. I thought so.” 

*

February, the 14th of February, Valentine’s Day  

There’s just one thing left to do. 

A year since the night they met, Shiro pulls up to Keith’s place on his bike. 

They’re going to see a movie— there’s almost always a new romantic comedy premiering on the holiday. Keith is excited for one he hasn’t seen before. Shiro privately thinks there is very little chance that this movie could be all that different than the hundreds of other movies in the genre. Perhaps this one will prove him wrong. Shiro hasn’t done much research about the film, but he’s prepared for their date in other ways. 

Keith isn’t dressed for the date when he runs up to meet Shiro, but the smile on his face is wide enough to make up for the denim. The gentle “hey” he presses into Shiro’s neck as he hugs him hello before kissing him, the way he smells like soap and wood, the way he’s wearing Shiro’s jacket— 

Perfect. 

He gets onto the bike, warm as he wraps around Shiro’s back. 

Sun Crest Cinema isn’t crowded like one of the chain movie theaters might be. Shiro helps Keith off the bike, but he stops him before he can walk inside. “Wait.” It’s their anniversary afterall. In a way. “I have something for you.” 

“Huh?” Keith reaches up and fixes Shiro’s bangs— the helmet always flattens them out. “What is it?” 

Shiro takes out a plastic package. Something for snacking on during the movie: 

A big dill pickle. 

“Keith.” Shiro takes a deep breath. He presents Keith with the pickle as if it is a bouquet of a dozen roses. Shiro knows that his One True Love wouldn’t know what to do with roses. But this, this he’ll appreciate. “Will you be my valentine?” 

Keith’s face is so red. “We’re already dating. What— Shiro— why did you remember—” 

“Of course I remembered,” Shiro says, smiling and kissing the flush from Keith’s cheeks. That was when he fell in love. 

***