It was on nights like this—nights when the moon was high over The Wastes and Keith's restless mind clamored for adventure—that his father would tell him about the Pirates.
On this particular night, the two of them sat on the porch of the modest shack they called home; Keith nestled in his father's lap and gazing up at the bristles on the underside of the man's chin as he spoke. A cool wind blew through the desert, one that pierced sharply through the thin material of Keith's sleep shirt, and he shivered, hunkering even further down into the warmth of his dad's chest.
"Keith? If you're cold, we should go inside and—"
"No!" Keith's arms wound around his father in protest, burrowing into the heat underneath his jacket. "Keep going!"
"Keith—"
"Please?" It was a dirty trick, the puppy-dog eyes, and Keith knew it. He played into it without mercy, pulling back from their embrace just enough to meet his dad's eyes and throwing in a quivering lip for good measure. "Just a little more? Pretty please?"
For the briefest of moments, Keith thought that he might have lost the battle; but then his father's concerned expression fell into reluctant amusement. "Alright, alright," he chuckled, ruffling Keith's unruly mop of hair. "Keep your helmet on, Space Ranger."
Silently celebrating his triumph, Keith dove back into the confines of the man's jacket, head ducked to hide a grin. Above him, his father sighed, and Keith's whole body swayed with the movement.
"Okay, where was—"
"Zarkon's escaping!" Keith cut in, releasing his father with one arm and cutting it upwards to mimic the effect of a runaway ship. "And the Blade is chasing him, and they're getting real close, and they really, really gotta get the quintessence before…" Keith trailed off, his head bouncing with his father's silent laughter. He felt his cheeks warm, and a bashful smile fought its way onto his face. "Sorry. You tell it."
His father hummed in acknowledgment, and Keith could feel it buzz in the man's chest. "You sure?" he asked, voice absent of teasing or mockery. "You can if you—"
"Dad," Keith pleaded—because he didn't want to tell it; he didn't want to ruin their sacred nighttime tradition. "Please."
There was a pause, and Keith held his breath, listening to the sound of the wind as it rushed through the emptiness of The Wastes.
When his father spoke, his voice was lowered once more, as if to not disturb their little bubble. "Captain Zarkon was escaping, but the Blade was hot on his tail." Keith released a contented breath, snuggling ever closer. His favorite part was coming up—soon, he told himself. "Cut off from his crew and nowhere to go, it was only a matter of moments before the Blade would catch up. They'd finally be able to capture Zarkon and end his reign of terror."
"Or so they thought," Keith whispered.
"Or so they thought," his father agreed. Keith smiled as a kiss was pressed to his hair. "But Zarkon had his tricks—"
"Captain Zarkon," Keith recited in a voice hushed with awe, "Vanishing without a trace."
"That's right," his father continued, unbothered by the interruption. "After years of waiting for this very moment, the Blade finally had Zarkon surrounded. Commander Kolivan ordered his men to secure the pirate's ship, but before they could—blip! Captain Zarkon's ship had vanished into thin air."
Keith's fists twisted into the material of his father's shirt. "Say the last part," he implored, his voice no more than a whisper.
"Zarkon was never seen or heard from again, and though many brave warriors and adventurers have tried, none have been able to find him or his treasure. Some say that Zarkon went into hiding, and that he's biding his time till it's safe to come out. Others say that overexposure to quintessence drove him mad—killed him, even. And yet, there are a few…" He trailed off, and Keith screwed his eyes shut, preparing himself—here it comes—
"There are a few who would tell a different tale, on nights just like this: when the wind is high and fantastical stories can hide under the cover of darkness." His father drew him closer, pressing his lips into Keith's hair and making their little bubble even smaller. "They whisper of rumors from the farthest reaches of the galaxy, from those very dark corners of the universe where Zarkon's loyal followers still hide. Rumors of a world's worth of riches; trophies of a lifetime of plundering and deceit. A lost trove of treasures hidden from all but Zarkon—hidden, even, from those closest to him. A place called—"
"Treasure Planet," Keith breathed. He could see it in his mind's eye; fields and fields overflowing with gold and rubies and emeralds and glinting purple quintessence.
"You know it, ace."
They sat in silence for a few seconds and Keith reluctantly pried his eyes open, trailing a hand absently along the leathery inside of his father's jacket. In his mind, he was still worlds away: diving through mountains of gold and planting a flag with his name on the biggest mound, just like he always saw the explorers do in those old films his dad liked.
"I'm gonna find it," he muttered, dazedly.
"What?"
Keith blinked, as if coming out of a dream. "'m gonna find it. Treasure Planet."
His father chuckled, but Keith barely heard. He drew back, staring out at the incomprehensible vastness of space before him. It was yet another thing he loved about growing up in The Wastes (as if the three-headed lizards and the neon pink desert flowers and the wind in his hair weren't enough). Keith lived for the crystal clear nights when he could blink up at thousands of stars—stretching on and on as far as the eye could see—and wonder if they could hear the song of longing in his heart.
Extracting a hand from the safe warmth of his father's coat, Keith reached overhead, imagining he could touch the glittering specks lightyears away. "I'll be up there, someday," he vowed. "I'll pilot my own ship and be the greatest adventurer there ever was, and I'll tell my whole class I found Treasure Planet and Jimmy can eat a rock."
"Keith," his father chastised, but there was something wrong with his voice, something that sounded suspiciously like…
"Dad?" Keith asked, his eyes widening in panic. "Why are you crying?"
"'M not, ace, I'm just—" He drew a hand across his eyes, and Keith turned fully in his lap, reaching up to take his father's wet face in his hands.
"I'm sorry," Keith babbled, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for but instantly terrified and desperate to soothe. "Please don't cry, Dad, I'm sorry—"
"Hey, baby boy." His hands were taken in a larger, gentler grip, and squeezed ever so lightly. "You didn't do anything wrong. You got nothing to apologize for, you hear?"
Keith's chin wobbled. "Then why are you sad?"
"'M not sad, darlin', it's just—" he pressed one kiss to each of Keith's palms. "You remind me so much of your mamma sometimes, it scares me."
"It scares you?"
Overcome with emotion, his father shook his head and swallowed thickly before pulling Keith into a crushing embrace. "I just miss her, is all," he finally managed, voice rough with tears.
It was on nights like this when Keith would look up at the stars and wonder how his heart could ache so much for someone he'd never known.
...
It was on days like this—days when the sun beat down mercilessly on The Wastes and Keith's restless mind sang for adventure—that he would soar.
The ground zipped by under the board of his solar surfer, various plants and rocks blurring into the beige desert floor. Wind whipped through his hair, pulling loose strands from his short ponytail and sending them into his eyes and mouth. He grunted, adjusting his course so that he was flying into the wind, and the pesky loose hairs flew directly backward. With a grin, Keith raised his chin, closing his eyes against the onslaught of wind that rippled and pulsed through his jacket. Warm sunlight beat down on him, and, tightening his grip on his surfer's handlebars, he allowed himself to bend backward. Following the movement of his body, the surfer ascended, its sails filling with wind. The ascent brought about an all-too-familiar swoop in Keith's gut, and he crowed with glee, voice cracking under unbridled euphoria and adrenaline.
Up here—weightless, twisting and twirling, flying—nothing mattered. Up here, there were no responsibilities, no inns to upkeep, no academies to get kicked out of, no fathers to disappoint. No crippling, aching, stifling restlessness that accompanied the prospect of a lifetime spent in The Wastes. Up here, it was just Keith and the sky, and he could almost ignore the crushing weight of the real world down below.
Still bent backward, Keith let the motion turn into a full 360 degree loop, sniggering as he remembered the last time he'd taken his cousin for a ride and tried the same thing.
Sickening, Shiro had groaned after they'd landed, doubled over and trying not to retch. Don't fucking do that again, Keith, I'm serious.
"How about this, Shiro," Keith mumbled, the wind ripping the words from his mouth as he stepped back onto the accelerator. His surfer surged forward, expelling a particularly forceful jet of fire in its wake, and Keith's responding yell was lost to a gale. Tears pricked at his eyes and he wasn't sure that it was only the breeze; not when his heart was threatening to burst with exhilaration.
This is it, he thought, tears inadvertently spilling free from his eyes and running down wind-chapped cheeks. I'll never be happier than this.
You know it can't last, a barbarous part of his brain supplied, unbidden. You gotta land sooner or later. For a moment, Keith's smile faltered; but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Such thoughts weren't meant for these priceless moments of freedom. Such thoughts weren't meant for his time on the solar surfer—not when it was just Keith and the sky and the world was his own.
Of course, the universe was always quick to remind him that the world was, in fact, not his own, and that his invaluable moments of freedom—cherished moments of Keith and the sky—were only fleeting glimpses of a life that he did not have.
As the sound of pursuing police sirens cut over the wind, Keith felt the smile slip from his face.
Yeah, he thought bitterly, reluctantly easing his heel onto his breaks and slowing to a stop. Always gotta land sooner or later.
…
The cops were dicks.
They weren't dicks because they did their job. Keith would be the first to admit that he was a grade-A, first-class fuck-up. He tried his best where it counted, he really did; but more often than not, boredom manifested itself in ways that were seen as unsavory in the eyes of the law. It was the law's job to come down on people like him.
But this was excessive.
"I was a mile outside the boundary," Keith growled, wrenching an arm out of one of the officers' bruising grips. The rough manhandling only added to their dickishness—their little robot clampy-hands fucking hurt. "This is bullshit—"
The officer on Keith's right whirred angrily, rolling forward on its singular wheel to come to an abrupt halt in front of him and forcing Keith to stop in his tracks. A compartment towards the thing's middle slid open and inwards to reveal the bot's washing mechanism, a tiny metal rod extending out of it to wave soap suds in Keith's face, who recoiled with a glare.
"Watch your mouth, boy," the thing droned at him, managing to sound impressively derisive considering its monotone, tinny voice. "Or I'll be forced to scrub it clean."
"Good one," the other cop monotoned, and Keith rolled his eyes as they high-fived each other over his head. Assholes.
The cop in front of him withdrew its cleaning rod and snapped the compartment shut. "Keep moving, space-case," it said, and the bot behind Keith shoved him forward a good deal harder than necessary. Keith turned to narrow his eyes at it over his shoulder, and his gaze fell instead on his well-worn solar surfer, trailing behind as the cop tugged it roughly along by one of the sail's ropes.
"Careful with that," Keith grumbled, some of the fight leaving his shoulders as flashes of lost freedom shone behind his eyes.
The cop dragging it laughed its tinniest, dumbest-sounding laugh. "Not like you'll be needing it anytime soon, boy."
Falling back into step, Keith returned his gaze forward, jaw clenched so hard that his head pounded with the pressure.
…
As sick as Keith may have been of the Benbow Inn, seeing it come into view as they rounded a canyon wall was like a breath of fresh air.
Fortunately, the cops had seemed satisfied that Keith had opted to keep his mouth shut, and they hadn't tried to talk to him again for the rest of the walk. Unfortunately, they'd taken to blathering on to one another about upgrades and central processing units and hey, did you see that new officer? The wheel on her—am I right?
Keith honestly wasn't sure why they'd bothered to take him home when a couple hours alone in a room with these two would've broken his spirit just as easily. His soul would have still withered away, but at least it would've been quick; not like his current, prolonged, torturous… he hesitated to call it a life.
Existence.
On the path ahead, a three-headed lizard hissed and scampered from its suntanning perch on a rock and into a dark crevice in the canyon wall, clearly disturbed by the cops' ruckus. Keith could sympathize—both with the sensation of being disturbed and with the desire to find a nice hole to crawl into. As relieved as he'd been to see the misshapen outline of the Benbow (they'd been walking for what felt like hours and Keith's feet were starting to ache and he wanted this whole ordeal to be over), the sight of his home also came with a sense of dread. It had been building in Keith's gut throughout the walk, but now, as he looked upon the Benbow's rotting front door, apprehension hit him with a stinging urgency.
A whole, who-knows-how-many-miles-long walk, and he still hadn't conjured up a single thing to say to his dad.
Guilt grew into nausea, and Keith was so wrapped up in it that he nearly jumped out of his skin when both cops grabbed him by the arms. The second he realized what was happening, he was squirming in their grip, struggling against their steel clamps and dragging his feet in an attempt to stop their trajectory.
"Wait, guys—please don't do this, we can go in through the back—"
"Hm," the bot to his left interrupted, tapping its free arm against its LED face in faux consideration. "No. Front door is much more fun."
"More effective," agreed the cop on Keith's right. "Teaches a lesson."
Keith dug his heels into the cracked desert ground, grunting as pain shot up his leg. "All you're gonna do is make a scene!"
"We're in The Wastes, Kogane. Not much else to make a scene about."
This time, neither of them said anything when Keith cussed, both of them singularly focused on shoving him hard through the swinging front door.
The Benbow Inn's restaurant fell silent as Keith entered, falling painfully to his knees and scraping his palms against the rough wooden floor as he attempted to catch himself. Unbidden, his face flushed with hot humiliation. He straightened, trying to regain what little dignity he had left by dusting his hands on his pants. Behind him, the sound of wheels on wood came to a stop.
Keith made the grave mistake of glancing out at the restaurant as he stood, and the corners of his eyes pricked with mortified tears. He really should have been used to this sort of thing by now (it wasn't as if this wasn't becoming something of a regular occurrence), but the sight of every single one of the Inn's residents staring at him with gaping mouths and wide eyes was… well…
He swallowed thickly, attempting to look away; and in doing so, he met a haggard, drained expression from across the room. Keith's hands curled at his sides, and he averted his eyes, shame too potent to allow himself to hold his father's gaze.
It was one thing for the Benbow's residents to stare at him like he was some kind of freakshow on display. It affected him, sure—much more than he'd often like to believe. But the look on his father's face? That was an entirely unique kind of gut-churning, mind-numbing, soul-crushing heartbreak.
As he listened to the sound of familiar heavy boots thudding wearily over wooden planks, Keith trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, biting at the chapped skin there until he could taste his own metallic blood. He didn't dare look up when the footsteps came to a halt in front of him, opting instead to study the fascinating little groove in the wood at his feet.
A warm, callused hand came to cover his own, sliding over Keith's gloved palms before giving his bare fingers a small squeeze. "You okay, ace?" The question was gentle, hushed; purposefully intimate in a way that ensured none of the Inn's patrons could hear.
And this—this—was what Keith hated the most.
It was as if no matter what stunts he pulled—no matter how stupid or reckless or uncontrollable he was—his father had an unlimited supply of patience. It should have made Keith feel loved, and it did… but it also made him feel terrible.
He flinched away from the contact, and his father's hand retreated. Another pang of guilt shot through his chest, but regardless, he forced out, "'M fine."
There was a brief moment of silence that felt like it stretched for an eternity. When Keith's father finally spoke, his voice was raised, addressing the restaurant at large. "'Scuse the interruption, ladies and gents. Please, enjoy your meals."
Or, as Keith might have put it: fuck off and mind your own damn business.
Slowly, tentative conversations picked back up, voices hushed and nervous. Keith didn't have to be a genius to guess what they were talking about.
"Officers," his father greeted, tone reserved and formal. "What seems to be the problem?"
One of the cops behind Keith whirred. "Found this one beyond the boundary—"
"A mile," Keith muttered, petulantly.
"—and well into restricted territory—"
"A mile."
Something shoved him in the shoulder blade, and Keith whirled to face his aggressor, fists coming up to hip height in an aborted fighting stance.
"A mile into the restricted zone is still restricted, boy."
Touch me again, Keith thought, and I take my knife to your wheel, and then we'll see what that new officer with the nice wheel thinks of your shitty rims.
Out loud (because Keith had learned the hard way that threatening a cop was more trouble than it was worth) he said, "Fuck you." Okay, so… cussing at a cop, not much better, but still. It definitely made him feel a little better. "You two were on me, like, the second I crossed over—"
"Keith—"
"—like you were just waiting in the bushes for me, I mean you guys have to have better things to—"
"Keith!"
His father's voice startled him from his tirade, so much so that Keith forgot that he'd resolved not to meet his eyes. The second he did, he wished he'd kept his mouth shut—wished he'd just taken the cops' crap and shut the hell up for once. Anything to avoid the helpless concern in those eyes that slammed into Keith like a blow to the stomach.
With a sigh, his dad wrenched his gaze away and turned back to the bots, who waited in smug silence. "There a penalty, officers? Sounds like the kid might've gotten a little… carried away. You know how it is to be young and to feel a surfer beneath your…" He trailed off, eyes widening in mortification. "I—I meant, uh…"
"Awkward," a cop-bot hummed.
"Foot, meet mouth," the other agreed.
And, okay—the whole situation might have sucked, and Keith might have been a terrible son—but he really, really loved his dad. He brought a fist to his mouth, coughing to cover a laugh, and his father shot him a chagrined glance. "Uh… sorry. I only meant—he's a kid, y'know? Maybe we let him off with a warning?"
Keith scratched the back of his neck, casting a subtle peek around the restaurant at the patrons, who looked like they were trying very hard to appear busy eating.
"Hm," one of the things considered, and finally, after an agonizingly long pause, it hummed, extending a ticket from a hidden compartment. Keith's father leaped forward eagerly to take it. "He doesn't have many warnings left, Mr. Kogane."
"Last one," the other offered.
"Then, it's a straight ticket to the slammer."
"The pen."
"The bar life."
"The—"
"Jail," Keith growled, striding forward to snatch the ticket from his father's hands. "We get it. Now, are we done here?"
"What my son is trying to say," Owen hurried, shooting a pointed look at Keith, "—is that it won't. Happen. Again. Right, ace?"
The ticket in Keith's hand was inadvertently crumpled into a tiny ball. "Right."
If cop-bots had humanoid features, Keith was pretty sure they'd both be grinning wickedly at him. Instead, they stood unassumingly, a strange pattern of lights flickering across their LED faces. "Right… what, boy?" one of them asked. The question almost sounded innocent in its expressionless, mechanical voice, but Keith knew when he was being mocked.
He swallowed, part of him wishing that Shiro would hurry up and get here before he did something stupid. "It, uh—" he cleared his throat, forcing himself through the words. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," the one closest to him responded, and Keith stood in place as his father shuffled a few feet over towards the door, subtly herding the cop-bots out.
"Thank you for your time, gentlemen." Despite his dad's clear attempt at a lower volume, his voice still carried across the few feet between them.
"It's no problem, Mr. Kogane." Owen Kogane's voice might have been hushed, but the cop-bots had very little in terms of volume regulation, and their words cut clearly through the restaurant. "We see his type all the time. Burnouts—"
"Dropouts," the other supplied.
"Miscreants."
"Degenerates."
One of them swiveled slightly on their wheel, turning to face Keith. "Losers," the bot smugly intoned. In his mind's eye, Keith could see its triumphant, shit-eating grin.
Before Keith could do or say anything he could regret, the cops brought their metal clampers up to salute the restaurant at large and rolled out over the threshold. The door flapped back and forth in their wake, squeaking on its hinges; and it was only then that Keith registered how quiet the restaurant had once again fallen. He whipped around, incensed and raring for a fight, and his ire was enough to send the restaurant exploding into hurried conversation.
"Keith—" That hand was back on his, and Keith instinctively ripped his own away. He didn't need this right now; didn't need his father's kindness making him feel worse than he already did, making him feel like maybe all those things the cops had said about him were true.
"'M gonna get my apron on," Keith muttered, roughly. "Just—I need five minutes in the kitchen, and then I'm fine."
"Keith—"
"Can you just grab my surfer?" he asked, because he really didn't want to hear whatever it was his father wanted to say, and he really needed to get away from all these eyes. "Those assholes left it outside, it's probably gonna get stolen if it just—"
"Darlin'."
Keith swallowed, breathing heavily and high in his chest as his chin was guided upwards towards eyes he still refused to meet.
"We'll talk about this later, okay? For now, why don't you take the rest of the day and cool off?"
That certainly caught Keith's attention, surprise and heartbreak simultaneously flaring up in his chest—because if he couldn't work his shift, if he couldn't even help his own father, then what good was he?
Degenerate. Burnout. Loser.
"Dad," he pleaded, meeting the worn, disheartened gaze he'd tried so desperately to avoid. "Please, I can work, I just need—I—you gotta let me work…"
He trailed off as his father shook his head. "I appreciate it, darlin', but I need you to cool off. It's not a request, you hear?"
Feeling an unexpectedly strong surge of betrayal (and not quite understanding where it had come from), Keith reeled backward, eyes narrowing as he turned sharply on his heel, leaving his father to stand unanswered and alone at the door. He cut through the restaurant, ignoring the judgemental stares burning into his back, and pushed aside the curtain to the kitchen so hard that the thing nearly detached from its rail.
He growled as he yanked it closed behind him, letting himself flop onto a bare counter, his palms pressed against the peeling plaster on its surface. His head fell limply between his arms, and his fingers curled painfully into the counter.
If you'd just been watching where you were fucking going—If you weren't such a damn space-case—If you didn't have to show off all the—
"Hey, jailbird."
Keith jumped at the unexpected voice, wincing as he slammed the top of his head against the cabinet above him. It was his own fault, really; he should have checked to make sure the kitchen was empty before launching straight into a breakdown. He fisted desperately at the wetness under his eyes, leveling a hard glare at the person he least wanted to see, standing by the stoves and fixing him with a cruel smile as he flipped a patty.
"Hey, shit-for-brains," Keith bit back (because seriously, James was the last fucking thing he needed right now).
Unfortunately for Keith, the petulant name-calling didn't deter the other boy quite as drastically as it did when they were younger. Instead, James merely clicked his tongue in a tsk-tsk sort of way, bringing up a hand to wipe a line of grease onto the front of his Benbow staff apron.
"Gotta say, that was quite the entrance, Kogane. Always did have a flair for the dramatic."
"Fuck off," Keith snapped, snatching a bright pink guyvva fruit from the counter and turning towards the stairs to the Kogane's private living quarters.
"No, I mean—" James puffed out his cheeks and blew a noisy breath out through pursed lips. "Really. Your dad must be so proud."
Keith… wasn't entirely sure what happened. One second, his back had been turned to his coworker, guyvva fruit in hand; the next, his vision was clouded with red rage, and his hands were fisted in the collar of James' shirt. The guyvva fruit fell to the floor with a dull thud, rolling under the opposite counter.
"You ever," Keith growled, hefting the utter asshole in his grip back against the stove, "—say something like that again, and I'll break your nose a second time, Griffin. You hear me?"
Under the weight of Keith's vicious glare, James shrank pathetically back, hovering dangerously over the stove. His hands scrambled over Keith's in an attempt to steady himself; and he gave a feeble whimper, nodding his head in vigorous confirmation that he'd understood.
Satisfied with the sniveling mess beneath his fingertips, Keith yanked the other boy forward, releasing his bruising grip on James' collar the second he was righted. Keith tapped him lightly on the chest—delighting in the way James flinched—and bent to retrieve his lost fruit from the floor. As he turned to walk off towards the stairs, he tossed the guyvva once into the air, catching it in one fluid motion. "You take care now, Jimmy," he called without turning, hoping that the careful casualness of his voice was as intimidating as he meant for it to be.
Judging by the dead silence left in his wake, he guessed he'd probably succeeded.
Keith took the stairs two at a time, the proximity to his room overwhelming him with a desperate need to get away. He was thankful not to have to run into any guests up here. Though still a part of the Inn, the Kogane residence was in its own little turret, tucked snuggly above the Benbow's kitchen and accessible only to himself, Shiro, and his father—the only three people with keys to the thick wooden door separating the living quarters from the stairs.
After a second spent rifling through deep pockets for his key, Keith was finally shouldering his way through the door and into the room beyond. He was greeted by the familiar sight of two thin beds, each pushed snugly up against the walls to his left and right. A modest-sized fireplace was carved into the wall opposite the door, and Keith immediately made a beeline towards it, skirting around the small dining table in the center of the room as he did so. Though the day had been warm, the sun was due to set any minute, and nights in The Wastes typically brought with them a chill that easily seeped through the Benbow's thin glass-paned windows. Reaching above the fireplace's mantle, Keith procured a box of matches, striking one with fingers that still shook with anger.
Once he'd managed to get a small flame licking heartily at a log, Keith threw himself down onto his bed, shoes and all. His father could scold him for it later, but at that moment, he couldn't have cared less.
Curling his fingers into scratchy woolen blankets, he inhaled deeply, trying and failing to remember the breathing exercise Shiro had taught him for when he felt too angry to feel anything else. Three counts inhale, five—no, it was five inhale, three to ex—wait, it was… fuck.
Keith sat up, rubbing frustratedly at his eyes. Below him, the muted sounds of the restaurant's dinner rush wafted up through the floorboards to add to the already clattered cacophony of his mind. Guests chattered amongst one another in muted, indistinguishable voices, plates and silverware clinked musically; and all Keith could think about was his father, stuck working the dinner shift alone (Griffin sure as shit didn't count) until Shiro showed up for work.
Downstairs, something clattered and thumped in the kitchen, and Keith angrily fished the guyvva fruit from his pocket, ripping into its skin with the hand-me-down pocket-knife he'd received from his father on his fourteenth birthday. He'd hoped that the fruit might be something of a distraction; but the more he peeled, the more determined his mind seemed to conjure up the image of James' condescending expression. The other boy's words cycled around his head, evoking red-hot fury that obscured any semblance of rational thought.
Fuck Griffin. Fuck Griffin and his superiority complex and his stupid face and his—
It was only when the edge of the blade missed the fruit and instead sliced painfully over his thumb that Keith was given pause. Dropping his knife and the tattered remains of the guyvva to his sheets, he cradled his trembling hands to his chest, sucking irately at the shallow cut on his thumb and rattling off every expletive in his vocabulary.
When Shiro found him almost an hour later, Keith was lying on his back, hands folded across his stomach and fuming up at the ceiling. He didn't bother sparing his cousin a glance, having expected the visit sooner or later. The end of the bed dipped as Shiro sat gingerly near his feet, as if Keith were a wild animal that would bite him at the slightest disturbance.
"You wanna talk about it?"
Keith shrugged in response.
Shiro sighed, running a hand through locks of fine white hair. "I take it you're not working dinner?"
Keith shrugged again, and after a second's pause, Shiro snorted. "Lucky me. Quality time with Griffin."
The remark pulled a surprised huff out of Keith. "He's feeling like more of an asshole than usual, if that gets you any more excited," he grumbled, fiddling with the straps of his fingerless gloves.
A burst of laughter escaped his cousin, and Keith peaked out from behind his hands to catch the amusement crinkling around Shiro's eyes. "It definitely doesn't, but thanks."
Keith bit his lip, returning his gaze to the ceiling. Shiro stayed perfectly silent, waiting for him to decide what and how much to share. It was one of the things he loved most about his cousin—he was one of the only adults Keith knew who didn't constantly expect him to talk.
"I'm assuming my dad told you?" he finally asked, his jaw tight.
"Yeah." Shiro gave Keith's ankle a light squeeze. "Pulled me aside as I came in and—yeah. I got the idea."
"I was a mile out, Shiro. Those cops—"
"I know, Keith." Shiro regarded him with so much love that Keith couldn't bear to look, opting instead to turn his head to stare at the fire crackling to his right.
"It's like they—they want me to fail, Shiro, and then Griffin just knows exactly which buttons to press, and I—"
He cut himself off, scrubbing at his eyes and not entirely sure when he'd started crying, but desperate to stop.
Before he could protest, Shiro was standing, moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to Keith's chest. "I know," he repeated, empathy shining fiercely in his eyes. Somewhere in the back of Keith's mind, he thought no, you don't, you don't know at all; you're the Garrison's golden boy, you don't know anything.
"I'm so sorry, bud," Shiro was saying, arms open as he leaned in for a hug. "I can't imagine how you feel—"
Abruptly, Keith sat up, leaning away from the embrace and hunching over to wipe hastily at his wet eyes. "You should get to work."
"Keith," Shiro whispered, and fuck—Keith hated the raw concern in his cousin's voice.
He straightened up, forcing an attempt at a smile onto his face and willing himself to stop crying long enough to get rid of him. "'M fine, Shiro. Really. It was just some asshole cops. No big deal."
Shiro looked like he wanted to say something else, so Keith plowed on. "Not like anyone got hurt, right? Still in one piece," he reassured, even as the depths of his soul screamed I'm breaking apart, Shiro; I'm falling to pieces and I don't know how to put everything back together, I don't know what's wrong with me, please help me, help me helpmehelpmehelpmehelp—
"I'm okay, Shiro."
The disbelief coloring his cousin's face hurt almost as much as it did to picture the heartbreak on his father's; but after a few seconds, something resolute (albeit mournful) overtook his features.
"Okay." Shiro stood, and Keith knew with a certainty that his cousin wasn't going to push him into a conversation he didn't want to have. He wasn't sure if he appreciated or loathed the space at this point. Shiro had always had an uncanny knack for being able to handle Keith's wild emotions with delicacy. Lately, he'd become more distant, approaching Keith with the same cautious hesitance that one might use with a wild animal. He doesn't know how to talk to me anymore, Keith thought; and the very second the thought crossed his mind, he berated his own stupidity. No, you just don't let him talk to you anymore.
He supposed he couldn't actually blame Shiro. All his cousin had ever done was try. It was Keith who screwed up over and over; Keith who acted out with increasing frequency as he withered away out in The Wastes. It was Keith who couldn't stand to continue to look the people he loved in the eye sans explanation or reason.
It was Keith who was struggling to imagine why he deserved the love of people he only hurt.
Jaw working back and forth in an attempt to stave off tears—just a little longer, the more okay you seem the faster he'll leave—Keith pretended to busy himself with picking a loose thread out of his blanket, watching Shiro's slow retreat to the door from the corner of his eye.
Shiro's gait was slow and measured, weighted with unspoken words, and Keith was unsurprised when his cousin hesitated and turned back to him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Keith quickly averted his gaze.
"Keith, I—I just…"
The loose thread snagged on another, and Keith gritted his teeth, pinching it between his nails.
Shiro sighed, long and deep, and Keith could practically hear whatever he'd been about to say vanish with the exhale. "I love you," was what his cousin finally settled on. "No matter what, I love you, okay?"
A hot tear spilled out of Keith's right eye. Fuck, dammit, fuck fuck fuck. So much for keeping it together. His whole face felt as if it might explode from trying to contain the waterworks within. When he tried to open his mouth to respond, it felt as if someone had welded his jaw shut. Fuck, he thought, fingers trembling so violently that he lost his grip on the thread. I love you too, Shiro. I never meant to hurt you.
As the heavy wooden door swung shut, sealing Keith away in his solitude, he was overwhelmed with the desire for Shiro to hear the words that refused to leave him. He wrenched open his jaw, determined to throw them across the barrier that separated them—across to the retreating creaks of his cousin's footsteps on the stairs.
Instead, the words left him in the form of a sob, gut-wrenchingly painful, and he was forced to throw a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Beyond the door, the footsteps briefly paused in their descent, and after a second's deliberation, they continued on their way.
Keith pressed his hand harder over his face, taking care to cover his mouth and nose (lest he be heard by the restaurant's occupants down below), and wept.
…
When he awoke, the room was fully dark, save for the fireplace crackling steadily in the hearth. The distant sounds of chatter had faded, leaving behind the sporadic clanking of dishware as it was gathered into the kitchen. A glance around the room told him that it wasn't so late that his father had come up to bed. Feeling somewhat disoriented from his impromptu nap, Keith rooted underneath his pillow for the wrist comm he so seldom used. The brightness of its screen nearly blinded him as it flickered to life, and he forced himself to squint at the barrage of messages vying for his attention. He winced when he realized that most of them were from his father, dated earlier in the day—a collection of voice messages and video mail, undoubtedly worried demands as to where he'd been. Unsure if it was possible to feel any worse, Keith swiped the notifications away until a blank screen read 22:50 hours. He'd slept well past closing time, then.
Down in the kitchen, a plate clattered loudly in the sink, and Keith allowed himself to lie there for a moment, picturing an angry James stuck alone on dish duty while his father and Shiro made sure the restaurant shone in preparation for breakfast hours the next morning. Another angry clatter had James swearing in pain, and despite the day's events, Keith found himself smiling, wordlessly raising a middle finger in his coworker's direction.
That's what you get, he thought; and the vindication pulsing through his body was enough to launch him out of bed. On an automatic impulse, he grabbed his quilt, dragging it around his shoulders as his feet led him towards the window.
Outside, the stars twinkled brightly in a clear night's sky, beckoning Keith onto the wooden ledge outside his window. He stepped gingerly onto it, taking care to keep his footsteps light as it groaned with his weight. Although he was cautious, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that the old ledge would hold. He had, after all, been making this climb since he was nine and his father had inherited The Benbow Inn from Hinoshi and Annora Shirogane. Keith had developed a strange (and perhaps misplaced) confidence that the stars watched over him as he shimmied over the ledge around the rooftop, protecting him from the possibility of a bone-shattering fall to the ground below. Rationally, he knew it was a stupid notion, but when he was surrounded by hundreds of thousands of stars, he couldn't help but feel… safe. Seen.
Keith moved around the edge—the toes of his boots sending debris cascading off the ledge—until he reached a flat overhang that jutted out under one of the restaurant's high windows. Releasing a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, he fell into a crouch, wedging himself into the little nook so that he was sitting with his back pressed up against the glass pane. He'd usually dangle his legs from the edge, but tonight, he bent them towards his chest, pulling his blanket over his knees and tucking it underneath his chin.
This spot had been Keith's favorite part of The Benbow since they'd moved in. It was only accessible from the Kogane residence, which meant that he'd never run into anyone else up here. It was his, and his alone. His place to come to when he felt like he wasn't enough. His place to come to when he felt like he wanted more, wanted to be more.
His place to come to when he wanted to sit under the light of trillions of stars and feel like a part of something as great and vast as the universe.
Just me and a universe full of stars.
Sometimes, Keith wondered if anyone out there, far, far beyond the planet Montressor—someone just as achingly lonely as he was—ever looked back. He could picture them, sitting exactly as he was now, gazing up at so many of the same stars and starving for a chance to be seen.
You're not alone, Keith thought, closing his eyes as an unbidden tear trickled quickly down his cheek. Whoever you are, you're not alone.
The sound of conversation from within the Benbow's restaurant grew more distinguishable, and Keith wrenched his eyes open, staring off into the distance along the Inn's landing pad and runway. For a few seconds, he was unable to pick out more than a couple short snippets of conversation, but as the voices drew closer, Keith turned to peer down into the restaurant, unsurprised to find his father and Shiro moving to clean a table directly below his window perch.
"—go easy on him," Shiro was saying, pulling a rag from his shoulder and a bottle of cleaner from his utility belt. "That's all I'm saying."
Keith scowled. Great. Fantastic. Of course they were talking about him.
He watched as his father dropped heavily into a chair, head falling into his hands. Feather-light, Keith brought the tips of his fingers to rest against the glass panel separating them. I should be down there, he thought, watching Shiro place his cybernetic hand on his father's back. That should be me down there, making him feel better. I'm his son.
A chill ran over him, and he shivered, retracting his exposed hand back into the comfort of his blanket. They wouldn't want you down there anyway. You just bring them down. It's your fault. All your fault.
Another wickedly sharp breeze cut through him, teasing his hair off of his forehead and invading his warm cocoon. Shooting a final glance at the two men below, he turned back to the stars, unable to hear his father's muffled response and feeling—for the first time in his life—as if he were intruding in his own sanctuary.
Feeling distinctly out-of-place, he'd just made up his mind to trek the short distance back to his room when his father's voice stopped him.
"—just so scared, Shiro. He's all I have left."
Keith's throat tightened.
"It's inevitable," his father continued. "And when he's gone, I—I won't…" he trailed off on a sob, and Keith felt as if he was going to be sick. He hadn't heard his father cry like this in years, and his heart ached as he tried to decipher those words. It wasn't as if Keith would ever leave him, so why—
It hit him with sudden clarity, and it was so obvious that he couldn't help the bitter scoff that left him. Right. What was it that Officer Dipshit had said? Straight ticket to the slammer.
Today had been his last free pass. One more slip-up, and goodbye to what little freedom he possessed.
If only he didn't feel like he was running on borrowed time; like another fuck-up was simply inevitable, and he was just biding his time until the day he let everyone down for good.
Down below, Shiro's voice interrupted Keith's self-deprecating spiral. "You'll have me and Adam," Shiro offered, gently. The words made Keith feel strangely bitter, which in turn made him feel even worse. He should have felt beyond grateful that Shiro would be around for his father even when he wouldn't, yet at the same time, it stung not to hear Shiro jump to his defense—not to even try to deny the possibility that Keith might be carted off in cuffs.
Something ugly reared its head within Keith's chest, and he returned his attention to the stars, feeling cold in a way that the desert chill was not responsible for.
"I know, Shiro. You're a good kid." As he listened, Keith brought his chin to his knees, tears pressing urgently against the corners of his eyes. "It's just… so hard, lately. What with cash bein' so tight, and—and The Benbow…"
Keith frowned at the sudden change in topic.
"What am I gonna do if they take it away, Shiro? It's all I have left of Annora, I can't—"
His father's next words were lost to his tears, and Keith squinted at a shooting star as it cut through the atmosphere. What was all that supposed to mean? Who was taking The Benbow, and why? Were they in debt?
And, more importantly: why hadn't Keith been trusted with any of this?
James' voice leered at him from the depths of his subconsciousness. Your father must be so proud.
The shooting star grew brighter as it descended, and Keith raised a shaking hand to card through his hair. Anger pulsed through his fingertips, his body vibrating with it as if he'd been struck like a gong. Sure, he might not be the best son, and he might not be the most reliable person; but this was his home too, and he had the right to know… to…
Keith's thoughts rolled to a stop, anger fading from his body as the air seemed to leave his lungs all at once. It escaped up into the night sky, an exhale of heart-stopping, stunned disbelief that turned to mist in the chilled air. An eerie silence had fallen over The Wastes—as if, like Keith, every creature and rock was fixated on the burning mass of light in the distance.
The burning mass of light careening down towards The Wastes that was most certainly not a shooting star.
For a moment—it might have been seconds; it might have been an eternity—all was still, and Keith sat frozen as his mind grappled with the incomprehensible picture before him. It was so out of place in the monotonous world of The Wastes that Keith felt an odd detachment to the situation as a whole, as if he were watching the event unfold in a dream.
The entire situation just… had no place in his life. Not the scream of the escape pod's failing engines as it hurtled on an unbroken trajectory to solid ground below. Not the flair of red hot flame surrounding the pod like a halo as it cut through Montressor's atmosphere. Not the stench of burning metal as heat peeled it from the pod's outer layer.
Not the undeniable, unshakable, hair-raising whisper of danger spreading through Keith's veins like ice.
It was only when the pod slammed into a nearby canyon wall with an almighty boom, rattling the windows of the Benbow like thunder, that the impossible collided irreversibly with reality.