Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn't have a storefront. He doesn't have a store at all, or a business license for that matter. Those are all things that invite attention, and above all, Keith aims to be as invisible as possible to anyone who might be looking. And there are always people looking for a scam artist.

(“How did you even get clients before I came along?” Pidge asks when she finds out. Keith shrugs. Guerilla marketing is a survival skill he's long mastered.)

(“But seriously, I don’t get why people come to you,” Lance slurs more than once, drunk on cheap vodka and store-brand orange juice. “They know you aren’t legit.” Keith shrugs this off too. People are cheap, but Soulmarks aren't. He caters to a specific crowd — college kids, bar hoppers, and spring breakers looking for a story to tell. The occasional high school rebel. Lots of bored divorcees looking for love before money the second time around but unwilling to waste their alimony to find it. He takes cash only, no questions asked or answered. He never wants for customers.)

(“Why do you do it?” Hunk asks in a voice that only ever holds curiosity. Keith doesn't want to answer because it's something he often asks himself on nights he can't sleep, staring at the tattoo concepts pinned haphazardly to the walls of their shitty little apartment. Keith rubs beer bottle condensation and the sticky remnants of anise cake off his fingers with his shirt. “It's a living,” he finally says. It's true and it’s not. Hunk answers by offering another beer and another cake. “Here's to living.” They clink bottles and go back to watching the stars.)

(“What were you thinking?” he will be asked later, sitting in an interrogation room of the Soulmark Enforcement Bureau’s headquarters. He won't be able to look into the eyes of the one asking, won't be able to face the hurt poorly buried beneath an emotionless facade. Nor will he be able to speak, because the truth will be that he doesn't know, and that's not the answer they're looking for, anyway.)

***

Keith hates moving. He sets down the last box with a sigh and wearily leans his forearms and head on the precarious stack. “That was fast,” he mumbles to the cardboard. “I thought I’d have at least a couple days before you tracked me down.”

“You were sloppy,” Pidge says as she nudges a trash bag full of clothes with an unimpressed grimace. “It’s almost like you want to be found.” 

Keith sighs again. “Pidge,” he starts.

“I can’t believe you managed to stuff this much in the car,” she interrupts, peeking into one of the boxes. She makes a face. “I’m pretty sure this one is Lance’s. Unless you’ve suddenly started wearing bunny slippers.” 

Keith lifts his head off his box pillow to glare. “Pidge.”

“Or size zero skinny jeans,” she says. She pulls out an intricately carved box in one hand and a battered leather book in the other. “Oh hey, something that’s actually yours!”

“Pidge.” He takes the book and box from her before she jostles either too much. 

“Keith.” She probably thinks her smile is innocent, but she is very wrong. 

He sets the book on the small window seat next to them and opens the box to check that the very old and very fragile inks inside are unharmed. “Who else came with you?” he asks tiredly. 

Pidge is quiet for a moment, watching him inspect the bottles for leaks with that uncanny, overly observant gleam in her eye. “Lance,” she says finally. Keith resists the urge to groan. 

“No Hunk?” Hunk would provide a nice buffer. Unfortunately, Pidge’s face closes down and she gives him a flat look.

“You know how much he liked working at Cafe Sal. One of us was going to find something worth sticking around for eventually.”

The admonition stings. Keith draws back in on himself, lips twisting unhappily. “Good,” he snaps. “You weren’t supposed to find me. I don’t even know how you did it.”

Pidge narrows her eyes at him. She's judging him, and no doubt finding him wanting. After a long, tense moment, she snorts and shrugs. “I implanted a GPS chip under your skin.” 

Keith’s not sure what it says about them that he’s genuinely uncertain whether she’s joking or not. She pulls the tape off one of his boxes and starts unpacking his things. Biting back a small resigned smile, he copies her. 

“You couldn’t have found me before I carried everything inside?” he asks. She rolls her eyes and takes it for the peace branch it is.

“Who says I didn’t? Lance is about an hour or so out with all our stuff, by the way. We’ll be crashing here. As usual.” She gives him a pointed look. “Because we are family. And we don’t abandon each other.”

Keith wants to argue, but it would all be for show and he’s too tired to keep up appearances after the shit show that was San Diego. At least he’ll get a couch out of the deal. It’s almost enough to make up for the headache that is Lance. Almost.

***

Keith sets up his workspace next to the window seat since Lance and Pidge have taken over the small dining area he’d earmarked for it, back when he had mistakenly assumed he’d have any say in how his apartment would be divided. Having the window means lots of light to work with and a pretty view of Old Town below to distract clients, but it also means he’s going to have to go scavenging for some sort of container to store his inks away from the light. The ingredients needed for Soulmarking are finicky, fickle things, prone to spoiling in the wrong atmosphere. His inks don’t actually contain any of them, but he still needs to keep up appearances.

“Storage container for inks,” he calls out as he shifts his tattoo table an inch or so to the right.

“Cupboard or chest of drawers for inks, got it,” Lance replies through a mouthful of pizza. Keith sighs and looks over his shoulder at him. He’s sprawled out over their ratty futon, notebook in one hand and phone in the other. 

“I said storage container, not furniture, Lance. I don’t need to waste money on more stuff that’s just going to get dumped the next time I have to run.”

“One, we have to waste money on more furniture because you keep dumping it each time we run. A bigger U-Haul costs less. And two, not everyone appreciates redneck chic, Keith. This is Pennsylvania and my heart craves fine Amish craftsmanship.”

Keith fights back an eye roll and turns back to the tattoo table. “Like your heart craved wicker and palm tree everything in Florida?” he says flatly, shifting the table back to the left.

“Or how a barn threw up all over our place in Wyoming?” Pidge chimes in, not bothering to look away from her laptop screen.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Keith snorts and pulls out his supplies suitcase. “A storage container, for portability,” he says again, firmly. “And more antiseptic.” Lance grumbles, but Keith hears the sound of pen scratching against paper as he adds it to the list.

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And those little bleach tablets for the toilet because you guys are disgusting,”  Pidge adds. 

“Excuse you, I am very clean,” Lance protests. “Keith’s the one who wouldn’t know a toilet brush from a hair brush.”

Keith makes a face to himself, but he can’t exactly disagree. Every ounce of his dedication to cleanliness goes toward tattoo hygiene. Still. “Toilets have brushes?” He bites back a smirk as Lance exudes silent indignation. 

“You know, the sad thing is that I honestly don’t know if you’re messing with me right now.”

“Pidge, can you put in an order for more needles?” he says, rather than reply. Pidge throws a thumbs-up over her shoulder.

Lance exaggerates a sigh. “You know what, I’m done. I’m going to decorate.” He tosses the notebook at Pidge. She glares when the notebook hits her, but pulls a pen from behind her ear anyway.

A comfortable quiet falls as they each work on their own projects, broken only by the tap-tap of Pidge’s typing and the shuffle and rustle as Lance unpacks and decorates. Occasionally one of them will call out something to add to the list of things they need. Keith puts his focus into making sure everything in his workplace is exactly as he wants it. His bedroom is still a mosaic of half-unpacked boxes and the sparse detritus of his life, a sleeping bag and doubled up memory foam bed topper nestled in one corner because he hasn't bothered with a bed in years, but his workspace will be open and ready for business by the end of the night. 

He jerks his head back as a piece of pizza is shoved in his face. “Eat,” Pidge says, waving it at him until he takes it. She plops down next to him and sets her laptop on her crossed knees. “I’m almost done with the Facebook page, but I need a name for you and the business.” Keith opens his mouth but she cuts him off, “And do not say anything that involves lions.”

Keith frowns. “I like lions.”

Pidge rolls her eyes with a frown. “I know. And so does SEB. Matt says they’ve set up flags for any mentions of new places with it in the name.”

Keith’s breath catches. His fingers twitch and itch, tapping random patterns against his sternum. The solid, rhythmic thud of thumb against bone reverberates through his chest and reminds his heart how to beat. “No lions,” he agrees, voice rough. 

“Think about it,” Pidge says, standing back up. “And eat your pizza before Lance steals it straight out of your hand.” Keith grimaces. The grease coating his fingers makes his stomach tremble and lurch, but he dutifully takes a bite. She pats him on the head and he flaps his hand at her in irritation. 

“So are you coming with us to the store, or are you going to sit here and continue moving things around by fractions for another hour?” Lance asks from the kitchen. Keith rolls the tension out of his shoulders and neck.

“Pick me up another sketchbook, would you?” he replies. 

Lance groans. “Come on, Pidge, let’s leave Mr. Antisocial to his obsession. I found an antiques market next to the Target and the reviews say they’ve got a good furniture selection.”

“Oh good, antiquing with Lance. Every girl’s dream,” Pidge mutters.

“Have fun,” Keith says with a smirk. Pidge nudges his back roughly with one foot in retaliation. He waves goodbye over his shoulder and listens to them clatter down the stairs of the old row house-turned-apartments. Their absence rings loudly through his head; thoughts of lions and councils and red flags creep in behind his eyes.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud.

Keith drops his hand and pushes himself to his feet. There’s a shabby looking gym a couple miles away, well within jogging distance, and right now he desperately needs to run. 

***

Keith ran away from the group home when he was twelve. He had no money, no plan, no fear of what might happen to him. He made it to the edge of his small town before some good Samaritan decided to stick their nose in and drag him to the police station. He didn’t bother to explain himself; he had a graffitied past and the home was better at playing nice with the cops. There was no point in kicking the hornet’s nest.

Two years later, he made it all the way to Garrison City and managed a whole six months of picking pockets and scamming Galaxy Garrison cadets out of their allowances. He sold “moon” rocks he gathered out in the desert to gullible tourists eager for anything space related; he bought cheap packets of paper and markers and drew them keepsakes to take home and store away in boxes with the rest of their vacation remains. 

Eventually, he won one too many shell games and ended up in yet another police station, handcuffed and bloody-nosed, next to a white faced and shaking cadet. Keith’s smirk cracked open the cut on his lip, but the metallic tang was satisfying on his tongue. His old group home refused to take him back after that. He stayed in Garrison, dropped into a detention center masquerading as a residential center. For the first time, he was not the worst kid there. He learned how to fight, and then he learned how to fly under the radar so he didn’t have to. 

His bunkmate took interest in the doodles Keith scrawled over his arms during the long hours of school. In the quiet dark of after hours, Keith carefully stabbed his first tattoo, one pin prick at a time, into the sharp wing of his roommate's skinny shoulder. He gained a reputation and capitalized on it. 

He met Samuel, Matt, and Pidge Holt after making the mistake of correcting Pidge’s calculations. They ended up in a shouting match, in the middle of a park, over astrophysics. Matt pulled them apart and then immediately broke ceasefire by telling them they were both wrong. Samuel found them huddled together over Keith’s sketchbook, furiously scribbling equations and diagrams, fighting over the pen to add their own opinions to the mess. Samuel dragged Matt and Pidge home, then showed up at the residential home the next day and threw his status with the Galaxy Garrison around until they let him cart Keith home as well.

The Holts’ kindness sat uneasily on Keith’s shoulders. It made him claustrophobic, itchy and twitchy and suspicious of everyone and everything. At night, he drew constellations on the popcorn ceiling with tired eyes and drove Matt crazy with the incessant thud of fingers against his chest. The pillow that smacked him in the face was a balm to his nerves. 

He ran away once more in the year and a half he stayed with them. Samuel found him staring out over the edge of the desert ravine they’d hiked a few weeks back, contemplating the physics of flying. The physics of falling. 

He sat down next to Keith with creaking knees and said nothing. They watched the sun bleed dying light over the red rock and desert scrub while the stars peeked one by one out of the dark. When the cold bit a little too hard at the tips of their ears and noses, Samuel stood and headed back toward the city shining against the opposite horizon. Keith followed.

***

Keith beats his anxiety into the unforgiving, cracked vinyl surface of a punching bag until his knuckles hurt and his bones ache. He stops its swing with his arms, half hugging it and half holding himself up. The vinyl is cool against his sweaty cheek as he waits for his body to stop vibrating. It’s been too long since he’s relied solely on strength rather than speed. He misses city living already; there had been no shortage of gyms and sparring partners to cycle between. The fact that this tiny rural town even has a gym with a punching bag and a cash pay option is surprising.

Someone clears their throat behind him. Keith closes his eyes. “Just give me a minute to wipe it down and it’s all yours,” he mutters, pushing himself away from the bag.

“Oh. Uh, no, that’s fine. I just couldn’t help but notice you going at that bag like it’s done you wrong. You interested in going up against something that can hit back?”

Keith sucks in a breath. Ask and ye shall receive, he thinks. How convenient. Too convenient. Keith’s danger radar is pinging. He turns around, narrow-eyed and tense with suspicion.

The man behind him is, as Lance would say, a tall drink of water. Keith lets his eyes wander over him, searching for red flags to justify his fight or flight instincts. Crossed arms, relaxed but confident wide-legged stance, strong shoulders and a neutral, open expression. Guileless eyes, no obvious indications of deception. Wavering dedication to a high-and-tight, but there’s defiance in the shock of longer silver hair plastered with sweat to his forehead. Likely ex-military, then.  A metal prosthesis replaces his right arm and a scar bisects his nose. More are scattered pell-mell over his remaining arm. Keith would bet money on there being more under his faded gray shirt and sweatpants. Veteran? Or maybe just unlucky. 

Keith's glance stutters and stops on the watercolor solar system that takes over the man’s bicep. The work is exquisite; he wants to get his hands on it and trace the swirls and whorls of the galaxy, press his fingers into each planet and feel the burning thrum of blood rushing under the sun. He wonders who the artist is.

He’s been staring too long. The man’s eyebrows are steadily creeping toward his hairline and he’s holding himself with the tension of someone resigned to, but still uncomfortable with, getting stares. 

“I’m Keith,” he blurts out in an effort to cover the awkwardness, then bites back a wince. He’s supposed to be Kyle here. He never uses his real name, not since he was nineteen and had his first brush with the Soulmark Enforcement Bureau. 

The man looks surprised for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by a wide smile and outstretched hand. It’s his right hand. Keith isn’t sure if he’s being tested or if it’s just habit, but the hint of challenge in the man’s gray eyes contradicts the warmth of his expression and suggests the former. Either way, Keith doesn’t hesitate to pull off his glove and take it. The metal is surprisingly warm through Keith’s wrappings, grip firm but not crushing. “I’m Shiro,” the man says, tension melting out of his shoulders. “Nice to meet you, Keith.” 

The conversation stagnates under the force of Keith’s awkwardness. Shiro clears his throat, eyes flicking down. Their hands are still clasped, Keith realizes. He yanks his back and busies himself with pulling his glove back on, flexing his hand to work his fingers through the holes and adjust the padding on the top. 

“So,” Shiro says when the silence stretches on too long, “do you want to spar?” His voice is light, patient. Keith wants to curl up inside it. He wants to grit his teeth and fight his way out. He looks at the clock instead.

It’s almost four o’clock, far later than he expected. “Shit,” he hisses, pulling his gloves right back off. Pidge and Lance are probably back by now. “I have to go.” He shoves the gloves into his bag, pulling his phone out as he does. The screen is a long line of texts and missed calls. He is a flight risk and they are rightly concerned. He curses again.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Shiro says as he watches Keith sling his bag over his shoulder, bemused. “Maybe next time, then.”

“Yeah, sure,” Keith replies, distracted and already deep into his phone as he types out a reply to Pidge. He exits the gym quickly.

It’s not until he’s back at the apartment, post disappointed lecture and subsequent apology, that he remembers the offer he’d carelessly accepted. It leaves him on edge, antsy and breathless with uneasy anticipation. His instincts warn him that he is on a precipice, but he won’t be able to calculate the angles and velocity to land safely until he knows more about the landscape, and for that, he’ll have to go back.

***

Lance was the first one to suggest the idea of scamming Soulmark tattoos, over their third Cup o’ Noodles of the day. They sat on the floor of their closet apartment because they couldn’t afford chairs, much less a dining table. No one ever told you that New York dreams more often resemble nightmares. 

“Finding a roommate was supposed to make things better, not worse,” Lance said through a mouthful of cardboard noodles. “I should raise your rent.”

“Can’t.” Keith fished another freeze-dried pea out of his cup and dropped it into Lance’s. “I’m already paying the whole thing. Maybe you should find another job.”

“Stop it, I don’t want any more of your nasty peas,” Lance snapped. “And you say that like I’m not trying. It’s not my fault I got blacklisted from the New York antiques scene right after you moved in.” Keith snorted. Attempting to pass off a shitty Ikea desk as vintage pretty firmly put Lance at fault, in Keith’s opinion. “Oh, shut up, Mullet.” 

Keith flipped him off, then added a carrot to Lance’s cup for good measure. “It’s not a pea,” he pointed out when Lance squawked and tried to fight him off with his chopsticks. “And you could always try and find a job outside of the antiques world, you know.”

Lance sniffed imperiously. “What I want to know is why you don’t charge more for your tattoos,” he said, ignoring Keith’s suggestion entirely. “You could charge a premium, they’re that good.”

Keith sighed. They had already gone over this. “Not without a license. Can’t get a license without an apprenticeship. Can’t afford an apprenticeship, unless you feel like fronting the bills, which puts us right back at you needing to get a job.” 

Lance made a face and flopped over onto his back. “You could always start doing Soulmark tattoos,” he said idly. “I mean, if you’re going to tattoo illegally, you might as well go all out.” 

Keith stared at him, ramen forgotten. “You do realize you have to have the Sight to be able to do those, right?”

“Who says you don’t,” Lance countered, trying to feed noodles into his mouth by dangling them above his head; and Lance called Keith uncultured. “You freehand at least half your pieces and practically everyone says that it’s like you know exactly what they want without them even having to say.”

Unease coiled tightly in Keith’s stomach, mixing badly with the noodles and MSG. He thought of a small wooden box, an ornate stick-and-poke set, a sketchbook half-full of someone else's faded art. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Lance,” Keith growled. “Drop it.” Lance huffed, but shut up. Keith rewarded him by giving him his half of their king-size Snickers.

Lance never brought it back up, but Keith found himself thinking about it at night while he listened to Lance snore, palm pressed hard over his heart. He thought through the logistics, the morality, the risk. Falsifying Soulmarks was a felony and the Bureau was not known for leniency.

Pidge showed up on their doorstep a few months later and refused to leave. Keith found himself running the idea by her one night when they were deep in their cups, Lance passed out and drooling on the floor next to them. “Hypothetically, of course,” he qualified. Pidge stared at him through one squinted eye. Even seeing double, she managed to see right through him. 

“Keith. What are you thinking?” Her voice held a note of warning. He looked away, clumsily changed the subject and hoped the vodka would wash away the conversation.

It didn’t. Two days later she presented him with a bullet-pointed and diagrammed Powerpoint presentation on exactly how one might, hypothetically, go into the business of falsifying Soulmarks.

***

Keith’s first client in their new location is a young woman named Sofia with blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, and cat hair on her shirt. She’s a dream client — accounts on nearly every social media site, with conveniently similar usernames and the need to record every detail of her life. In the two days between her call and her appointment, Keith and Pidge internet-stalk her until they have a decent dossier on her, and then they log on to the Soulmark Registry. 

Pidge’s algorithm does the lion’s share of weeding through the hundreds of thousands of people registering their Soulmarks in the hopes of finding their mates, but Keith insists on choosing the final candidates on his own. While Lance leaves in search of work at the antiques market he’d bought Keith’s ink cabinet from and Pidge immerses herself in whatever gray-area computer project she’s currently been commissioned for, Keith boots up Pidge’s program on their ancient communal laptop. 

The algorithm spits out just over one hundred hits. Keith sits cross-legged on the tattoo table with the laptop in front of him, scrolling through the options with a small frown creasing his brow. He discards nearly half of them on his first run through. The algorithm is sophisticated and Pidge is constantly tinkering with it, but it’s not perfect and still throws out a lot of misses. The second time through, he lets his eyes glaze over, focusing more on shapes and colors that stick out to him and make him think of Sofia before doing quick google searches on those who bear the Marks he likes. In the end he narrows it down to five options. Now comes the hard part. 

Keith does do his research on each candidate, but what he finds is rarely the deciding factor. He relies instead on his gut. It drives Pidge crazy, but even she can’t deny that the times he’s been caught out, either by someone finding their real soulmate or by clients getting suspicious and having their Mark tested, it’s nearly always when he’s gone with his head instead of his heart.

In the end he chooses a soft, pastel watercolor of a mountain range on the wrist of a man a few years Sofia’s senior named Aiden. Keith’s eyes trace the lines of the mountains, mind already filling in the continuing silhouette of the range so that when held together, they would seamlessly merge into one, watercolor sunset behind it.

Soulmarks are rarely carbon copies of each other, which works in Keith’s favor, but they do undeniably go together. Some are mirror images, some have different color schemes or are negatives of each other. Some are vastly different styles but still bear the same linework. With some couples, one Soulmark looks as if it had been carved out of the other. Keith’s favorites are the ones that complete each other. They allow him the most creativity and room to add his own flair, and there’s just something about them that feels right. Soulmates are supposed to complete each other; so, too, should their Soulmarks. 

Keith quietly clicks the laptop closed and leaves it on the table as he rounds the folding screen Lance had also picked up at the antiques market. Pidge is hunched over her own laptop, blue light reflecting off her glasses and throwing her features into stark relief. He hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, but the room is gloomy, shadows gathering and looming in the corners. Keith clicks on a lamp; she doesn’t so much as twitch. He shakes his head and smiles fondly, but doesn’t disturb her. Instead, he pulls ingredients out of their vintage pink fridge (which had absolutely not reminded him of Lance, and definitely had not been a factor while choosing the place) and goes about making spaghetti and meatballs. It’s Hunk’s recipe, deemed Keith-proof, and their traditional First Tattoo dinner because it’s his favorite.

Lance gets home just as Keith is finishing up. He hangs over Keith’s shoulder, sniffing obnoxiously. Keith elbows him in the stomach and smirks as Lance wheezes and moans dramatically on the floor behind him. Pidge comes in at the commotion and stands over Lance with crossed arms and raised eyebrows. “What’d you do?”

Lance gasps and clutches his chest. “You wound me, why would you assume it was me? I was unjustly attacked for no reason!” Pidge looks up at Keith, who just shrugs and fills a bowl with spaghetti and sauce before stepping over Lance and plopping down on the futon to eat. Pidge claims the seat next to him a few moments later while Lance grumbles about persecution. By the time he joins them, tablet in one hand and bowl in the other, he seems to have gotten over it. “It’s my turn to choose the movie,” he says through a mouthful of pasta, “and I’m thinking rom-com.” Pidge groans, but Keith just pulls his legs up and settles a little more comfortably on the lumpy futon. He will take it to his grave, but he has a soft spot for rom-coms a mile wide. 

“Whatever, I’m calling Hunk,” Pidge says, trading her laptop for the tablet. Lance hums happily as he clicks through Netflix and Pidge video calls Hunk. 

“Hey, buddy,” Hunk says when he picks up, waving with the hand not holding his own bowl of spaghetti. Even hundreds of miles away, tradition will always bring them together. “You figured out your tattoo?” Keith grunts and nods, mouth full. He swallows hard and clears his throat. 

“Mountains,” he says, leaning against Pidge’s shoulder so he can see Hunk’s cheerful face. “I’ll take pictures.”

“Cool.” They chat for a little while as they eat and Lance dithers over movie choices. He finally settles on one and Hunk pulls it up as well. “Alright, ready? One, two, play!”

***

Keith forgets about the man from the gym completely until he walks in and sees him stretching on the floor near the punching bag. He stops short and nearly turns right back around, but he’s in a good mood after a successful tattoo session, so instead he throws his stuff in a locker and stands next to the man to start his own stretches. The man glances up at him, expression blank for a moment before he grins cheerfully and stands. “Hey! Keith, right?”

Keith nods, taking the hand held out to him. “Yeah. Uh.”

“Shiro. I was starting to think I’d scared you off.” His smile holds a hint of self deprecation. Keith bites his lip and shakes his head firmly, turning back to face the wall as he stretches out a bicep. 

“No,” he reassures. “I’m just... not really a gym person.”

Shiro hums thoughtfully as he goes back to his own stretches. Keith tries to ignore the flex of Shiro’s thighs where they peek out from the gym shorts he wears, but fails miserably. “Just when you need to punch things, huh?” Shiro teases. Keith grunts rather than answer because Shiro is dead-on the truth and it makes him uncomfortable.

They fall into a silence that’s not quite comfortable but not awkward either. Shiro is far more methodical and thorough in his stretching than Keith’s own haphazard efforts, so by the time he’s finished, Keith has been halfheartedly mimicking him for at least five minutes. If Shiro notices, he says nothing.

“So, were you interested in sparring?” Shiro asks. “It’s fine if you aren’t, but…”

“Yes!” Keith blurts, then clears his throat as Shiro blinks, surprised. It slowly melts into a warm smile and Keith relaxes. 

“In there?” Shiro asks, gesturing toward a side room probably used for classes. Keith shrugs and follows him.

Keith sizes Shiro up while they wrap their hands and pull on gloves. The man is quite a bit larger than him and made of muscle, but Keith is used to fighting people bigger than he is; up until a few years ago, everyone was bigger than him. Speed and leverage are going to win him this fight. He flexes his hands and bounces on the balls of his feet as they meet in the middle of the room. 

Shiro’s grin has a savage edge to it that sets Keith’s heart to double time. “So, rules?” he asks as he copies Keith’s stance, arms up in guard position. Keith blinks and tilts his head.

“Rules?” he asks. Shiro chuckles and shakes his head.

“Oh, tough guy, huh?” 

Keith frowns at him, confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says flatly. Shiro smirks.

“Right,” he drawls. It sets Keith’s nerves on edge; he tenses, jaw clenched. “Well, since you don’t have a mouthguard, let’s say no headshots, first to tap out or pin for count of five, best of three. That work for you?”

Keith shrugs impatiently. “Fine.” He holds out his glove to tap, ready to start already. He’s not used to people spending so much time talking. Shiro quirks an eyebrow and taps gloves before bouncing backward.

Keith launches himself forward, swinging one leg. Shiro blocks and falls back, eyes wide with surprise; Keith advances, pressing the advantage with a flurry of punches that Shiro effortlessly pushes aside without returning. It makes Keith want to scream. He charges Shiro, shoulder-first, intending to flip him, but somehow he ends up on his stomach with a knee between his shoulder blades and arms pinned. “Yield,” Shiro says quietly.

Keith growls and kicks his leg up, catching Shiro in the shoulder. Shiro grunts, falling forward, and Keith wrenches his arms against the hold.

Shiro lets go and rolls off him abruptly. “Whoa, hey, I yield,” he says, alarmed. Keith rolls over and sits up, confused.

“What? Why?”

Shiro stares at him with disbelief. “Because you were about to hurt yourself just to get out of a hold?” Keith shrugs. Winning means doing what you have to; Keith is no stranger to pain. Shiro scrubs a glove over his head, frustrated. “Where the hell did you learn to fight?”

Keith stands and yanks off his gloves, working his jaw in an effort to release the tension. “Bullies, street fights, and underground fight rings.” 

Shiro laughs, but it peters out when Keith just stares at him, unamused. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”

“Sorry, they didn’t offer boxing lessons at the group home,” he snaps.

Shiro runs his fingers over his lips. There's a deep divot between his brows that Keith wants to smooth out. Possibly by punching it. "I'm sorry," Shiro finally says. 

Keith flushes as anger and embarrassment flood him. "I don't need your pity," he hisses, hands clenching around his gloves.

Shiro sighs and pushes himself to his feet. "Good thing I'm not pitying you," he says in a neutral tone. Keith narrows his eyes, trying to judge his sincerity. "Look, I'm not trying to insult you or anything, but your fighting style is less than safe."

Keith rolls his eyes. “Last I checked, fighting isn't supposed to be safe," he sneers. 

Shiro shrugs. "In a real situation, sure. But sparring is supposed to be a way to practice in a controlled setting."

Keith bites his lips. That's never been his experience, but it's not like he's ever had the chance to visit the fancy gyms. The rathole gyms cheap and anonymous enough for his lifestyle cater to the bloodthirsty. "I should go," he mutters. Shiro tilts his head and watches him as he starts to unwrap his hands.

"I could teach you, if you're interested," Shiro says suddenly.

Keith snaps his gaze back up to him. "Uh. What?"

Shiro shrugs, like what he's offering is no big deal. Maybe for him, it is. "I mean, I'm obviously not a professional instructor or anything, but you wouldn't be the first person I gave pointers to."

Keith doesn't know how to react to that. Part of him wants to flip the guy off and storm out because he's not some dumb kid starting intro karate. He wins more fights than he loses. But on the other hand, it might be nice to not come out of every sparring session bloody and bruised. And Shiro knows what he's doing, that much is clear. He's probably a better fighter than Keith.

Scratch that; he's definitely a better fighter than Keith.

"What exactly would that entail?" he finally asks. Shiro's lips curve up into a small smile. It makes Keith's heart do funny things.

"Well, safety protocols, for one," he says with a hint of amusement. "And whatever else you want, too. I've been trained in several fighting styles. We could just play it by ear."

"If you think I'm going to pay you," Keith starts, but Shiro waves him off before he can even finish the sentence.

"That's not why I offered."

"Why did you offer?" Keith asks, genuinely confused. In his experience, the only thing people give up for free is other people.

Shiro's smile goes wry, a little self deprecating. "Do you know how many people are willing to spar with someone sporting a metal arm?" he asks. "Hint: not many. A good sparring partner is worth their weight in gold to me."

That hadn't even occurred to Keith. He considers the offer as he carefully folds up his wraps. "I guess we could try," he says finally. Shiro's smile bowls him over; it's like concentrated sunshine. His eyes sting under its onslaught but he can't look away.

"Great!" He looks down at Keith's wraps. "Uh, I guess now might not be the right time? But maybe we can set up a time later."

Keith looks down at them, too. He unfolds them and starts to rewrap his hands. "Now's fine."

That damn sunshine smile is going to kill him.

***

"So you gave him your phone number?"

Keith points a finger at Lance in warning. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Lance asks innocently.

"Waggle your eyebrows like that. You know that's not what this is." 

Lance laughs. "Aww, I'm just glad you're making friends, boo."

Keith rolls his eyes and goes back to sketching on his tablet. He's had images of wild cats running through his brain all day and he's finally giving in to it. He pens in some cross-hatching on a lion, then scowls and deletes it. It doesn't match up with the image flitting in and out of his head too fast to catch. With a sigh, he opens up another file and starts over. A mechanized version starts to take shape. It might not be what he'd been envisioning, but at least it's not like beating his head against a brick wall.

"Earth to Keith, anyone home?"

"I'm making a sparring partner, not a friend. I don't need friends." The silence that follows his words alerts him to the foot he's just shoved in his mouth. He looks up with a wince. "More friends," he amends quickly. Lance huffs out a sharp breath and plops down onto the futon next to him.

"You are such a disaster," he says, but he sounds fond. "You are so lucky we’re all too stubborn for our own good, you know that?" 

Keith relaxes. "Very lucky," he agrees.

Lance shoves him lightly, then leans against him to look at the tablet. "That's cool.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Keith frowns down at it. The execution is fine, but the lines are empty. It has no life. No soul, he thinks ironically. 

“So, serious question here: are you ever going to get tired of drawing lions?”

Keith elbows Lance, but it’s half-hearted at best. A good third of the pages in his notebook have at least one lion doodled on them. His mom’s notebook features them almost exclusively. “Nope.”

Lance huffs out a laugh and shakes his head affectionately as he swings around to lie on the futon. He worms his feet onto Keith’s lap. Keith pinches his toe in retaliation but doesn’t push him off. He settles the tablet on Lance’s shins and adds some blue to his drawing. 

“So, what does your sparring partner look like?”

Keith sighs heavily. “Like a guy,” he snarks. Lance jostles the tablet and streaks a line of blue down the page. Keith starts to erase it, but stops. He kind of likes how it looks, like paint or ink dripping down. He switches over to the watercolor tool and leans into the idea.

“I swear, getting answers out of you is like pulling really boring, nondescript teeth,” Lance whines, wriggling and flexing his toes. “Like the celebrity kind, you know? Where they’re all pretty and perfect and just like every other celebrity’s and you mostly just want to punch them.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Not really, no. I think your insecurities are showing, Lancey Lance.” Lance’s own slightly crooked teeth are hidden behind a scowl and a hand. Guilt moves uneasily in Keith’s belly; sometimes his barbs go deeper than he intends. “He has a prosthetic arm,” he offers as a peace token. “State of the art. Pidge would go full tech-gremlin on it.”

Lance hums thoughtfully. He’s flexing and stretching his feet now, the movement shifting the tablet just enough for Keith to give in to Lance’s obvious hints. He pokes the end of his stylus into one arch. “Feet bothering you?”

“Oh my God, so much,” Lance bursts out like he’d just been waiting for a chance to bring it up. “That antiques market is huge . It’s in an old factory, did you know that? My legs are falling off.”

Keith perks up. “Did you find a job there?”

Lance slumps a little further into the futon. “No,” he says, dejected. “At the Target next to it. But I can walk over there on breaks and after work, and I haven’t talked to every vendor yet so I’m not giving up.”

“One of them will hire you,” Keith tells him, confident in that fact. Lance knows his shit. “They’d be an idiot not to.” He sets aside the tablet and grabs one of Lance’s feet to dig his knuckles into the arch. Lance groans appreciatively.

“See, this is why we keep your grumpy ass around,” Lance tells him, then yelps as Keith presses a thumb in extra hard. “Okay, okay, maybe for a few other reasons.” Keith hmphs, but continues his ministrations until Lance is nothing but a man-shaped puddle next to him. “Thanks, Keith,” he says quietly a little while later. Keith gets the feeling he isn’t talking about the foot rub. He pats Lance’s shin.

“No problem, buddy.”

***

4:57 PM Unknown: Hi Keith, this is Shiro

5:03 PM Me: hey

5:04 PM Unknown: I know it’s soon, but I have some time tomorrow. How about another lesson? :)

5:12 PM Me: depends. What time?

5:12 PM Unknown: 9am?

5:12 PM Me: bring coffee

5:13 PM Unknown: Black like your soul?

5:13 PM Me: cream and 2 sugars asshole but just for that I’m expecting a venti vanilla latte. Extra vanilla

5:14 PM Shiro: 👍

***

Keith has just finished programming Shiro’s info in when his phone rings. Matt’s photo looks up at him, crossed eyes and fingers pulling his mouth into a grotesque grin. He stares at it, stomach flipping uncomfortably though he can’t pinpoint why. With a frown, he slips into his bedroom to escape the sound of Lance’s cartoon marathon and answers just before the call goes to voicemail. 

“Hey, Matt,” he says carefully. “What’s up?”

“Keith, hello! How are you buddy, old friend?” He sounds chipper. He’s not; Keith has known him too long to not recognize the thread of tension under the false perkiness.

“I’m fine. How are y—”

Matt cuts him off. “I’m fan-fucking-tabulous. Is my sister there?”

Keith heart drops. He rubs his eyes wearily, watching colored blobs dance against his eyelids. “No,” he hedges. “I haven’t seen her.” It’s not entirely a lie; as far as he knows, she hasn’t left her room today, too busy doing things on her computer that he knows better than to ask about.

“Really.” Matt’s dropped the cheerful act entirely. The word drips with sarcasm. 

Keith winces. “Matt,” he starts, but Matt doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else.

“God damnit, Keith!” he explodes. Keith pulls the phone away, ear ringing. “I told you to keep her away this time!”

“I tried,” Keith defends. “She found me. I don’t even know how.” He’s aware that he’s getting dangerously close to a whine, but he can’t help himself.”

Matt snorts derisively. “Please. She obviously put a tracker on you. You should know better.”

Keith drops down onto his pile of bedding. “I do. I’m not stupid, I looked for one before I left.”

“Well then you didn’t look hard enough. And even if she did find you, you should have done something.”

Keith huffs, frustrated. “What do you want me to do, kick her out?”

“Yes!”

“No,” Keith growls. “She’s my friend, and my sister, and she’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions, Matt.”

Matt is silent, but Keith can practically hear him seething. “I told you,” Matt says quietly. “I told you that last time was the final time I’d interfere for you.”

“I know.”

“You nearly got my baby sister arrested.”

Guilt twists uncomfortably in Keith’s chest. He draws his knees up and drops his forehead against them. “I know.”

“You were supposed to leave her behind in San Diego. Quit dragging her into your bullshit.”

“I tried,” he says again, feeling impossibly small. Quiet falls between them. Keith listens to Matt’s breathing through the phone, counts each exhale until they slow and steady out. 

Finally, Matt sighs, tired and defeated. “I can’t keep doing this, Keith. I’ve been putting my job on the line for years, keeping you safe. I have friends here that I’m betraying every time I tip you off. Katie is my sister, and you’re my brother, but what you’re doing is wrong.”

Keith presses his forehead into his knees until he feels bruised by the knobby bits. He says nothing, and nothing, and nothing, until the silence is as incriminating as his actions. He doesn’t know what else he can say. What else he can do. He could run again, but Pidge would just follow him again. She’s proven she can track him down, more than once. He could stop, go straight, but he can’t even imagine what that would be like at this point. Every reason he had for starting this scam still exists; every time he thinks he might have saved up enough money to give him some breathing room, SEB catches up. Or Pidge gets herself in too deep with some project or other, or Lance sells a fake to someone who matters, and they’re on the run again. 

“Keith?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

There’s another loaded silence between them, a preview of the eventuality when Matt stops speaking to him entirely. Matt groans and a thunk echoes down the line. Keith’s lips curve up into a small smile in spite of himself. He recognizes that sound; Keith’s own studies had often been interrupted by Matt’s forehead knocking against his desk with a muttered, fuck you, Mrs. Kane.

“I hate you,” Matt says wearily.

“I know.”

“Shut up, I do not. I do hate that I love you. And Pidge. You’re both giant pains in my ass.”

“I know.”

Another pause, and when Matt speaks again it’s hesitant, like he knows the answer but has to try anyway. “You also know mom and dad would—”

“No.” Keith cuts him off sharply. He knows Sam and Colleen would give him as much money as he needed, but they’ve given him more than enough as it is. He can barely breathe under the weight of all he owes them already. 

“Fine. Have fun digging your own grave, because I’m not bailing your guys’ asses out again,” Matt says tersely. “Not for you, and not for Pidge.”

Keith frowns. “I never asked you to. Neither did Pidge.”

“Of course you didn’t. That’s just what family does,” Matt says bitterly. “But whatever. Put the gremlin on the phone, I want to yell at her too.”

Keith debates repeating his earlier assertion that he doesn’t know where she is, but he’s told too many lies today. “Gimme a sec.”

Pidge cracks open the door and squints irritably when he knocks. “What?” she snaps.

He hands her the phone. “Mattwantstotalktoyou,” he says, and beats a hasty retreat.

“Traitor!” she calls after him, but he cuts her ire and Lance’s confused what? off with a slam of his door. He flops back on his bedding and stares at the ceiling for a moment, tapping a frenetic beat against his sternum. Then he rolls over and grabs his sketchbook, determined to bury the thoughts in his head under sweeping lines and crosshatched shadows.

***

11:55 PM Matt: Because I’m such a good brother, I’m going to give you one last piece of advice. If you think a small town is safer, then you’re an idiot. Move your shop to the big city, asshole 

11:57 PM Me: okay. Thanks Matt

11:57 PM Matt: Whatever. Love you

3:34 AM Me: you too

***

“For the hundredth time, if you keep rushing in then you’re going to lose.”

Keith pants and glares, caught tight in an armbar with the thick press of Shiro’s thighs locked around his head. Shiro can’t see the glare, but it’s the thought that counts. “‘S’always worked well in the past,” he grumbles.

Shiro snorts. “Because you’ve been fighting amateurs and thugs. Anyone with even a few months of real training knows that defense is just as important. Patience—”

“Yields focus. I know.” Keith gives in and taps out. He might be able to get out of the hold but he can’t see any way to do so without injuring himself, and if there’s one thing Shiro has beat into his head over the last three weeks it’s that injuring himself is pointless and destructive unless it’s a life or death situation. Keith still fails to see how learning to pull his punches will help in a real fight, but he’s also learned that Shiro will pull back and end their lesson if he doesn’t.

Shiro relaxes his hold and Keith rolls away. His skin feels cold in the absence of Shiro’s touch; he rubs at his neck, irritated.

Shiro hand settles on Keith’s shoulder, the touch dulled by the glove he wears. His brow is furrowed in concerned as he asks, “Did I hurt you?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Of course not. You never hurt me.” Beyond the occasional bruise or minor strain, Shiro is the gentlest sparring partner he’s ever had. It’s both endearing and frustrating, or maybe frustrating because it’s endearing. He drops his hand from his neck and lets his head fall back so Shiro has a better view of his neck. “See?”

Shiro’s face, already flushed from the sparring, goes redder. He looks away and rubs at one eyebrow sheepishly. “Guess so.” He drops his arm and grins. “You want to go again? Maybe try a little defense for once?”

Keith resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him. He outgrew that childishness while he was still a child; he wasn’t going to give in to it now. “Of course. Unless you’re too tired, old man.”

Shiro raises one eyebrow in challenge. “You’re really gonna go there, brat?” He rolls to his feet and holds a hand out to Keith.

“Just telling the truth, ol’ timer.” He grabs Shiro’s hand and lets himself be hauled up. A few weeks ago he would have slapped the hand, and the idea of help, away. Hunk would say he’s grown.

Shiro snorts and pulls. Either he’s still getting used to his prosthesis or he underestimates Keith’s weight, because Keith goes flying and faceplants right into Shiro’s chest. He smells like clean sweat, spicy cinnamon and citrus, warm against his jaw. Keith pulls back sharply; Shiro steadies him with a glove to his hip and bicep. “Whoa, sorry.” His hands linger a moment longer than Keith would normally allow. Those few seconds of contact feel ten times more intimate than a few minutes ago when Keith literally had Shiro’s thighs wrapped around his head. 

Keith takes another step back, adds a little distance. “It’s fine.” He raises his gloves and tries for a devil-may-care smile. “Come on, then.”

Shiro bounces back on the balls of his feet eagerly. “Remember…”

“Don’t. Say it,” Keith grits out, but still takes the lesson to heart. This time, he waits for Shiro to come to him.

***

Some time later, Keith sits cross-legged across from Shiro, sucking hard pulls from his water bottle and trying to ignore the long column of Shiro’s throat as he does the same. “You’re doing well,” Shiro says, wiping the wetness away from his lips with his wrist.

“Gee, thanks,” Keith replies dryly, but warmth still bursts in his belly and chest at the praise. He tamps it down before it can grow into something dangerous.

“I mean it. You’ve come a long way,” Shiro insists earnestly. Everything he does is earnest. It’s so far from Keith’s wheelhouse it’s disconcerting, but Keith can’t deny that he enjoys the change. So much of his life revolves around half truths and full lies. Shiro’s uncomplicated honesty is like cool water to a man who doesn’t realize he’s dehydrated. 

Keith grunts in acknowledgement. 

“I noticed that you still use your legs a lot,” Shiro adds after a moment.

Keith looks up at that, wary. “Yeah? And?”

Shiro shrugs and flaps a hand. “It’s not a bad thing,” he hurries to reassure. Some of the tension falls out of Keith’s shoulders. “It’s just not my particular style.” He pauses, biting his lip. For a moment he looks conflicted before firming back up. “I have a friend with a style more like yours. Her name’s Allura, she could probably give you some pointers. If you want.”

Keith frowns, fidgeting with the carabiner that hangs off his water bottle. He really doesn’t need any more people in his life, complicating things. Shiro is bad enough. “Maybe,” he hedges, hoping Shiro will drop the topic. 

Shiro nods. “Give me your phone, I can put her number in for you.”

Everything in Keith recoils from the idea of letting anyone near his phone. “ No.” He winces when Shiro jerks back, eyes wide at his vehemence. “Sorry, I just, uh. Just text it to me.” That makes more sense anyway.

Shiro’s surprise melts into baffled acquiescence. “Sure. Whatever you want.” He grabs for his phone and a second later Keith’s vibrates in his duffel bag. “I’ll let her know you might be calling, but no pressure.”

Keith won’t be calling, but he nods along anyway. He tosses his water bottle into the duffel and pulls out his jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’d rather get his jacket sweaty than walk home with a damp shirt. “I should go. I’ve got some stuff to do.” He has an appointment later today and he still needs to shower and make the trek to Philadelphia and the tiny, shitty little office he rents by the day. It’s a pain in the ass to haul his table and supplies back and forth each time, but after Matt’s final warning he doesn’t want to chance having his name, even a fake one, on a lease somewhere.

“Me too,” Shiro says. He rummages through his own bag for a moment before standing and slinging it over his shoulder. He holds out his other hand to Keith and, like a fool, Keith takes it again.

This time, when Shiro pulls him up too hard, Keith could almost swear he’d done it on purpose. “Really?” 

Shiro’s tiny mischievous smirk confirms it before it smooths out into a look far too innocent to be real. “Oops. I really do need to learn my own strength.”

Keith curls his hand in Shiro’s shirt under the guise of steadying himself. “Funny, you seem pretty competent when we’re sparring.”

Shiro shrugs, unconcerned. He also still hasn’t let go, hand a warm, firm pressure against Keith’s waist, even through the leather of his jacket. If anything, Shiro’s grip grows tighter, shifting a little lower to curl enticingly around Keith’s hip. Keith finds himself leaning in and tilting his head back, curious to see where this is going despite knowing it’s a bad idea to get any further entangled. Shiro’s eyes drop to his lips and for one breath-stealing moment Keith thinks he might lean in, might…

Shiro blinks like he’s coming back to himself and drops his hold on Keith like he’d been burned. Keith stumbles at the suddenness but catches himself quickly. He tries to ignore the curl of disappointment in his chest as Shiro steps back, looking at the ground, at the walls, the exercise equipment, basically anywhere but Keith.

Keith purses his lips and leans down to scoop up his bag. He’s an idiot. He should be grateful to Shiro, really, for keeping Keith from doing something he’d regret. There’s a reason he sticks to one-night stands only. Attachments are dangerous and Keith knows himself well enough to know that one night with Shiro would never be enough. “Right, I need to go.”

“Keith,” Shiro starts, hesitant but apologetic, and that’s enough of that. Keith gives him a wry smile.

“We’re good, Shiro. See you next time?”

Shiro looks conflicted for a moment before drawing himself up with a sharp nod. “Of course. Bye, Keith.” Keith mutters a farewell and books it out of there. 

The apartment is quiet and too empty when he gets back. He hurries through his shower and leaves for Philadelphia early, eager to escape the silence and endless merry-go-round of recriminations and regrets in his head.

Chapter Text

Keith set his head down on the interrogation table in the San Diego Police Station and decided he was never going to watch Law and Order again. He was so tired; it was ten PM and he’d been sequestered away for two hours now for “questioning” about his boss’ habit of tattooing minors. Dread churned in his stomach, kicking bile up into his throat. His life was teetering on the edge of disaster once again, just one more step along a long road of bad decisions.

(“Hey, did you do this tat? Love your style, man. You should come work for me.”

“Nah, normal tattoos only, dude. Don’t wanna call attention, yeah?”

“You say nothing ‘bout me, I won’t say nothing about you. We cool?”)

They’d left him alone in this godforsaken room for who knew how long at this point. It was freezing and the fluorescent light kept flickering, wreaking havoc on his eyes. They’d offered him a cup of coffee or snack, but he wasn’t stupid. That was the quickest way to get his fingerprints run. Their questioning would turn into an interrogation before he could even thank them for the drink. Maybe it already had without him realizing; he hadn’t been so close to the law since he was a kid.

He sat up as the door opened. “Can I please go home now?” he asked the detective in charge of questioning him. “Frank’s an asshole, I never tattooed any kids, and I didn’t know he was doing it either. There is literally nothing else I can tell you.”

“So you’ve said.” Detective Sendak smiled at him. His chair screeched as he pulled it out and sat down across from Keith. Keith flinched. Everything was too loud, too bright, too much. It assaulted his senses and threatened to send him into a panic attack.

“Am I being detained?” Keith asked for the fifth time. He got the same answer every time.

“Is there a reason we should be detaining you?” 

“No,” Keith told him, trying to remain calm. “But I’m tired and I want to go home.”

“Of course, of course. We just have a few more questions. It’ll only take a moment.” Keith tugged his sleeves a little further over his hands and hugged his arms tight. He pressed the heel of one palm against his sternum. The detective’s eyes flicked down briefly. Keith could have sworn Sendak smirked before his face creased into a concerned look. “Sorry, I know it’s a little chilly in here. You sure you don’t want that coffee?”

“No. Thank you,” Keith gritted out. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to alleviate the bite of metal edges on his thighs and aching bruise developing over his tailbone. “You know, I never realized you guys were so serious about misdemeanors.”

“We take every crime seriously,” Sendak said gravely. Keith repressed a snort. “Now. What can you tell me about Soulmarks?”

Years of poker with the Holts saved Keith from immediately outing himself. He kept his mouth shut as he tried to form some sort of response that wasn’t a scream or all-out panic attack. Before he could contemplate an answer, someone knocked on the interrogation door. Sendak sighed, grumpily. He held up one finger before opening the door a crack to talk in hushed tones with the person outside. He turned back to Keith, doing a poor job of hiding his aggravation. “Your lawyer is here,” he said gruffly. 

Keith blinked. Lawyer? He wouldn’t even know where to get a lawyer, much less have one on call. He stared mutely as Hunk walked in, dressed in a suit and tie and carrying an honest-to-God briefcase. Hunk turned to Sendak. “I’d like a moment with my client,” he said with a confident smile, calm and annoyingly pleasant. Keith almost couldn’t blame the detective for slamming the door. 

After the detective left, Hunk set the briefcase on the table and opened it up, shuffling papers that Keith was sure had nothing to do with the law. “Have they run your fingerprints?” Hunk asked in a low voice, lips barely moving as he looked intently down at a folder.

Keith leaned an elbow on the table and covered his mouth with a hand. He wiggled fingers still covered by his shirt. Hunk let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Good.” He sat down, still flipping through the folder even though it was probably pretty obvious by now that he was just trying to look busy. “We got a call from Matt. Someone recognized you from the BOLO that SEB sent out. They ran your ID, but Pidge caught it in time. As far as they’re concerned you’re still Korey Sanderson, a guy who just happens to resemble a description. Until they can prove otherwise, anyway. We need to get you out of here fast though, because SEB’s got an agent on the way.”

Keith closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe through the claustrophobia pressing in on him. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah, fuck.” Hunk leaned in. “Why the hell did you even come in?” he hissed.

Keith shrank back, feeling small. He hated it when Hunk was upset, even more so when it was his fault. “If I didn’t, it would have been suspicious,” he muttered. “They didn’t seem that interested in me until an hour ago.”

“That’s probably when they recognized you,” Hunk sighed. His hand twitched. He probably wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose, but if either of them showed distress, it would make things worse.

“Can you get me out?” Keith asked. “They won’t tell me if I’m being detained or not.”

Hunk’s eyebrows shot up. He smiled. “I’m gonna do my best, buddy.” He turned to the mirrored window and waved his hand. Sendak stalked back in. Hunk stood to his fullest height. “I understand that my client has asked repeatedly if he’s being detained and you have yet to answer.”

Sendak’s face took on the appearance of sucking on a lemon. “I’m not legally required to,” he hedged.

“But you are required to answer if he asks if he can leave,” Hunk countered.

The lemon face got worse. “He never asked.”

Hunk’s smile took on a sharp edge. He turned to Keith. “Do you have something you’d like to ask?”

Keith sat up straight, the first inklings of hope threading through him. “Am I allowed to leave?”

Detective Sendak was going to need dental work with how hard he was grinding his teeth, but he eventually bit out, “Yes, but we’d like to ask some more —”

“We’ll be leaving then. Korey?” Hunk nodded his head toward the door. Keith practically knocked his chair over in his mad scramble to get out, to be anywhere but there. 

Sendak shoved a business card in Keith’s face as he passed. “Don’t leave town,” he growled. Keith wisely refrained from telling him what a cliche he was being. Instead he nodded tersely and kept his head down as they walked through the precinct. He felt eyes on him the entire way.

As soon as they got outside, Hunk sped up. “We need to get out of here, now, before they look up my credentials and realize I don’t have any.” Hunk shook his head incredulously. “I can’t believe you didn’t ask if you could leave.”

Keith scowled. “I’m sorry, I assumed that asking about detainment was the same thing,” he snapped.

“Well, today you learned.” Hunk said it sarcastically, but Keith could hear the undercurrent of affection in his voice.

“Where did you learn all that? And where’s the car?”

“Google, my friend. And do you really think your lawyer should be seen driving that POS? I mean, I love her, but come on. It’s parked a couple blocks from here.” Keith nodded, impressed by Hunk’s foresight and feeling dumber by the minute.

“Thanks,” Keith said quietly once they were both buckled in and Hunk was pulling away from the curb.

Hunk looked over at him and smiled. It was warm, but resigned. “Always.” He patted Keith on the shoulder. “And hey, look on the bright side, we get out of packing duty,” he said, sounding much more cheerful. “Plus we’ve got a room at the greatest roach motel in the area while we figure out what to do. I hear they even have water in the pool. Not clean water, but still water. You’re gonna love it.”

“Sounds good,” Keith said weakly. He bit back the apology on his tongue. They’d made a pact long ago that apologies were forbidden between them. All of them had fucked up one time or another. This time it was Keith’s turn.

Later, when all four of them were camped out on the floor with a pizza, Keith got a phone call from Matt. A few hours later, he snuck out of their room and over to the Rent-A-Car across the street. He packed his newly-rented SUV with as many of the boxes labelled Keith as he could fit, then set off for the east coast without looking back.

With any luck, they would be smart enough not to follow.

***

Keith stomps down the street to where he’d parked the car, annoyed and uncaring if his bulky tattoo table bumps into his fellow pedestrians. He had waited two hours for his clients, a trio of douchey-looking frat bros, but despite multiple texts promising they were just running behind, they’d never showed. He’d given up after calling and being sent straight to voicemail. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to leave a scathing message. Shiro would be proud of his restraint.

They’d barely even been worth his time to begin with; they hadn’t wanted Soulmarks, just regular old tattoos, which were safer but netted him far less income. Three kegs with their frat’s symbols on them. It had hurt his soul a little to take the job, but a three-at-once trip had been too good to pass up. Now, not only had they wasted his time, but he’d lost money renting a room that never got used. 

“Assholes,” he grumbles under his breath for the umpteenth time. He crosses the street to the parking garage he pays out the nose for rather than risk a ticket on the two-hour max parking meters. Yet another waste of money. 

Keith pauses just inside the entrance to hitch the strap on his tattoo table a little higher on his shoulder, then grunts when someone slams into his other shoulder from behind. He stumbles forward, strap raking down his arm as his table smacks against the ground. Hands grab and steady him. Unlike Shiro, they make his skin crawl.

"Shit, sorry man, didn’t see you there,” the person says way too close to his ear. 

Keith elbows the man away, grabbing for the table before it topples over. “Watch where you’re going,” he snarls. 

The man holds his hands up and steps back. “I said I was sorry,” he snaps back defensively. “Maybe you shouldn’t stop right in front of a doorway.”

Keith scowls and opens his mouth to argue, but suddenly it just… doesn’t seem worth it. Not worth arguing, not worth making this day worse than it already is. He rubs at his temples. A headache is brewing, percolating behind his eyes. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Excuse me.” He pulls the table strap back up onto his aching shoulder and tries to shuffle around the man.

“Hold up,” the man says, stepping in Keith’s way. Keith glares. He just wants to go home. The man either doesn’t get the message or doesn’t care. “I really am sorry. Let me make it up to you? How about some coffee?”

Keith stares. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he says flatly.

The man winces and scratches ruefully at the stubble on his chin. “Yeah, okay. Bad timing. Can I at least help you carry that table or something? It looks heavy.”

“It is.” Keith looks pointedly around the guy toward the ticket machine and raises an eyebrow. 

The man flushes and steps hastily out of the way, but still follows Keith to the ticket machine. “Come on, man, let me do something.” 

The nasally whine in his voice grates on Keith. He grits his teeth and thinks patience as he digs out his parking stub and feeds it into the machine. “Really not necessary.”

“How ‘bout I pay for your ticket, then.”

Keith stops to really look at him. He leans rakishly against the ticket machine, arms crossed and conveniently showing off his muscular biceps. Pale hair held back by a pair of sunglasses pushed up on his head, sleepy bedroom eyes, sharp nose and confident smile bordering on arrogant. He looks like the kind of guy who’d fuck you into the mattress and then politely offer to pay for your Uber.

Keith thinks of Shiro, of one-night stands, and steps back slowly. He gestures at the machine. The man’s smile brightens as he straightens and pulls out his wallet. “I’m Rolo, by the way.”

“Kyle,” Keith relents.

“Nice to meet you, Kyle.” Rolo holds out a hand, but retracts it with a quiet chuckle when Keith just stares at it. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a real way with words?”

Keith snorts and allows a small smirk as Rolo hands over the paid parking stub. “All the time.”

Rolo laughs far harder than the comment deserves, lingering by the elevator while Keith stabs the up button. He gestures at Keith’s table. “So, you a massage therapist or something?”

Keith stares resolutely at the level numbers as they slowly tick down toward the lobby. “No.” When the man continues to look at him expectantly, Keith sighs and turns to him. “Tattoo artist.”

Rolo perks up. “Really? I was thinking about getting a tattoo right here.” He points at his bicep, flexing unnecessarily. “Maybe one on the other side too.” That bicep gets flexed as well. The man really is ridiculous, but Keith can’t help but be a little amused by him.

“That’s nice.”

Rolo leans into his personal space with a shit-eating grin. “You should do me.”

Keith barks out an incredulous laugh. “Wow,” he drawls. "That was pathetically obvious."

Rolo laughs again. “I know, right? Did it work?”

“Not even a little,” Keith tells him, but doesn’t push him away.

Rolo shrugs like that’s what he’d expected. “Oh well, worth a try.” The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Rolo gestures Keith through, but keeps his hand against the door to keep it from closing. “Seriously, though. You should give me your card.”

“I don’t have one.”

Rolo looks stymied for a moment before regrouping. “You work around here? Maybe I’ll see you again? Get you that coffee I promised.”

Keith snorts and hits the button for his level. “Maybe,” he allows. Rolo grins. It reminds Keith of cats and canaries; Keith is definitely the canary here. There’s a long pause as Rolo continues to lean against the elevator door. Keith sighs. “Rolo,” he says firmly, “if you follow me to my car, I’m going to mace you.” He doesn’t actually have mace, but his right hook is probably more effective.

Rolo draws back, holding his hands up innocently. “See you around, Kyle.” The doors slide shut, cutting off his smug gaze. Keith sighs and leans back against the wall as he runs his hands down his face. The small adrenaline boost from being flirted with is fading fast. His headache is coming back with a vengeance and an amorphous, anxious emptiness is settling in him like a fog. He’s ready to be home.

***

It’s dark by the time Keith parks in their designated spot. The lights of their apartment shine warmly through the windows, beckoning. He trudges wearily up the stairs and fumbles for his keys, but the door opens before he can find the right one.

“Keithy-Cat,” Lance carols, taking Keith’s supply bag without asking. “So glad you’re home.”

Keith narrows his eyes suspiciously as he sets his table against the wall by the door and rolls his aching shoulder. “What'd’you want?” he asks warily. 

“Oh, nothing,” Lance says innocently. “Why would you think I wanted something?”

“Because he’s not stupid,” Pidge calls from the futon. She looks up briefly from flicking through Netflix options on the laptop. “Lance wants Chinese food. Please get the man some dumplings, he’s been waxing lyrical for the last hour and I’m two mentions of egg rolls away from serious violence.”

Keith grimaces as he toes his shoes off, stalling for a few precious moments as he lines them up next to the haphazard line of Lance and Pidge’s. When he can’t delay any longer, he sighs and turns around. “Well, if you’re looking to me for money, you’re going to be disappointed.” Keith slips around Lance and collapses on the futon next to Pidge. She slides toward him as the futon dips but she just settles into him. 

“Cold,” she mumbles into the chilled leather of his jacket. Keith rolls his eyes but struggles sluggishly out of the jacket. He drops it on the ground at their feet. 

Lance blocks the light from the lamp as he stands in front of them with crossed arms and a frown on his face. “Don’t be stingy, Keith. You just got paid, we can afford to splurge for once.”

Keith tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling as all the frustration from earlier comes back. “No, I didn’t,” he says tersely. “The assholes no-showed on me.” 

Pidge makes a little commiserating sound and wraps an arm around him. Lance’s jaw goes slack for a moment before he huffs indignantly. “Well, clearly they don’t deserve your art then. And I’m feeling more like Italian now anyway. I think we still have some meatballs from last spaghetti night.” He pastes a cheerful smile on his face. Keith can see the cracks, but he appreciates the effort regardless.

“Sounds good,” Keith murmurs. The block of ice in his chest from the last several hours finally starts to melt. He shifts to get up, but Lance waves him off.

“It’s my turn to cook. Just make Pidge choose something already.” It’s actually Keith’s turn, but he doesn’t argue. He turns back to Pidge and the laptop. She’s frowning down at it like it’s a code she needs to crack.

“I haven’t been looking for that long,” she says, scrolling through another row of suggestions. Keith eyes her dubiously. “Seriously. It’s been like ten minutes max.”

Keith ruffles her hair affectionately. “Of course, Pidgeon.” He grunts as she elbows him in the gut. He closes his eyes and lets himself be lulled by the sound of Lance puttering around in the kitchen and singing softly to himself, broken occasionally by the laptop when Pidge stops on a selection long enough for the preview to play. Slowly, he becomes aware of a sound that doesn’t quite fit, a discordant note in their domestic melody. His brow wrinkles as he tries to focus in. “What’s that beeping?”

“Hmm?” Pidge looks up, her own brow furrowed as she cocks her head to listen. She mutes the tablet, then calls, “hey Lance, shut up a second.”

Lance pokes his head out of the kitchen and points a finger at them. “Rude!” Keith and Pidge shush him. He sticks his tongue out but quiets. All that can be heard is the sizzle of cooking meat and —there! — a soft, high pitched beep.

Pidge stiffens next to him, like a dog on point. Then she scrambles off the futon and over to her desk. She rummages through the drawers until she comes up with a device that looks like the offspring of a smartphone and a walkie-talkie. It emits another beep as Lance abandons his cooking to see what’s going on. 

Pidge stares down at the device, then up at Keith and Lance with big, scared eyes. Keith stands and takes a few steps toward her, concerned. “Pidge? What is that?” She blinks a few times, then stares at him with laser focus.

“A bug detector,” she says, distracted as she sweeps it around in an arc. “I made it after Matt gave his last warning.”

“You made it?” Lance asks. “Isn’t that a little paranoid?”

“Obviously not,” she snaps, gesturing at it as it gives another beep. “If it’s beeping then it’s picking up something.” She walks forward slowly as she continues to sweep it back and forth. The beeping increases as she approaches the futon and Keith. Her eyes lock on him and her lips curve down unhappily. 

The beeps speed up in tandem with his heart until she’s standing directly in front of him. He swallows hard as she moves the device from the top of his head slowly down his body. It crackles and beeps frantically when she reaches his feet. He stares at his socks, dumbfounded, but a moment later she moves on. She stops with it pointed directly at his jacket, still crumpled carelessly on the floor. The device beeps so fast it sounds like one long, condemning tone.

Pidge snatches up the jacket and starts frantically searching through the pockets. She stops abruptly and slowly draws out a thin disc no bigger than a quarter. Lance swears and crouches next to her to examine it. Keith stares down at the crowns of their heads, frozen as his mind spins and whirls like a tornado before stalling out completely. He barely hears Pidge through the ringing in his ears, can’t move or look away from her hand until Lance takes him by the arms and shakes him not so gently.

He snaps out of it. “What?” They’re both staring at him. He shakes his head to clear it. “Sorry, I…”

“Pull it together, Keith,” Pidge tells him. Her tone is harsh but her expression isn’t. “Who’d you come in contact with today?”

Lots of people. He’d bumped into who knows how many people while walking with his table. He’d stopped for gas and paid inside with cash. Shiro, of course. And… “Rolo,” he growls. No wonder the man had been so intent on talking to him, getting close. Touching him.

“I’m sorry, what now?” Lance asks, perplexed.

Keith shakes his head. “Not what, who.” He fills them in quickly on the man and their interactions, trying to ignore Pidge’s unimpressed look and Lance’s ridiculous eyebrow waggling. By the time he’s done, Pidge is staring at the tracker, lips pursed in thought.

“If he bugged you in Philly, then he’s trying to find where you live,” she says. Keith’s stomach drops. He’d led the SEB right to their doorstep, all because he had been briefly tempted by a distraction from Shiro.

Lance groans. “I don’t wanna move again,” he whines. Keith looks away guiltily. This is all his fault.

Pidge hums. “We might not need to.” She looks at Keith. “It’s been what, twenty minutes since you got home?”

Keith nods. “More or less.” He crosses his arms protectively across his chest. He feels colder now than he had in Philadelphia with the wind whipping through the streets. 

“Okay, well, people stop here all the time for food and gas, right?” Keith and Lance nod again, two bobbleheads pressed close together. “Alright, so all we need to do is to get this into someone’s car. They go off home or wherever, and this Rolo guy follows them instead of us.”

“Will that work?” Lance asks hesitantly.

Pidge shrugs, trying to look more confident than she probably is. “Unless you have any other ideas. It’s this or pack up again. Which is obviously the safer bet, but.” She shrugs.

They both turn to Keith for a decision. For a moment, he resents it, but he’s the one who got them into this mess and also the one most at risk. He wants to run. He wants to scream, or hide under a blanket, plug his ears and pretend the monster isn’t just outside his door. Instead he presses his fingers to his temples and thinks.

They should move, or at least he should. It’s the safest option. But it’s also the most expensive and none of them have cash to spare. Losing their deposit would be a critical hit. His mind flits, unbidden, to Shiro. He buries the image. That is the least of their reasons to stay here.

But it is a reason, the tiny, unflinching part of his mind whispers. He buries that too. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, then drops his hands. “Okay,” he says, then again, “Okay. We put the tracker in someone’s car. I can start going down to Wilmington, or maybe Baltimore to do business. It’s a long drive, but more distance might be better anyway.” He’s going to have to find another place willing to rent by the day and overlook petty things like proper licensing while still maintaining at least a minimum level of cleanliness. It’s going to be a huge pain in the ass, not to mention what the commute will do to the clunker of a car they share, but that’s for future Keith to deal with. Current Keith has enough shit on his plate. 

They'll still need to be careful, of course. “In the meantime, we need to keep our eyes and ears open and go-bags ready for the first hint of anything suspicious," he tells them. "I can draw a portrait of the guy so you know who to look for.”

Pidge peers at him with that remote, assessing look he more often sees her directing at her computer. “We’re going to have to beef up security and really vet your clients," she adds. "And we should probably try to keep to ourselves as much as possible.” Keith disguises a wince by running a hand through his hair. He’s not stupid; she’s talking about Shiro. He looks down and closes his eyes, but nods, then jumps when she claps her hands decisively. “Okay! We have a plan. I’m going to go to that restaurant down the street and look for out-of-state tags. Lance, go take care of the meatballs, I smell smoke.”

Lance takes a big sniff before cursing and bolting back to the kitchen. Pidge rolls her eyes fondly, then looks at Keith again. “I’ll get started on the sketch,” he says softly, but she just shakes her head and tucks him into a hard hug.

“Later,” she says when she pulls back. “Just... breathe, Keith. We’ll be fine. We always are.” 

Keith wants to believe her. They’ve had a good track record so far, but they’ve also never had a SEB agent literally breathing down his neck. Still, he takes a deep breath and puts on his best reassuring smile before pressing a kiss to her forehead and watching her slip out the door. Then, he goes to his room, curls up on his bed, and thumps a rhythm out against his chest until the shaking stops.

***

Keith tries to avoid Shiro, he really does. He figures abandoning the gym will do it, since that’s pretty much the only place they see each other. It’s not hard; most of his time is spent trying to find a place to rent in Baltimore, then figuring out the logistics of how he’s actually going to make money with a business almost two hours away. Then he’s busy with doing his job. Pidge helps him with scheduling several sessions per day to cut down on “wasted time,” but that means extra-long hours. Add in the commute and sometimes he leaves at seven in the morning and doesn’t get back until midnight. His whole body aches when he lies down at night and sometimes his head hurts so much he sees double and has to swallow down bile. His fingers thrum, phantom buzzing from the tattoo gun. When he wakes in the morning the tips feel numb, but it doesn’t interfere with his work, so he ignores it along with the numbness steadily creeping inside him.

Pidge and Lance are looking increasingly worried. They start dropping hints about interesting areas in Baltimore, the beautiful residential areas, and the plethora of colleges full of easily scammable students (as if he doesn’t already know that, considering they are a significant portion of his clientele). He ignores them. He likes this place. He doesn’t want to leave it.

He doesn’t want to leave Shiro. 

What’s the point, a small part of him whispers in the few minutes between lying down and passing out, you’re actively trying not to see Shiro. He ignores that too.

Eventually, even he has to take a break. His tattoo skills are suffering and he is one more hours-long traffic jam away from a nervous breakdown. He takes a week off and spends the first three days slouching between his bed and the kitchen and back, curling up in a pile with Pidge and Lance, and binging Netflix between naps. It’s marvelous. Day four finds him itching to get out and stretch his legs. He misses the gym and the exhilaration of sparring with Shiro, but he turns in the opposite direction. There’s a small park a few miles down the way.

He’s sweating and exhausted when he gets back to his street, but he’d gotten a text from Lance while in the middle of pull ups on the playground monkey bars, begging for cookies from the bakery a block away from the apartment. If he goes home, he’s not leaving again, so he sighs and passes it by.

The bakery is warm and smells amazing when he pushes inside. The young woman behind the counter looks up and he catches the way she wrinkles her nose before pasting on an obviously fake smile and welcoming him. It suddenly occurs to him that he’s sweaty and gross and not exactly fit for society at the moment. He hunches in on himself and keeps a healthy couple feet away from the display case. At least there aren’t any other customers mid-morning on a Wednesday. 

He’s paying with the twenty he always keeps on him for emergencies when the tinkle of bells announces another customer. He turns with his box of cookies and his stomach drops even as his heart speeds up. Shiro. Of course it’s Shiro.

The other man looks just as surprised to see him, but a pleased grin quickly spreads across his face. “Keith! Long time no see.”

Keith smiles weakly back, clutching his cookies close. “Yeah, uh. I’ve been busy.”

Shiro nods sympathetically. “Sure, I’ve been there. Things like the gym tend to fall by the wayside.” Shiro looks like he hasn’t missed a gym day in his life. “Or texting people back.”

Keith winces. Shiro’s warm smile and tone haven’t faltered, but the accusation is obvious. “Uhm…”

Shiro throws his head back and laughs. “Relax, I’m teasing. I once hyper-focused on a work project so hard that my friends stormed the castle to make sure I wasn’t dead and stinking up the apartment.” He shakes his head ruefully. “An actual quote, by the way.”

Keith sighs and a knot unravels in his stomach. He hadn’t even realized it was there. “Yeah, exactly.”

Shiro’s eyes rove up and down Keith’s body. Keith flushes under his gaze. “Looks like you already got your exercise in, but how about some lunch? We can catch up.” When Keith hesitates, he adds, “My treat?” with a look puppies would envy.

“I’m kind of gross,” Keith hedges, plucking at his shirt. He really should brush him off, but he wants. Wants to spend time with Shiro. He feels like an addict and he needs his fix. “Maybe after I take a shower?” Shiro’s sunshine smile hits him hard, heroin in his veins. 

“Sounds good! You want to meet at the Border Cafe? Say, in an hour or so?”

Keith gives in. “Yeah, sounds good.” His heart races and his stomach churns, guilt and excitement mixing badly. 

A throat clears behind them. “Look, this is sweet and all, but if you guys could finish planning your date elsewhere, I have a business to run.”

Keith glares at the woman behind the counter for dousing him with cold reality. He opens his mouth to snap out that it’s not a date, and it’s not like there are any customers around anyway, but Shiro speaks first. “Sorry about that, Sarah. Could I get four of those cherry danishes?” He winks at Keith. “Sweet tooth.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Because I’m so sweet?” 

Keith groans and shakes his head. Shiro just stands there smiling like he knows he’s terrible, but charming enough to pull it off. “Right, because it has nothing to do with all those candy bars you eat after sparring.”

“Protein bars,” Shiro defends.

Keith widens his eyes innocently. “There’s a difference?”

“Here are your pastries, Shiro,” the bakery lady says loudly and sets the pastry box on the counter far harder than necessary. 

Shiro rolls his eyes and turns to pay. He glances over his shoulder at Keith. “So, Border Cafe? One hour?” Keith nods, backing toward the door. Shiro smiles again. “Then it’s a date.”

Keith spends the entire walk back to their appointment wondering if Shiro was teasing, or if he really meant it when he said date.  

“Cookies!” Lance crows when Keith comes in the door. He bounces up off the futon and snatches the bakery box from him, clutching it to his chest like a lover.

Keith rolls his eyes. “You were literally a block away. You couldn’t go get them yourself?”

“‘M wearing my jammies,” Lance protests through the cookie he’s already shoved into his gaping maw. He gestures at his silky blue pajamas and fuzzy slippers. “Besides,” he swallows his mouthful, “bakery lady is a bitch.”

“Gee, thanks for siccing her on me, then,” Keith grumbles. He snatches his own cookie; Lance makes a noise of protest but Keith just waves him off as he heads for the bathroom. “Delivery fee.”

He aggressively thinks of nothing in the shower, counting tiles while he washes, and then focuses on which of his shirts is least ratty. Which jeans have the fewest holes in them. He really needs to make use of Lance’s employee discount at Target. He debates blow-drying his hair, but it always ends up all fluffy and if he asks for Lance’s help with taming it, he’ll want to know why.

It turns out it doesn’t matter anyway. Lance raises his eyebrows as he watches Keith tie his shoes. “Where are you going, all spiffed up?” He sniffs and his eyebrows creep up even more. “Is that my cologne?” Keith doesn’t answer. Lance sits up straight. “Seriously, where’re you going?”

Keith grits his teeth. The guilt is making a reappearance. “Out for lunch,” he hedges.

“With Shiro?”

Keith stills, staring down at his shoelaces until his eyes burn and he has to blink. He doesn’t even realize Lance has come up behind him until he sets a hand on Keith’s shoulder. Keith startles and snaps his head up to look at him. Lance is frowning, brow furrowed with concern. Keith tips backward out of his crouch and lands solidly on his butt. He looks back down at the shoe still waiting to be tied. “No,” he says quietly, making a decision. Family comes first. Safety comes first. He tugs the shoe back off. “No. I’m not going to.”

Lance crouches down on his level and squeezes Keith’s shoulder. “Keith, when we said ‘keep to ourselves,’ we didn’t mean you had to completely ditch Shiro.” Keith looks up at him through his eyelashes, not ready to face him dead on. Lance shakes his head. “Buddy, you’re a little late out the gate for that. This isn’t a big city. Ghosting him isn’t an option. Besides,” Lance nudges him playfully, “you think we didn’t notice how happy you were when you were hanging out with him? You were smiling, like, all the time. You. Mr. Grumpypants McMullet. It was weird, but in a good way.”

Keith finally chances a look up at his friend. He’s got that, you’re a complete idiot but I kinda like you anyway look. “I...” Keith isn’t quite sure what to say. He hadn’t even realized he was that much happier.

Lance cocks his head, smile melting away. “Why do you think we’ve been letting you run yourself ragged just to stay here? It’s not us who are attached to the place. And by place I mean person. And by person, I mean Shiro.”

Keith sighs. He appreciates it, but, “I’m putting us all in danger just by keeping us here. I can’t go making it worse.”

“From what you’ve said, I’m pretty sure Shiro’s as far from dangerous as they get. Well. As long as you aren’t going up against him in a bar fight. But I’m pretty sure he’d be on our side in that case, so really, he’s probably an asset.”

Keith huffs out a sigh. “It’s not that simple and you know it. The closer he gets, the likelier it is that he’ll figure something out.”

Lance shrugs like it doesn’t even matter. “Then work that bad boy sexiness so if he does find out, he’ll be too in love with you to rat us out.”

It’s still not that simple; Shiro is a Good Guy in the purest sense. Even if he did love Keith (and that’s a big if), he doesn’t know that Shiro would be able to overlook something like this. Still, Lance’s confidence in him is gratifying.

Keith makes himself smirk. “Are you calling me sexy?”

Lance sputters and backs up quickly. “Ew, of course not! I’m just saying Shiro does.”

“You don’t even know him. You can’t know that.”

“Trust me, Mullet. I don’t need to know him to know that.”

Keith sighs, then scrubs at his hair in frustration. He’s so tired of fighting with himself about this and Lance is making it so easy to give in. “Fine. Guess I’m going to lunch with Shiro, then.”

“Not with your hair like that, you aren’t.” Lance flicks a piece of Keith’s hair away from his face like it’s a worm. Keith bats him away.

“It’s fine. I’m going to be late.”

“Then you’ll be late with amazing hair. And a nice shirt. Jesus, Keith, are you trying to convince him you’re a hobo?”

“My shirt is fine, asshole,” Keith gripes, but lets Lance pull him back toward the bathroom. “He’s literally seen me sweating like a pig and smelling like shit for the majority of our interactions.”

Lance plants him on the edge of the bathtub and pulls out his hair dryer. “Well then, let’s show him your good side for once.”

***

Keith walks into the Border Cafe ten minutes late, wearing a rich blue shirt that Lance says brings out his eyes, and enough product to guarantee that he’ll need to take another shower when he gets home. Shiro is sitting in the waiting area playing around on his phone. When he looks up, he smiles and stands, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Hey, I was starting to think you’d ditched me again.”

Keith grimaces and reaches up to run a hand through his hair, but redirects it at the last moment to scratch his cheek instead. Wouldn’t want to ruin Lance’s masterpiece. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t…”

Shiro leans forward. “Teasing,” he says with a conspiratory grin. 

Keith huffs out a laugh. “Jerk.” Shiro doesn’t deny it as they seat themselves at a two-person table that is really too small for guys their size. Their knees knock together as they look over the menu and order. Keith tries to get the cheapest thing since Shiro insists on paying, but Shiro is having none of it. Keith ends up with a cheeseburger and fries while Shiro chows down on a Monte Cristo. Keith watches him, amused. “Sweet tooth, huh?”

Shiro shrugs, unrepentant. “This is diabetes and a heart attack waiting to happen, and it’s the best thing you’ll ever taste. Here.” He holds out the sandwich. 

Keith wrinkles his nose. “I’ll pass, thanks. I don’t have enough hours in the day to work that abomination off.”

Shiro hums thoughtfully, but retracts the sandwich and takes a big bite. “Yeah, you seem to be pretty busy these days,” he says once he’s swallowed. 

Keith draws a fry through his ketchup. “You could say that.” He draws a smiley face. Its smile is crooked. He wonders if there’s a metaphor in there somewhere or if he’s just being as dramatic and emo as Lance accuses him of being.

“I had no idea the tattooing business could be so hectic.”

Keith freezes, halfway through the tongue he was adding to the smiley face. Alarms blare and echo in his head. He looks up slowly. “I never told you I was a tattoo artist.”

Shiro blinks at him innocently over the last few bites of sandwich. “Uh, yes you did.”

Keith drops the fry onto his plate and grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckles blanch. He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t,” he says through a rapidly closing throat.

Shiro laughs awkwardly, setting down his sandwich. “You did, like the second or third time we sparred.”

Keith thinks back frantically, trying to remember if they’d ever talked about it. He vaguely remembers wondering where Shiro had gotten his tattoos. That could have led to a conversation about his profession and he probably wouldn’t have tried to hide it, at least not the regular tattooing part. That was almost two months ago though, and they’d had more than enough conversations to muddle the memory, even if they’d generally veered away from anything too personal. “Did I?”

“Yeah. Keith, what’s wrong?”

Keith shakes his head, feeling off kilter. He’s being paranoid. 

(Paranoia has saved you in the past, why are you ignoring it now?) 

“Nothing. I just don’t remember, is all.” That’s all it is. No big deal. It’s no big deal.

(It’s a big deal. Pay attention!)

Shiro is honest. Good. He’s cocking his head to the side, looking worried because Keith is acting like a freak. “I mean, it was quite a while ago,” Shiro says. He gives Keith a small smile. “If it makes you feel better, I can tell you what I do.”

Keith takes a breath and forces himself to smile back. To stop overreacting. “Sure. Fair’s fair, right?”

“I wish I could say it was interesting, but it’s really not. I do tech support for a law firm in Philadelphia.”

Keith raises his eyebrows, surprised. “That’s...not what I was expecting.”

Shiro shrugs and looks down at his hands. “It wasn’t what I was expecting either,” he admits. There’s a self-deprecating undertone in his too-level voice. “It allows me to work mostly from home though, which was kind of essential while I was recovering.” He turns his prosthetic arm palm side up, flexing his fingers. “It was easy work and typing helped me to regain my dexterity.”

Keith senses an opening he’d been subconsciously waiting weeks for. “Your arm looks pretty high tech. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so responsive.” Not on the market, anyway. Sam had excitedly shown him specs for something similar the last time he and Pidge had made it home for Christmas, but it was still very much in the planning stages at that time.

“It’s pretty advanced,” Shiro agrees. “I can move it pretty much like I would a real arm, and it even has pressure and proprioceptive sensors. It’s not the same, but it’s as close as science can get at the moment.” He slides his hand across the table. An invitation. Keith carefully sets his hand in Shiro’s. Shiro closes his fingers around it gently.

Keith is hyper-aware that they are essentially holding hands right now. He doesn’t pull away but he tries not to think any further ahead than right now. The future is a nebulous, dangerous thing, as easily crushed as Keith’s hand, should Shiro ever care to cause him pain. “Impressive. How’d you come by it?”

Shiro looks out the window onto the street outside. It’s getting gloomy; snow is predicted for later. “I have friends in high places,” Shiro eventually says, enigmatic. When he changes the subject, Keith follows his lead. “I’d love to see your portfolio.”

Keith fights back a frown and looks down at the remains of their meal, uneasy. He leans back in his seat, letting his hand slip from Shiro’s grasp. “Uh. It’s nothing special or anything,” he mutters. 

“I refuse to believe that. You’re special, ergo your art must be too.” Keith looks up sharply, surprised. Shiro bites his lip and looks away for a moment before locking eyes with Keith again. “Too much?” When Keith doesn’t immediately reply, he winces. “Yeah, too much. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Keith manages to squeak past the heart lodged in his throat. They’ve been flirting off and on for weeks, at least he has. Somehow, Shiro telling him that he’s special hits him harder than anything else. “Um. I don’t really have a portfolio or anything, but I have some pictures on my phone. If you want. To see them.” 

Shiro’s eyes light up. “I’d love to,” he says warmly. “Only if you’d like to share, of course.”

Keith fumbles his phone out of his pocket and quickly swipes it open. He pulls up his gallery and opens the album where he keeps the pictures he takes of his work. Pidge constantly grumbles about security issues, and maybe it’s a bit vain, but he still likes to keep them. Looking through them reminds him that he does have some merit. He’s not just a scam artist selling lies; every client he has walks away with something beautiful. Something worth having.

He hesitates a moment before handing the phone over; it still goes against everything in him, but this is Shiro. He trusts him.

Shiro swipes slowly through the folder. Keith can’t stand to look at him lest he analyze every flicker of emotion on his face for clues as to what he thinks. Keith leans against the table and rests his chin in one hand, staring out at the street. He counts seconds and pedestrians while he waits for Shiro’s final verdict. He’s startled by the warmth of Shiro’s hand when it wraps gently around his forearm.

“These are gorgeous, Keith.” Shiro is wide-eyed and sincere as he says it. Keith goes hot with a heady mix of embarrassment and pleasure. “I mean it. You have so much talent. You could do anything, but you…” He trails off and for a moment he looks frustrated, even upset, but it’s gone before Keith can even be sure it was there. However that sentence was going to end, it’s lost as Shiro looks back down at the phone and swipes again. He cocks his head, perplexed. “Is this a Soulmark?” he asks.

Keith goes cold. He snatches the phone back and looks at it. The photo is indeed one of his most recent creations, a stained glass rose. Its match on the database glows softly in perfect mimicry of early morning light shining through. His is shattered, light bouncing and refracting off its sharp edges and all the brighter for it. Broken, but beautiful all the same, just like his client. It had been a risk to tattoo something so different from the original, but he hadn’t been able to imagine it any other way. 

“It is, isn’t it,” Shiro says when Keith stays silent for too long. He leans forward, excited. “Are you a Soulmarkist?”

Keith shakes his head frantically. “It’s not.” The denial comes so smoothly it practically slips out of his mouth unbidden.

Shiro gives him a skeptical look. “It has that weird extra depth Soulmarks have,” he argues. 

Soulmarks and black market ink meant to mimic them, Keith thinks half-hysterically. And years of developing subtle tricks and techniques to replicate the extra depth and vitality Soulmarks have naturally. He can’t exactly say that though. He tries a different tactic. “It’s not mine.” Even as he says it, he can hear how weak he sounds.

Shiro’s brow furrows, though he doesn’t lose his smile. “No offense, but you’re a terrible liar. There’s something distinctly you about all your tattoos, even when you’re doing completely different styles.” He leans forward in his seat. “Come on Keith, you can tell me.” 

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that. He never says the words themselves; even with his clients, he only heavily implies it. Plausible deniability is a necessity. He looks down at his hands, still clutching the cell phone. He powers it down, like that could undo the last five minutes. “Keith.” This time when Shiro says his name, his tone is gentle. Handle with care. “You don’t need to hide it. You have a gift.”

A gift. Keith could spit on those words. Rant and rail at everyone who says them like they mean something. Pile them up with other meaningless phrases like he’s in a better place and I’m sure she misses you very much, douse them in kerosene and revel in the heat as he watches them burn. Instead, he shakes his head and presses his fingertips against his chest so hard he thinks it might bruise. Then he draws in a breath and steadies himself. Guilt and deceit are a heavy mantle to wear, but he bears it well.

He looks up again once he’s able to school his face into something approaching calm. “People treat me differently when they find out what I do.” It’s not quite a lie. It’s just that the reality of what he does is very different than what Shiro is assuming.

Shiro nods, staring at the table with a faraway look. He taps one metal finger as he does so; Keith matches the tempo against his chest. When Shiro finally speaks, his voice is muted, bare of the normal warmth that draws people to him.

“When I was first discharged, I couldn’t stand to be around anyone who knew me before… before. It wasn’t even that they pitied me. Everyone pitied me, whether they knew me or not. But my friends, my troop mates, even my boyfriend, they all looked at me like I was a completely different person. An alien that they had no idea how to interact with.” 

Shiro looks up. He catches Keith’s eyes and doesn’t let go. “And it’s not like they were wrong or anything. I was different. There’s no way I could go through what I did and not be changed. But I was still me. I was still Shiro. I just wasn’t the Shiro they knew anymore, and the more they tried to treat me like I was, the more obvious it became that this one thing was all they could see now. I was...” 

Shiro falters for a moment, then comes back stronger. “I was Shiro the POW now. Shiro Who Did Terrible Things To Survive But We Don’t Talk About That. And they were never going to see me as anything else again. So I moved away. Ran away, really. I still talk to a few of them once in a while, but most of the people I know now have no idea how I lost my arm, which is exactly how I like it. I don’t need it defining me any more than it already does.”

Silence falls heavy in the wake of Shiro’s words. Keith breaks their gaze to rub at his eyes. “Jesus, Shiro,” he says in a raspy voice. “Way to steal my thunder.”

Shiro stares at him blankly for a moment. Then he throws his head back and laughs so loud and hard that other people in the diner are throwing them alarmed looks. Keith kicks his shin lightly to get him to stop, but he finds himself unable to completely hide his smile when Shiro finally subsides. Shiro sniffles and rubs at his own eyes, hiccuping little bursts of laughter like he can’t quite keep it contained. “You really are something special, you know that?” 

Keith’s cheeks flare. He slouches in his chair, tempted to just slide right under the table. “‘M really not,” he mutters, “just a standard model asshole.”

Shiro ignores that and presses on. “The point is, I won’t look at you differently if you don’t look at me differently. Deal?”

“Hmm,” Keith pretends to think for a moment, then holds out one pinkie to Shiro. “Should we pinkie swear? Because I’m getting some serious sleepover vibes here, what with all the secret sharing.” Not that his secret was anywhere approaching Shiro’s. Or even the complete truth for that matter, but today has been enough of an emotional roller-coaster and he doesn’t have the guilt to spare right now. He puts it on the back burner, ready to keep him awake at night the next time he has the reserves for it.

“You think you’re joking, but pinkie swears and sleepover secrets are very serious things and I intend to treat them that way.” Shiro hooks his pinkie with Keith’s and shakes firmly. It’s so stupid, but it feels significant anyway. Shiro lets their fingers untwine and sets his elbows on the table so he can rest his chin in his palms. “So what’s next? You want to braid my hair? I’d offer to do yours but you look like you spent a lot of time making it look good and I wouldn’t want to ruin that.”

Keith scowls and curses the day he answered Lance’s roommate-wanted ad. He gives up resisting the urge to card his hands through the gelled and hair-sprayed monstrocity, but Shiro catches his hand and tugs it away. “Aww, don’t do that. I said it looks nice.”

The compliment flusters Keith and emboldens him at the same time. He pushes further. “We could always play truth or dare. Twenty questions, maybe.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Hey Shiro, who’s your crush?”

Shiro snorts. “Maybe next sleepover.”

Before Keith can spiral down a whirlpool of what does that mean, is he implying what I think he is or am I reading too much into this, Shiro turns to pick up the check Keith hadn’t even noticed their waiter drop off. “I hate to cut this short, but I do have to do at least the bare minimum of work today if I don’t want to get yelled at.” Keith stays to dig some cash out of his wallet for tip, then slips outside rather than stand awkwardly by while Shiro pays their tab. 

Shiro joins him just as Keith is contemplating whether he’s going to need to invest in a hat and gloves for winter, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets for warmth. Shiro emulates him, glancing up at the darkening sky and making a face briefly before he redirects his attention to Keith. “So, if I leave now, will I ever see you again?” He says it lightly, but Keith can tell that he’s not entirely teasing this time.

“Yes. I won’t run away again,” Keith promises. The moment draws out, quiet, and Keith realizes how close they’re standing. His breath catches in his throat. He bites his lip and watches as Shiro’s eyes flicker down briefly. Keith rocks forward, a silent offer in the tilt of his chin.

Shiro jerks away; he actually takes a full step back. Keith’s heart drops along with his gaze. Shiro clears his throat awkwardly. “That’s good. I’d hate to lose a friend.” He runs a hand through his bangs. “Talk to you later?”

“Sure,” Keith says quietly. Shiro claps him on the shoulder as he passes by. Keith stays where he is, shivering. Friends. Guess that answers that question.

***

They picked up Hunk almost by accident, after he nearly got caught stealing fancy spices from some overpriced hippy-organic-vegan-bullshit store. Lance and Pidge ran interference while Keith got him out the side door they'd pilfered a few items out of themselves on occasion. Hunk was nearly in tears. “I don’t know why I did it,” he said in a trembling voice. “I was just thinking about this recipe I’ve been wanting to try for ages, but it’s expensive and I’m not exactly flush with money, you know?” He shook his head, brow troubled. Next thing I know, I’m stuffing bottles into my pockets.”

Keith shrugged it off. In the grand scheme of things, some stolen saffron/frankincense/myrrh/what-the-fuck-ever wasn't the life or death situation Hunk was working himself up over. Keith calmed him down by asking about the recipe, stealthily texting the rest of the ingredients to Pidge as he guided the larger boy toward their apartment.

When Lance and Pidge came home and shook ingredients out of their pockets and sleeves, Hunk stared in stunned silence and then carefully didn't ask about it. The glazed lamb and saffron rice was the most delicious meal any of them had in ages. They all gained some much needed weight under Hunk's care and when it was time to flee once again, Hunk just rubbed his hands together excitedly and waxed poetic about deep Louisiana cuisine.

Chapter Text

6:32 PM Shiro: So I’ve been thinking, and I really do like your artwork. Would you be willing to tattoo me?

7:01 PM Me: That depends

7:01 PM Me: What exactly are you looking for?

7:02 PM Shiro: I thought I’d let you design it

7:03 PM Me: I’ll think about it

7:03 PM Shiro: While you’re thinking about that…

7:04 PM Shiro: I’ve been wanting to get my soulmark for a long time now but there’s no one I’ve trusted enough to do it

7:04 PM Shiro: I trust you, Keith

***

Keith stares down at the text message mutely, mind completely blank. He startles when a hand waves underneath his nose. “Ground control to Keith, do you copy?” When he raises his head, Pidge is standing in front of him, laptop under her arm. “There you are. What’s got you so interested in your phone that you don’t hear me calling your name?”

Keith looks back down at his phone, hand clenching around it briefly before he sighs and hands it over wordlessly. As Pidge’s eyes flit over it, her frown turns into a scowl. “You told him?” she says in a deceptively calm voice. 

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not… exactly. I let him take a look at my tattoo folder and one of the Soulmarks somehow got in there.”

“Please tell me you denied it.”

He shrugs, unbearably tired suddenly. “I didn’t confirm it.”

Pidge groans and knocks against her forehead with his phone. “I swear, Keith. Your self sabotaging tendencies are starting to get out of hand.” Keith says nothing. “Do we need to get you a therapist?” She’s teasing, but she’s also serious. 

For a moment, he actually contemplates it. His self awareness is lacking but not entirely nonexistent. He knows he hasn’t been in the best headspace lately. He shakes his head anyway. “Can’t exactly talk to a therapist about my issues without potentially incriminating myself. Kinda defeats the purpose, right?”

Pidge grunts, but drops it for more important matters. “I’m starting to think I need to dig into this guy. What did you say his full name was?”

“I didn’t,” he says tersely, mostly because the question makes him realize that he doesn’t actually know Shiro’s full name. He probably should have her do a background check, but somehow it seems… wrong. Seedy. Invasive, especially considering how deeply Shiro let him in today. “It’s not necessary. I’m not going to give him a Soulmark.”

“You’re not,” Pidge says flatly. She sets her laptop down. She crosses her arms and peers at him like she’s trying to see into his soul. 

Keith shakes his head firmly. “I’m not. I’ll give him a regular tattoo, but that’s it.”

Pidge sighs and looks at the ceiling like she’s asking for patience. “I’d like to state for the record that I think this is a bad idea. Getting busted without a license was what nearly got us caught last time, remember?”

“Fine,” Keith snaps. “I won’t tattoo him at all, then.”

Pidge growls and throws up her hands. “Do what you want, Keith. If you trust him that much, then I trust you. But I’m warning you right now: if he does one more shady thing, I’m looking into him whether you like it or not.”

“Fair enough,” Keith concedes. 

Pidge opens her mouth to say something else, but whatever it is gets lost as Lance slings the front door open. “Hey guys, guess who I found standing around outside?” He steps to the side and gestures dramatically.

Hunk steps through the door. “Surprise!” he says with a big grin and jazz hands.

“Hunk!” Pidge launches herself across the room and takes a flying leap at Hunk. 

He catches her easily and spins in a circle. “Pidgeon!”

Keith gets up at a slower pace. “Hunk, what are you doing here?”

“Way to sound enthusiastic, buddy,” Hunk teases. He wraps Keith up in a bear hug regardless, lifting him off the ground too. Keith grunts as the air is crushed out of his lungs but doesn’t complain. Hunk’s hugs could soothe the most tortured soul. It’s exactly what he needs right now.

“You know what I mean,” he says when Hunk finally lets go. “Obviously I’m glad to see you.”

“Don’t mind Keith, he’s cranky because his boy toy is making things complicated,” Pidge tells Hunk. 

Keith glares at her as both Hunk and Lance perk up. “I think there’s something a little more important right now,” he says, gesturing at Hunk pointedly. Luckily, Pidge and Lance take the bait. 

“That’s right,” Lance says, “What are you doing here?”

Hunk grins happily. “I didn’t want to say anything until it was a done deal, but you guys know how I’d been working on Sal to expand his business?”

“No,” Lance gasps.

“Yes. Philadelphia will officially be getting a taste of Sal’s and I’m head chef. I hope you guys have room, because I’m moving in.” Lance cheers and Pidge launches herself at him again. Keith pats him on the back happily, then oofs as Hunk pulls him and Lance in for a group hug. “That’s right, the Four Musketeers are reunited once more.”

“This is the best news I’ve heard in weeks,” Lance says. “I think this calls for a celebration. I vote that Thai place down the street. Unless you feel like cooking?” He looks at Hunk hopefully.

Hunk laughs and shakes his head. “I’ve been driving twelve hours a day for five days straight. Thai sounds perfect.”

“We should probably unpack your car first,” Keith says. Hunk slumps. Keith nudges him. “Go take a shower if you want and relax for a bit. We got it.”

“Oh thank God,” Hunk breathes. “I was about to cry.”

“Please,” Lance scoffs. “As if we’d make you unpack right now.”

“Says the guy who asked him to cook,” Pidge says. She holds out a hand to Hunk. “Keys, please.”

Hunk hands them over happily. As Pidge and Lance clatter down the stairs, Hunk stops Keith and pulls him into another hug. “You okay, buddy?”

Keith sighs and rests his head on Hunk’s shoulder for a moment. “Better now,” he tells Hunk. 

“Good.” Hunk squeezes him once more before letting go. “Okay, your shower is calling my name and you should get down there before Lance starts complaining.”

Keith rolls his eyes. It’s probably too late for that. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

Hunk salutes and turns toward the hall. He pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder as he says, “Oh, and just so you know, I expect to hear all the updates on boy toy.”

Keith groans and drops his head in his hands to hide his smile.

***

9:53 PM Me: I’ll start sketching up designs for you to look at.

9:54 PM Shiro: I take it that’s a no to the soulmark, then

10:01 PM Me: I’ll text you pictures of what I come up with

10:01 PM Shiro: Right. Message received

10:02 PM Shiro: Thanks Keith

***

Keith dithers while Shiro sits calmly on the tattoo table. Keith can feel Shiro’s gaze, warm and soft against his back like an embrace; he rolls his shoulders to shrug it off and turns around. Shiro is smiling at him, small and private with his head cocked to one side like a curious retriever. “You look more nervous than I am,” he jokes. 

Keith frowns, rolling his lips inward. “This is weird, okay?” he snaps. 

Shiro shifts back, eyebrows high and mouth a thin, unhappy slash across his face. “Keith, if you really don’t want to do this, I’m not going to force you. I like your art, but not enough to make you uncomfortable.” He stands and puts one huge hand on Keith’s shoulder, ducking to catch Keith’s eye. “I mean it, it's no big deal.” 

Keith sighs and rubs at his forehead roughly. He needs to get it together; tattooing a friend shouldn’t be weird, but the way he’s acting is. Shiro is deceptively observant and the last thing Keith needs to do is make him start doubting Keith. 

“No, it’s fine. I’ve just never worked on someone — ” I like “— I know.” Who doesn’t already know all my secrets. He gestures at the table. “Sit down,” he tells him, softening his vnmoice and expression. Shiro does as he says, legs kicking idly over the side. His posture is relaxed but his brow is still creased with concern. Keith’s fingers twitch, aching to smooth the furrow out and kiss the tension away. He shoves the urge back into the box labelled: Not Friend Appropriate.

“What are those?” Shiro asks, attempting to change the subject. He nods toward Keith’s hands. Keith looks down, surprised, and goes cold as he realizes he’s holding his mother’s wooden box of inks. He hadn’t even realized he’d picked it up.

“Uh, inks,” he says, because what else is he supposed to say?

Shiro glances over his shoulder at the ink cabinet Keith had been rifling through earlier, then leans forward eagerly. “Are those your Soulmark inks? I thought you said you didn’t want to do that?”

“I don’t.” How’re you getting out of this one, Keith? he thinks scornfully. He tries not to panic. Inspiration strikes. “I mean, I’m not.  You, uh. You shared something really personal last time. I thought I’d return the favor.” He sets the box down next to Shiro. “These are special,” he tells him, throat tight. “They were my mom’s.” 

He lifts the lid, fingers automatically trailing over the small bottles out of habit. Touching them makes him lightheaded, untethered from the moment. His lungs are hot air balloons, but he has no basket to hold him, no controls to steer him toward safe harbor.

Shiro’s hand on his bicep anchors him back to the ground. “Have you ever used them?”

He’s used them on exactly two people: Pidge, when they were still young and just needed some ink for the emerald circuitry zigzagging down her spine; and Lance, who wouldn’t shut up about it until Keith gave in and then spent two weeks moping when nothing in the registry matched the fantastical castle etched in abstract across his calf. “They’re really old,” he says instead of answering. “Mostly I use the regular ones.”

Shiro’s stare is piercing; Keith feels it squeeze around his heart, pump his blood faster and faster until he trembles in anticipation. Shiro’s heavy regard is a menace to his blood pressure. “Huh. Do soul inks expire?”

Keith shrugs. He doesn’t actually know the answer to that. The Soulmark Council is notoriously tight-lipped when it comes to details. Besides, it’s never come up because no one but his friends and the Holts have ever seen these. And Shiro, now. “It takes a lot longer than normal ink,” he fudges. He’s pretty sure about that, at least. He checks his mother’s every so often and so far they look as fresh as all his regular inks.

Shiro blinks and his intense gaze dissolves into a bright, fond grin. “Interesting. You learn something new every day, right?”  His eyes slide back to the box. “You aren’t going to use that to do this, right?” he says, eyebrows raised as he points at the ancient stick-and-poke set tucked next to the inks. Keith laughs and shakes his head.

“No, that’s more a family heirloom than an actual option. I use a tattoo gun just like everyone else.” 

Shiro lets out a relieved sigh and slumps back against the raised half of the table. “So, this is a family business, then?” His eyes follow Keith’s movements as he pulls out the inks he actually intends to use, then pulls on some gloves and starts to set up his work table with the things he needs. 

Keith frowns as he uses a dropper to carefully drip ink into the tiny ink pots he’ll use. “I wouldn’t know,” he mutters, focusing on which colors he wants in an effort to distract from the gaping maw in his stomach that threatens to swallow his heart every time he hears the word family. “She left when I was three.”

Shiro makes a small sound. “I’m sorry, Keith.” His sincerity trickles down Keith’s throat and fills the void just a little. 

Keith shrugs, adding some blue to his palette. “It’s fine. Can’t miss someone you never knew.” He lets his eyes flick up and he smiles to reassure Shiro. “My pops was normal as could be, though.”

If Shiro catches the past tense, he doesn’t remark on it. “So where do you want me?” he asks instead, shifting on the table. Keith hesitates. He’d been planning on placing the tattoo somewhere on Shiro’s back, but as he looks at the breadth of his shoulders and all the muscle pulling his shirt tight, he thinks that might be bad for his sanity. 

“Um, like that is fine. It’s... forearm. Yeah, forearm.” He’s stuttering. He can practically hear Lance crowing disaster gay in delight. Shiro just takes it in stride, swinging his legs up so he can recline against the backrest. He sets his arm on the small table Keith uses for arm tattoos. 

“Facing up or down?”

“Up,” he says without really even thinking about it. Shiro obediently flips his arm over, watching quietly as Keith takes a disposable razor to the fine hairs of his inner arm. He does the whole thing because he’s still not entirely sure how large he plans to make Shiro’s tattoo. He’d settled on a cat after remembering how Shiro had waxed lyrical one day about his grandparents’ pet. Shiro had been more than happy to provide a picture. Half of the tattoo will be photorealistic in black and white while the other half will be made of colorful geometric shapes. Shiro had been ecstatic.

Shaving, cleaning, and disinfecting the area is quick work. A few minutes are spent trying out different sizes until he and Shiro decide on the right one, and then another few placing the stencil exactly right. He meets Shiro’s eyes. There’s something heavy obscured in the swirling gray mist of his gaze, but Keith can’t identify it. It makes him wary, uneasy, but he pushes the feeling away until it sulks off to the back of his mind with the rest of the things he willfully ignores. Still, it shakes him. “Actually, hold on a minute. I need to make a trip to the bathroom.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” Shiro chuckles.

“Yeah. You?” Keith asks out of politeness. Shiro waves him off.

In the bathroom, Keith goes through the breathing exercises Colleen had taught him years ago, when he was seventeen and having panic attacks every time he thought about the future. Just as it had then, he feels his heart slow and his thoughts settle until he feels completely calm and centered. Focused. 

He washes his arms and hands, pulls on a new pair of gloves and walks to the table and Shiro almost on autopilot. “Keith?” Shiro asks as Keith gets his supplies ready. “Why are you switching —”

Keith smiles serenely and cuts him off. “Trust me.”

Shiro glances down at his arm, then nods. “Always.”

Keith dips the tip of his gun into the ink and begins.

***

Keith doesn’t speak more than he has to while tattooing. It requires concentration and getting into conversations with clients splits his attention, especially if he’s thoroughly researched said clients to match them with a Soulmark. Talking increases the chances of mentioning something he shouldn’t know. 

Also, he just doesn’t like to talk to people.

Keith lets the thrumming buzz of the tattoo gun draw him down into his work. It fills his ears and works its way into his brain and bones. It clears away all thought and leaves behind only the static crackle of white noise. Colors bleed and swirl behind his eyes before dripping down his fingertips onto the flesh canvas in front of him. 

Thin black lines connect and spider outward over the fragile, vulnerable skin at the crook of Shiro’s elbow. They disappear into the deep night sky of the galaxy swirling over his bicep, then quickly dot back down again. Dark watercolor seeps into midnight blue and teal. Parts of Shiro's skin peek, untouched, out through the colors like shining stars. Reds and oranges and yellows blend and overtake the blues as his tattoo gun strokes downward, a fiery backdrop to the image taking shape. 

Black again. Delicate shading and strong, straight slashes splatter and drip in a long line, like gravity drawing a drop of blood down to where Keith’s other hand circles Shiro’s wrist. Keith’s thumb strokes absentminded comfort over the hummingbird thrum of Shiro's pulse. 

Keith blinks as his tattoo gun clicks off. The sudden quiet jolts him out of his trance like a car crash. In the aftermath, thick cotton stuffs his ears full; his fingers and bones tingle with the memory of vibration. He stares, light-headed and nauseous, at his work. Then his ears pop and sound rushes back, tinny and too loud, overlaid with high-pitched ringing and the silent screaming of his horrified mind. 

“—eith? Keith.”

Shiro is talking to him. Shiro is touching him, warm pressure prying at Keith’s gloved fingers where he’s still holding Shiro’s arm tightly. Too tightly; Shiro’s skin is blanched below Keith’s shaking grip. Keith sucks air into his oxygen-starved lungs and jerks his hand away. His fingers are burning, stiffened into claws he can’t straighten.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. 

“Keith, it’s okay,” Shiro says, face a mask of concern as he rubs blood back into his hand. “It’s no big deal. You were really in the zone.” He’s chuckling as if his wrist isn’t banded with marks rivaling the red halo of skin around the ink on his forearm. Keith should be cleaning that, wiping away the last of the blood and excess ink, smearing it with ointment and wrapping it up with gauze. The thought of touching it makes his stomach surge and sway. His head throbs. 

Shiro’s still talking as he studies his arm, oblivious to Keith’s impending panic attack. “Gotta admit, I was really surprised. Happy surprised though! I thought you said you weren’t—”

“Fuck,” Keith says again, cutting him off. It’s the only word his brain can form, ping-ponging and ricocheting around his skull like a bullet. The damage it leaves behind is devastating. He shoves away from the table. Two palettes of ink, one nearly empty and the other virtually untouched, splatter all over the floor. He stumbles back a few steps, uncaring.

“Keith, what’s -”

“Bathroom,” Keith interrupts brusquely; he spins away, desperate to escape the weight of Shiro’s concern before he suffocates. 

He slams the door and locks it behind him, then whips off his shirt. His fingers turn white and bloodless against the dingy porcelain of the sink as he stares wild-eyed into the mirror.

Nothing has changed since the last time he’d looked. There, etched in indelible ink over his heart, is one half of a lion’s face. It’s teal eye stares accusingly out of a backdrop of fiery pigment. He traces the stars dotting the watery midnight blue shading and trails numb fingers over the ink lines dripping down his ribs. He digs them into his collarbone, into the sketchy suggestion of the Milky Way.

Half a lion’s face against a backdrop of space. Half a lion’s face, perfectly completing the one he’s just tattooed on Shiro’s arm.

***

Keith remembered pain. He remembered juice that tasted bitter and wrong and the drowsy haze that settled over him, limbs heavy like the pieces of firewood his Pops let him help carry inside sometimes. He remembered crying for his Pops, remembered the soft crooning of his Momma that it would be alright, but you have to hold still, baby, please. The words were nearly drowned out by the buzzing of the bees that stung his chest over and over again. 

He dreamt sometimes of the warmth of her arms cradling him once the bees had flown away, the soft kisses against the crown of his head and the cadence of her voice, though the words were never the same from dream to dream and never made sense anyway. Pop’s voice was equally unintelligible. His grip on Keith always reawakened the bees as he was torn from her warm hold. Her fingers slipping away from him is what always jolted him awake, gasping and clutching his chest.

His father filled in the gaps, reluctant and whisky-slowed, when Keith was nine. He learned how he lost his mother mere months before he lost his father.

“I found you two on the floor and you were just. Just sobbing in her arms,” Pops slurred, haunted and far too frank for Keith’s age. “You were bleeding, and she was crying too, and when I took you away from her, she just kept saying that she had to, that she couldn’t stop herself. That it was important.” He cleared his throat and eyes. “She didn’t even try and take you back from me. Like she knew it was all over.”

His father sniffed hard, staring through the amber liquid in his glass before downing the rest of it. He poured far too many fingers more and downed that too. “Your momma was a good person, Keith, don’t you ever believe otherwise. She loved you more than anything. Soulmarks… the Sight… they do things to you. Mess with your head. A gift,” he spat bitterly, shaking his head. “Be glad you tested negative.Your life will be better without that curse.” He looked up at Keith then, all red eyes and slumped shoulders and heartbreak. He pulled Keith into his arms and pressed a rough kiss to the crown of his head. “Promise me you’ll stay away from it, all of it. You’ve been hurt enough.”

“Okay, Pops,” Keith said quietly. He took the whiskey glass and poured it and the rest of the bottle down the sink, then draped a blanket over his father’s shoulders after he passed out at the table. In the morning, they went back to not talking about it, and his mother’s tattoo kit and sketchbook went into the back of Keith’s closet with his boxes of old toys. When his life fell apart a few months later, the toys stayed but his mother's things came with him.

***

Keith collapses in front of the toilet. He wants to retch. He wants take the last few hours and purge them, watch them swirl down the drain and far, far away from him. His stomach, forever a steel trap from a childhood of dodgy food and emotional trauma, refuses to comply, so instead he stares with dull eyes at his sallow reflection in the water. The stale smell of bleach and still water chokes his nose and makes his eyes water.

“Keith, are you okay?” The door rattles as Shiro knocks. Keith snorts, and then coughs as he chokes on spit. “Keith…” The door shakes under Shiro’s knuckles again; it sounds like the death rattle of their friendship and also possibly Keith’s sanity.

“I’m fine,” he lies before Shiro can knock down their flimsy bathroom door. “Just… a little nauseous. It happens sometimes.” Granted, the migraine and nausea usually only come after multiple Soulmark sessions, but he has a feeling that the urge to puke his guts up is more about his guilty conscience than tattooing for too long. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Shiro sounds so damn concerned. Keith’s stomach twists sharply; the fear and bile burning up his throat might make a special appearance after all.

“No. Just,” Keith takes a deep breath. He needs to get Shiro out of the apartment so he can get himself under control, but he knows the man well enough by now to know that he’s not likely to just leave Keith alone. He racks his brain until it finally offers up a penny of an idea to throw into the wishing well. “Actually, could you go get me some ginger beer? The convenience store on Third Street sells it.”

“Of course, sure. Will you be okay while I’m gone?” A hurricane is battering Keith’s mind, but he has to smile weakly at Shiro’s care-taking tendencies, even as he drops his forehead to his arm.

“I’ll be fine, Shiro. Just go, okay?”

Shiro says something in the affirmative and his steps recede, followed by the creak of the front door opening and closing. Keith pushes off the toilet and leans back against the clawfoot bathtub Lance loves so much, head knocking roughly against the edge. 

“What the fuck did I just do?” he moans quietly to himself. He scrubs his hands through his hair, twists his fingers and yanks in the hopes that the sharp prickle will clear away the panic dulling his brain.

He’s overreacting. He’s reading too much into this. Their tattoos are similar, sure, but it means nothing, other than the fact that he’s lovesick and his subconscious is a dick with wish fulfillment issues. 

Are you sure it’s not a real Soulmark? a small, scared part of his brain asks; he shakes his head violently to dislodge it. People don’t just randomly develop the Sight, and for all that he’s a decent matchmaker, he knows for a fact that there is nothing supernatural about it. He has test results to prove it. 

It’s fine. He screwed up. With Shiro, no less, and he’ll never be able to apologize without incriminating himself, but whatever. It’s fine.

(It is not fucking fine.)

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Keith? I’m back, can I come in?” Keith scrambles for his shirt. Shiro can never see his Soulmark. He can’t bear the thought of saddling him with Keith’s lying ass on top of giving him a tattoo that will never lead to anywhere or anyone.

“No,” he belatedly coughs out as he yanks the shirt on. “Give me a sec.” He combs his hands through his hair in an attempt to tame it, then gives up and opens the door. Shiro steps back, letting him exit. There’s a convenience store bag hanging limply from his prosthetic hand and his forearm is clumsily wrapped with gauze. Keith is pathetically grateful he doesn’t have to see his folly writ large on Shiro’s flesh.

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks, following him over to the couch. “No offense, but you don’t look so good.

Keith collapses onto the couch and accepts the ginger beer Shiro hands him as he settles next to him. He finds himself wishing he’d requested real beer, but the bite of ginger on his tongue does clear his head and settle his stomach a bit, so it’s probably for the better. “I’m fine,” he says after another swallow. “Like I said, sometimes this just happens.” The half-truth sits bitter and cloying in his throat; he clears it uncomfortably.

Shiro’s expression is carefully blank, the kind of look that means there’s strong emotion mired beneath it. “No wonder you don’t like to do Soulmarks.” Keith winces. So much for any chance of convincing Shiro that it’s just a regular tattoo. He still can’t figure out how or why he’d used his mother’s inks. He has to think hard to even remember watching his fingers squeeze ink into pots, the memories dreamlike and remote.

“Yeah,” Keith sighs out on a shuddery breath. 

“I’m sorry. I should have stopped you when you switched inks, but you seemed so sure of what you were doing. If I’d known you’d react like this…” Shiro shakes his head, mouth grim. “It’s just so weird. Soulmarkists don’t normally react like that.”

Keith grits his teeth. His hand tightens on his soda bottle until it aches. “Apparently some of us do,” he snaps, then immediately regrets it when Shiro’s face closes down more. “Sorry.” He rubs the bottle against his forehead. The condensation cools the anxious fever under his skin and dampens the stabbing behind his eyes. “I think maybe you should go.” 

For a second, Shiro looks like he’s going to argue but Keith doesn’t let him. “I’m just going to lie down for a bit. Do you want me to rewrap the tattoo?” Please say no, he thinks. Please don't make me look.

Shiro’s lips quirk and his mask breaks as he looks down briefly at his arm. “No, it’s fine. Just feel better, Keith.” He pulls Keith into an achingly warm side hug that lasts far too long and nowhere near long enough before he pulls back and stands. “Give me a call or text when you get up, okay? So I won’t worry.”

Keith nods, wilting inwardly under his kindness. “I will,” he says quietly, looking stoutly at the bottle held loosely between his knees. 

Shiro hesitates, then sets his hand on Keith’s shoulder gently. “Thank you. For the Soulmark. I know you didn’t want to, and then all this… just, thank you.” Keith grunts. He can’t bear the thought of saying, you’re welcome. Shiro squeezes his shoulder one more time and leaves, closing the front door gently behind him.

Keith slumps back on the futon. “Fuck my life,” he groans, grinding his palm against one eye. He should run. He should pack up and get the hell out of town before he ruins Shiro’s life any further. The thought of running seems worse than the thought of staying, though, regardless of the catastrophe he’s hurtling toward. He drops his hand, gaze falling to the plastic bag on the couch next to him. He drags it over. Inside are three more ginger beers and a box of saltine crackers. Behind him, Shiro has cleaned up the spilled ink and put everything back in its place. The thoughtfulness of it sends his guilt through the roof.

Things are really, really not fine.

***

8:53 PM Me: I’m feeling better, sorry I worried you

8:54 PM Shiro: It’s okay, I’m just glad to hear you’re okay

9:06 PM Me: yeah

9:21 PM Shiro: So sparring is probably out for a few days, but can I buy you lunch as a thank you? Or maybe dinner at that little Italian place off main?

9:39 PM Me: you don’t have to thank me.

9:40 PM Me: seriously, don’t mention it.

9:41 PM Shiro: Okay, then can I just treat you to dinner for totally-not-thanking-you purposes?

10:28 PM Shiro: It’s okay to say no, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything

10:39 PM Me: I guess that would be okay

10:40 PM Shiro: ::grin:: great! Is tomorrow at 7 okay? I have some stuff to do at work, but then I’m free after that

10:41 PM Me: 7 works

10:41 PM Shiro: Okay, I can pick you up?

10:43 PM Me: ok

10:43 PM Shiro: I’ll see you then

Chapter Text

“Keith, we want you to know that we all love you and are here to support you.”

“Stop.”

“We’re here today because we’re concerned about you.”

“Please stop.”

“Look at this as an act of caring, okay?”

“For fuck’s sake, Lance, would you stop screwing with him?” Pidge shoves Lance off the couch. He topples with a yelp. She takes his place next to Keith, where he sits with his head in his hands. “He has a point though. You’ve been making stupid decisions left and right and we’re worried about you.”

Keith groans and grinds his palms into his eyes. “I am aware of this, yes.” Something hot presses against his arm. He unfolds enough to take the mug from Hunk and cradle it to his chest. The scent of chocolate and caramel wafts up and he breathes it in happily. It’s the first full breath he’s taken since he’d sent the text accepting Shiro’s dinner offer. 

Hunk passes out the rest of the mugs and then sits down on the opposite side of him, a long line of comforting warmth. “You want to explain what’s going on in your head, buddy?”

Lance pops up from the floor and folds his arms on Keith’s knees. “Yeah, ‘cuz right now it looks like you’re spiraling into self destruction and I really don’t want to go down with you.”

Keith flicks him in the head with the hand not holding his cocoa, but doesn’t deny it. “I don’t… I’m not trying to fuck everything up, I’m really not.”

Lance rubs his forehead with a glare. “Really? It sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“Lance, shut up, will you?” Hunk says.

“I’m with Lance on this one,” Pidge says. “I told him to be careful. I said he should cut ties with Shiro —” 

Keith turns an indignant look on Lance. “Not how I heard it,” he mutters, but Lance just shrugs with an innocent look nowhere in the vicinity of believable.

“— then he wouldn’t let me vet him,” Pidge continues through the interruption, “he agrees to tattoo him, which I, again, advised against.” She stands and starts to pace. “And then. Then. He goes and tattoos him, not with regular ink, but with his mom’s ink. And what does he tattoo on him?”

“Pidge, there’s no need for dramatics,” Hunk admonishes, but she’s beyond listening at this point.

“His own Soulmark. His own fucking SOULMARK!” Keith shrinks in on himself. His chest tightens and as amazing as Hunk’s cocoa is, he can’t stomach the thought of drinking any right now. He leans past Lance and sets his mug on the coffee table with shaking fingers.

“Don’t forget how he then accepted a dinner date from Shiro,” Lance adds. “I’m pretty sure that’s the cherry.”

“Enough,” Hunk snaps, loud enough that they all freeze. Hunk rarely raises his voice, but when he does, people listen. “Tearing him down is the opposite of helpful right now.”

Pidge slumps like her strings have been cut. She folds down to the floor and scrubs at her face. “I know,” she finally says. “I’m sorry, Keith.”

Keith shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he says roughly. “You’re right. I’ve been so, so stupid, and I can’t seem to stop.” Frustratingly, his eyes prickle and he has to take several deep breaths before he can say, “I’m sorry. I really am. Shiro is…” He trails off. He couldn’t finish that sentence if he tried. Everything is mired in this thick quagmire of thoughts and feelings that are impossible to sift through. “Shiro’s just…”

“Shiro.” Pidge’s voice is quiet but it echoes like a death knell throughout the apartment. 

Lance breaks the heavy pall that’s fallen over them. “Keith. I know you’ve said you were tested for the Sight, but —”

“No.” Keith shakes his head vehemently.

“But —”

“I said no.” He refuses to even entertain the thought. Promise me you’ll stay away from it, his Pops’ voice whispers through him. The ghost-scent of whiskey burns his nose; his tattoo stings. “Believe me, I’d like for it to be true too, but it’s not.” It’s just his own sick fantasies, some twisted wish that Shiro could be his soulmate because at least then his burgeoning obsession would make sense. As it is, all he’s done is weigh Shiro down with a fake Soulmark made with real Marking ink, which means that he’ll never be able to get his real Soulmark. To find his real soulmate.

If Shiro finds out, he will never forgive him. Keith would deserve it.

Lance holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You can’t blame a guy for hoping that someday this,” he slaps the castle on his calf, “might turn up matching my dream lady.” Keith eyes the tattoo. Yet another person he’s condemned to never finding their real soulmate. At least Pidge has no desire to find hers. The idea of fucking over his baby sister too is more guilt than he can bear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to Lance.

Lance’s eyes widen and he waves his hands. “No, that wasn’t, I mean, I wasn’t blaming you. I’m the one who asked for it, remember?”

“Yeah, stop taking on blame you don’t deserve,” Pidge says crankily. You have enough real blame to take as it is, her tone implies.

“You really like this guy, don’t you?” Hunk says quietly.

“Yeah,” Keith rasps. “But it doesn’t matter. He sees me as a friend.”

The room erupts into a cacophony of groans and exasperated proclamations of really? and you idiot!  

“What?” he asks.

“Keith,” Pidge says, “It’s so obvious that he’s into you.”

“None of you have even met him,” Keith says skeptically.

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Which makes it even sadder that you can’t see it.”

“It doesn’t matter because you’re all right. I’m out of control." Keith slumps back against the futon and lays his head back to stare at the ceiling. His entire being is exhausted, too heavy. He is Sisyphus with a boulder of his own making. "I'm not going to dinner with him. And," he swallows hard as the words stick, but manages to spit them out, "I think we should move."

Silence meets his proclamation. Keith lifts his head. They're all staring at him with varying degrees of surprise and pity. "What?" he snaps. "It's the smartest possible option here. And it's not like there's any point in trying to pursue a relationship with him, eventually he's going to find out what I did and that'll be the end of it. Better to get out early, right?"

Hunk pulls him into a side hug. Lance pats his knee. Pidge looks away. None of them disagree with him.

A pall hangs over the room. Misery buzzes and itches under his skin until even Hunk's touch feels like fire ants crawling over him. He pulls away, hand going automatically to his chest. Even through his shirt his Soulmark pulses and throbs against his fingers, a wild animal threatening to tear from its cage. 

Keith jerks his hand away and stands, clearing his throat. "I'm going for a run. We can talk details later." No one stops him, or mentions that it's dark out, or that flurries are turning into real snowflakes outside. That going out right now might not be the best idea. He can hear the low murmur of them talking as he swiftly changes into running leggings and throws on some gloves and a hoodie he thinks might be Hunk's. The whispers cut short when he comes back out. 

He doesn't have to see their worried looks as he heads straight for the door. He can feel them heavy on his back. He sighs. "I won't be gone long, promise." He throws a weak smile over his shoulder and slips out the door, away from their warmth and into the cold.

***

By the time Keith hits the park he's already wet and shivering, despite the exercise. The tips of his ears and fingers ache, his nose is running, and every inhale of cold air bites at his lungs. Snowflakes catch in his eyelashes and lend a blurry, hazy filter to the snowy tree branches and yellowing grass. It turns the playground equipment to giant shadowy masses, hulking and silent. It reminds him of dinosaur bones in a museum, frozen on the edge of running but caught in the space between one second and the next, a mockery of perpetual motion.

He has always empathized with the T-Rex.

He knows it's not a good idea but he slows and walks over to the swing set, brushing snow from the seat before he sits on the cold-stiff rubber seat. He sways idly as he stares blankly at the snowscape around him, contemplating igloos and ice walls around ice hearts. He wants that. He had that, before Shiro punched his way through and wrapped fever hot fingers around his heart until it pulsed and burned and began to thaw. 

His shivers are slowing and he can't feel his cheeks by the time he hears a voice calling his name. His neck muscles creak as he turns his head. He supposes he should be surprised to see Shiro jogging toward him, all bundled up and frowning heavily, but he's not. Keith thinks he might have been waiting here for Shiro all along. .

He shakes the thought away violently. "Shiro. Why are you here?"

"Why are you?" Shiro reaches him and pulls him up. "Jesus, you're frozen through." Shiro tucks him close and pulls the flaps of his own jacket around them both. Keith presses his hands to the other man's chest, intending to push away but somehow ends up curling closer instead. He's just so cold, and Shiro has always burned like the sun. The warmth hurts in the best way. "Come on, we need to get you out of here."

Keith nods mindlessly and lets Shiro herd him in the direction of the parking lot where Shiro's car sits idling. The heater is blasting as he slides into the passenger seat. The sound Keith makes is obscene, judging by the way Shiro blushes and stares straight ahead, hands kneading restlessly at the steering wheel. Keith watches his hands clench and unclench with a dull sort of interest.

Shiro doesn’t pull out of the parking space immediately. They sit quietly. The music that plays low on the radio is nearly drowned out by the white noise of the heater. Keith’s eyelids droop as warmth and emotional exhaustion draw him down into their sticky, molasses-thick depths. He could fall asleep like this, despite the way all the small pieces of him prickle and burn as they come alive. He rests his head against the window.

Shiro breaks the silence. “So. You want to tell me why you were doing your best snowman impression?”

Keith shrugs lethargically. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mutters. 

He waits for Shiro to press, and for a second Shiro looks like he wants to, but in the end he just nods and puts the car in reverse. “Let’s get you home, then.”

Keith’s hand shoots out like it has a mind of its own and clamps down on Shiro’s over the gear shaft. Shiro’s eyes drop down to their hands, then back up to Keith, wide with surprise. “I.” Keith stops short. His heart sticks in his throat, clogging the words. He swallows it back down and says, “I don’t want to go home. Right now.” He doesn’t want to face the reality of his situation and home is the worst place to hide from that.

“Um, okay,” Shiro says slowly. “Do you want to hang out here for a while?” He tilts his head, lips teasing at a smile. “You can make fun of me for my awful music taste, I can argue about how Wham! was one of the most commercially successful bands in the eighties for a reason…”

“Tempting.” Keith shakes his head. He doesn’t want to sit in a car with a man he’s supposed to be avoiding just to avoid facing that fact. “It’s fine. You can take me home.”

Shiro is quiet. He looks like he’s arguing with himself internally. Then he straightens his shoulders, a look of determination coming over his face. “Or you could come over to my place, if you want.”

That is a terrible idea. That’s an even worse idea than sitting in the car with Shiro. Keith still says, “Okay,” like the word was torn straight from his soul. He lifts his hand from Shiro’s.

Shiro’s mouth goes slack for a moment before his bites his lips on a smile. “Okay, then.” He pulls out of the parking lot.

As they drive away from the park, Keith asks, “How did you know where I was?”

Shiro chuckles awkwardly. “Uh, about that. Promise not to think I’m creepy?”

Keith sits up straight in his seat, on full alert. “No. Why?”

Shiro winces. “Fair enough.” They’re pulling up to Keith’s street. “So, full disclosure, I did not know this until I came over for my tattoo, but uh.” He pulls into a parking spot across the street and slightly up from Keith’s apartment. “Surprise? Apparently we’re neighbors.”

(One more shady thing and I’m looking into him whether you want me to or not.)

Pidge’s words come back to him as Shiro points to a set of lit-up windows on the second floor. “You didn’t say anything,” Keith says flatly, trying not to make it sound like the accusation it is.

“I know.” 

Keith waits for more, for an explanation or apology or something, but it doesn’t come. “Shiro. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Shiro shrugs and looks down at his hands where they lie limply in his lap. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I was surprised, first. And then I waited long enough that it would seem weird and awkward if I just brought it up randomly so I just...didn’t.”

“You’re right, it is weird and awkward,” Keith tells him pointedly.

“To be fair, you’re kind of like a skittish cat,” Shiro says, shrugging again. “I didn’t want to scare you away.” When Keith doesn’t reply, he sighs. “Look, I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable. It’s okay if you’d rather go home instead.”

Keith thinks about it, but his reasons for not wanting to go home haven’t changed. “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you know I was at the park?”

“I have a window seat. I was reading and I saw you go out. And then I didn’t see you come back, and I know the park is that way, so.” Shiro frowns. “I swear I’m not a stalker, I was just worried maybe you got hurt or something. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to just drive by.”

Keith stares at him, lets the moment draw out. Then he smiles. “You are definitely a stalker. But I guess it turned out okay.”

Shiro sputters for a moment before it turns into a laugh. He shakes his head. “Fine, fine. Do you want to come up or what?”

What’s one more terrible decision? Keith unclicks his seatbelt. “Fine. But I’m calling my friends so they know who to point to cops toward if I disappear.”

***

Keith texts Lance, who is most likely to be forgiving of bad ideas and least likely to rat him out to the others. Then he turns his phone on silent and sticks it back in his hoodie pocket. When Shiro lets him in, the first thing he does is look toward the window. On the window seat is a crumpled up blanket; a mug and a face-down book lie on the side table next to it. Tension melts out of Keith’s shoulders. Shiro had been telling the truth about that much, anyway. He wanders over to skim his fingers over the book cover. He purses his lips in amusement. “Romance novels, Shiro?”

Shiro points a finger at him from where he's rummaging around in the kitchen, eyebrows raised in warning. “Don’t you judge me.”

Keith picks it up to read the back, careful to keep Shiro’s place with one finger. “I’m pretty sure Lance has this one.” And that Keith has read it on one of his sleepless nights. They make for a good distraction.

“Lance?”

Keith looks up. “Oh. Uh, one of my roommates.” He’d forgotten that they don’t really know that much about each other, all things considered. It doesn’t feel that way. “Tall, scrawny. Looks like he’d put the moves on your sister and your mother at the same time and fail miserably with both.” He sets the book down and crosses his arms with a crooked smile. “You might have seen him coming in and out of the apartment.”

Shiro winces. “I guess I deserve that.” He gestures at the mugs sitting on the counter in front of him as he fiddles with a kettle. “Hot drink? To warm you up.”

Keith can think of better ways to warm up, but none of them are friend-appropriate. He joins Shiro at the counter. “Sure.”

“Pick your poison. I’m going to find you some dry clothes.” Shiro points to an open cabinet stuffed full of teas and fancy hot cocoa mixes. For a fleeting moment, Keith imagines introducing Shiro to Hunk’s cocoa. Then he realizes that Shiro won’t be meeting any of his friends, much less sharing hot drinks with them. 

The thought dampens his mood somewhat, but he dutifully rifles through the options until he eventually settles on mint cocoa and sets it next to a black mug with a lazy-looking white cat snoozing on it. 

“That’s my favorite mug. Just wait until the hot water goes in.” Keith startles and spins. Shiro is so quiet for such a large man. Shiro smiles apologetically as he holds out a pile of clothes. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Here, these should fit. Ish.”

Keith takes the clothes. “Thanks. I’ll just, uh.” He gestures toward where he assumes the bathroom is.

Shiro’s eyes flick down Keith’s sodden body and away. “Of course. Bathroom is the second door.” He spins quickly and busies himself with checking the kettle, ears and the back of his neck reddening as Keith watches. He shakes his head fondly before heading to the bathroom. 

In the bathroom, Keith shucks his clothes and hangs them over the shower rod, shivering as the air hits his damp skin. He deliberately keeps his back to the mirror. The last thing he wants to see right now is his Soulmark. 

Shiro’s clothes are huge and warm and smell like the expensive, organic kind of detergent. He probably uses eco-friendly dryer sheets and everything, like a proper adult who has his shit together. Keith’s own clothes haven’t seen a dryer sheet since moving out of the Holts’ house.

Keith pushes the sleeves of the sweater up his forearms and tries to adjust the collar so his Soulmark doesn’t show, but the vee neck just gapes and slips right back down. Scowling, he adjusts it again, this time to the side so it falls down his shoulder. He looks like a reject from Flashdance, but maybe Shiro will like that; he is a Wham! fanboy after all. 

Shiro’s eyes are, in fact, drawn straight to Keith’s bare shoulder and stick there like superglue. Keith can’t help himself; he plays up the advantage, curling the fingers of one hand against his collarbone. “Your clothes are kind of huge.” He lets his gaze drift over Shiro’s body. “But so are you, so I guess it makes sense.” 

Shiro makes a small sound, eyes wide and dilated. He snaps his slack mouth shut and clears his throat. “They, uh, they look good.” He spins and grabs the two steaming mugs, offering one to Keith. “Here. Hot chocolate.”

Keith frowns at the mug. “I thought mine was the black one?”

Shiro grins excitedly, twisting the white mug around so Keith can see the black cat on it. “That’s why it’s my favorite.” He leans forward like he’s telling a secret. “It changes colors.”

Keith takes it gingerly and studies the little cat. It’s wide awake now and chasing a mouse. “Big tough Shiro likes cute things. Who knew?”

“I do,” Shiro says, far too intense to be talking about a mug. Keith looks up. Shiro's expression is hungry, eyes flitting from Keith’s face, to his bared shoulder, to the rest of him swathed in Shiro’s own clothing, and back up to his face again. His eyes lock on Keith’s lips, pursed to blow air over his steaming cocoa. Shiro swallows hard. 

Keith lets his own eyes wander over Shiro’s bitten red lips, broad shoulders clad in a sweater that is probably the same size as the one Keith is wearing but pulls tight over Shiro’s chest. Keith has seen his form dozens of times, felt it flex and twist against his own as they wrestle at the gym. He’s felt the molten liquid slide of arousal pool in his belly and groin more than once.

This is different. This time, Shiro is looking back.

Keith sets his mug down carefully without taking his eyes off Shiro. Shiro does the same as Keith steps closer. The clink of porcelain against granite countertop is loud in the charged quiet between them. Keith stops with a bare few inches between them. Shiro looks helplessly down at him. Keith knows how he feels. The draw he feels toward Shiro is an inexorable, insatiable thing. Every time he tries to pull away, it wraps its fingers around his throat and jerks him back in. He’s tired of fighting it. Maybe, just maybe, Shiro is too. Keith isn't sure he could stand a third rejection, though maybe it would be the best thing for him, considering. It would allow him a clean break.

(Nothing about this is clean. Not himself, not his emotions, or the situation, or the inevitable end, but when has Keith's life ever been clean or easy?)

Keith tilts forward, pressing his hands and forehead against Shiro’s chest. Shiro’s hand finds its way to Keith’s hip and curls tight around the bone, flexing like he’s not sure if he wants to push Keith away or pull him closer. “Keith?”

“Warm,” Keith mumbles into kitten-soft fabric. It’s such a flimsy excuse. In any other situation, Keith would be disappointed with himself. Instead, he has to bite back a happy sound as Shiro’s arms wrap around him, encompassing him in heat and just the right amount of pressure.

“Body heat is an efficient way of warming someone up,” Shiro says, lips brushing against the crown of Keith’s head. His breath ruffles the fluffy wisps of Keith’s half dried, probably frizzy hair. Keith hums in agreement. He pulls back just enough to look up at Shiro through his eyelashes, careful to keep his mouth pliant and inviting. He's playing with fire, just like he always is when it comes to Shiro, but he can't seem to stop himself from hovering fingers over the flame.

Shiro’s arms spasm around Keith, inadvertently crushing him flush against his body. Shiro looks torn, brow furrowed. Doubt drips through Keith’s veins. He starts to pull away. For all that he teases and tempts, it still hurts to be burned. 

Shiro drags him back in roughly, hands bunching in Keith’s sweater before his flesh hand slides under and presses like a brand just above the rolled up waistband of his sweats. Keith's breath catches as Shiro drops his forehead against Keith’s, eyes squeezed shut. 

“God,” Shiro whispers harshly. “You are so. I just. I’ve been trying so damn hard not to…”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers back. He slides a hand up to curl around Shiro’s neck.

“This is the last thing I should be doing right now.”

Keith snorts, right in Shiro’s face. It’s a testament to the moment that Shiro doesn’t even pull away or grimace. “No shit,” Keith agrees. He doesn’t know why Shiro shouldn’t be doing this, but he sure as hell has his own reasons. He braces himself once again to pull away, or for Shiro to.

Keith’s back hits the counter edge as Shiro slams them up against it, trapping Keith with his body. He twists his hand in Keith’s hair, jerking his head back to kiss the surprised sound straight out of Keith’s mouth. 

The kiss is gasoline. Wildfire blazes between them. Keith surges forward, desperate for more, anything, whatever he can get before one of them comes to his senses and throws cold water on the situation. 

Shiro lets out a small moan and grinds his hips against Keith’s. Keith breaks the kiss to let his head drop back, pleasure spreading through his groin and aching sweetly down his thighs. Shiro latches onto his throat the second it’s bared. He sucks hard until the skin underneath his mouth is tender and tingling, then kisses the mark gently before moving to another spot and doing it again. 

Keith gasps breathlessly under the onslaught, eyes glazed and staring unseeing at the ceiling. One hand clutches helplessly at the counter and the other tries to drag Shiro closer. Shiro growls when Keith’s fingers accidentally tug a little too hard on his hair. “Sorry,” Keith says, petting away the hurt, but Shiro shakes his head.

“Do it again.” 

Keith stares at him, stunned, before tugging experimentally on the longer strands of hair growing along the crown of Shiro’s head. Shiro’s eyelids flutter and his mouth drops open on a loud groan. 

“Jesus,” Keith breathes in awe. He hadn’t thought he could be any more turned on, but here comes Shiro blasting through his expectations like always. Keith’s hips twitch up against Shiro’s of their own accord. Shiro responds with a dirty grind before his hands wrap around Keith’s thighs and haul him up to sit on the counter. He pries Keith’s legs apart and steps between them, then jerks him forward until Keith’s dick is pressed right up against his stupidly hard abs. “Oh my God,” Keith groans.

Shiro pulls back to grin at him, cheeks flushed. “I want you to know that I could make a really bad joke about calling me God, but I’m resisting just for you.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Gee, thanks.” He presses a finger to Shiro’s mouth, pulling down just enough to show a hint of the vulnerable pink flesh inside. “There are better uses for your mouth than telling dad jokes.”

Shiro leans in close enough that their lips brush when he says, “You can call me daddy if you want, baby.”

He's joking, but Keith has to shut his eyes as he shudders under the wave of arousal that hits him like a tsunami. That is not a kink he knew he had until this moment. 

Shiro gently brushes Keith’s hair back from his face. “Like that, huh?” When Keith opens his eyes, Shiro is smiling smugly at him. 

Two can play that game. He puts his newfound superpower to work and pulls hard on Shiro’s hair, fascinated by the pleasure that rolls Shiro’s eyes back in his head. “Shut up,” Keith mutters as he uses his grip to guide Shiro back to his neck. He’s never liked marks, but he doesn’t mind wearing Shiro’s.

Shiro goes where Keith directs, sweetly pliant. His hands trail down Keith’s flanks to his hips, encouraging him into a slow, rhythmic roll against his stomach. Keith breathes out harshly and wraps his legs around Shiro’s waist, craving more friction, more heat, more more more . Shiro feathers nips and kisses down Keith’s bared shoulder, scraping teeth over the ball and mouthing at the sharp line of his collarbone before returning to Keith’s mouth to kiss him filthy and deep. His hands slide back under Keith’s sweater and start to work it up his torso.

“No!” Keith pulls back sharply and clamps his hands down on Shiro’s wrists. Panic leaves a bitter, metallic taste in the back of his throat. 

(Don’t let him see, don’t let him see, don’tdon’tdon’tlethimsee!)

Shiro lets go immediately and backs up as much as Keith’s grip on him allows. “Shit, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”

Keith fights down his gut kick reaction and shakes his head. “I’m just… still cold,” he lies weakly, looking down at the disheveled garment. He lets go of Shiro’s wrists to shift the neckline so there’s no possible way for the Mark to peek out. When he chances a look back up, Shiro is watching him with a level, considering gaze. He’s no doubt thinking about all the times they’d sparred, how Keith had been extra careful to keep his shirt on and firmly covering his chest. Before, it had simply been because he doesn’t particularly like people seeing his Mark; his Pops had spent too many hours drilling it into his head not to show anyone as a kid that the reticence had stuck. Now, Shiro seeing his Mark would be devastating. 

The reality of their situation shivers down his spine. Before he can suggest they call it quits, Shiro steps back into the cradle of his thighs. “You do still feel a bit chilly,” he agrees. He plucks at Keith’s sweatpants. “Are you too cold to take these off?”

Reality abandons the moral high ground and takes a flying leap right out the window instead. 

“Definitely not.” Keith braces his hands on the counter and lifts his hips enticingly.

Shiro’s eyes drop down to Keith’s lap and the painfully obvious arousal badly hidden by the loose sweatpants. He licks his lips as he curls his fingers under the waistband and slowly tugs them down. The difference between Shiro’s warm flesh hand and the cool metal touch of his prosthesis is enough to send goosebumps prickling along Keith's skin. As the pants slip past his feet, Shiro runs them back up Keith’s thighs, thumbs dragging along the insides frustratingly slow. Keith grunts and tries to press up into them but Shiro holds him still, the tips of his fingers brushing just shy of where Keith wants them. 

“Shiro,” he whines. He grabs Shiro’s hands and tries to move them himself but Shiro just laughs and tightens his grip. It’s going to leave bruises. Keith’s dick twitches at the thought. The movement is embarrassingly visible under the sweater fabric that drapes over his lap and just barely keeps him decent. "Oh, come on!”

“What do you want, baby?” Shiro trails his gaze from Keith’s lap back up to his face. His pupils are blown wide, playfulness and something darker curling at the corners of his lips. Keith stares mutely at him, mind blissfully empty in the wake of that look. “You're always running from me, but I won't let you run from this.” Shiro leans in close, fingers digging in a fraction more, riding the edge of too much. He noses at Keith’s cheek, then past to whisper in his ear, “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Keith blurts out, like Shiro had reached inside and torn the word out along with his heart. “Your touch, your mouth, whatever you’ll give me, just please, Shiro —” He cuts off with a cry as Shiro leans over and pushes the sweater up just enough so he can swallow Keith down to the root. “Fuck!”

Shiro pulls off with a slick pop and grins up at Keith. “You did say I should put my mouth to better use.”

It takes Keith a moment to make sense of the words; Shiro’s bottom lip is still brushing the head of Keith’s cock, for fuck’s sake. It’s a miracle Keith understands words at all. When he does, he groans and not in a sexy way. He fists a hand in Shiro’s bangs and tugs him down. “Shut up and get back to work,” he growls.

Shiro wheezes like Keith had sucker-punched him. He drops to his knees so fast that the crack as they hit the ground would make Keith wince if he weren’t distracted by being hauled bodily to the very edge of the counter. Keith flails as his balance falters and he accidentally pulls too hard on Shiro’s hair. Shiro winces a little but the sound he lets out around Keith's dick is enthusiastic. Keith rubs at his scalp apologetically and Shiro practically purrs, nudging his head harder into Keith’s hand. Tentatively, Keith threads his fingers through the silvery strands, gentling his grip. He tugs again, lightly this time. Shiro obediently lets himself be drawn off until just the head stays in his mouth, then goes willingly when Keith guides him back down until his nose is pressed tight to Keith’s pubic bone. He takes one of Keith’s legs and tucks it over his shoulder to give Keith something to brace and balance with. Shiro looks up at him, mouth stuffed full and eyelashes starred with wetness.

Keith groans and brushes fingers over the fullness of Shiro’s throat. “How are you so hot?” he gasps. Shiro just hums happily as Keith works him up and down on his cock. The sound vibrates around him and quite abruptly, Keith is on a razor’s edge of orgasm. “Fuck. I’m gonna…” He tries to pull Shiro off but he fights stubbornly and sucks harder. Keith stutters out a curse and curls over Shiro as he comes down his throat. His grip loosens in the aftermath and Shiro lets Keith’s dick slip from his mouth. He gulps air greedily, nuzzling and leaning his cheek against Keith’s bare thigh as Keith pants and comes down slowly. 

Keith huffs out a quiet laugh. “You are way too good at that.” 

“Mmmn.” Shiro smiles up at him with hazy eyes as Keith massages his scalp. “I know.”

Keith snorts and pokes Shiro in the back with the heel still slung over his shoulder. “Cocky.”

Shiro glances down at his own lap and smirks. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Keith follows his gaze, retort ready on his lips but he forgets entirely when he sees the truly impressive erection Shiro is sporting. He swallows hard. He’d already known Shiro was big; it was kind of hard to miss when half their interactions involved getting up close and personal with each other. It’s an entirely different thing to see it now, hard and standing at full attention.

Keith’s mouth waters. “Yes, yes you are.”

Shiro nips at the tender flesh of Keith’s inner thigh before nudging it off his shoulder and standing with way too much grace for a man so big. He crowds in close to Keith, hands pressed flat to the counter on either side of Keith’s dangling legs. Keith loops his arms over Shiro’s shoulders, still lazy and loose from the orgasm. Shiro leans in for a kiss but hesitates a few inches away. “Is this okay?”

Keith is confused for a moment because they are way beyond kissing at this point, but then it hits him. He rolls his eyes and reels Shiro in for a kiss. When they pull apart, Keith knocks his forehead gently against Shiro’s. “I have tasted come before, dumbass. I really don’t care.”

Shiro shrugs and kisses him again. “I was trying to be considerate,” he pouts.

Keith smiles devilishly. “Very sweet of you.” He trails a hand down Shiro’s chest and settles his palm over Shiro’s cock. “I can be sweet too.”

Shiro drops his head against the crook of Keith’s neck and shifts his hips up into Keith’s grip. “I’ll bet.” He mouths at Keith’s shoulder, rocking gently into him.

Keith tilts his head so he can scrape his teeth delicately over the shell of Shiro’s ear. “So, what do you want?”

Shiro shivers against him. His hands creep up to Keith’s hips and flex there. “What can I have?”

Keith covers Shiro’s hands with his own and moves them where they so obviously want to be. He presses back into them. “Anything. Everything.” Fingers curl around each cheek, slipping in between to brush tentatively over his hole. Desire thrills through him, cock already starting to plump back up. He buries his face in Shiro’s neck until he pulls himself together enough to speak. “Bedroom?”

Shiro nods emphatically. “Bedroom.” He winks cheekily even as he uses his grip on Keith’s ass to pick him up. “Wouldn’t want to risk breaking my favorite mug.”

Keith buries his giddy laughter in Shiro’s shoulder as he clutches tight and lets Shiro carry him down the hall.

Keith bounces when Shiro drops him onto the bed. He yelps and glares, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out. Shiro smirks like he knows what he’s thinking, so Keith flips him off. In response, Shiro strips off his shirt. Keith’s mouth goes dry, eyes locked firmly on the trail of hair leading from his belly button and down under a waistband riding so low it’s obscene. The cut of his hips is sharp enough that Keith could cut his tongue if he licked them like he really wants to. He looks back up at Shiro’s unbearably smug face. “Serious question: do you do anything other than work out?”

“I eat pastries, on occasion,” Shiro offers. Then he shucks his pants and Keith has to do a double take.

“Big,” he breathes out, because it’s the only word coming to mind right now. There’s well-endowed, and then there’s Shiro. He’s eye to eye with his cause of death and it’s going to be so worth it.

Shiro jacks his cock once, playing with the foreskin and thumbing at the pearl of precome at the tip. “Is that going to be a problem?” he asks, and sounds as if he actually means it.

“Fuck no.” Keith wriggles forward so he can get ahold of those hips. He touches the tip of his tongue to Shiro’s slit. Tangysaltybitter bursts over his tastebuds. He licks again and Shiro groans. He cups a hand against Keith’s cheek, thumb running over the slickness of his bottom lip. He feeds the thumb into Keith’s mouth. Keith sucks on it obligingly and Shiro groans again. Then he pulls his hand away and presses it flat to Keith’s chest to push him until he’s laying back on the bed.

“Give me a second,” Shiro mutters, and turns to rifle through his bedside drawer. Keith scoots back until he’s all the way on the bed and watches as Shiro tosses a condom on the bed. A half empty bottle of lube quickly follows. Keith picks it up and raises an eyebrow.

“Been getting a lot of use out of this?” he teases, swinging the bottle gently with two fingers.

Shiro crawls sinuously over the bed and straddles Keith as he plucks the bottle from his grasp. “Shut up, brat. You can’t tell me you don’t have a bottle exactly like this in your room.” Keith doesn’t answer because it’s true, and because he’s distracted by the thickness of the thighs on either side of him. He sets his hands on them and squeezes, finally free to feel them up like he’s been low key fantasizing about since the first time Shiro wrapped them around his head and whispered yield far too intimately in his ear.

Shiro lets his own hands wander over Keith for a moment before tugging lightly on the sweater Keith still wears. “Still cold?”

Keith tenses, hand automatically reaching up to make sure the Mark is still covered. Shiro clocks the movement but says nothing when Keith mutters a quiet, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Shiro says simply. He leans down to kiss Keith again, nudging at his lips and asking for entrance. Keith lets him in happily, awash in the sense of Shiro in him, above him, surrounding him. It’s warm and pleasant underneath Shiro’s solid bulk. When Shiro twines their fingers together and draws Keith’s arms above his head, he doesn’t fight.

Shiro sits back to look down at him. Emotions flicker behind his eyes too quickly for Keith to catch. He tightens his grip on Shiro’s hands, ignoring how metal presses hard and bruising between his fingers on one side. “What?” he whispers when Shiro continues to stare. 

Shiro shakes his head, snapping out of wherever his mind had just gone. “It’s nothing. Just thinking how beautiful you are.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Sappy.”

Shiro shrugs, unconcerned. “Yup. You like it.” Keith makes a face but doesn’t deny it. The word beautiful coming out of Shiro’s mouth, directed at him, makes him feel warm and squirmy inside, embarrassed and pleased. “Actually, I was just thinking that it’s a little strange that a tattoo artist has no tattoos.”

“I do,” he says, distracted as he studies the ones decorating Shiro. He looks away before he reaches the mark on his arm and redirects his gaze to meet Shiro’s, who looks surprised and more than a little intrigued. “Just, not where you can see.”

Shiro’s eyes fall to Keith’s chest, almost as if he can see the mark there. The ink burns like embers under his gaze and Keith has to stop himself from looking too, half filled with the irrational fear that it might be glowing like a branding iron, giving him away. 

Shiro smiles softly at him after a moment. “Well, maybe someday I’ll get to see.”

Keith loses himself for half a second in the daydream of being with Shiro, of showing him the mark his mother had etched into him over twenty years ago. Shiro would lay his arm against Keith’s chest so the marks aligned perfectly and smile that sunshine smile at him and say, I knew it. Keith would ride on the coattails of his conviction until he too believed that, just this once, he hadn’t fucked up.

Reality once again shoves to the forefront, harsh and cold and sudden. There is no happily ever after now, if there ever had been one to begin with. All he has is this one night of bad ideas and stupid decisions and damn it all, he’s going to make the most of it. He’ll worry about the wounds he’s leaving later.

Keith squeezes Shiro’s hands, then lets go. Shiro sits back on his knees. Keith takes advantage, shifting underneath him until he’s laying on his stomach, Shiro’s hips and groin perfectly aligned with the swell of his ass. He looks over his shoulder. “Weren’t we in the middle of something?”

Shiro takes the mood change in stride. “I believe we were.” He shuffles back and widens his knees enough to allow Keith to spread his legs a bit. He cups Keith’s ass, rubbing lightly over his skin as he uses his thumbs to pull Keith’s cheeks apart. Keith buries his face in the crook of one arm, flushed and almost overwhelmed as Shiro exposes his most intimate parts. 

He isn’t expecting the warm wetness of Shiro’s tongue pressing into him. He shouts and jerks in Shiro’s grip, then moans long and low as he melts into the sensation. “Fuck, Shiro.”

“Okay?” Shiro asks, though the word is muffled because he’s barely pulled away enough to stop the word from reverberating against Keith’s skin. His breath blows over him, hot and damp on the exhale and cool and tingling with the inhale. 

Keith whines and writhes as best he can. “Yes,” he gasps. When Shiro doesn’t immediately put his mouth back on him, Keith reaches back. He fumbles a hand against the back of Shiro’s head and steers him where he wants him to be.

“Pushy,” Shiro mumbles, but Keith can only hear the word in the vibrations of sound against his skin. “Greedy.” He scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin of his hole, then licks back into him.

Keith pounds his fist against the bed, gripping the sheets tight and gritting his teeth. He prays to every deity out there that he doesn’t come from Shiro’s mouth again. He’s not sure he could go a third round and he suddenly, desperately needs to feel Shiro huge and full inside him when he comes. “Shiro,” he says tightly, fighting against the pleasure igniting every nerve in his body. “I need you to fuck me, now. Like, right now. Get inside me, please.”

Shiro pulls away and Keith immediately mourns the loss, even as he hears the click of a cap and Shiro’s soft chuckle. “So fucking needy for me.” He sounds pleased as he presses a slick finger to Keith’s hole. It slides in so easy, Keith still pliant and open from his tongue. Two fingers go in just as smooth. Shiro groans as he pumps them in and out.

Keith twists so he can glare over his shoulder. “Shiro. Inside. Now,” he commands, pressing back against the fingers pointedly.

Shiro furrows his brow. “I need to loosen you up, baby. You said it yourself: I’m big. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Keith growls and wriggles until he can get his knees underneath him, then raises his hips. He reaches back and abruptly plunges two of his own fingers in alongside Shiro’s. The fit is tight, body clamping down against the sudden intrusion and burn of not enough lube, but he still makes his point. He can only see about half of Shiro’s face from the odd position he’s put himself in, but the half he can see looks like Shiro’s just found God. “I’ll be fine,” Keith says smugly. 

He starts to pull his hand back but Shiro stops him. He keeps Keith’s fingers inside while he continues to pump his own in and out. It isn’t a comfortable position, but when Shiro commands him to stay, he doesn’t even think of removing his fingers. Instead he concentrates on the fine trembling of his muscles as he struggles to stay still, to be good for Shiro. He’s rewarded by the cool, slick drizzle of lube over his knuckles, and then Shiro’s fingers are joining his again, so wet they make little schlick schlick sounds as Shiro takes Keith’s wrist and starts to move them in tandem with his own. Keith’s mouth falls open of its own accord. He has to drop down to his elbow as his bracing arm finally gives out under the onslaught. It feels so good, stretched wide and almost perfect, but the angle is too weird and neither of them are getting enough depth to hit his prostate. He’s stuck in a state between too much and not enough.

Shiro must sense Keith’s growing impatience because he pulls Keith’s hand free just as it’s threatening to cramp. Keith sighs as he’s given back ownership of the limb, clenching and stretching his hand to work out the stiffness. Shiro’s fingers disappear too, but then his hands are wrapped around his waist and tugging Keith’s hips higher. The bow of his spine is almost too sharp, but the position leaves him feeling so delightfully raw and vulnerable that he ignores it. Any notion of discomfort disappears entirely when Shiro presses the blunt head of his cock against Keith’s hole. 

He enters Keith torturously slow; every millimeter feels like a mile and every second an eternity, but Keith is too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch and feel of Shiro inside him to complain. It’s almost a surprise when Shiro finally stops. “Fuck, baby, you did it,” Shiro whispers, awed. “You took all of me.” Keith whimpers in response, unable to find words for what he’s feeling right now. Shiro pets soothingly down Keith’s back, rucking up the sweater before tugging it gently back in place because Shiro is a God-damned gentleman who pays attention to his partner’s limits and Keith doesn’t deserve him, but he has him anyway and he’s not giving this up until it’s wrenched forcibly from him.

Some sort of sounds must be coming out of Keith’s mouth because Shiro is shushing him quietly, crooning words of praise between laying kisses on the nape of Keith’s neck, against his hair, over Keith’s whitened knuckles as Shiro carefully pries the sheets from his grip. “That’s it baby, just relax. You’re doing so good, so perfect for me, beautiful…”

Keith wets his lips.  “I’m okay, I’m good,” he reassures. His voice is gravelly, punched out and wrecked already. He sounds high. Maybe he is. Sex with Shiro is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and they haven’t even really started yet. “Please. Please move. I need you to move, please.”

He’s already been reduced to begging. He thanks everything holy that Shiro doesn’t draw the moment out any longer. He doesn’t know what stage comes after begging and he’s probably about to find out, but he really wants Shiro to be fucking him when he does.

Shiro pulls back just as slowly, a delicious drag that sends sparks of pleasure-pain up Keith’s spine. They hit his brain and explode in fireworks behind his eyes when Shiro thrusts back in. Keith cries out and shifts back into him. He stutters out Shiro’s name on a sigh. Shiro wraps his hands around Keith’s hips and starts to move for real. Keith’s body slowly eases as it gets used to Shiro’s girth. Soon enough Shiro is pounding into him full force, punching sounds out of Keith he didn’t even know he could make with every stroke. The movements push them up the bed until Keith is forced to slap a hand against the wall and brace them. 

Shiro wraps himself around Keith’s chest and hauls him up so he’s straddling Shiro’s lap. Shiro’s arm slips under the sweater and lines up over Keith’s heart like two pieces slotting together perfectly. Keith’s entire being lights up and every hair on his skin stands on end like a full body static shock. His mouth opens around a silent scream as he comes so hard it leaves him lightheaded and limp as a ragdoll in Shiro’s grip. Shiro shudders and shakes under him, rolling up into him helplessly.  His grip tightens until Keith’s ribs creak. Then, like a puppet with his strings cut, he collapses and takes Keith with him. Keith grunts under his weight but can’t bring himself to push Shiro off. Luckily, he doesn’t have to. Shiro rolls them onto their sides. He squeezes Keith tight before pulling his hand out from under the sweater and wrapping it back around him again, patting his chest with a mumbled sorry against the back of Keith’s neck. Keith feels the loss acutely, but it’s tempered somewhat by the fact that Shiro is still buried deep inside him.

Sleepy contentment slips its fingers into Keith’s brain and makes his eyes droop. He should probably be freaking out about something or other, but he’s too fucked out to even figure out what that might be. He snuggles back into Shiro’s hold and lets the sound of Shiro’s deepening breaths lull him into sleep.

Chapter Text

Keith wakes alone but still feels surrounded by Shiro. The sheets are warm around him and when he buries his nose in them. They smell of sweat and sex, expensive laundry detergent and Shiro’s spicy body wash, and just a little bit like him. Shiro’s voice is a gentle rumble somewhere outside the room. The window emits soft light through frosted windows mounded with snow. Chilly air nips at his nose and ears, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped under the blankets. He doesn’t want to get up and face the cold. Here, he can pretend the world doesn’t exist, that he is the person Shiro believes him to be. Shiro will come back, burrow under the covers and wrap chilly arms around Keith. Keith will complain but he’ll secretly be happy to be the one to warm Shiro up for once. They can curl up together and talk, really talk. In Keith’s little fantasy, Shiro will be surprised but understanding. Maybe he’ll even say that he doesn’t need a real Soulmark, he already knows who he wants.

Maybe after that, Keith will wriggle under the covers and suck Shiro off before Shiro turns over and offers up his own body to Keith. Keith strokes his awakening cock slowly a few times before he sighs and lets his hand fall to the side. He has never been particularly good at keeping fantasies alive. Maybe they can drink some cocoa in the kitchen and kiss goodbye before Keith goes back home to pack.

Keith rolls out of bed, shivering as the cool air hits his bare legs. Clothes are his first priority. He wraps his arms tight around his torso as he pads down the hall to the bathroom. Shiro’s voice is louder now but still muffled. He sounds tense though, speaking in short, terse sentences broken by long pauses. He can make out phrases here and there: test results... and but that’s... and why would he... Keith’s fantasy splinters even further. 

In the bathroom, he empties his bladder, slips his underwear on, then squeezes some toothpaste onto his finger to scrub his teeth as he grabs the cellphone he’d left on the sink last night.

The entire screen is lit up with notifications. Keith’s stomach drops. He washes out his mouth as he scrolls through. Ten missed calls from Pidge, Lance, and Hunk, three voicemails, countless texts, all with some variation of where are you, and answer your phone asshole, and this is serious Keith please answer. His fingers shake as he pulls up his voicemail. Pidge’s furious, worried voice assaults his ears.

You asshole, I hate you so much right now. Lance said you’re with Shiro, like a complete idiot. A complete horny idiot. Yelling is helpful, Hunk. I need someone to scream at before I explode. Keith. You need to come home NOW. I know you didn’t want me to look into Shiro, but it’s a damn good thing I did. His name is Takashi Shirogane. As in Matt’s coworker AGENT Shirogane, from SEB. Get out of there, Keith. And for fuck’s sake, call us back!

Keith’s hand drops to his side as an electronic voice asks what he wants to do with the message. He stares at himself in the mirror, numb. His neck and shoulder are a mosaic of hickies and bite marks. They stand out lurid against skin gone pale from shock. His mark is peeking out of his sweater. Takashi Shirogane’s sweater.

He is so fucked. 

Panic breaks him free of his paralysis. He grabs for his clothes frantically and nearly falls into the bathtub trying to pull his running leggings on. He’s halfway through pulling the sweater off when a knock rattles the door. Keith stares wide-eyed at his reflection. “Shit.” He scrambles to readjust the sweater to hide his mark again. “Uh, just a minute,” he calls. At this point the only thing that could make the situation worse is Shiro seeing exactly how permanently Keith had tied them together.

The door rattles louder this time. “Keith, open up.” Shiro’s voice is hard. If there’s any hint of fondness for Keith left, there’s no trace of it to be heard. “I will kick down this door if I have to. Please don’t make me.” 

Keith’s eyes go automatically to the window next to the toilet, but it’s a lost cause. Keith may be small in comparison to Shiro, but even Pidge would have a hard time squeezing through there. And then there’s the second story drop onto hard concrete. Barefoot no less, because Keith’s shoes are by the front door. 

Keith grits his teeth and presses his palms to his eyes until the pressure hurts and the prickle of tears fades. “Can I at least get dressed in my own clothes?” He hates how weak he sounds. Defeated. Probably because he is.

There’s a long pause. When Shiro’s voice comes back through the door, it’s still firm but marginally less cold. “Two minutes.”

Keith sniffs and pulls the rest of his clothes on as quickly as possible, then grabs his phone. He has maybe thirty more seconds before Shiro starts knocking again. He pulls up their group chat and types out a quick message: too late and then stay away. Dots pop up to indicate someone is replying but he doesn’t have time to read it.

He keeps his eyes downcast when he opens the door. He can’t bear to see what expression might be on Shiro’s face right now. 

Shiro holds out a hand. “Cell phone.” 

Keith hands it over wordlessly. His eyes are drawn helplessly to Shiro’s Soulmark. Shiro had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, almost like he’s deliberately flaunting Keith’s biggest mistake. The little detail seems too cruel to be intentional, but then, he never really knew Shiro, did he?

He’s almost grateful when Shiro spins him so Keith can no longer see it. He pulls Keith’s arms behind his back. “Keith Kogane, you are under arrest for impersonating a Soulmark Artist, Soulmark fraud, and tattooing without a license. Anything you say can and will...” 

As Shiro tonelessly recites Keith’s Miranda Rights, Keith’s mind flits restlessly through memories of their interactions together, cataloguing every discrepancy, every suspicious word or action that Keith had foolishly written off because he’d been too busy thinking with his dick to pay attention to his head. That’s the thing that gets him the most. He’d had so many opportunities to avoid this. Hell, if they’d just moved to Baltimore...  

Realization hits Keith like a brick. He jerks in Shiro’s grip, cutting him off mid-sentence. Keith cranes his neck so he can glimpse Shiro’s face. “You’re the one who bugged me, aren’t you?” he asks with dawning horror. He can still feel the ghost of a hand on his hip, conveniently placed just over Keith’s jacket pocket as Shiro had steadied him that day. Rolo had done the exact same thing later on, and yet it had never even occurred to Keith that Rolo might not be the guilty party. Shiro bites his lip, eyes sliding away from Keith’s. There’s a loaded pause before he continues to Mirandize him rather than answer. It’s as close to a confession as Keith is likely to get. The betrayal stings.

Keith tunes out the words, numbed by his own stupidity, until he feels the cold bite of a handcuff around his wrist. Panic lights up the fight-or-flight instincts in his brain. He braces a foot against the wall and slams his head back into Shiro’s face as hard as he can. 

Shiro stumbles back with a shout and crashes into the wall opposite. Keith bolts down the hall. He doesn’t get far before a hand tangles in the hood of his sweatshirt and yanks him back. He gags as the collar cuts across his throat. It distracts him long enough for Shiro to get him into a stranglehold.

Keith ducks his chin, grabs the elbow and tries to flip Shiro, but they’ve spent too much time sparring; Shiro counters every attempt easily. Keith switches tactics. He kicks viciously at Shiro’s leg and swings the arm with the handcuff back. The loose end cracks against the side of Shiro’s head. Shiro grunts but his stance remains solid. 

Keith’s rabbit brain takes over as his vision goes spotty and his limbs grow heavy. Keith’s chin tuck has bought him a few extra seconds of blood flow to the brain but his head throbs with each second that ticks down. He scrabbles and kicks wildly at any body part he can reach, to no avail. In a last ditch effort, he plays possum. Shiro relaxes his hold immediately; blood rushes back as Shiro carefully lowers him to the ground. Keith bursts into motion the second his strength returns. Shiro curses and tries to get him back into a choke, but Keith is already on the offense.

They wrestle furiously and for once Keith has full advantage, because unlike Shiro he has experience with fighting dirty, and thanks to Shiro he has more moves in his repertoire than ever. He bites, claws, digs fingers into any vulnerable spot he can get to, anything to get away. He nearly manages to eel his way out, but Shiro gets a grip on the handcuffs still locked around Keith’s wrist and reels him back in. He jabs a knee into Keith’s spine and yanks Keith’s arm back into an arm lock. “Keith. Stop… resisting,” Shiro pants, breath hot against the back of Keith’s neck as he scrabbles to get a hold of Keith’s other arm. “Just stop, before I hurt you!”

Hurt him. Keith would laugh if he had the air in his lungs. Shiro has no idea what Keith can endure. Maybe it’s time to show him.

Keith wrenches himself violently in Shiro’s grasp. His spine protests and a little wounded sound escapes him as his shoulder strains and then dislocates with a sickening pop. Shiro gasps sharply and lets go.

This is Keith’s last chance; he doesn’t let it go to waste. He flips onto his back and kicks Shiro straight in the solar plexus. Shiro collapses back, wheezing and whooping for air. Keith scrambles awkwardly to his feet. He grits his teeth and pulls his arm, rotating it until the joint pops back into place with a gruesome, visceral thunk. Shiro watches him, stunned, clutching his stomach and gasping for breath. Keith can’t help but smile bitterly. It’s his magic bullet move; he’s dislocated his shoulders so many times he can pretty much do it on command at this point. No one ever expects it.

“I’m sorry,” Keith tells Shiro. He rubs his aching shoulder as he backs up. “I’m so sorry.” Shiro tries to say something, but with his breath knocked out, he can’t do more than mouth the words. Keith shakes his head and speeds to the door. He needs to get out of here before Shiro recovers. 

His mistake is taking the few extra seconds to shove his feet into his shoes. His hand is on the doorknob when he hears the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. He turns around slowly.

Shiro is standing a few feet behind him, bloody, bruised, and steely-eyed. His gun is aimed steadily at Keith. 

Keith slumps back against the door, exhaustion crushing the last of his fighting spirit. “What are you going to do, Shiro, shoot me?” he asks wearily. He holds up his hands, handcuffs swinging gently against his forearm. He smiles humorlessly. “I’m unarmed.”

Shiro keeps the gun trained on him. “Hold out your hands,” he says in a thready voice.

Keith has a decision to make. He could bolt. Regardless of how Shiro feels about him now, he doubts the man would put his career at risk by shooting an unarmed man in the back. He might be able to get to the car before Shiro took him down, but the keys are in the apartment and, if his friends are smarter than he is, they and the car are long gone.

Or, he could stop running and accept the consequences of his actions. 

In the end, the decision is easy. He holds out his wrists.

***

Keith sits, handcuffed and slumped over in an interrogation room at the Soulmark Enforcement Bureau’s home office in Washington, D.C.. He is broken and bruised in more ways than one. His shoulder throbs dully, his muscles ache from the fight earlier, and he can’t sit in the seat for longer than a few minutes at a time without shifting because last night had felt great at the time, but now it’s just a stinging reminder of all he’s lost.

All of that is nothing in comparison to the way his chest feels like it’s being torn apart from the inside out. Every time habit has him bringing his hand up to tap his fingers against his Mark, his chest hitches, his throat tightens, and he has to look up at the ceiling to keep his eyes from spilling over. He’s barely treading water here; keeping his head above the surface is getting harder and harder.

The door opens and Keith instinctively sits up, heart leaping in anticipation. He slumps again when Matt pokes his head in. He slips inside and sits in the chair across from Keith, sliding a sandwich and a bottle of water across the table. Keith takes the water gratefully. Unlike the last time he’d been in an interrogation room, they don’t need his fingerprints. They already have him dead to rights; he’d tattooed a fake Soulmark on a SEB agent, for fuck’s sake. His only defense, that it was just a regular tattoo, will be torn apart by his mother’s ink.

Matt watches Keith slowly sip the water, then holds out an ice pack. “Shiro said you pulled your shoulder stunt. Thought you might want this.” Keith nods and takes it, pressing it to his shoulder. Matt’s eyes rove over him, taking in the bruised cheek, the sallow skin and bags under his eyes. 

He sees the moment Matt clocks the hickies Keith’s hoodie doesn’t quite hide because his eyebrows shoot up before his lips go thin. The skin around his eyes is tight and his jaw is clenched. That’s Matt’s pissed but trying to hide it face. Keith slumps a little further, trying not to wince as his ass twinges. 

Matt takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “You’re looking kind of rough, buddy.”

Keith fixes his eyes on the sandwich in front of him with a frown. “Yeah, well,” he says. He doesn’t continue, because what else is there to say?

“Yeah, well?” Matt repeats. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “Jesus. Why is everyone I know so stupid?”

Keith sighs. “What do you want, Matt?”

Matt waves a hand at Keith and the surroundings. “Not this, that’s for damn sure.” 

Keith shrugs. “Pretty sure no one wanted this. Except maybe Agent Shirogane.” He tries to sneer the name out, but he can’t. He just… can’t. His chest hitches again.

Matt scowls. “Trust me, Shiro, ” he emphasizes the name, “is not even remotely happy right now.”

Keith presses his lips together to keep them from trembling. Of course Shiro isn’t happy. Why would he be? He has to know by now what Keith did to him. That’s probably what his phone conversation in the apartment this morning had been about: confirmation that Keith had used real Marking ink. He has every right to hate Keith, and Keith can’t even blame him. He’s the one in the wrong here and has been from the first time he pretended to Mark someone. 

“What do you want?” he asks Matt again, because it’s that or start bawling and his pride isn’t strong enough to survive that.

Matt sets his hands on the table and leans closer to Keith. “I want to know why you did it,” he hisses in a voice low enough that it won’t be caught by any listening devices that might be nearby. “Keith, why would you use your mom’s inks on him?” His voice lowers even more, “Why did you put your own Mark on him? I just. I need to know.”

Keith looks down at his lap and bites his lip until it stings and he tastes copper. “I don’t know,” he says. His voice breaks on the last word. When he glances up, Matt’s expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking. Keith squeezes his eyes shut and presses a palm to his chest even though it hurts more than helps at this point. “I don’t know.”

I don’t know. Words he’s going to repeat a lot over the next few hours, until they mean nothing to him or anyone else.

“I have to go. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place.” Matt’s hand settles on his shoulder, comforting in its familiarity. “Don’t give up, Keith. You’ll get through this.” The hand disappears and a moment later the door clicks open and closed again, leaving Keith alone.

Keith sets his head down on the table and stops fighting the riptide.

***

By the time Shiro enters the room, the ice pack is warm and Keith has mostly pulled himself back together, though he’s probably still blotchy and red-eyed. Shiro’s expression is an inscrutable mask as he sits down across from Keith. He’s limping, with scratches, cuts and bruises all over. It looks like he’d gone up against a feral animal, not a person. It’s a stark contrast to the crisp, collared shirt and tie he’s wearing. Despite the injuries, he looks good, Keith thinks miserably. His eyes catch on the SEB badge hanging on a lanyard around Shiro’s neck. Shiro’s identification picture stares at Keith accusingly above Shiro’s real name. If the reality of his situation hadn’t hit already, this would be the final blow.

Shiro is studying him as well. His mask cracks for one brief moment when his eyes fall on the hickies, but it’s back in place too quickly for Keith to place what’s behind it — disgust or regret or something else entirely. He’s a stranger, one Keith can no longer read, if he ever could.

Shiro pulls out a handcuff key and gestures for Keith to hold out his hands. “I don’t have to worry about you attacking or trying to escape, do I?” he asks as he uncuffs Keith.

Keith sucks in a breath through his nose and lets it out slowly. “Low blow, Shi— Agent.”

Shiro grimaces, looking away as Keith rubs the redness around his wrists. “You’re right. I apologize.”  He nods at the discarded ice pack. “Do you need another one of those?” Keith shakes his head. “More water? Something else to eat?” He shakes his head again; he hasn’t even touched the sandwich he was given. His stomach roils and aches at the thought of putting anything other than water in it. Even that had been a trial. 

“Do you need to use the restroom?” Shiro continues, the epitome of politeness. 

Keith sighs. “I’m fine, Agent.”

Shiro’s mouth tightens. “How about a lawyer?”

Keith thinks of Hunk and his Google law degree. He shakes his head again. Shiro’s mouth tightens even more. “Fine. I’m going to begin now. If at any point you would like us to contact one for you, please say so.” The professional courtesy hurts. Keith’s hand goes to his chest automatically as Shiro flips open a thick folder he’d brought with him. Shiro’s eyes follow the movement. Keith drops his hand quickly, clasping it tightly with the other one in his lap. 

Shiro takes the first page of the file and flips it so Keith can see. It’s a photo of a pretty blonde girl. One of the first people he’d Marked. “Do you recognize this woman?” Keith shrugs. He doesn’t need a lawyer to tell him that admitting to anything would be a terrible idea. Every fraudulent Mark is another charge to bury him with.

Shiro sets another picture down next to the first — this time of the whale he’d tattooed on her thigh. “How about this Mark? Do you recognize the work?” Keith shrugs again. “This is Anabelle Porter. Four years ago, she came to us because she had a suspicion that this Mark,” Shiro points to the whale, “might be a fake. Why would she think that?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says dully, staring down at the pictures. Some distant part of him observes how much he’s improved in the last four years, both in his art and in the quality of his forgeries. He feels a small flicker of pride, but it’s quashed quickly by guilt and self-disgust.

Shiro sets out two more photos. “How about Adam Cordello? Any idea why he would think his Mark was fake?”

“No.”

It goes on like this for a while. Shiro sets down two pictures — a past client and their Mark — and asks him about them. It doesn’t take long before Keith is surrounded by all the people he’s wronged, far more than he’d realized SEB had tracked down. 

All of them are people with whom he’d relied more heavily on Pidge’s algorithm than his own intuition. Once he’s noticed, it’s hard not to. He starts comparing them with his mental rolodex of clients, anticipating whom Shiro might accuse him with next. They’ve missed quite a few, but it’s startling how well they match up. It makes him uneasy. He shifts in his chair, wincing. 

Shiro pauses, next photo in hand. “Do you need to take a break?” he asks in an aggravatingly even voice. It prickles at Keith, makes him want to do something, anything, to make Shiro break for just one moment. The need for proof that Shiro is not as unaffected as he seems makes Keith petty. He shifts again, deliberate.

“I’m fine. Just had a rough night.”

It could be an innocent statement. He could be talking about their fight or the long, tense drive to D.C., or the hours spent in this room. He’s not. Shiro knows it.

Keith watches blood rush to Shiro’s face. He tracks it down to the collar of his shirt and wonders how much further down it might go. When he looks back up, Shiro is glaring. Keith feels a brief flash of vindication but it’s quickly doused when Shiro’s look turns mulish, jawline set hard and sharp enough to cut Keith. He undoes the buttons on his sleeve and rolls it up with jerky motions. A wave of nausea rolls over Keith as Shiro thrusts his arm out and confronts Keith with his work. It’s still a little scabbed from healing but the colors are bright, the lines crisp, and the design condemning.

“What about this one? Do you recognize it?”

Keith swallows hard. “You know I do,” he says quietly. He makes himself look up. “It’s just a tattoo, Agent. I never said otherwise, just like I never told you I was a Markist. It’s not my fault if you made assumptions.”

It’s the wrong this to say. Shiro’s eyes flash. Keith finally sees behind the curtain, bears witness to the rage and hurt hiding under Shiro’s calm exterior. Shiro’s lip curls into a snarl. “Really? Do you always do regular tattoos with Marking ink, Keith?” he sneers.

Shiro’s words should have deflated Keith, crushed him under the weight of all the guilt he’s been harboring over this exact accusation. Instead, his own hurt and betrayal rise in his throat like bile. “Do you always sleep with the people you’re investigating, Shiro?” he spits back.

Shiro stands and slams his hands down on the table. Keith jerks back, shaken. “Do you sleep with the people you’re conning?”

The door to the interrogation door swings open. A man built like a tank and missing an eye stomps through, followed by an alarmed-looking Matt. 

“Shirogane, take five,” the man commands. Shiro ignores him, fists clenched and chest heaving as he stares Keith down. “NOW, Agent!”

Shiro blinks, and it’s like he finally notices the way Keith is flinching away from him in his chair, how Matt’s face is tight with unhappiness, and the man who must be their commanding officer looks like he’s ready to tackle Shiro if he makes one wrong move. All the coiled tension in Shiro’s body abruptly flees. He lets out a harsh breath and covers his eyes with a hand that shakes with fine tremors. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

The man sighs through his nose, aggrieved. “Just go, Shirogane. Take a break, cool down. Holt, you go with him. I’ll take over here for now.”

Shiro nods, head held low. He glances up at Keith as Matt steps forward to guide him out and for a moment he just looks… lost. Then Matt is nudging him away from the table with a hand on his arm, murmuring to him in a low voice. Matt sends Keith one final concerned look over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.

The commanding officer shakes his head with a grumble once they’re gone. He sits down in the seat Shiro vacated. “My name is Commander Iverson. I’ll be taking over your case for the moment.” He eyes Keith wearily. “Can I get you anything before we start?” 

Keith digs his fingers into his chest and wonders if this is what it feels like to have a heart attack. “I want a lawyer,” he whispers.

***

Jail turns out not to be too different from the residential center he’d lived in as a kid. He’s allowed paper and pencils, markers, and even paints, so he spends a lot of time creating art. Just like the residential center, he develops a reputation for it once the other inmates learn what his “alleged” crime is. People ask him to tattoo them and for a moment he considers it. He misses his tattoo gun like a limb, but it seems phenomenally stupid to do the very thing he got put in jail for. He offers to design tattoos for them instead. It’s like drops of water versus a full glass, but it helps.

Keith doesn’t see Shiro again. Not in the interrogation room, or in the holding cell, or the courtroom where a judge deems him a flight risk and remands him without bail. He does see Matt, and a lot of Commander Iverson, until he realizes that Keith is not going to talk. He briefly gets to see Lance, Hunk and Pidge, all of whom hug him tight and inform him that they’ve been charged as accomplices and promptly offered plea deals to testify. They assure him that they would plead the fifth before they’d ever rat him out. He appreciates it, but it’s not worth them getting in trouble for him. When he tells them that, he gets shouted at for a good ten minutes before the guards finally get sick of it and make them leave. He smiles for the rest of the evening until lights out, when the darkness forces him to remember where he is and why.

He also sees the Holts, who travel to D.C. and rent a short term apartment for the duration. Colleen slaps him upside the head and demands to know why he hadn’t come to them, then reels him in for a teary hug. Sam just shakes his head sadly. “This Blaytz fellow we hired is the best lawyer around for this kind of thing,” he says. Keith wants to tell them not to waste their money, but despite what the entire Holt family appears to think, he’s not a complete idiot. There’s no chance in hell that he won’t be convicted, but maybe this lawyer can help him negotiate a plea deal that won’t see him walking out of prison with white hair and wrinkles.

“We’re going to be with you every step of the way,” Colleen promises just before they leave. “You aren’t alone, Keith.”

He knows they’re right, but it’s so hard to remember in the early mornings when he’s curled up around his tightening chest and stuttering heart. His Mark throbs like an untended burn.

Some small, sick part of him clings to the fact that he’ll get to see Shiro in the courtroom when he testifies again Keith. It latches onto his masochistic side and feeds voraciously; he starts to forego sleep in favor of imagining all the conversations they might have, all the ways Shiro might tear him apart and Keith might let him. When he stops eating, they send him to the prison infirmary, where they pump him full of antidepressants and sedatives before plopping his zombified ass down in front of a SEB affiliated therapist twice a week. Her name is Allura. She’s nice. She listens quietly when he talks but doesn’t push too hard when he can’t. She doesn’t even complain when he goes on tangents. Shiro may have been the catalyst for his breakdown, but he has twenty plus years’ worth of issues that are all bubbling up now that he has so much time to sit and think. She’s patient, nudging him in the right direction as he works to unpack it all.

She also dials back the sedatives, which he appreciates. He keeps seeing her even after the prison deems him to no longer be a suicide risk.

(He’s never been a suicide risk. It’s just hard, sometimes, to live. No one but Allura seems to get the difference.)

***

Today is a quiet day for Keith; finding words is like pulling teeth and he’s too tired to play dentist. Allura taps her pen against her lips with a hum when it becomes apparent that he’s done for the day. She sits up in her seat and leans forward. “Keith, there’s something I would like to speak with you about today.”

Keith frowns. “Okay?”

“You haven’t talked very much about your parents.” Keith stiffens, heart speeding up. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to speak about them if you aren’t ready, but I do have a few questions about the circumstances surrounding your Soulmark assessment exam, if that’s okay?”

“I guess.” He crosses his arms over his chest to keep himself from touching his own Mark. 

“Thank you. How old were you when you were tested?”

“Eight, just like everyone else. It was negative, obviously.” He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Allura hums again and scratches something out on her notepad. “And you mentioned that your father was particularly biased against Soulmarks in general and Soulmarkists in particular.”

Keith snorts. “That’s one way to put it. ‘Hated anything and everything to do with it’ would be a better description. And for good reason.” He taps his Mark pointedly. They’d talked about it before, in a general sense if not in detail.

Allura’s eyes flick down to it. A complicated expression crosses her face before it smooths back over into her normal professional demeanor. “Do you remember much about the test, or the times surrounding it?”

Keith frowns and shifts anxiously. He remembers his Pops being angry about having to get him tested in the first place. He’d tried to hide it, but Keith remembers his Pops admitting to a friend, sitting on the porch with a whiskey bottle between them while Keith was supposed to be doing homework, that he didn’t know what he would do if Keith tested positive. He remembers crying on the way to school the day they were doing testing, pretending to be sick until his father finally snapped at him to suck it up.

(They’re going to test you whether we want it or not, kid. Hell if I’m going to take you to the testing center and pay them for it. Just take the test and we can go get ice cream after, okay?)

He doesn’t remember the test itself, just the pit in his stomach that widened and deepened, and widened and deepened, until the test was finally done and he was in the bathroom spewing his guts and breakfast into the toilet. 

He remembers his father’s bright grin and giant hug when they proclaimed Keith negative and the creamy taste of ice cream on his tongue as they celebrated. Guilt ate at Keith for weeks because a part of him was disappointed not to share the one thing he remembers about his momma.

“A little. It was not exactly a great memory.” 

Allura nods like she understands and writes something else before setting her notepad to the side. “Have you ever considered being retested? It’s not entirely unheard of for people to test negative and then positive at a later date. There have been quite a few case studies recently on people who had false negatives after experiencing Soulmark related trauma.” 

Keith sighs and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “If you’re asking me to be your guinea pig, you’re going to be disappointed.”

Allura is quiet. Too quiet. “Allura, what is this about?”

Allura bites her lip, looking torn. “I’m not sure I’m the one who should be telling you this,” she says slowly. “It might be better for your lawyer to…”

Keith’s heart speeds up. “Just spit it out, Allura!”

She sighs. “Very well. There’s been a… new development in your case. It’s recently come to light that one of your Marks was, in fact, positive for Soulmark magic.”

Keith’s chest tightens. His Mark burns. “I know. The ink…”

“Not the ink, Keith, though that, as you know, came back positive as well. Testing for genuine Marks takes significantly more time. The lab also needs direct access to the physical Mark.”

Shiro.

“I don’t understand,” he forces through the knot in his throat. He clenches his hands to hide their trembling.

Allura stands and turns around, then sweeps her hair over one shoulder. She reaches back to unzip her dress. Keith jumps to his feet and spins around. “Whoa, what are you doing?” he yelps.

“Relax, Keith. I just wanted to show you something. It might help you to understand. Please turn around.”

Keith swallows hard and slowly turns to face her. Then, he stops breathing entirely. 

Between Allura’s shoulder blades is a castle. Lance’s castle. There are a few minor differences, but all of them are easily chalked up to style differences between artists.

Keith’s legs give out and he sits back down in his seat, hard. A red hot band tightens around his chest. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and his heart is beating so hard that each individual beat melts into the next. This is not possible. It’s not possible.  

“Keith? Keith, I want you to breathe with me, okay? You’re having a panic attack.”

Keith listens to her through ringing ears as she counts breaths with him until he stops hyperventilating. Slowly, his heart settles back down to something that won’t send him straight to the hospital. “I’m so sorry, Keith. I could have done that better. Are you okay”

“How…?” he bites out. She’s zipped her dress back up but the image is etched into his brain.

Allura smiles softly at him. “I happen to be friends with Matthew Holt. Lance and Hunk have been staying with the Holts until the trial, so I’ve had a chance to meet them on several occasions. Lance and I happened to hit it off and… well.” Allura blushes. Despite the emotions roiling inside him, Keith has to smile. He puts her out of her misery.

“I think I get it,” he says softly. “I’m happy for you.” And he is. He’s really happy for Lance. He’s spent years thinking he’d screwed Lance out of ever finding his soulmate; the guilt has weighed heavily on him despite Lance’s reassurances.

But I didn’t, he thinks, half hysterically. He found his soulmate. Because I tattooed him. Because I’m… His mind shies away from the path that thought leads him down. 

Allura clears her throat. “Anyway, both Lance and Pidge agreed to have their tattoos tested. The results haven’t come back yet but we’re certain of what they will be.”

Keith looks down at his hands. They’re foreign to him now. He frowns as something occurs to him. “Your results haven’t come back yet?”

Allura hesitates. She stands from her kneeling position in front of him and sits back in her chair. “No. But… Agent Shirogane’s has. His was the confirmed Mark I was speaking of earlier.”

And there it is. What he’s been subconsciously waiting for this entire time. “Confirmed,” he says dully.

Allura nods slowly, brow crinkling sympathetically. “Yes. Two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago. For two weeks, Shiro has known that his Soulmark is genuine and that Keith didn’t ruin his chances of finding a soulmate. Which means that Shiro has had two weeks where he could have come to see Keith and maybe talk things through, but he hasn’t. 

Apparently his soulmate hasn’t forgiven him. 

***

Pidge and Lance’s tattoos, predictably, come back positive. The Soulmark Council sends him to be retested and this time his results come back positive. Very positive.

“How on earth did they miss this?” the man testing him mutters, shaking his head. “Your sensitivity to soul energies is off the charts.”

Keith finds it hard to be impressed or even care when he feels like someone has taken a fork and stabbed him straight in the eye. “Great. Bathroom?”

The tester looks up, frowning when he sees Keith distinctly green tinged and hunched in on himself. He helps Keith to the restroom quickly and waits outside until he’s done puking his guts up. “Here,” he says when Keith finally staggers back out. He hands Keith a Gatorade, a candy bar, and a double dose of painkillers. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, but you seemed fine up until the end there.”

Keith doesn’t bother to tell him that he’s used to tattooing through the migraines. Charging half price means twice as much work; headaches were daily occurrences his first two years of scamming.

“The good news is that training will help with that,” the man continues as he leads Keith back to the front office. “Right now you’re like a broken fire hydrant, spraying power all over the place and wasting most of it. We’ll teach you how to harness your Sight and make that power work for you, not against you.”

Keith looks down at the khaki prisoner uniform he’s wearing, then back up with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know if they explained my situation, but…”

The man glances over him thoughtfully. “I’m aware of your background and current situation.” He pulls a business card out of his pocket. “Have your lawyer give me a call. In the meantime, I’ll forward your results to the Council and SEB.” He holds out a hand for Keith to shake. “It was very nice to meet you, Keith. I hope things work out for you.”

“Thanks,” Keith says. He spends the ride back to jail staring at the card in his hand.

Kolivan Marmora

Dean of Admissions

Marmora Institute of Soulmarkistry

***

“Kid, you’re either one lucky sonuvabitch or you have friends in high places.”

Keith stares at his lawyer, unsure what he’s supposed to say to that. “Okay?”

“I mean it. I’m good, but I’m not this good. The deal SEB has offered is incredibly generous.” Blaytz sets down a stapled sheaf of paper for Keith to look over. “In light of your special circumstances, SEB has agreed to reduce your charges to reckless endangerment while Soulmarking, Soulmarking without a license, and tattooing without a license. The criminal fraud charges will remain, but you’ll be sentenced to restitution. That means tattoo removal and re-Marking for your victims. You’ll need to cooperate with SEB to provide any and all information you have regarding your victims so that they may be contacted. You may end up with some civil suits filed against you too, if any of your victims decide they want to go after you for damages outside of the restitution.”

“That sounds like a lot of money,” Keith says quietly, looking over the papers. “Money I don’t have.”

“Maybe. Probably. But not as much as you might think.” Blayz shakes his head with a baffled smile. "You'd be surprised how many of your so-called victims have been staunchly defending you to the press. Not everyone, obviously, but a lot. They seem to think that you helped them to find the right person for them, fake Soulmark or not. After your test results came back positive, we started contacting those we knew of to see if they'd be willing to testify as character witnesses. Most of them have said yes." 

Keith hasn’t watched any of the news coverage about himself, leaving the breakroom any time it comes on the TV, but he knows that it’s been substantial, considering the sheer number of people he’s scammed over the years. He wonders briefly who had come forward, but it doesn’t really matter in the end. He pushes that aside for more important issues. Those can’t be the only consequences. “What else?” he asks.

Here is where Blayz takes on a sympathetic look. “You’ll be banned from any type of tattooing for three years. If you’re found violating that ban, your deal will be immediately revoked and you’ll be charged to the full extent of the law.”

Keith winces. They might as well have given him a death sentence. He’s also not sure how they expect him to pay back the substantial fines when he’s banned from his only skill. Hopefully McDonald’s hires twenty-three year olds with felony charges and no work history. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. He looks down at his hands to hide the stinging in his eyes. 

Blayz reaches out and pats his hand awkwardly. “I know. But it’s better than five years in prison without tattooing, which was the original deal they were offering.”

“Yeah.”

The lawyer clears his throat and his voice is far more cheerful as he says, “Now for the good news!”

Keith looks up, surprised. “There’s good news?”

Blayz grins. “There is indeed good news. This is where your friends in high places come in. You’ll need to serve a three-year sentence for the licensing and reckless endangerment charges, but! Kolivan Marmora from Marmora Institute has petitioned on your behalf for you to be released into his care. You’ll be required to wear an ankle monitor, of course, with a very limited range, but he’s also offered you a full scholarship to his school, including room and board. The Council has also agreed to count your time in prison toward your sentence, so it should end right around the time you need to start your clinic hours at the Institute. Pretty cool, huh?”

Keith stares at him blankly, unable to comprehend. “I. What?”

“Friends in high places, my friend.” Blaytz leans in. “I have it on good authority that he’s not the only one on your side. Several people within SEB itself went before the Council to argue leniency on your behalf.”

Keith’s heart leaps, no matter how hard he tamps down the hope trying to bubble up. “Did. Was Shi — Agent Shirogane one of them?”

Blayz cocks his head, confused. “The one who arrested you?” He shuffles through the papers, then pulls one out and studies it. “Hmm. His name isn’t on the list, but two people requested to remain anonymous, so… maybe?”

Keith lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He slumps in his chair and scrubs at his face tiredly. He’s not sure whether not knowing is better or worse than Blayz confirming Shiro had nothing good to say. “Anything else?” he asks wearily. 

“That’s it, aside from needing to plead guilty and write out a confession.” Blayz taps the signature line at the bottom of the sheaf of papers in front of Keith. “Take the deal, kid. Before it disappears.”

Keith signs.

***

The two years are hard, but Keith is incredibly thankful for every day of them. He flourishes at the Institute. He passes his classes with flying colors and ends up at the top of the class, which is a foreign experience for him. He gets through exactly one week of his Intro to Tattooing class before his teacher asks him why he’s even in the class. The school decides to put his previous experience toward his education hours, so he ends up skipping an entire year.

He’s weirdly popular with his classmates. He thought being years older and a felon would keep him isolated, but it actually works in his favor. They want him to detail every moment of his sordid past for them. He grunts and growls and does his best to ignore them. When that doesn’t work, he blows up spectacularly at one particularly annoying classmate. Ezor just laughs. She pronounces them best buddies and drags him to meet her girlfriend, Zethrid, and their friends, Axca and Narti. They scare away the other students, and in turn he shares his tips and tricks for tattooing.

He rents a small apartment close to the Institute and within the limits of his ankle monitor. Lance, Pidge, and Hunk, who were each given a year’s probation for their involvement, move in with him. It means Hunk can’t open the restaurant in Philadelphia, but it doesn’t take much to convince Sal that their little area of Virginia just outside D.C. is a better location anyway. 

Being so close to D.C. and SEB headquarters means that they get to see more of Matt and Allura, too. Matt gets demoted for his suspected involvement over the years, but every time Keith or Pidge apologizes, he simply shrugs. “I should have been fired. And probably charged too, if you guys hadn’t been so adamant that I had no part in it. I’ll take my demotion and thank them for it. Besides,” he smirks, “I’m their best analyst. I’ll be back to my old job in no time.”

Seeing Allura outside of their weekly sessions is… weird, but seeing Lance so happy and in love overcomes any awkwardness. It helps that Allura has a wicked sense of humor and fits into their little family like she was born to it. She becomes Keith sparring partner once he finds out that she is the kickboxer Shiro once gave him the number for. He spirals for days when he finds out, a never-ending merry-go-round of whywhatwhy. Why did Shiro offer up her number, what was he thinking, why tangle his own life with the man he’s investigating, whywhatwhywhywhy?  

Allura is the one to finally throw him a rope and haul him out. “Because he’s an idiot,” she says with the exasperated tone of someone who’s repeated those words more times than she ever wanted. “Now come on, let’s go another round.”

By unspoken agreement, they don’t talk about Shiro around Keith, though he knows that both Matt and Allura keep in contact with him. He occasionally overhears them talking about him when they don’t realize Keith is around and listening. He gobbles up every little crumb. He kind of hates himself for still caring so much, but it doesn’t stop him.

He works his ass off at a local diner. Every penny that doesn’t go toward his share of groceries and utilities goes toward paying restitution. Blayz was right; he does end up with a few victims who want recompense outside of tattoo removal and Remarking. Most settle for the restitution, though, and a startling number of them ask that he be the one to Remark them once his sentence is served. The idea of facing them again gives him panic attacks, but he agrees. It means less out of pocket — he won’t have to pay Remarking costs if he’s the one doing them. 

The panic attacks increase as he gets closer and closer to graduation. Skipping a year means he’ll be done well before his sentence is up, and Kolivan has already used up all his favors by petitioning the Council to lift his tattoo ban during clinic hours. 

The Council denied his request to have his probation amended. Blayz is still working on an appeal, but it doesn’t change the fact that when he graduates, he’ll no longer be in Kolivan’s care. He’ll go back to jail to serve the rest of his sentence.

Allura works with him on his anxiety and helps him come up with a coping plan for his time in jail, but she also cautions him to not automatically jump to the worst possible outcome. “They’ve made more than a few exceptions for you in the past. There is still time for the Council to change their minds.” She won’t elaborate when he asks what she means. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” she reminds him repeatedly.

Matt is acting similarly cagey. When the others are commiserating with Keith, he simply pats Keith on the back and says, “Buck up, buddy. I’m sure things’ll work out,” in a flippant tone. It sets Keith’s nerves on edge but is also vaguely reassuring.

At least someone isn’t worried about his future.

***

Keith beats his anxiety into the unforgiving, cracked vinyl surface of the punching bag in their apartment’s tiny basement gym. He stops once he’s panting and his eyes are stinging with sweat, then rests his cheek against the cool surface while he focuses on regulating his breathing.

The door to the gym swings open behind him. “Oh Keithy-Cat, someone’s here to see you,” Lance carols. Keith rolls his eyes and pushes away from the punching bag.

“Don’t call me that,” he says wearily, ripping off his gloves. It never makes a difference but he still feels obligated to object. “Fine, just give me a sec.” He pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face as he turns around. 

Keith freezes when he hears a sharp gasp. The breath he’s finally gotten under control goes erratic again as the constant dull ache in his chest sharpens and sizzles through his lungs. Keith swallows hard and slowly lowers his shirt.

His first look at Shiro in over two years hits him like a punch to the gut and the first curl of smoke in a former addict’s lungs. He takes details in one at a time — the suit and tie that fit him like a glove, the pale skin and tired bruises beneath stunned eyes, the hand he has wrapped around own his forearm, clutching it like it burns.

Shiro, for his part, has his eyes firmly locked on Keith’s chest, like if he stares long and hard enough, he can develop x-ray vision and get another look at the Mark Keith has inadvertently flashed him.

“Sh — Shiro?” Keith stutters. He steps forward, hands out in supplication.

Shiro blinks and snaps out of his shock. He staggers back a few steps, stopping only when his shoulder knocks into the door frame. Keith stops dead in his tracks. He should say something. He should try to come up with an excuse, or maybe try to convince Shiro that he hadn’t seen what he had very clearly just seen. Instead, he stays mute and stares at Shiro like a man stares at water after a long trek through the desert. This is probably the last time he’ll ever see Shiro, now that he’s gone and truly fucked everything up. It’s still more than he ever expected to get.

 In his peripheral, Keith can see Lance looking back and forth between them, hands over his mouth. “Oh shit,” Lance squeaks. “Um. I’m just gonna…” he points behind him with a thumb, then spins and makes a hasty exit. Keith glares after him. Traitor.

Lance’s exit galvanizes Shiro. He pushes off the wall and strides across the room, eyes narrowed in determination. 

Keith backs up quickly, alarmed. “Shiro, I can explain this,” he starts. He cuts off with a grunt when his back knocks against the wall. “Shiro…”

Shiro puts a palm up to halt him. Keith shuts up. He leans back against the wall for support, resigned to whatever Shiro is about to do. He won’t fight back. He can’t. He’s spent two years trying to distance himself, trying to move on and accept that his soulmate wants nothing to do with him. Thirty seconds in his presence has catapulted him right back to the moment Shiro walked out of the room and didn’t look back.

Shiro shifts close, and then closer still until Keith can feel him breathing erratically against his skin and see how wide his pupils are blown. Shiro sets a hand against Keith’s collar bones to keep him pinned in place and uses the other to pull Keith’s shirt up. Keith closes his eyes and lets Shiro look his fill. 

The hand pinning him retreats briefly, then returns to trace, feather light, over the lines of his Mark. Keith sucks in a shuddering breath as his skin tingles in the aftermath of his touch. A bar of heat presses over his heart as Shiro lays his arm against Keith’s chest. Then the edges of Shiro’s Mark line up with his and the world lights up. Keith’s knees buckle. Shiro follows him down when he collapses. They end up in a tangle of limbs on the floor, panting. The fall breaks the connection between them, which is good because too much longer and Keith would have been in danger of passing out. Or coming. Maybe both. The sensation is so much stronger this time, maybe because their Marks were perfectly aligned this time or, more likely, because Shiro is aware and Keith is no longer in denial.

Shiro swallows hard and slowly backs off him. Keith resists the urge to pull him back into his arms. Instead he rearranges his limbs so he’s no longer sprawled over the grody gym floor. Shiro mirrors him. They sit cross legged a few feet apart, staring each other down. The silence between them is heavy. Charged. 

Shiro is the first to look away. His eyes drop to Keith’s chest again, then to his own forearm. “Were you going to tell me?” he asks lowly.

Keith follows his gaze, eyeing the Mark. It’s as sharp and bright as the day he etched it into Shiro’s skin. Looking at it now, with two years of education and experience under his belt, he has no clue how he ever could have mistaken it for anything other than a Soulmark.

The denial is strong with this one, Lance’s voice whispers in his head.

“Keith,” Shiro says sharply when Keith takes too long to answer.

Keith shakes his head. “I didn’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Shiro snaps. “It matches yours.” He shakes his head incredulously. “No wonder you wouldn’t let me take your shirt off.”

For a moment, Keith’s guilt and insecurity rise like the tide. Then the years of Allura’s influence kick in. He sits up straight and fixes Shiro with a level gaze. “I didn’t know,” he repeats firmly. “Shiro. I did. Not. Know. I’ve spent my entire life believing I didn’t have the Sight. That it would be a terrible thing if I did.” He taps his Mark. “My mom did this when I was three.” 

Shiro’s eyes widen in horror and he opens his mouth but Keith cuts him off. “Do you want me to answer your question?” Shiro snaps his mouth shut and nods. 

Keith eyes him, waiting until he’s sure Shiro will stay silent before continuing. “After she did it, she disappeared. My Pops raised me thinking that Soulmarkists were cursed. Being like my mom seemed like the worst possible fate. I was so scared of the possibility that I literally repressed my Sight to the point that I tested negative. I ignored and denied every sign that might point to me having it, and believe me, Shiro,” he gestures at their Marks, “these were not the first sign. Biggest, maybe, but not first. And by the time you came around I was so mixed up, and messed up, that I managed to convince myself that I just liked you so much I subconsciously tattooed my own Mark on you out of some fucked up wish fulfillment.”

Keith laughs bitterly. “So no, Shiro, I wasn’t going to tell you. I couldn’t let myself believe that I might have just Marked my soulmate for real, and I couldn’t let you think you had to be tethered to me under false pretenses. I was going to leave you alone, get out of your life so you could move on. It was my best option to not cause any more harm than I already had.” He sighs and scrapes his hair out of his face. “I’m sorry. I really, truly am, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t forgive me, because regardless of the whole soulmate thing, I didn’t know that at the time and I never should have come near you with a tattoo gun. 

“But you know what? I’m not the only guilty party here, Shiro.” Keith pushes himself to his feet to pace. He’s starting to get angry. He thought he’d worked through all the resentment over Shiro’s deception, but it’s coming back with a vengeance. “You asked me to tattoo you. Scratch that. You asked me to Soulmark you, fully knowing I wasn’t really a Soulmarkist.” 

Shiro stands up as well, frowning. Keith doesn’t let him get in a word. He shoves his finger into Shiro’s chest. “You lied to me. You got close to me and made me think you were my friend and I let you in. I don’t do that. I have six people in my life that I care for and trust. Seven now, with Allura. And I realize now that it was the whole soul bond thing that drew me to you so quickly, but…” 

He stops and lets his hand drop, feeling lost. “I trusted you. And you used that against me,” he whispers.

Shiro rubs at his mouth, watching him with red-rimmed eyes as Keith finally runs out of words. “I was doing my job,” he says quietly.

Keith explodes. “I know!” he shouts. Shiro steps back and brings his arms up like he expects Keith to launch at him, fists flying. The sight saps every ounce of anger from him and leaves him cold and hollow. He drops down into a crouch and fists his hands in his hair. “I know,” he repeats sadly. That’s the worst part. He’d been falling in love, but Shiro had been doing his job. And he knows that’s not all it was. He knows Shiro wasn’t unaffected; their last night together was too emotional. Shiro would have to be an Emmy-level actor and a raging asshole to fake that. He is neither of those things.

Keith hears the rustle of clothing as Shiro kneels in front of him. He feels faint body heat radiating near his shoulder for a moment, then Shiro gently settles his hand there. “I’m sorry,” he says. Keith sniffs and looks up. Shiro watches him, mouth curved down unhappily. His eyes are sincere as he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Keith laughs wetly, looking up at the ceiling. “Me too.” He fixes his sight on a water stain in the corner and asks the question he’s been wondering for years now. “Why —” his voice breaks, so he tries again, “why did you just… disappear?” He sniffs and rubs at his nose, then forces himself to meet Shiro’s eyes. “I get it if you hated… hate me, but I thought you might at least…” He trails off because he’s not really sure what he thought. He just knows that every day Shiro remained absent ached inside him like someone had carved out a chunk of his heart and left him to bleed out on the floor. It started to scar over after a while, but he’s never really felt whole. A side effect of the soul bond, he’s learned. He would have thought Shiro would have felt it too, but maybe not knowing about it was enough to save him the heartache.

Shiro grimaces and shakes his head. “You aren’t the only one who got in too deep,” he tells Keith. “After that day in the interrogation room, I was officially taken off your case.” He smiles crookedly. “It was very forcefully suggested that I take a sabbatical, so I did. Which was probably a good thing because I was kind of a mess for, well, for a long time. Then Matt told me that my tattoo came back positive for soul magic, and your retest was positive, and I just. I didn’t know what to think. I mean, just thinking about you and what happened hurt. I missed you so much, but I knew that seeing you when I was still so mixed up was a really bad idea. So I stayed away. I didn’t think you’d want to see me anyway.”

“I did,” Keith rasps. “I really did.”

“Yeah, I get that now.” Shiro sighs and brushes a piece of dirt off his pant leg. He’s probably ruining a stupidly expensive suit by sitting on the floor with Keith, but he doesn’t seem to care. “When I came back to work again, I asked Matt and Allura about you.”

“You did?” They hadn’t mentioned that. He’s going to have to have a talk with them about that.

Shiro huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. They both warned me that if I came back and undid all the progress you’d been making they’d stuff my head in a cannon and launch it into the ocean.”

Keith barks out a surprised laugh. Their protectiveness suffuses him with fondness. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “But they were right. I needed to work through my own issues, just like you were. So I got Allura to recommend me a therapist.”

“You could have told me,” Keith says softly. “I just assumed that you hated me.”

Shiro’s mouth drops open. He reaches forward and takes Keith by the shoulders. “I never hated you,” he says fiercely. “Even when I was so angry I wanted to scream, I never hated you. I don’t think I could if I tried. I’m so sorry I ever made you believe otherwise.”

Keith smiles weakly. “I guess that’s one advantage to the whole soulmate thing. At least there’s one person out there who has to like you,” he tries to joke, but Shiro shakes his head firmly.

“This has nothing to do with soulmates, or Marks, or fate, or whatever else. It’s just how I feel about you.”

Keith has no idea what to say to that. He’s not sure if he believes it, but Shiro seems to, so that’s enough for Keith. “Yeah. You too. I mean, same.” He grimaces. He’s messing this up. “I mean, I could never hate you either.” He tries for another smile, and this one feels far more genuine. Shiro smiles back and it’s so warm and kind and God, Keith has missed that smile. He never thought he’d see it again.

It’s a far cry from declarations of love, but somehow it feels far more significant.

They stay like that for a while, until Keith’s legs start to go numb from squatting for so long. He sighs and shifts so he’s sitting properly. He rubs at his legs, trying to get feeling back into them. “Not that I don’t appreciate finally getting all this out in the open, but why are you here? Now, I mean.” He nudges Shiro with a toe. “Did you finally decide you had your shit together?”

Shiro blinks rapidly. “Oh! Right.” He stands and brushes himself off before holding a hand out to Keith. “The whole soulmate thing was a bit distracting.”

Keith snorts. “Understatement of the century.” He hesitates a moment, then takes Shiro’s hand. It’s warm in his and sends a shiver through him as Shiro pulls him up. He half hopes Shiro will pull too hard like he always used to, but he’s also half relieved not to get a face full of Shiro’s chest. As it is, their hands stay clasped far too long for the nebulous state of their relationship. 

Shiro seems to realize this too, because he lets go and scratches at his cheek awkwardly. “Having my shit together was part of it, but I’m, uh. I’m actually here on official SEB business.” Keith stiffens, fear dripping through him. They wouldn’t take him back to jail now, would they? He still has a week left before he graduates, and yeah, he’s already got the credits needed so all that’s really left is ceremonial stuff, but...

Whatever is reflected on Keith’s face makes Shiro’s eyes widen in horror. He waves his hands frantically. “Shit, no, Keith it’s okay. This isn’t… it’s not bad news.”

“It’s not?” Keith asks hesitantly. 

Shiro smiles again. “It’s not. So, you know how you’re still going to have time left on your sentence? After you graduate, I mean.”

Keith slumps. As if he needed another reminder. “Yeah. The Council rejected my request to change the terms of my probation.”

Shiro hums. There’s something distinctly smug in the way he nods. “Yeah, about that. Matt, Allura, and I have been working with the Council. They finally agreed to amend your probation to a work release program for the remainder of your sentence as long as you agree to act as a consultant for SEB.”

“What,” Keith says flatly. Then, more confused, “Wait, what? What does that even mean?”

Shiro shrugs, smile turning teasing. “It means you would assist us with tracking down other scammers. Kind of like those ‘anonymous’ tips you absolutely haven't been giving Matt on those confidential cases he absolutely didn’t tell you the details of. Except this would be in an official capacity.”

Keith blushes. “Anonymous my ass,” he grumbles. “I told Matt he was playing with fire.”

Shiro laughs, bright and happy. Keith finds himself fighting his own grin in response. “Don’t worry,” Shiro says. "I'm pretty sure Iverson is the only higher up with any inkling, given the not-so-subtle way he suggested Matt find a way to make his sudden bursts of genius more legitimate." Shiro's smile softens into something shy and a little hopeful. "So, are you interested?"

"Uh, yeah," Keith snarks. "Working with you or going back to jail? Pretty clear winner there, buddy." He suddenly realizes what he said and backtracks. "I mean, not with you specifically. Not that I wouldn't be happy to work with you!" he adds hastily when Shiro's smile dims a little. "I just meant you in the general sense. Or specific, I'm fine with — mmph!"

Shiro covers Keith's mouth with his hand. "I'd really like it if you'd work with me in specific,” he says softly. “There are several others who will be jealous I snapped you up, but…" he moves his hand to cup Keith's cheek instead. "I think we'd be pretty good together, working on the same side for once. No more secrets?"

"No more secrets," Keith agrees. He wants to turn his head, lay a kiss to the palm there, but he doesn't. Not yet, anyway. There's still way too much unpacked baggage between them to just jump straight into anything romantic. 

Still...

He tilts his head briefly to press his cheek more firmly into Shiro's hand, then steps away. "I need to shower and change, but maybe we could discuss this more? Over dinner? Hunk's making these amazing grilled salmon cakes." 

Shiro wavers, indecisive. "Are you sure I'll be welcome?" he asks. 

Keith takes his hand and tugs him toward the door, feeling lighter and happier than he can ever remember. He has a future. He has a future and a soulmate who wants to share it with him.

"I'm sure," he says over his shoulder as he leads them down the hall to the elevator. "Come on, it's about time you officially met everyone."

Shiro squeezes his hand. "I can't wait."