Chapter Text
If there was one thing Keith had always been confident about, it was the things he liked.
Growing up he’d had no problem being the only kid on his street who liked the purple Otter Pops—which worked well since everyone gave him theirs—or the only one who wore all black when everyone else was wearing red and green at his elementary school Christmas pageant. Middle school had been a disaster of self-discovery for most of his peers as they tried to decide whether they were still kids or becoming grown-ups and whether their favorite Transformers lunchbox needed to be hidden in their backpack lest they get made fun of—except for Keith, who proudly carried his secondhand Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox to school every day.
In high school, while everyone else had still been struggling to figure out who they were, Keith already knew. He never had to hide who he was or work hard to fit in, because he didn’t give a flying fuck about whether people liked him. The truth was, Keith liked that he didn’t dress like anyone else, that he appreciated the books no one else seemed inclined to read, or that he was the only person in the entirety of his high school who understand the perfection of Cheetos dipped in a vanilla pudding cup. Sure, he’d gotten called names most of his life—weirdo, loner, hipster wannabe—but none of them had fazedKeith, because he knew the things he liked in life were things he’d chosen for himself. While being shuffled between foster parents who couldn’t decide if they wanted him, and being given no choice in most of the things in his life, Keith had relished the small places he could have autonomy —the clothes he wore, the food he liked, the music he listened to. Those were the things that defined Keith, not how much money he did or didn't have or the number of times he’d moved or changed schools in the last ten years.
Keith didn’t expect going to college to be any different. Granted, he assumed there would be a bigger pool of people. Or at least bigger than his stupid podunk Texas town, which he’d hoped meant he might finally make some friends whose idea of a good time wasn’t hanging out at Walmart on a Friday night or learning how to lasso a fake bull. He still expected to basically keep to himself and continue liking the same things he’d always liked.
So he was more than a bit surprised when he walked into the apartment he’d rented with several other college students he’d met online through the college Facebook page to find his new roommates sitting on the couch smiling at him and inviting him to join their game of Pro Paladins—some sort of strange card-based roleplaying game—and offered him a bowl of microwave popcorn. He’d expect roommates, not friends. He’d grunted out a moderately polite no and headed to his room where he’d collapsed face first onto his bed. The twelve-hour bus ride had been hell, and Keith, who was too exhausted to rummage through his suitcase for his pajamas or the bed sheets, proceeded to fall asleep atop the bare mattress with his boots still on.
He’d thought for sure his roommates’ strange desire to include him was some sort of fluke, and they were just riding high on the excitement of feeling like adults for the first time and finally being out of their parents’ houses. Since Keith had been alone as he could remember—emotionally anyway—the idea of doing so again didn’t excite him the same way he figured it did everyone else. Granted, he liked knowing no one else was going to have any say in whether his room was clean, and there weren't going to be any adults pretending they cared about him just to look good to social services when the monthly in-home check-ups came around. Mostly, Keith was secretly more than a bit stressed out about how the fuck he was supposed to pay for books, food, and rent on his meager scholarship. The stress of being financially responsible for everything on his own was worth it, though, to finally be the only one in control of his future.
As the weeks went on, his roommates still seemed to actually want to spend time with him. More confusing still was the fact that even after they had been around him, they still seemed to genuinely like him. There was Hunk, a humanities major with a big smile who was always in the kitchen managing to cook something delicious out of the shitstorm of an excuse for food they had in their cupboards or fridge. Keith’s personal favorite had been some sort of Chinese salad Hunk had made the week before using a package of ten-cent ramen noodles. Then there was Lance whose major was still undecided. He spent more time in the bathroom than anyone Keith had ever met, and he never ever shut up. Sometimes he drove Keith a bit mental with his incessant chattering, but he was also pretty funny, and even though he preened like a fucking peacock, he was surprisingly insecure, which was something Keith related to quite a lot, even if he had no intention of telling Lance so.
The second week during a group dinner, it’d been Keith’s turn to talk about his childhood, and he had nearly choked on his spaghetti, his face heating. Before he could confess to not having had a real childhood or a family, Lance had taken one look at his panic-stricken face and launched into an exuberant story about the T.A. named Allura in his English literature class who he was positive was in love with him because she’d smiled at him. Keith had felt a swell of gratitude, and for the first time thought the people at the table with him might one day be people he actually wanted to talk about his past with. Before he knew it he was laughing so hard there were actual tears in his eyes as Lance explained his plan to ensure Allura fell in love with him.
Last, but by no means least, was Pidge, who was the youngest but smarter by far than all of them put together. Despite being only seventeen, she was already in her second year, double majoring in astrophysics and robotics. She was honest to a fault and fiercely independent, and Keith found her surprisingly easy to be around because she seemed to hold just as much distaste for social norms as Keith.
By the time his second semester was starting, Keith had found that college was not exactly like he had expected. Being an individual seemed a lot more respected in college than it had been in high school. His professors seemed to actually like that he didn’t agree with them, so long as he could back up his thoughts with something more than just a blasé opinion—which he always could—and despite being sure he didn't want or need friends, his roommates were turning out to be pretty great ones.
All the same, there were still some things about college that were almost exactly like high school. There were still cliques depending on the department or major; there were still people who spent more time caring what they looked like than on studying; and there seemed to be an unwritten rule that those who were part of the Greek life were better than everyone else. That last bit had been the one thing Keith had not been prepared for. He’d seen frats in movies, but he’d never known anyone who was part of one. He’d been certain that their behavior and clothing styles were grossly exaggerated for cinematic comedy, which meant he had been in no way prepared for the groups of guys who walked around campus as if they were in some sort of uniform—hideous basketball shorts and backward caps and muscle tank tops in neon colors so bright Keith had only ever seen them on the Barbies one of his foster sisters used to play with. Keith couldn’t decide if he thought the actual clothes, or the fact that so many of them dressed the same, were stupider.
On principle alone Keith hated the group mentality, hated anything people gravitated to solely to be popular or liked, and fraternities seemed the worst of it. Frat boys were loud and abrasive, and for someone like Keith who’d spent his entire life making sure he took up as little space as possible—physically and emotionally—he found their confidence and bravado almost as alluring as it was irritating. This was exactly why, after a month at school, Keith had resolved to never date a frat boy—not that he thought one of them would be interested in him,even in his wildest imagination. He was pretty sure fraternities must certainly be breeding grounds for toxic masculinity. He couldn’t imagine a single gay or bisexual man in any of the groups he’d laid eyes upon, and if there were, he couldn’t imagine him being out. Mostly, he couldn’t imagine someone like that being attracted to someone like him.
So when he stumbled upon the most attractive guy he’d ever seen, in the college gym at half past eleven on a Saturday night bench pressing more than Keith weighed without a spotter, well, it didn’t occur to Keith that the guy might be a frat boy. He was wearing a thin white tank top that was low enough on the sides Keith could see the hint of dark, pert nipples and enough muscle to make a grown man cry—not that Keith was one to cry, because he wasn’t, but fuck, if that guy’s body weren’t the thing of actual dreams. If Keith had a type, that was it. Even while lying down Keith could tell how built the guy was, broad-chested with rippled arm muscles, a flat waist, and the kind of face that should be carved into marble. One of his arms was a glimmering silver prosthetic, and though Keith had never known anyone with one, he was ashamed that his first thought was surprise at seeing someone who had one could be so fucking strong. Clearly, Keith didn’t know everything. Of course, the guy also wore a pair of black basketball shorts and a purple backward snapback. There was a tuft of shocking white hair peeking out the hole in the cap, which should look ridiculous but instead did funny things to Keith’s stomach and his cock. The outfit wasn’t something Keith normally found attractive, but in that moment he was certain the guy could’ve walked around in a trash bag, and Keith would’ve got a hard-on looking at him. He was so attractive it almost annoyed Keith, and without knowing his name or ever speaking to him, Keith made up his mind that he was probably an arrogant asshole. No one could possibly be that good-looking and not have it go to his head, and the last thing Keith found attractive was cockiness.
Keith did his best to not stare, not even when the guy finished his weights and moved over to do a set of pull-ups, rolling his hips with every pull. Once again, Keith’s eyes were drawn to the prosthetic, curious how he’d got it, how long he’d had it, and more than just a bit impressed by his strength using it. Of course, Keith was only human, and no one in their right mind would be able to look away from the ripple of muscles in the guy’s biceps as he lifted himself up over and over as if it were nothing. Just as impossible to look away from were the fucking shorts that were obscenely shiny and clingy, which was a problem because Keith could very clearly see the outline of the guy’s cock hanging down one side with every sensual roll of his hips. Of fucking course the guy would be hung like a goddamn horse.
Keith nearly a bit a hole in his tongue when the guy stopped for a moment, simply hanging from the bars with his stupid shorts sitting low on his hips and his tank top riding up, so Keith was treated to the view of a huge strip of pale skin so defined he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover. The sharp V in his hips was pronounced, and the trail of thick dark hair that started just below his belly button dipped under the stretchy elastic waistband and made Keith so hard he was glad he was sitting down so no one would see the raging erection he was getting from watching this guy work out. Granted, there were only four people total in the gym, so it was unlikely anyone would notice him, but still.
Keith did his best to mind his own business, stretching out his hamstrings for the fifth time in twenty minutes and trying not to pay attention to Mr. Sex-on-Legs as he dropped to the floor and began doing one-handed push-ups that made Keith exhausted just watching him. There was “in shape” and then there was this guy, whose arms were clearly strong as a fucking ox, and alright maybe Keith wasn’t completely minding his own business, because he was imagining a guy that strong holding him up as he fucked him against a wall. Or letting Keith fuck him; they were both alluring fantasies.
So yeah, Keith was possibly more than a bit attracted to this guy, but it didn’t matter because Keith had no intention of talking to him first, and he knew the guy sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to him. Keith figured that it didn’t matter if the guy was probably a grade A douchebag who had questionable taste in workout clothing, because this was nothing more than a stressed-out late night fantasy.
Keith was used to going unnoticed, so the last thing he expected was for the guy to finish his reps and stride over to where Keith was. He was so busy staring at the side of his scuffed up Converse wondering why he’d thought it was a good idea to wear them to gym that it took him a moment to realize the guy was watching him.
“Hey.”
Keith swallowed audibly, waiting a full five agonizing, slow seconds before lifting his eyes to see Mr. Too-Attractive-To-Be-Real standing directly in front of him. Then to Keith’s complete and utter surprise, the guy smiled and dropped down opposite Keith on the mat and spread his legs out wide as he began to stretch. Up close Keith could still see the outline of the guy’s cock, except now he could tell the guy wasn’t even hard, he was just that big. The knowledge filled Keith with an entire repertoire of mental images of what he would look like hard, which made Keith feel moderately embarrassed even if the guy had no idea what was going on in his brain. All the while the guy kept staring, and Keith figured if this guy was staring so could he, so he let himself really look—took in the slant of his nose and the wide scar across his face that added a sort of realness to him that somehow made him even more attractive. He could see the flex of the prosthetic fingers up close, wiggling atop the guy’s sneakers in tandem with his other hand.
“It works just like my other hand,” he said, and Keith jumped.
“I wasn’t—yes, I was. Fuck, sorry.” He ducked his head feeling like an asshole, but to his surprise, the guy barked out a laugh.
“It’s okay. Most people avert their eyes as if pretending they can’t see it is somehow less awkward for me. I don’t mind when people look.” He sounded so earnest that Keith pushed down his embarrassment and lifted his eyes.
“Does it really work exactly like your other hand?” Like it can do everything?”
Keith realized the implications of his question almost immediately as the guy’s face broke out in an amused smile. When Keith said “everything” he’d meant things like work out at the gym, or cook—not everything.
“I mean, between you and me, the metal’s a bit cold. But it can definitely get the job done.” Then the guy winked. Winked.
Keith was too shocked to respond, his mouth opening and shutting a few times like a complete asshole.
“My name’s Shiro by the way. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
Then the guy rose from the floor, the same easy smile still on his face. Before Keith knew what he was doing, he found his mouth saying, “Keith. My name is Keith.”
Shiro’s smile grew wider, and Keith was positive it was the nicest smile he’d ever seen. There was something almost shy in the way Shiro’s lips curled up in the corners, as if Keith’s attention to him was just as unexpected as Shiro’s attention was to Keith.
“See you around, Keith.” He said the name slowly as if savoring the taste of it on his tongue. “If I’m lucky.”
Shiro lifted his right hand in a half wave, taking a few backward steps towards the exit, still watching Keith before finally turning around.
It wasn’t until Shiro was by the door that Keith finally noticed the three bold white letters—Greek letters—on Shiro’s cap.
Shiro was frat boy.
Fuck.