BREATHE / SPACE

eventually his rampant obsession dies down into some quiet memory and he’ll still think about keith from time to time . . . wonder what on earth ever happened to that kid and remember all the reasons how he managed to get under james’ skin so much with barely a word said. it was always his  e y e s, the challenge, the fight, the anger in them that used to speak to james.

almost six years pass before he sees keith again and keith is a whole new person. he’s taller, broader, stronger. he’s aged in more than just  t i m e  and james feels insignificant standing next to him. it’s irrational how much he feels for this kid --- no,  m a n, now --- when on paper they should be nothing more than a blip on each other’s radar. how is it that james’ radar seems to be fixated on keith ? ? ? and the real kicker. the real punch-u-in-the-gut, spit-in-your-face, shove-ur-heart-in-a-vice-and-crush-it  k i c k e r  is that keith’s radar is fixated on someone else. and probably always has been, in one way or another.

they talk about him in hushed whispers and reverence brimming at their throats. he looks the part of a  h e r o ; a scar across his face and a missing limb like a textbook prisoner of war. they were quick to believe he’d piloted himself and his team into  r e c k l e s s deaths. he was sick, they said. he never should have gone on the mission, they said.

then, they were quick to believe that he and his team of  m i s f i t s  were the universe’s only hope. that for the last however many years they were championing peace and liberation throughout a universe torn apart by a ten thousand year old intergalactic war.

it’s easy to believe a story if the  c h a r a c t e r looks the part. and he’s always been the hero type. strong shoulders you would trust to carry the world. ambition that had left his peers behind in a trail of dust and a smile so genuine and kind you couldn’t even  h a t e him for it.

he’s been through something and it’s clear keith has too. the way they move around each other you’d think they were planets orbiting each other, in perfect synchronisation but it’s not practiced. it’s just k n o w n  the way the tide knows to leave the shore in the evening, and return again at dawn. keith walks into the room and it’s james’ head that lifts up, watching, a h e l l o  formed on his lips that never sees the light of day. but it’s never james that catches keith’s eye and shiro never even looks up but somehow he shifts to the side even before keith takes a seat on the arm of his chair, their conversation already halfway complete from what james assumes is a telepathic connection that had started when keith was still down the hall.

james can’t compete with shiro. even when, past what the rest of the world sees ( and james only sees it because he’s looking so damned close at keith and wherever keith is, so is shiro ) that shiro is not quite as perfect as he appears to be. his eyes are tired and sometimes his hand shakes. something his jaw ticks like he’s keeping back something   s n a p p y when someone tells him no, ( somehow he ends up getting his way regardless. ) james sees shiro staring off at nothing in particular and wonders what movie is playing in his head . . . if it’s a fantasy or a memory or just nothing at all. there are a lot of thousand yard stares around the garrison base, but shiro’s seems to go on for miles and miles and miles.

but he doesn’t say anything at all . . . and what remains of your dignity makes you walk away. 

he faces the day like a solider going to war. his mission? to make most of what is not guaranteed.  

#how do soldiers face a war ? they are prepared to die

“what do you need me for?” you ask, leant against the door jamb, watching him brush his teeth before he goes off to war. fading blotches of red and purple scatter his back, and in amongst his freckles they appear like explosive nebulae. the first time you marked him up like this, you’d traced them one to the next, whispering this is how stars are born. you failed to mention that this is also how stars die.

he spits, rinses, and looks around for his towel. “isn’t it good enough that i want you?”

it stings, ( maybe it shouldn’t but the kind of love you have for him doesn’t distinguish between desire ) and you wish you’d dug your fingers into him a little harder, used your teeth more when you kissed him, so he’d feel you for the rest of the day every time he turns, twists, looks over his shoulder, tries to sit down. a reminder of you, somewhere, even if he doesn’t need you around.