#pineappleyuki

Shiro looks down at the silver cloud jacket and gray tight jeans he’s wearing — all articles of clothing he had found at the nearby secondhand shop while in a crunch for costumes and strapped for cash. The jacket has three punctures in it, the white stuffing popping out. “I’m not really looking for society’s approval,” he replies indifferently, turning his hands to inspect the black polyester gloves over them. He mindlessly picks off a hanging thread from his left glove forefinger, holding a makeshift bucket helmet under his arm.

“Well, we need to get you out regardless,” Lance sighs, shrugging and folding his arms. “How else are we going to get you out of this funk?”

Shiro can’t help the grimace that straightens over his lips. Adam had left him two months ago, and Shiro wasn’t seeking replacements any time soon. He had only agreed to come to the Phi Lambda Delta Halloween social to get his friends off his case — yet ironically here he is, and they’re still on his damn case for a costume that apparently isn’t executing right.

“I’m already over him,” Shiro reminds them. “I don’t need to be ‘doing something’ just for the sake of getting over him or just because he broke up with me. I don’t want be doing things because of him.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even mention Adam,” he chides. “We’re just taking you out because you’ve been cooped up inside your room since the beginning of September.”

Shiro purses his lips. Yeah, okay, maybe he’s not completely there yet. Two months by himself isn’t going to undo the memories of four years together.

“Whatever,” he says. “You already got me halfway out my door. Let’s just go.”

“Exactly,” Hunk affirms, patting Shiro on the back.

“Won’t let you regret it,” Lance promises him.

“I already am."

“Okay, well then, how about we make sure you don’t even remember it?”

And to this, Shiro can only respond with a reluctant sigh.

Lance is not kidding about making sure Shiro doesn’t remember a thing, passing Shiro every other shot he finds, which Shiro obligingly downs. The alcohol isn’t hitting him yet, but he can feel the fresh warm burn deep in his throat and the start of the creeping flush over his cheeks, and he knows he’ll feel every sip of those drinks within the hour.

Lance comes back to their friend circle with two red cups in his hand. “Here,” he says, immediately passing Shiro the more full one.

“Already got one,” he refuses, lifting the cup in his hand.

“That’s empty,” Pidge points out.

Shiro shoots a threatening stare at Pidge, as Lance promptly stacks his cup into Shiro’s empty one. “I’m going to keep making you drink until you actually get yourself out there and start talking to people.” Lance waves off to the other side of the room. “Look at Keith. He’s making a good example of how to socialize. Be like him.”

Shiro turns to identify Keith’s mullet in the direction Lance is pointing, and then laughs when he sees Keith leaning against a wall in the corner by the beer pong table, clear disdain written over his face. Keith isn’t even dressed up in any form of costume, truly embracing the Halloween spirit of the party.

“Alright, I get your point,” he says, and suddenly very sick of listening to Pidge, Hunk, and Lance urging him to go have fun, he makes a determined step out from their circle. His foot lands a little heavy, a sure sign that he doesn’t need the extra drink in his hand.

Behind him, his friends give him an encouraging cheer, but he doesn’t really hear, already swallowed up in the next crowd of people and the beat of the music.

What to do, what to do… As appealing as the thought of just sitting back and letting the music thrum through him is, Shiro decides that he should at least try and dance through three songs, maybe even meet one stranger. At least for the sake of his friends that have been so supportive and helpful since the break up.

He wades through the room, careful not to bump into grinding couples or sticky tables. He passes a row of plastic pumpkins filled with chocolates, taking some and immediately ripping off the wrapper to eat the candies, thinking that maybe the sugar and nuts will help the alcohol not rush through his system.

But now he has another problem: four candy wrappers and no trash in sight. There’s trash all over the table and floors nearby, but Shiro’s conscious would never let him just drop the wrappers. And the wrappers have smudges of melted chocolate so he can’t put them in his pocket either.

Presuming the large black bag taped over the other side of the table is the trash, he slowly moves toward it, tossing the wrappers once he’s confident his arm length could make up for the distance.

Unfortunately, one of them doesn’t make it into the trash, and he sighs as he watches the wrapper pitifully fall to the ground. He stoops down to pick it up, only for someone to knock into his shoulder as he’s reaching for the floor.

“Oh, sorry!”

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, although he’s pretty sure that whoever it was that bumped into him can’t hear. He picks himself back up and turns around, finding someone directly behind him.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, surprised.

She nervously smiles. “Oh, no, no, I’m sorry,” she replies apologetically. “I practically knocked you over.”

Whoever she is, she’s pretty — he’ll give her that. Well, okay, maybe she’s a little more than just pretty. She’s more like strikingly beautiful, like she just popped straight off a fashion magazine cover — dramatic lighting and fake wind included.

“It’s fine,” he assures her. “Lots of people here.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Lots of people.”

He takes the pause in their conversation to properly look at her. She has long wavy white hair on, with what looks like elf ears — narrow and pointed at the tip.

Her eyes are blue, a deep vibrant blue that reminds him of the ocean at sunset. So blue, they had to have been contact lenses. Just under her eyes, two bright pink marks painted over her cheekbones. They shine radiantly over her brown skin, which itself glows with a healthy flush.

Why does she look so familiar? He is one hundred percent certain he’s never met her even though it feels like he’s known her his whole life.

She gives him a quick once-over, her eyes flicking down to his shoes and back up to his face. “Astronaut?” she asks him.

“Wow, yeah, you got it,” he affirms, blinking with surprise. His cheeks feel extra hot, and he’s not sure if it’s entirely the alcohol. “And I thought my costume was pretty bad.”

She laughs into the palm of her hand, with a light chuckle that he somehow can hear over the stereo music. “It is,” she teases. “I was just guessing that was what you were going for.”

He snorts, embarrassed but trying to play it off. He still can’t figure out why she looks so familiar.

“I mean, I didn’t have that much time to prepare for this party. Honestly, I didn’t even really want to come in the first place.” Shiro stops mid-explanation, realizing that he was beginning to ramble under the influence and that despite her very attentive stare back at him, he knew she probably didn’t care at all about any of that. “I — um, I’m guessing you’re dressed up as an elf?” he asks her.

She flashes him another one of those dazzling smiles. She suddenly leans in close to his ear, and Shiro feels his heart skip a beat. He swallows.

“I was going more for alien,” she admits, then stands back up straight, shrugging. “But I suppose my disguise just isn’t as good as yours.”

She looks beautiful, regardless, he thinks.

“Well then, I guess I have to report to Houston that there’s life outside of Earth after all.”

He coughs despite himself. God. What a terrible line.

She laughs. Her laugh is gentle and plays in his memories like a melody he once knew.

“And how do you feel about being the first man to meet an alien?” she asks him.

He bites his lip. “Honestly?” And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s her beauty, or maybe it’s her entertaining sense of humor, but he suddenly gathers the courage to flirt a little more aggressively. “Honestly I wish I had spent more time making sure I looked better before I left the apartment.”

She smiles wide, her teeth flashing. “Well, I personally think you look just fine,” she says with a wink. Or at least what he thinks is a wink. She saunters up close to him, her eyes on his until her nose is just an inch from his helmet, acting as though there actually is a glass barrier and not just open air between them. Her lips purse thoughtfully and he watches her eyes look up and down his helmet.

He is suddenly very aware of a drop of sweat along his hairline and the light itchy spot at the back of his scalp. He really wants to take this helmet off — honestly, fuck this headpiece.

“How’s your oxygen level in there?” she asks him in a soft breath, tapping the helmet. “You look a touch hypoxic.”

“I’m good,” he sputters, the warmth of his breath feeling trapped under the plastic... and where is she going with this question? Does she want the helmet off? And if she does, does she want him to...

His chest flutters.

“I was thinking of going outside and getting some air,” she tells him with a slow smile. “Would you like to join me?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. His heart thumps in immediate reply.

He swallows and nods his head vigorously.

She gives him another smile and before he knows it, she takes his hand in hers and pulls him across the room, through the friend circles and dancing drunks, around the pool table turned into an empty cup rest, over the sticky fake wood floor of the frat common room, out the backdoor where the cool California night air teases the hot skin just under his collar.

He takes a breath — hot and humid under his helmet — and his eyes automatically look up to the black sky. It’s no surprise that he's studying aerospace engineering. He can’t help his eyes from lifting up beyond the rooftops and the tree lines.

Suddenly, she spins around, placing her hands at the base of his helmet and lifting it off his shoulders, dropping her forearms around his neck in one swift motion.

His breath catches as he feels the helmet drop behind his feet, as the sharp crisp air runs through his hair, as the thrum of subdued house music from inside echoes in his chest, as her fingers lace together at the back of his head.

“Better?” She asks, her voice tickling his ear — now no barrier between them.

“Yes,” he says, unable to figure out what else to say. He’s mesmerized by the shimmering pink glow under her eyes and the curve of her lower lip.

Her eyes follow his lead and look up to the sky as well. His hands, frozen at his side, slowly lift up to settle on her waist. He looks back at her to check her reaction. If she notices, she doesn’t do anything in response. She keeps her eyes up at the stars, and he more confidently smooths his palms over her. She’s swaying from side to side ever so slightly, and he follows her lead, stepping his body closer to her until his body is right against hers.

“You like watching the stars?” she asks him, turning her eyes back to him. Her eyes sparkle as if they were the stars themselves.

“When I was a kid, I was obsessed. I used to know all the constellations,” he admits. "Not so much anymore. Well. No, that would be lying. They're very familiar to me."

“Nerd,” she teases, softly laughing.  

He shrugs. “I can’t help but wonder how vast the universe is beyond our atmosphere.”

She hums in agreement. She’s pressed herself closer to him and he can feel the warmth trapped between them, the vibration of her approval.

God, what is this irresistible sense of connection he has to her? He just can't explain it.

Her hand suddenly lifts from the back of his head and she pushes his bangs back over his forehead.

“A philosophical nerd,” she then replies.

Before he can refute her insult, she comes forward, cupping his jawline under her hands and pressing her mouth over his. He accepts it readily, closing his eyes, tilting his head to the left, and settling his lips over hers. His hands travel up her back to support her as he leans in, deepening their kiss.

He feels her smile against his lips. Her mouth opens to take a breath, and he takes the opportunity to catch her bottom lip between his teeth. She giggles, pulling away before resettling over his lips again, gently retaking control. The tip of her tongue flicks between his partly lips and he allows her entrance. She tastes like sweet alcohol and bitter chocolate.

He’s not sure how much time passes between their lips, but he knows the next time he opens his eyes, the moon seems much brighter, the night more illuminated, her blue eyes practically electric.

She smiles, and for an instant, he thinks to kiss her again, but he more wants to savor this moment — the peace in his heart, the quiet of her breath, and the slow rhythm of their hips.

“So,” he muses. “I know we made out but I just realized I don’t know a thing about you. I apologize. How rude of me.”

She presses a finger over his lips. “Shhh...” she shushes him, with a smile. “What do you need to know about anyone to kiss them?”

“Hm,” he considers. He knows she’s right, but he moves forward with a question nevertheless. “A name would be nice.”

She bites her bottom lip, as if trying to keep it a secret and licking her lips guiltily before revealing. “Allura,” she tells him in a hush.

“Allura,” he repeats, testing her vowels and consonants over his tongue.

She giggles, tapping the tip of his nose. “You won’t remember anyway,” she declares.

Does he really seem that drunk? He shakes his head. “I’ll make sure to remember,” he insists, his hand fumbling into his pocket for his phone.

Her hand catches his hand over his pocket. He gasps silently, feeling her hand pressing down over his hip — a place almost indecent.

She doesn’t seem to notice her effect on him. Her fingers slip around his wrist and lifts his hand to replace it over her waist. “Even if you do remember, it wouldn’t matter,” she replies. “I’m not planning to stay for long.”

He doesn’t understand what that has to do with anything. Even if she had dropped in from the next city over, he would be more than willing to drive down a few additional hours for her kisses. “You’re coming in from off campus?” he asks.

She nods. “From far, far away,” she assures him.

“Hm,” he replies, albeit disappointed. Maybe she didn’t want to manage distance, or maybe she wasn’t looking for a replacement — just a stranger to kiss and touch for the night.

“Well now you must tell me your name,” she tells him, and for a second, he thinks that maybe she’s reconsidered him, but he tampers down his excitement with a hard swallow.

“Takashi,” he then blurts.

“Takashi,” she repeats without missing a beat, and the sound of his name in her voice is so comforting he decides to not mention she can call him anything else. His nickname suddenly feels too distant for how intimate he feels with her. “Takashi,” she says again, this time with purpose, and he feels his heart stir. “I’ll remember you.”

“Yeah?”

She grants him a smile. “Yes,” she assures him. “Thank you for sharing such a lovely time here with me, Takashi. I’ll remember you in my travels.”

“Your travels?” he asks, but the words don’t leave his mouth before she catches them against her lips.

She kisses him for what feels like forever, but when he feels a cool night breeze swirl over his cheeks, he opens his eyes and realizes that she’s all but disappeared.

He blinks, confused, looking around to see where she might have gone.