Chapter Text
Whenever Keith sits still for too long, he gets this warm, numb feeling in his bones. It starts in his fingertips. He always knows it’s coming because whatever he is holding starts to lose its weight. The texture starts to dull under the pads of his fingers. It’s almost like the object that was very much an object suddenly starts to become nothingness; just an appearance of something. An empty shell of something. Because if you think about anything long enough, that’s just what happens to it. It kind of just starts to become nothing.
The numbness eventually travels through to every vein in his body. It feels stagnant. It feels like it’s clogging him up. Swelling his joints. Making it difficult for him to move; difficult to do anything really. It itches on the surface of his skin, determined to be felt; or rather, not felt at all. And he wishes he could say that the feeling scares him. He wishes he could say that it makes him nervous for his health, or uncomfortable. But it doesn’t. It just sits on top of him; heavy like brick.
In high school, the feeling would hit during his long classes. The teacher would be talking about the revolutionary war or quadratic equations and Keith would feel it; quickly and slowly all at once. The feeling that he is wasting away ; that he is becoming static. Lifeless . Nothing.
He would excuse himself and walk blankly down the hallways. Sometimes he would consider punching a locker. Running his rough nails on a chalkboard, just to get any sensation back. When he felt particularly hollow, he would run to the outdoor track in the dead of winter and sprint. Sprint and sprint and sprint until his lungs were burning and his skin was on fire. Then, and only then, would he be able to walk back into his dull, gray classroom; heart thudding and skin melting as it adjusts to the indoor heat.
It doesn’t seem like something people enjoy talking about with him. It’s not something people like to hear about. It makes people uncomfortable. The words “sensory disorder” and “depression” have been thrown around Keith’s head, carelessly and pretentiously. People may not enjoy listening to his problems but they genuinely enjoy diagnosing him, which makes anger prickle in his chest. Because they won’t even listen to his reasoning. They won’t even consider that there may be a concrete reason why he feels numb. They just don’t care . He fights the urge to snap at them, because they really do think they’re just trying to help. They really do believe they have good intentions, even if all they want to do, ultimately, is hear themselves talk.
It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when Keith failed out of college. Most of Keith’s “friends” in college rolled their eyes and admitted they had a bet going, to see how long he would last. Sitting in a lecture hall and studying things that don’t even matter just made the feeling so much worse. It started to take over before he even sat down. He would feel the numbness, burrowed within his fingertips, before he even started walking to class. It was only a matter of time before he stopped going to class and started looking for other options instead. Options to make him feel more alive . Not drugs. Not alcohol. That stuff just makes him feel even number.
But venturing into the forest at 2AM. Pitch darkness. Leaving his phone at home so he can’t call for help. Climbing the rocky sides of valleys. Smashing in the front of a car with a baseball bat and running when he hears police sirens. Standing on the edge of a tall building; not to jump, just to stand. To think about the possibility of falling. To think about how human he really is. How easy it really is to die.
He loves the feeling of his heart thumping. His hands shaking. The woosh of breath that leaves his chest when he is truly amazed by something. Truly frightened by something. And the moment he was kicked out of school he was looking for the next thing. His next fix. The opportunity found him in the form of a red, glossy Porsche with bright, unfiltered headlights and a gorgeous, roaring engine. And when the window rolled down, revealing the driver, Keith knew he had found what he needed.
You could probably say that meeting Rolo was a turning point in Keith’s life. It was the first time Keith learned not to be ashamed of what he wanted, but to chase it instead. And what he desired, essentially, was the the feeling of living. Of being in danger , yet in complete control. Of being something .
Stealing sports cars isn’t really what Keith saw himself doing with his life, but it turns out there are entire illegal businesses crafted simply from people who steal expensive cars and deliver them to different places, to be sold at an even higher profit. What better for Keith, than doing something illegal and getting to drive 120mph in a sexy, red Porsche while he does it?
Rolo is his manager and easily one of the richest men on earth. Turns out that re-selling cars you never even bought in the first place can get you loaded pretty quickly. Keith only gets a small cut of it, and it’s still far more money than he’ll ever need. Rolo calls Keith whenever there’s a delivery that needs to be made. The first couple of times, Keith was sloppy about it. He smashed the driver’s window, feeling too impatient because the door wasn’t opening fast enough. The car alarm blared and he ran faster than his feet could carry him.
He’s gotten better at it now, obviously. He knows all the techniques. He knows all the rules. And even though he can practically do it in his sleep, that doesn’t make it any less exciting. Keith craves the rush of it like an alcoholic craves a drink. It consumes him like a drug, and he loves every second of it.
><><><><
Keith pads into his living room, feeling the exhaustion tug at every single one of his muscles as he collapses onto his couch. He doesn’t even bother taking his shoes off, because bending over to do so just seems like too much of a hassle.
His apartment looks way too polished and classy for someone like him to live in it; it’s got black granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Floor-to-ceiling windows and a fridge with a glass door, reserved just for wine. It’s not a place for a boy like him. He’s got messy, dark hair that never sits quite right on his head. Pale skin covered in small scars from things he doesn’t remember doing. Faded black ink from tattoos that used to be more meaningful.
There is one scar that he doesn’t particularly care for--it’s about an inch in length, a millimeter in width, and cuts straight through his left eyebrow. Where the scar is, no hair can grow. So Keith has this thin, permanent gap, right at the arch of his eyebrow, that is completely bare. It’s not that he’s self conscious about it. He doesn’t really care. It’s kind of just a part of his face now. But he doesn’t really appreciate how he got it, which is why it annoys him to look at it. While he may have gotten all of his other scars by jumping out of moving cars and climbing mountains with nothing but the clothes on his back, the large scar on his face is nothing but a reminder of a glorified cooking incident that happened to him when he was nine.
Long story short, he was using a knife when he...wasn’t supposed to be. His older brother, Shiro, saw this and tried to gently take it out of his hands. Keith, lacking the presence of even one gentle bone in his body, lost his tiny temper and yanked the knife back out of Shiro’s hand. He yanked it a little too hard. Yanking, apparently, has clapback.
It’s just one of those things you are supposed to learn when you’re nine.
To this day, Shiro still talks about it. “You’re temper could have lost you an eye!” He always says, incredulous. And Keith just shrugs. Because yeah, it could’ve...but it didn’t.
He has a feeling that people would question his fancy apartment if he didn’t live in Los Angeles. But in this city, everyone has a snazzy highrise for no good reason. There are people who vlog their entire day and put it up online, which somehow gets them enough money for a loft next to the Hollywood sign. So Keith doesn’t feel guilty for what he does. He doesn’t necessarily care about the money he gets, but it’s always nice to earn money for doing something you enjoy. Besides, the people they sell to are just shallow, empty Hollywood men with whitened teeth who have far more money than they know what to do with. Keith shouldn’t feel guilty for taking it. It’s not like what those people do even merits that kind of money; what are they earning it from? Getting expensive spray tans and posting glamorous photos on instagram?
Keith really should be more tolerant of Hollywood personalities considering he lives in the city that is literally fabricated for them; a bougie, “all organic” cafe at the corner of every block, luxury shopping centers with only designer clothes, expensive lavish gyms and spas everywhere you look. Everything is about appearances. But Keith can’t stand it. Fake people are everywhere ; this godforsaken city is literally crawling with them. He can get a protein bar from the grocery store and see a famous youtuber posing next to the dry spaghetti. He isn’t really sure how he ended up here, living in Los Angeles, but he truly doesn’t belong. It’s like one of those multiple choice questions; “which one of these things does not belong?” It’s Keith. Keith is the thing that doesn’t belong.
His older brother Shiro used to live here. It was his dream to be a movie producer, and he came to Los Angeles at a young twenty-one years old to pursue his goal career. Now, six years later, he got a healthy dose of reality that he desperately denied for so long; some people just aren’t made to follow their dreams. He left LA a few weeks ago and moved to the suburbs to find a job in management instead.
Keith, contrary to what many people may believe just by looking at him, is very close to his family. Shiro wasn’t always around when he was younger. He was a very busy guy. He had a dream to follow, after all. He spent most of his youth with a video camera plastered to his face, and Keith just let him do what he needed to do. Keith never really thought much of himself, but he always thought the world of Shiro. He always admired Shiro’s inhibited happiness. His passion, and his determination. It was something Shiro had in common with his father. Keith never really loved anything enough to care for it the way Shiro did. He always saw Shiro doing bigger and better things. His brother wasn’t someone who was meant to stay in one place for too long. He was someone who was meant to be seen by the world.
Unfortunately, the world disagreed.
It makes Keith angry to think about it, because Shiro genuinely deserves to be happy. He is one of the only people in the world who deserves to get what he wants. And Keith can’t help but think that he would’ve , if their dad didn’t…
Whatever.
Keith makes the productive move from his couch to his bed and falls onto it, feeling his eyes start to drift shut. He’s still got his jeans on. His gray, leather jacket. Not the softest things to fall asleep in, but he’s been driving for almost fifty one hours straight, and he can feel the exhaustion taking over.
Maybe he should call Shiro.
He feels around the covers, trying to find where his phone inevitably fell out of his pocket. After about three minutes pass, he realizes he left it on the couch. He sighs.
Shiro probably wouldn’t want to talk to him anyway. Not after that fight they had. Maybe he should just let it lie. Even though it’s been weeks since they last spoke, Keith still has a feeling Shiro is just as mad at him.
As much as Shiro is an older brother, he’s slowly turned into a second father for Keith. He was practically forced to, after...what happened. So Keith doesn’t find it a surprise at all that when Shiro found out how he was making his money, he didn’t approve of it. Keith never expected Shiro to be okay with the whole “stealing cars for money” thing-- and that’s why he never planned on telling him. But he underestimated how well Shiro knows him, and he forgot that Shiro was the one who always picked up the pieces after Keith did all of the other stupid shit he’s done, so of course Shiro would know that Keith was up to no good. He knows Keith’s habits better than anyone else. And when Keith told him about Rolo, and about the business he was suddenly involved in, Shiro completely lost it. He lost it in the way Shiro usually does; some stern yelling, some door slamming. But this time it felt different. It felt like the final straw. It felt like, “I’m giving up on you now.”
He didn’t outwardly say it.
But Keith felt it.
Two weeks later, Shiro moved to his new neighborhood and Keith sat in his living room, on the floor in front of the couch, just staring at the wall. Because...losing his dad was hard enough. But losing Shiro? That hurt in a completely foreign way.
Keith can’t change who he is. He has spent so much of his life trying. But when enough shit happens to you, you start to wonder what the point is in trying to be better.
><><><><
“Hey, man. You’re early.” Rolo says with a smirk when he opens the door. “I haven’t even gotten the location yet.”
Keith shrugs, padding into the marble foyer. Because their business is...not approved upon by the law, they don’t really have a “headquarters”. Typically, delivery drivers just meet at Rolo’s disgustingly expensive mansion and are dispatched from there.
Keith showed up at Rolo’s doorstep early because he woke up with a not-so-great feeling.
He sometimes has nightmares where everything's the same, but he is completely underwater. He can still breathe, and walk, and talk. But his hearing is muffled and his sight is blurry and his movements are heavy and slow. And he just exists in this suffocating in-between, where he is alive but that’s all he is. He can’t do anything. He can’t feel anything.
And last night was particularly bad, because when he woke up, the feeling still lingered. So the moment he got a text from Rolo he was out the door. He didn’t care about arriving early. He needed to get the fuck out of there.
It’s something that happens more than he likes to admit.
Rolo does not look like a multimillionaire. He looks like a hobo who took up surfing at 12 years old. His shaggy, dirty blonde hair and loose fitting, typically torn clothes were no testament to his bank account. Like Keith, he looks very much like he doesn’t fit in the polished mansion he resides in. Keith has a feeling that most of the people working for Rolo have the same issue. It’s not the worst issue to have, of course.
“Want a beer?” Rolo asks casually, as if he doesn’t have a beer cellar with about 456 craft brews and instead just has a six pack in his fridge. “Ease the nerves before a busy day?”
Keith shakes his head. The least thing he needs is something to dull his senses even more. “Nah, you know I don’t drink.” He says emotionlessly, bypassing where Rolo is standing and walking into the extravagant entertainment studio. A long, bright red couch lines the white, polished walls and Keith flops down onto it, assuming the position he usually does while he waits for his day to start. He turns his head slightly and sees Rolo standing in the doorway. “But could I have some ice water?” He asks, mostly because he doesn’t feel like making conversation. Rolo smiles and nods, walking away towards the kitchen.
“A baby ?” A loud, obnoxious voice exclaims from behind Keith. “Oh my, ladies and gentleman, I was way off!”
Irritation prickles along Keith’s skin at the screechy, unwelcome voice that somehow just raided his senses. He looks up, facing the large flat screen TV hanging above him and scowls and the semi-familiar face grinning back at the camera
God , he hates LA.
The annoying voice floods the room again, grating on Keith’s nerves. “And when on earth did you find this out, love? I can imagine Jared was excited !”
The camera switches to show the face of a young, blonde woman covered in makeup, wearing nine inch heels and pressing a freshly manicured hand to her stomach. Keith recognizes her from a movie trailer he’s seen recently. Most likely a well-known actress. “Jared was actually very excited! It was funny, he made sure to call all of his friends the second he found out! I was like, honey , my parents don’t even know yet!” She lets out a loud, fake giggle and Keith’s stomach churns in disgust.
Keith knows this guy. He knows the talk show. Well, at least as much as anyone can know anything in LA. It’s called “Morning Blues” or “Away With the Blues” or…”Talking with Blue” or some shit like that. It’s always on when he starts his morning early-- like the first thing people want to do is watch some spray-tanned, conceited asshole interview other spray tanned, conceited assholes. As if people actually care what goes on in the lives of those they’ve never met.
One things he knows for sure, is that he absolutely can’t stand this guy.
Lance Martinez is the literal personification of everything wrong with Hollywood.
He is the poster child for being the poster child for things. His father, Anton Martinez, was an acting legend ...according to most people. Keith tends to disagree, but then again, he’s never seen much merit in acting, anyway. Nevertheless, Anton was one of the greats. He was in every movie, narrated every documentary, and starred in every show; from dramas to sitcoms. Internationally renowned, charming, on the cover of every “world’s sexiest man” magazine. It’s no wonder that when he had a son the world made sure to shower that child with the same love and affection Anton always received--spoiling him rotten with overspilling praise and private jet tours and $5000 tuxedos. Now, Lance is only twenty three, a remarkably young age for his sudden fame, but hosting his own celebrity talk show where literally all he does is call his guests “love” like he’s some kind of british wannabe, and laugh loudly at their shallow jokes that aren’t even funny.
Everyone makes a big deal out of it because he’s “Anton’s son” and “that boy is a legend” and he’s “Following in the footsteps of his father” which isn’t true at all, because the last person in the world to have any shred of talent, at all, is Lance fucking Martinez. He’s just spoiled boy who was in the right place at the right time.
“Well you have got to keep me updated!” Lance’s voice cuts through Keith’s thoughts rudely. “Because we’re friends, right? I consider you my friend, Kaitlyn!” He says in a corny voice, just enough to get a cheesy chuckle from the tiny woman in the seat across from him.
“Oh Lance .” She replies, like this is something they do all the time, even though they’ve clearly just met two minutes before the show aired.
Keith has a lot of negative feelings about this boy. He’s not a fan of people who piggyback off of other people’s success, and then take all the fame and glory as if they’ve earned it.
And why does Keith even know so much about this fucked up family, you ask?
Well...Because of what happened to Anton Martinez.
“Got the location, man.” Rolo’s voice picks up from behind him. Keith turns his attention away from the TV and back to Rolo’s tired, lazy eyes. Rolo hands him his long awaited glass of ice water. “This one might be a long one. I’d take a snack, if I were you.”
Keith opens his phone and reads the address Rolo sent him. It’s a town he has been to before, a couple months ago. He remembers the street name well. He pockets his phone and takes a small sip of his ice water, loving how cold it feels in his cottony mouth. Lance jabbers on loudly behind him. He groans. “Why do you watch this shit?” He asks Rolo, not even trying to sugarcoat it. “How can you stand that guy? He’s obnoxious.”
Rolo shrugs. “Sometimes he’s got some really hot guests on there, man.” He says. “Like today. I saw Kaitlyn Rhen and I was like...damn, dude. Hot girl.”
Keith blinks tiredly at him, feeling defeated. He really shouldn’t try to have conversations with Rolo anymore. “Yeah...” He agrees half-heartedly. “Anyway, thanks man. I’ll text you when I pick up the car.”
Rolo nods. “Text me when you get to the destination, too.”
“‘Course.” Keith says, waving. “See ya soon.”
><><><><><
It’s kind of shocking to Keith that it’s almost been two years since the death of Anton Martinez. Not that he ever really gave a shit about the man, but the colossal aftermath of his death was not an easy one to forget. It seems like it just happened yesterday. It doesn’t help that people are still talking about it.
It was a plane crash. Or rather, a private jet crash. Right off of the coast of Puerto Rico. A very random and uncommon place for disasters like that to happen.
The world went ballistic .
People speculated murder. Suicide. Maybe a drunk pilot or somebody who had it out for Anton. Nobody wanted to believe that it may have just been an accident, or a mechanical error.
Every cover of every magazine. Every homepage of every website. Documentaries were made. Speeches were made. Books were written. It was the only thing people spoke about for a very, very long time. And Keith would chalk it down to just LA folk being LA folk, but it was the whole country. It was, in fact, a very large portion of the entire world. People took off of work. It was everywhere Keith went; on billboards and park benches and even small things like tubes of chapstick. If you didn’t know who he was, you still mourned him.
Keith remembers turning on the radio while he was on a delivery and hearing an interview with Lance Martinez right after the tragedy. He still remembers Lance’s voice, not even wavering. Not even shaking . He just said. “Yes, it is sad. Our family has been shaken. Thank you for your support, and for everyone’s kind messages.”
It felt rehearsed. It felt like a response that was too mature for a young man who just lost his dad. Keith remembers shutting off the radio and scowling hard at the road in front of him, hands squeezing the steering wheel a little harder than normal.
Because Keith is no stranger to having a dead father.
And when it happened to him, that is not how he reacted, at all.
><><><><><
The roaring of the engine, quite literally, brings Keith to life. Sports cars may seem overrated to some people, but Keith has driven in a lot of them at this point, and there is nothing quite like hearing the engine of a sports car sputter to life; reverberating through your chest like it’s very own heartbeat. Keith loves that it vibrates his entire seat. He loves the loud sound, echoing throughout the parking garage--so loud that it’s so easy for him to get caught. And while he knows that the number one rule of the business is, “If you get caught, you get fired”, he always likes to take the risk anyway.
He revs the engine one more time before accelerating to a speed that should not be used in a parking garage, and practically breaking through the gate and out onto the open road.
He rolls the windows down no matter what the temperature is. It could be twelve degrees or it could be one hundred and twelve degrees; Keith always makes it a point to feel the wind whipping through his hair and taste the air. These are things that he takes for granted until they are gone, and he’s stuck in his stagnant apartment with the stale air drifting around his head.
According to his gps, he has about three hours until he reaches the garage. It’s in a small suburb a few towns away from LA.
He floors it, watching the speedometer escalate. 80mph, 90mph, 100mph.
His heart flutters as he weaves through the cars, passing them eagerly, like gaining speed on a racetrack.
He can easily do this for three more hours.
><><><><
Keith’s destination can only be described by one word; cute. Everything is so motherfucking cute . Tiny, pastel colored storefronts. Large grassed areas and park benches. Simple fountains and outdoor seating. It’s small, but very personable. Keith feels like a bullet, tearing through an otherwise perfect place with his loud, glossy, black sports car. Well, it’s not his . But, still.
It’s typical of Rolo to sometimes send Keith to “halfway checkpoints”--which are basically towns that don’t quite have anything to do with the “stolen cars” circuit, but are convenient for transactions to take place. Usually these towns are quaint and not very well known. Honestly, Keith loves being able to visit towns that he would not have discovered otherwise. It always makes him think of Shiro--just how much Shiro would love to see these places. To film in these places. He can practically hear the excited laughter, and Shiro would walk into the bakery with a camera sitting right in front of his face, taking in the different culture of the business and the town.
Shiro was always fascinated with undiscovered places. Keith always wished that someday, Shiro would discover something wonderful on his own.
Keith drives to the small lot that Rolo instructed him to park in, just behind a small cafe. It’s well hidden, which is good. There are a few potholes and cracks in the asphalt, which proves to Keith that in such a perfectly manicured town, this is an area nobody really pays attention to. A smart move, on Rolo’s part. Just like always, there is a contact there waiting with another car for Keith to take back to LA.
Keith shuts off the engine, already missing the feel of it as is shudders to a stop. He climbs out of the car and tosses his keys to the man waiting, who is doing a really great job perpetuating the “wanted criminal” stereotype. He’s bald with a scalp tattoo. A scruffy beard, muscles that could only possibly be made with steroids, and seven eyebrow piercings. On one eyebrow. Which Keith just thinks is a horrible fashion decision.
He thrusts out an envelope to Keith. “Your cut.” He says simply. Keith takes it, smirking a little.
“Thanks.”
And that’s it. The business deal is over.
He watches the scary dude climb into the beautiful car he was once in, and start up the engine. The man gives him a short nod, and then backs out of the lot. The engine roars a little obnoxiously as the car zooms down the small town road and out of site. But Keith doesn’t blame him; revving the engine in those cars is definitely something that makes the job worth it. As much as Keith feels disconnected to those burly, terrifying men, he also realizes that he might have a lot more in common with them than people think. Maybe they are just in it for the money, but Keith is convinced that you would never really get into this line of work unless you seek the thrill of it. Maybe they all have that in common--and it’s kind of comforting to know.
Of course something else they all have in common is the same, small tattoo on their left ankles. Four overlapping triangles drawn with very thin black ink lines. It’s the mark of the trade. The symbol of the business. Keith didn’t really care about getting another tattoo, because he already had a few. But it is a requirement when you get into the ‘car theft’ circuit, to get the mark. It’s for business purposes, really. So that mistakes can be traced back to someone. So people know how to identify each other. It has prevented a lot of mistakes for Keith, who never really knows who is point of contact is just by looking at them. Because while some of them are big, scary, horrifying men like it was in this case, others are sometimes young women or surfer boys or sharp-looking business men with burberry glasses. It’s just hard to tell. Stealing cars yields a diverse crowd. Keith actually likes how to tattoo looks, anyway.
As the sound of the retreating engine finally fades to nothing, Keith glances at the car that was left behind for him. It’s not nearly as glamorous. It’s just a normal, everyday car. Usually the car that returns home is an average, dull looking thing. Still illegal, just not quite as exciting. It’s kind of a way of dusting over footprints, blending back in with the crowd. It reduces the likelihood of getting caught. Keith sighs, already starting to feel the bored, buzzing numbness collecting in his fingertips. It’s all mental, and he knows that. But it doesn’t stop him from itching to get rid of it. Any time he’s not actively doing something he dreads the feeling. He swallows, clenching his fists hard. Distraction. He needs a distraction.
Suddenly, he smells the sweet scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the air and turns his head to the side, sniffing graciously. What the…?
Oh, right. He’s behind a cafe. His mouth waters. When was the last time he even ate? He can’t really remember.
Keith knows that according to the rules, he needs to be in that car, driving home right now. There are very few opportunities for breaks and it is highly recommended to never leave a delivery to do something else…
But the smell of bread get stronger and Keith’s stomach grumbles relentlessly. Defeatedly, he starts walking towards the front of the cafe, trying to come up with reasons not to as he rounds off the side of the building and failing miserably.
The small bell overhead jingles as he steps inside. His presence feels very jarring in the quiet, peaceful air of the shop. Clearly, this is a small, ‘Mom and Pop” establishment because it looks like it’s been around for a while. The bright pastel paints are a little worn. The air smells like old wood and cake batter. The woman behind the counter is having a joyful conversation with the man who appears to have just ordered a baguette.
It’s not that he loves places like this, or anything. That would be absurd--nothing is more boring than a shop that’s been around for decades and hasn’t changed at all. It’s just that...not many of them exist in LA. And these places always remind him of his father.
Keith feels a small smile tugging at his lips, and quickly wipes it away. His father loved family businesses like this; despite being a world traveler and the most adventurous person Keith has ever known, his father always spoke wistfully about forgetting it all. Opening a bagel shop in a small town and getting to know every neighbor and every customer. It was something his father always planned on doing when he got too old to see the world.
Of course it doesn’t matter now, because he never even got that old.
Keith tentatively walks up to the counter, stuffing his numbing hands in his pockets. He knows he should get the fuck outside and get in that car before anyone can report it stolen, but his stomach rumbles and grumbles and something about this place is comforting to him.
“Hello, sweetheart! What can I get for ya?” The woman at the counter says. She’s got long blonde hair, pulled up in a tight bun. She grins kindly at Keith, which must be difficult because Keith knows his appearance can be...intense to some people. He appreciates her hospitality, even if it is probably fake.
Keith clears his throat. Wow, he hasn’t...spoken to other people in a while. “Uh...could I have a plain bagel?” He asks. “Please?”
“Sure thing, hon!” She responds cheerfully, directing her attention to the cash register. “Cream cheese?”
Keith nods and hums a little. “Toasted too.” A pause. “Please.”
She punches a few buttons on the ancient register. “Coming right up.” She says cheerfully, retreating into the kitchen to prepare his order. Keith shuffled awkwardly to the side and stands at the corner of the small shop, hating that he seems to be the center of attention in such a tiny space. People are giving him strange looks. He glances over the small counter to the side of him, covered in small spice bottles like cinnamon and nutmeg and cocoa powder. He’s never like putting any of that shit in his coffee but his mother always does. She likes everything sickeningly sweet.
Keith sighs wistfully. It’s been a long time since he really spoke to his mother. She hasn’t been the same since the loss of his dad.
He leans over and sniffs the bottle of cinnamon.
Hm. Maybe a little wouldn’t taste so bad.
His nostalgia is abruptly interrupted by the aggressive sound of the door swinging open. The bell jingles loudly in Keith’s ear. He looks up, annoyed, and sees two teenage boys charging into the store and laughing almost maniacally. They are flushed and panting, like they’ve been running for a while, and after a great deal of stumbling, they are at the back of the shop standing right next to Keith. Their laughter is loud and it sounds sour. They are both turned towards the door with smug grins on their faces, like they are waiting for the person who was chasing them.
Keith glares at them, thoroughly unamused by their antics. They can’t be that old—they look like they’re around seventeen. He remembers passing a school building as he was driving in--they must be from the local high school. It is about the hour of dismissal, anyway. Keith feels like whatever they are up to is far less mature than sixteen.
And when the door jingles again, he is proven right.
A younger boy, probably thirteen or fourteen, enters the cafe with a scowl that is seconds away from breaking and tears filling his eyes. He glares at the two older boys on the other side of the room. “Stop it!” He shouts. “Give me my bracelet back!”
The five onlookers in the cafe glance curiously between the two parties, remaining cautiously silent. Keith narrows his eyes at the boys next to him, who are laughing loudly again.
“You couldn’t catch us, freak! That means it’s ours now!”
The boy’s face scrunches up in an expression that Keith’s recognizes as ‘holding back tears.’ “Please!” He begs. “Just give it to me! It’s important!”
The onlookers continue not to intervene. Keith scowls. Fucking bullies.
“Important, huh?” One of the older boys taunts. “Why? You got a girlfriend or something? She give you this bracelet?”
The young boy frowns. “No—“
“Right. Because who would want to date you ?”
“My dad gave that to me.” The boy says with a shaking voice. “Please.”
Keith frowns, officially giving the scene his full attention.
My dad gave that to me...
His heart starting to race a little faster. They took something...something from the boy’s father ...that’s just fucked up. It’s...
“Oh I see,” the older boy rebuttals in a condescending voice. “You mean the daddy who left?”
“ Shut up!”
“You know he only left because he didn’t want you right?”
Keith’s heart clenches. “Alright that’s enough .” He says in a monotone voice, stepping in front of the bullies. “Stop torturing him.” If nobody else in this cafe is going to fucking do anything, he will. “Give him whatever it is you took.”
One of the boys, the one with the bad buzz cut and dirty red shirt, gives him a onceover and snorts. “Wow. You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you?” He spits. “Well here’s a fun fact. A leather jacket doesn’t make you tough.” His friend laughs. Keith scowls. He can almost feel the fear vibrating off of the small boy behind him.
“Give him his bracelet.” Keith repeats, feeling oddly protective. He doesn’t know this kid. He doesn’t really know what they are talking about or what his family situation is. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to help this boy.
Maybe it’s because he has something special his father gave him, too, before everything...horrible happened. Keith feels the weight of it in his pocket, where it always is. A small keychain of massive importance. One of the last surviving mementos of his father’s life. He doesn’t dare go anywhere without it. “You’re being a dick.” He says to the older pair collectively.
Now both of the boys are scowling at him. “Stay out of it, Mick Jagger.” One of them says in a lower voice. “None of your fucking business.”
“Actually, it is.” Keith says back, blood beginning to boil. “He’s just a kid. Have some damn decency.”
“Get out of the way.” It’s a command.
“No way.” Keith snarls.
“ Move .”
“No.”
A small voice pipes up behind Keith. “I-it’s fine. I’ll just go. I-I’m sorry, sir.”
Keith turns around. “I’m getting your bracelet back.” He says to the boy, quietly.
He is vaguely aware of some of the onlookers taking out their phones. Fuckers. They will film the bullying but do nothing to stop it? Maybe this place is far from LA but the behavior certainly isn’t.
“There’s two of us and one of you.” One of the boys growls. “You really think you could take us both? Yeah, right. Screw off.”
“Why don’t we go outside and find out?” Keith says, throwing a protective arm over the boy behind him and loving the way his own heart beat escalates at the challenge.
At this point, the nice blonde lady has returned with Keith’s bagel looking quite frightened. “Excuse me? Is there a problem?” She asks in a cautious, sunny demeanor.
“Outside?” One of the boys responds, completely ignoring her. “Why not right here?” And then he is throwing a punch clean across Keith’s jaw. Keith only stumbles backwards a little, not completely stunned. It didn’t hurt half as much as the boy probably thinks it did, and Keith has been punched in the face enough times for it to feel like nothing. A small gasp collectively makes its way across the cafe and Keith knows a bunch of people probably have that punch recorded, which makes him look like a proper wimp.
Which really, really pisses him off.
So he punches back. Much harder. Because Keith is not the kind of person who does anything halfway, especially not when he feels the familiar adrenaline surging through his veins. The boy falls backwards and more gasps litter the room, much louder this time. The lady behind the register yelps.
“Hey! Stop that!” She yells. “Get out of here, now ! I’ll call the police!”
In the back of his mind, Keith hears “police” and panics. There is currently a stolen car, registered under no specific name, in the back lot. A car that he is supposed to be in right now. A car that could get him in massive trouble, because he didn’t follow the rules.
But the two boys have both tackled him now, and they are stumbling roughly out of the cafe. Not only did he not get his bagel , but he still hasn’t gotten this fucking bracelet out of their filthy hands. The younger boy dodges the commotion just in time, whimpering and sounding very upset. Keith vaguely hears the shutter sounds of phone cameras going off but he ignores it, and they burst through the door before he can hear anything else. Do people really feel the need to document this? What are they going to do, put it online? Hope to get internet famous from a meaningless scuffle?
Then again, these people aren’t car thieves so they probably don’t see scuffles very often. Keith, luckily, has seen hundreds of them. And he knows exactly how to beat these guys.
After a decent amount of rough tumbling and hair pulling and swearing coming from both parties, respectively, Keith realizes he’s grown bored of this. He spots the bracelet clenched in Buzz Cut’s meaty fist and decides on a plan of action.
It really only takes two calculated punches. One at the temple, to daze Buzz Cut, and an uppercut to the chin, to stun his asswipe friend.
The bracelet falls from his fist and Keith catches it before it hits the ground, wiping some smeared blood from a break in his lip and grinning down at it.
The young boy approaches him nervously from where he was watching in horror, far away. He looks up at Keith with wide, bloodshot, tearful eyes and holds out a shaky hand. Keith places the bracelet in his palm.
He glances to the side and sees several phones pointing at him through the large shop windows. He sighs. Well, at least he looked like a badass doing whatever it was. He looks back at the boy, who opens his mouth and probably says “thank you”, but his voice is muffled by the undeniable sound of police sirens, dreadfully close.
Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck.
Fuck .
Keith panics. As someone who absolutely loves running from the cops, he knows when they are too close. And now? They are too close.
But he tries anyway.
He can't help it. It’s just in his nature to pick the more difficult way out. And this is an uncharacteristically stupid decision for him--because it only makes matters worse.
They catch him as he is climbing into his illegally owned car, and Keith knows that it’s over.
He knows that he’ll get the dreaded text from Rolo within a matter of minutes, because Rolo keeps unbelievably close tabs on his drivers. The text telling him he’s fired. The text that effectively destroys everything he has worked for over the past few months. As he is being pulled out the car, he still hasn’t quite accepted it. He watches the cops search through the vehicle and glances around for the two bullies, who have successfully escaped. He groans inwardly.
As he is being handcuffed, he still can’t believe it. And even in the back of the police car driving past all the tiny pastel storefronts and ceramic fountains and into an expanse of sad, dead cornfields, Keith still can’t stomach it. Because this is his fault. His stupid, impulsive, careless fault.
And with this job, once you get caught, you can never, ever return to it.
><><><><
The ending of Keith’s short lived career is, essentially, what starts everything else.
><><><><
-2 Days Later-
“You punched a minor ?” Shiro’s voice cuts statically into the plastic jail phone. “In the nose ?”
Keith sighs tiredly and runs a hand down his face. He really didn’t want his first phone call to Shiro in months to be from a jail cell. “He wasn’t that young.”
“Sixteen years old, Keith!” Shiro shouts in disbelief. “Do you ever even try to use your brain?”
“They were terrorizing a kid!” Keith snaps back.
“Since when do you care?” It sounds cold. A little too cold for Shiro. But he has a point. Keith certainly hasn’t really cared enough about other people lately. Especially not when it could potentially compromise one of his deliveries. “They took something from him.” He argues.
“What? His lunch money?”
“No.” Keith grits his teeth. “Something his father gave him. A charm or bracelet or something.”
Silent static buzzes in Keith’s ear. Then a crackly sigh. “So that’s what this is about.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is about dad.”
“No, it’s not .” Keith says angrily. “This is about two douchebags who stole something from an innocent kid. Also I’m kind of a wanted criminal, Shiro. It was bound to happen sometime.”
“Keith--”
“I don’t need you to psychoanalyze the situation.” It comes out bitterly. He is still in a fight with Shiro, after all. “I’ve got a bunch of time alone in here to do that.”
“You really have to start recognizing when these things ha--”
“Don’t lecture me.” Keith sighs, exhausted. “I just needed someone to know where I was, alright? That’s it. Im hanging up now.” His chest feels tight as he slams the phone back into the receiver.
Wow. Fuck this entire day.
Keith broke the rules, so he’s assuming Rolo has to let him go. That’s just an occupational hazard. And now Keith is drowning in the aftermath of what could be dozens of stolen cars. He always covers his tracks...fairly well. There is a system to keeping everything hidden. But that system is only immune to so much digging. And Keith admits to being... inefficient at covering his tracks sometimes. Careless. Guess he’s a rule breaker on much more than one account. Maybe Rolo was right to fire him.
He doesn't know what the cops will find if they break that barrier and dig even deeper. Because Keith is not only in jail for assaulting a minor, his entire criminal career is being exposed as well.
It’s not like he ever ruled out the option of ending up in jail. He just thought it would be much later in his life than right now. He is still in a holding cell, waiting to be taken to god knows where else. He knows that if that asshole presses charges and he goes to trial, they’ll easily discover more about his not so tasteful career. He could be looking at an ungodly amount of years in prison, all because he punched some douche in the face. All because he couldn’t help to control himself--his unwelcome empathy burning deep within his gut, mixing with all the fury. The completely inconvenient urge he had to help a boy who only had a stupid, small object as a memory of his father.
A boy who, for a moment, reminded Keith of himself.
Shiro was right. Of course, because Shiro is always right.
And now Keith has lost the job that was his whole life--that he loved more than anything. The only thing that ever gave him the feeling he wanted.
The familiar numbness is already swirling all around him, coupled with the panic of not even having the choice to escape it. The static air is stale and the quiet buzzing of the fluorescent lights above makes everything feel like white noise. It’s Keith's worst nightmare; the ongoing existence of nothing happening . Except this time he is locked in it. He can’t go outside and sprint of a track. He can’t put his fist through drywall.
His fingers twitch desperately and he reaches down to his pocket where the keychain from his father usually sits, only to remember is was confiscated with the rest of his belongings. He clenches a fist frustratedly. He feels naked without it.
To most people, it looks like a metal key loop with a small, pointed tooth at the end of it. Which really, essentially, is what it is. His father had been an adventurer, of sorts. A traveler. He wanted to see as much of the world as he could. It was his career; a Journalist. He had a way with words that Keith could never, ever master. A few years before he passed away, he went on a two month trip to South Africa. When he returned, he waited until after everyone went to sleep one night, and handed Keith this keychain. At first, Keith was confused, but then his father explained.
He told Keith how there was a pack of hyenas prowling the land they were staying on, late into the night towards the end of their trip. And while his father and his colleagues managed to find a sheltered hiding place, there was a small family of lions who were attacked viciously, terribly outnumbered. The mother lion ended up jumping in front of her children in order to protect them. Sacrificing herself. His father always said it was heartbreaking--yet beautiful. He had said it taught him a lot about being a parent--about what family is truly about.
Keith had grimaced at him, not at all amused. “You’re giving me a tooth from a dead lion’s mouth? What the heck, Dad. That’s weird.” But his father just smiled softly at him--patient, as he always was.
“When I think of that lion, I think of you.” He had said. “Tough. And Fearless. But most importantly...Loving.”
And Keith thought it was a load of bullshit. He was thirteen and didn’t need that kind of mushy shit from his prophetic father.
But now, ten years later, his heart aches when he thinks about it.
The thought of prison guards taking his keychain away from him makes sadness rise like bile in his throat. He lost his keychain. He lost his job. He lost his father. He’s trapped .
Keith is aware that every man in the cell knows why he could be here. It’s pretty obvious, because he’s got the mark of the business on his ankle. Very well known amongst the...criminal community. And his worn out black Vans aren’t hiding it very well. He can feel everyone looking at him; the tiny, pale, pathetic boy who got caught. He huffs quietly, looking down at his feet and clenching the non-existent keychain harder in his fist.
God, he’s exhausted. All of his muscles ache. And this cell smells like pee. The concrete is cold and he can’t seem to fall asleep. It’s been an ungodly amount of hours. He tries to tell himself to get used to it; this is probably going to be the next few years of his life, after all.
“Keith Kogane?” A very disgruntled guard called from the other side of the bars.
Keith glances up at him, dreading the worst. The other men in the cell look up as well. The swooping in his stomach almost makes him dizzy. “Yes?” He asks hesitantly.
The guard unlocks the door and slides it open, metal clanging and dragging painfully loud against the concrete. “You are free to go.”
Keith blinks. Uh. “ What ?”
The guard sighs like he gets this all the damn time. “Someone has posted bail on your behalf.” He says. “You are free to go.
Keith stands up shakily. “Someone paid my bail ?” He says in disbelief. That could not have been cheap. The only person he can think of is Shiro, and he does not have that kind of money. It sure as shit wasn’t Rolo.
The guard frowns. “Yes. Now move . Don’t push your luck. I have places to be.”
Keith walks towards the open door and takes one glance back at the cell. The rest of the prisoners look dumbfounded. For what Keith did? That bail was probably insane .
They hand Keith his belongings and Keith sees the small tooth keychain at the bottom of the plastic bag. Comfort floods all of his senses.
And then Keith is stepping out into the hot summer air, hugging the Ziploc bag with all of his belongings closer to his chest. He hears the insects buzzing and the humidity leaves a light coat of sweat on his nose. It’s very late--or, early. He saw the clock as we was walking out; 5:46AM. He glances around, looking for some indication as to how to get home. Looking for a clue as to who the hell had enough money to save him.
Calling an uber to a jail site isn’t exactly acceptable, is it?
But then he sees somebody waving to him at the end of the sidewalk. “Keith Kogane?” The person asks, in a low, booming voice.
Keith squints curiously, starting to walk towards the mysterious man. As he gets closer, it still doesn’t look or sound like somebody Keith has ever known. He is much larger than Keith, both in height and width. He’s got dark skin and thick arms. A square jaw and soft-looking eyes. His short, brown hair is gelled back professionally and he is in black slacks and a pastel orange button-down. He grins brightly as Keith shyly approaches him, and his teeth are so white that they are practically glowing in the limited light around them.
Keith has literally never seen this guy before, in his life. Could he be a friend of Rolo’s? Could Keith possibly still have a job?
“How do you know my name?” Keith asks hesitantly.
“Oh, sorry! I totally forgot to introduce myself.” The man just keeps grinning kindly and thrusts out a hand. “I’m Hunk. Hunk Garrett.”
Keith stares down at his hand, not taking it. “...Okay?” He responds, still confused. He clutches theplastic bag even tighter to his chest. The man; Hunk, apparently, raises an eyebrow at him.
“I’m here to pick you up?” Hunk explains. “I...I mean...Do you not know who I am?” He asks, clearly at a loss.
Keith frowns. “No.” He replies. “Are you the one who paid my bail?” It seems like a long shot, but Keith asks anyway. Hunk, surprisingly, nods.
“Oh, yes! Right, right I was getting to that.” Hunk clears his throat, as if starting over his introduction. “I’m Hunk Garrett , Manager of the TV talk show personality, Lance Martinez. ”
The name makes Keith bare his teeth on instinct. He stares down at Hunk’s hand again, but this time he actually flinches. “ What ?” He asks, rudely. “Well what the fuck do you want from me ?”
Hunk looks put off. “Oh, you’re totally welcome for paying your bail, by the way.” He says, sunny demeanor starting to fade a little. “You know, that video really made seem nicer.”
Keith grimaces. “Excuse me? What video?”
Hunk pouts slightly. “Oh shoot, you really don’t know?”
“I’ve been in a jail cell for two days.” Keith growls.
Hunk sighs, appearing to be tired. “Right. Look, long story short, your ‘good samaritan’ act got the attention of the masses.”
Keith blinks at him, still scowling. The past three days have literally made no sense to him. “In English, please?”
Hunk leans closer to him, cupping his hands around his mouth in emphasis. “ Your. Video. Went. Viral.” He says, a little condescendingly. “The video of you standing up for that kid. You know, the fight you just had? It’s got almost 400K views and it’s only been 48 hours. You’ve got a lot of people rooting for you. ”
Shit. He knew he heard cameras going off for this reason in particular, but he never thought anything would actually happen. Oh man, if that video has been seen by a ton of people then he is definitely not getting his job back, or keeping it, for that matter. He is the last person this should be happening to. What a joke. “Okay?” He says, unsure of what to do with the information. He’s not used to talking to this many strangers in one day. It’s very uncomfortable for him. “So what the hell does Lance Martinez want with me?”
Hunk grins broadly at him. “Well, I’m glad you asked!” He says in an exaggerated, corny voice. Then he levels Keith with a much more earnest look. “See the thing is, Keith...we want you on the show.” Hunk’s expression doesn’t falter. “Like...this week.”
Keith’s scowl actually leaves his face hurting. He snorts. What a typical Hollywood move. Approach the subject as he gets out of jail! That’ll go well, for sure! “No fucking way .”
Hunk looks slightly shocked. “Excuse me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Uh.” Hunk frowns, a mixture of confusion and anger making its way onto his face. “I’m confused. You’re saying no ?”
“That’s right.”
“You know you’d be on TV, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else in LA would kill for this offer.” Hunk looks irritated. “Lance just wants to talk to you about what it’s like to be an internet sensation. It’ll be good press for you.”
“I don’t want good press. Didn’t protect that kid for press.”
Hunk frowns. “That’s not what I--”
“Put me on that show when I’m dead.” Keith says, admittedly a little dramatically. But his loathing for Lance fucking Martinez burns deep. He can’t help it. Of all the opportunities for fame, this is the one that comes knocking? Pathetic. He pushes past Hunk and walks out into the open road. This entire day has been bizzare and he just wants to go home. For once, he’s so exhausted that he’d take sitting in the stale air of his apartment over this craziness.
“Hey, woah, hold up!” Hunk calls from behind him.
Keith throws a cold look over his shoulder. “I’ll find another ride home.”
“I just paid your bail ! Show a little mercy.” Hunk shouts, a little desperately. It sounds like a last resort.
Keith slows to a stop, and...
Dammit ...he’s right.
Keith carefully turns back around, grinding his teeth angrily. He takes a shaky sigh, glancing at Hunk. “There are literally a million other people who could be on the show. Can’t you just let this go?” He pleads. “There’s a new internet sensation every hour.”
Hunk shakes his head. “I...I’m just following orders.” He says, resigned. “And Lance didn’t ask for a token internet sensation.” Hunk shrugs. “He asked for you .”
><><><><><
It’s not that Keith wanted to say yes. In fact, the thought of saying yes actually summoned vomit into the back of this throat and made him want to claw the skin off of his face.
The thing is, he would be in jail for a majority of the rest of his life if Hunk, or... Lance, rather, hadn’t bailed him out. And he doesn’t like being indebted to people. He hates feeling like he owes people things.
But he also just lost his job. He isn’t really qualified to do anything else. He has nothing to do. And having nothing to do...is terrifying. Keith can’t stomach it. Just the thought of rotting away in his apartment is enough to have him desperate for any kind of distraction. And although he could write a list of a thousand things he’d rather do than be interrogated on that stupid, meaningless trash talk show with that superficial dickhead...he’s never been one to make lists.
Maybe Shiro will see it and finally feel proud of him.
So, fuck it.
He says yes.
And he knows he’ll hate every second of it, and himself, but he says yes.
It only dawns on him as he sits in the passenger seat of Hunk’s car-- not his favorite, by the way, he’s stolen better-- and Hunk starts walking him through all of the necessary things to be done before the show airs. And Keith feels his soul dying with every word that comes out of Hunk’s mouth, because this whole thing is so out of character for him and why did he possibly think this was a good idea?
“The show will air on Thursday morning.” Hunk explains. It sounds automated, like he’s given the spiel to every person who has ever been on the show. “Usually showtime is around 9AM, but you have to get there a couple hours earlier. Let’s say, maybe around six. Show up with a clean face. Don’t put on any makeup you normally wear--” Hunk glances at Keith rough, unamused face. “--right...well then I guess, don’t worry about that. Uh…” He gazes at the open road in concentration, like he is trying to remember the rest of his normal instructions. “Lance will be in hair and makeup at around seven thirty, but we will still need you there early to walk you through your cues and such. Also, it’s always nice to be prepared.” Hunk sends him a smile that Keith does not reciprocate. “I will likely call you tomorrow with more last minute info, but I will send you an email with the address and the number of the studio. Don’t worry about driving--we’ll have a limo pick you up.”
Keith snorts. “Lucky me.”
“There will be complimentary drinks.” Hunk offers, like he’s desperate to get a smile out of Keith.
“I don’t drink.” Keith says emotionlessly, turning his head to study the trees whizzing past them outside.
Hunk clears his throat. “Right, right. Well, there’s always a snack mix in there too.”
“I can’t just take the subway or something?”
“It’s custom. I can’t bend the rules for you. Now stop complaining, would you? You’re a free man now.”
Keith sighs. “Mmhm.” He mumbles. Truly, he knows that deep down he feels grateful to be out of that jail cell. But if the alternative is being on a show with Satan himself, Keith isn’t so sure what he’s gotten himself into. And he doesn’t want to give anyone involved with Lance any kind of satisfaction. It would go against everything he ever believed in.
As they begin to slow to a stop in front of Keith’s apartment building, Hunk’s eyes widen slightly. “Wait, wait.” He says, shaking his head. “You live in this building?”
Keith frowns. “What, not what you were expecting?”
“No. I-I mean--” Hunk gazes up at the tall glass windows. “Seems a little much.”
“Too fancy for me?”
“Well….maybe?” Hunk replies sheepishly. “Like, how?”
Keith smirks. “I guess I’m the fancy kind of criminal.”
Hunk levels him with a slightly uncomfortable look. “...Right.” He says. “Well then, I guess I’ll see you Thursday.”
Keith hums, climbing out of the car. “Yup.” He says. “Guess so.”
The door slams behind him and Hunk drives away, making it a point to rev his engine as he does so. Keith fights the urge to roll his eyes; that engine is nothing compared to the ones he’s heard before.
Sighing, he saunters back into his apartment, feeling the aching and lack of sleep all the way down to his bones. He breathes in the bougie, floral, perfumey smell of his lobby and it actually makes him feel much happier than he thought it would. He’s not sure how he continuously gets away with doing the stupid shit that he does, but this time around was the closest he came to destroying the rest of his life. He feels oddly grateful to be standing in the midst of the privileged, overly done decorations in his apartment building. Because as much as it annoys him, it also beats spending the rest of his life rotting in jail. So really, it’s not too bad.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Sighing in dread, he fishes it out.
Rolo
Sorry, man, You know the drill.
The text is understandable. He was expecting it. Still hurts like a bitch, losing something he loved so much. He tries not to let himself panic--it was a match made in heaven and he doubts he’ll ever find anything else like it. The numbness swirls in the air around him, threatening and daunting. It only gives him a short window of time to find a replacement. But he needs to handle one thing at a time.
He swallows, feeling defeated, and absentmindedly opens his Facebook app. He almost trips headfirst into the elevator when the red number of notifications pops up in the corner of his screen. Because as somebody who only gets one notification every two months, it’s a little shocking to see the number 467 just sitting casually in the tiny red box.
Keith stares at it, eyes wide. What the fuck ? With a shaking hand, he clicks the small globe, truly not knowing what the hell to expect.
The first thing he sees is about forty names he doesn’t recognize, all of whom apparently wrote on his timeline. He barely even knows what that means , so he decides to ignore it and instead focus on the notification that says he was tagged in an article. He clicks on it.
The headline reads, “HANDSOME STRANGER BECOMES SMALL TOWN HERO ”. Keith blinks a couple of times, in a daze. The picture below the headline is unmistakably him --his shaggy black hair and gray leather jacket. The gap in his left eyebrow. He is glaring at something past the camera in complete rage, eyes burning.
Jeez. He didn’t realize he looked so angry.
The small boy stands behind him, eyes wide and afraid. Keith studies him in the picture, something like sympathy filling his chest. He wonders was repercussions that boy is facing from all of this.
Feeling incredibly uncomfortable, Keith somehow makes it to his timeline. It is littered with messages from absolute strangers.
Cindy Kyle you are so brave! Not many people would have done what you did! Bless you!
Kevin Smith Way to go, man. You really let them have it
Keith’s heart starts beating rapidly in a way that he can only describe as terror. How the fuck do all of these people know his name ? How did they find all of his social media so quickly? Where are they getting their information from? The breach of privacy likely goes much deeper than this and he feels the overwhelming urge to hide. Being in the spotlight is not his specialty, especially when he wasn’t at all prepared for it. He feels incredibly violated. When he gets to his apartment door, he bursts inside and makes a beeline for his room.
Burrowing himself under the covers, even though he desperately needs to shower, Keith continues looking through is notifications. There are so many articles featuring his name and that same angry picture that he loses track. His hands never stop shaking as he scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls.
Chris Katowski Dude your left hook is killer. Get ‘em
Shannon L. I’d take him out to dinner
Shireen so nice to see someone standing up for a stranger! Gives me hope that this world isn’t doomed to shit
Kaitlyn Roy omg he is so hot. Is anyone seeing how hot he is? Hot and would fight for you! I’m into it
Rebecca M. I could eat that boy for dessert.
Keith flushes, scowling. He has never even bothered with his physical appearance. He doesn’t know what the fuck these people are talking about. They’re all crazy. All he did was punch a guy.
But anti-bullying forms and websites all across the internet have a featured story about him. There are apparently controversies, too. Like “WHY THE HERO WAS WRONG: Glorifying Violence” .
Keith gets more and more upset the more he reads. He always knew there was an intrinsic reason, somewhere within him, that he hated LA so much. And it’s because he hates this . He hates fame-- the fleeting stupidity of it. He hates that people pretend to give a shit. And he hates being the subject of gossip.
Which is why by the time he reaches a small video posted by none other than Lance Martinez himself, his blood is close to boiling over. He clenches his phone dangerously tight, almost cracking it out of anger, as Lance’s smug face appears on his screen. He appears to be in an interview--which doesn’t make any sense to Keith. What kind of talk show wants to interview the host of another talk show? In any case, seeing the tan bean pole almost puts Keith over the edge.
“Hello, all!” The host, a woman with curly black hair and way too much plastic surgery, greets the audience. “We have Lance Martinez here with a special message about his show this week! So, Lance, what’s with all the excitement?”
Keith bites the inside of his cheek.
Lance laughs. “Well, Vanessa. You wouldn’t believe who agreed to be on my show this Thursday.”
“The anticipation is killing us!” The host, Vanessa, says in a corny voice. “Who is it?”
Lance grins and his teeth look almost fluorescent against his dark skin. So fluorescent that there is no way it’s natural. He runs a hand through his styled hair, somehow not destroying it. “Hmmm, well I’ll give you a hint. He’s drop dead gorgeous .”
Keith bites down even harder.
“Oh, man. That could be anyone!”
“True, true.” Lance says smugly. “But very few people could be this gorgeous, and still throw that good of a punch.”
Keith’s cheek stings as his teeth dig deeper.
A cheer rings throughout the audience as Keith’s face--the same picture he’s seen hundreds of times today-- appears on the screen behind Lance’s big head. “ That’s the one.” He says in a cocky tone as he looks back at the picture, as if Keith’s existence on this earth was his doing. The crowd cheers even louder at the sight of it and Keith wrinkles his nose, feeling the urge to vomit.
“My, my, look at that face !” Vanessa says. “That is one attractive boy!”
Keith tastes blood in his mouth.
“ And he’s a hero.” Lance adds. “Check it out.” He points up to the screen with an infuriating smirk on his face and the video starts playing. The video that, apparently, has gone viral. Keith grimaces as soon as he sees his own snarling face on the screen and chucks his phone across the room. It clatters against the wall but the video continues playing. He covers his head with his pillow but he can still hear the annoying voices after the fact.
“Pretty and strong?” Vanessa says suggestively. “Sounds like your type, Martinez.”
“You bet , darlin’.” Lance answers back. “He’s got it all.”
Keith groans angrily into his pillow, rolling his eyes.
Maybe it isn’t too late to cancel.
><><><><><
According to a very disgruntled message from Hunk; it is, in fact, too late to cancel.
Which is how Keith finds himself sitting in a limo that smells like new leather and freshly sprayed cologne, staring at the sunrise out the tinted window because it’s the asscrack of dawn. He was told to dress himself, so he decided on the most basic outfit possible to avoid bringing any more attention to himself; a black, long sleeved shirt and dark gray jeans with small rips at the knees. He got those rips by crawling under a barbed wire fence a few years ago, but nobody has to know that. For all they know, it was just a chic fashion choice.
The only thing making any of this okay is the frantic, nervous beating of Keith’s heart. The blood rushing through his veins. He finds comfort in the blatant discomfort of the situation. The familiar feeling that he is, in fact, still alive. That his body is working and his brain is clear. He snakes a hand into his pocket and grips at the small, tooth keychain, relieved to find it in it’s regular spot.
Being on national television may not be his ideal adrenaline fix, but it’s better than nothing. And without his regularly scheduled criminal activity, he’s sort of just grasping at straws.
He’s not sure how he’s going to see Lance Martinez, in the flesh, and not kick him in the balls. It’s something he really, really wants to do. Whenever he pictures meeting Lance for the first time, he fantasizes about harming him in some kind of physical way. He just feels like that stupid, cocky grin needs to be punched in. He can’t stand the phony narcissism. But he knows he’s going to have to keep it together. He doesn’t want to end up in jail again, after all.
The limo stops in front of a tall, extravagantly designed building overlooking the Hollywood sign--adorned with floor to ceiling windows and mattes and metals. Keith rolls his eyes. Typical.
He is escorted into the elevator by a man who he could very easily beat in a fight, so he doesn’t really know why he should feel very protected. The elevator ride is actually dreadfully long, and by the time Keith makes it to the 32nd floor of the building he had already talked himself out of it three times.
He steps out into an open, modern looking foyer that branches off into multiple hallways. Feeling lost, he follows close behind the man escorting him, who thankfully hasn’t said one word to him since they met. They weave through multiple hallways, doorways, elevators and walls until the space opens up again. Keith recognizes the studio--the familiar backdrop of Lance’s stupid, idiotic show. The blinding, face blurring lights and the large, blue cushion chairs. His stomach twists, suddenly and stupidly realizing that it’s a talk show. Which requires talking .
Which…
“Hey, you made it!” Hunk’s voice comes from somewhere behind him and Keith feels some version of bizarre relief at the sight of him. He’s only known Hunk for twenty four hours but it’s still nice to see a familiar face in such a...strange environment.
“Hey.” Keith says nervously. “Yeah. I’m here.”
“Cool! Follow me to your dressing room and we’ll get you into makeup.” He gives Keith a onceover. “Yeah, also we may change that outfit too.”
Keith scowls, looking down at himself. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” He says defensively. “You told me to dress myself.”
Hunk looks hesitant. “Right…” He says, then shrugs sheepishly. “Welcome to show business?” He turns around, shouting across the room. “Allura! We need you in hair and makeup!”
And then Keith is being urgently dragged away by two surprisingly strong arms. Before he knows it, he is tugged into a small dressing room and staring at himself in a vanity mirror, surrounded by blinding lights. There is a woman behind him, studying his face intently in the mirror. She has deep skin and long, platinum blonde-ish hair. It looks almost...silver. A golden, shimmering dress hugs her body, and her makeup, which features dramatic pops of neon purple and blue, decorates the high points of her face. Keith feels a little shocked--he’s never seen anyone who looks like that. She’s almost terrifyingly pretty. Her teal eyes scan over his reflection scrutinizingly. Then her face melts into an impressed smile.
“You have such a unique face.” She says, sounding excited. She surprisingly sports a thick, English accent. “This is going to be so fun.”
Keith swallows. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mean it in a weird way. It’s just that you have a lot to work with! Oh--I’m Allura, by the way.” She awkwardly sticks a tan, delicate hand in Keith’s face from behind him. “Hair and makeup. Wardrobe. You know the drill. It’s truly a pleasure.”
Keith takes her hand and shakes it, frowning slightly. “You do Lance’s makeup?”
“I do! Have for three years now. Don’t get me wrong, he has a lot to work with too. But I have learned the ins and outs of that boy’s face. Not much experimenting left to do. Beautiful bone structure, but everything tends to get monotonous if you do it enough. Don’t you think?”
Keith blinks rapidly at his reflection, stunned by the sudden outpour of words. “Uh...”
Allura lets out a melodic laugh. “It’s fine, you don’t have to answer. This stuff doesn't quite seem like your cup of tea.” She brushes Keith’s bangs out of his face, tilting his head to the side a little. Testing something out that Keith doesn’t understand.
“Yeah I…” Keith furrows his brow, clearly at a loss. “I don’t...wear makeup.”
Allura smirks at his reflection. “Well, get ready for that to change.”
As Allura gets to work doing god-knows-what to Keith’s face, he can’t help but let his mind drift to Shiro; just how much Shiro would love to have an experience like this. To go behind the scenes of a show and study the equipment, the moving parts and the environment and how everything works together. He feels a small tug in his chest. Keith really isn’t worthy of this--he didn’t do anything to be here other than punch a defenseless teenager in the face. Shiro would have given everything.
“Do you want me to fill in your eyebrow?”
This snaps Keith back to reality. “Huh?”
“Your brow. There is a small gap in the left one. Would you like me to fill it? I think it adds to your look. But some people are particular about their brows.” She snorts. “Like Lance.”
Keith honestly feels like she is speaking in a different language. “Fill it in? Like...with hair?”
She lets out an amused sigh. “I’ll leave it.” She decides. Then, in a much kinder, genuine voice, “I think it looks wonderful.”
><><><><><
Allura leaves after an abnormally long amount of time. Keith never even thought it could take so long to get ready for anything, ever. When he looks in the mirror to observe what she did, he finds that he doesn’t even look that different. His skin is just less...skin like. There is a small coat of shiny lip balm on his lips and what he thinks is blush on the tops of his cheekbones. He studies his reflection quizzically. What an...odd experience.
He glances over at the small stool in the corner of the room, where a new outfit sits, folded and ready to be worn. Keith huffs frustratedly. Of course he wears the least threatening thing in his closet and they are still expecting him to change. Allura had given him a onceover and picked an outfit in under forty five seconds. It’s technically her job, but Keith was beyond impressed anyway. He wonders if all stylists in LA are that expert at what they do--it would explain how everybody always seems to look good all the time.
He slips off his shirt and his pants, throwing them into a messy pile in the side of the room. He catches a glimpse of his naked torso in the mirror and sees the small, black, lion tattoo right underneath his collarbone. He got it a month after his father passed away, in memory of his story. Keith really thought that he’d get used to seeing it by now. It’s been years since he got it. But every time he sees it, it still leaves a sad, heavy stirring his his gut.
He takes a deep breath.
Suddenly, the door bursts wide open. Keith yelps as he attempts to scramble for anything to cover himself up, but fails miserably. When he turns around in his almost-naked glory, Lance fucking Martinez is standing in the doorway.
Keith doesn’t really know what he was expecting; but it definitely wasn’t for Lance to look just as flawless in real life as he does on screen. Keith can clearly see that the boy is wearing makeup--his skin almost appears airbrushed and he has a startlingly glittery highlighter on his cheekbones. His hair is gelled into its classic style--out of his face. And when he smiles, Keith can see the blindingly white teeth against the probably fake tan. He can see the abnormally bright blue of Lance’s eyes; probably colored contacts. Everything fake, from head to toe. And the worst, worst part of the Lance’s entire appearance is his height-- because Keith didn’t even begin to anticipate Lance having any inches on him. But as Lance casually leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, Keith realizes, in horror, that he is much taller than he looks on tv.
Keith jumps at the sight of him and immediately grits his teeth, managing to grab his black shirt from the floor, bunching it close to his chest. Lance is looking at him with amused, glinting eyes, and for a moment Keith is so frustrated that he can’t even register what is happening. “What the fuck ?” He shouts, voice cracking. “Don’t you knock ?”
Lance grins, stalking confidently into the room and letting the door shut behind him. He lets out a considering hum. “Well, if I knocked I would’ve missed out on seeing this .” He says, gesturing smugly at Keith’s shirtless body. “And that would’ve been a shame. Right?” He has a mischievous glint in his eye as he says it that makes Keith’s blood begin to boil. He wants to roll his eyes so hard that they fall out of his head. Lance is obnoxious in real life, too. It honestly isn’t that big of a surprise. Refraining from inflicting bodily harm is going to be a lot harder than he initially thought.
“It’s a little early to be laying it on so thick, don’t you think?” Keith deadpans, keeping his voice empty. “There aren’t any cameras in here so you can drop the act.”
“Wow. Sassy .” Lance says, whistling appreciatively. “Just went for it.” His broad grin remains on his face, unphased. “No wonder you go around punching people.”
Keith grips his t-shirt until he feels his nails digging through it. “Why did you come in here?” He asks angrily. “Don’t you have shit to do?”
“I came in here to introduce myself.” Lance says, pushing himself off of the wall and walking towards Keith. His voice is cool and collected--quite the opposite of the cracking mess Keith is sporting. “And to meet the guest of honor, of course. The hero behind it all. Oh, oh! Get this. I was thinking of naming the segment ‘Unmasking the Local Hero’.” He spreads a hand across the air in cheesy presentation. “Do you think people would be into it? Because I totally do.”
Just as Keith suspected, Lance really doesn’t spend any time with his guests before they film the show. What a load of bullshit. Lance holds out a hand to Keith, who is still not even close to being dressed. “Lance Martinez.” He says, as if the entire world doesn’t already fucking know. “The one and only.” And then he winks , which only makes things ten times worse. “Thanks for bein’ on the show.”
Keith glances down at his hand and chooses to ignore it. He really should play nice. This is the only time in his entire life he will ever be speaking to this boy, so he may as well not start any drama. But when he opens his mouth, he realizes it’s already too late.
“Well Lance , I’m pretty sure I have about fifteen minutes before I’m obligated to deal with you.” He snaps. “Let me get dressed.”
Lance’s face doesn’t even move at the comment. Not even one twitch out of character. He continues to smirk down at him. “Hey, I’m not stopping you.”
Keith scowls. What a douche. “Get. out .”
“You know, being gorgeous isn’t a one way ticket to being an asshole.” Lance says, but his voice is light, like he isn’t affected by Keith at all. “This is still technically my turf, despite how bewitching you may be.” His smile widens to punctuate the end of the sentence.
“Do you always ambush your guests in their dressing rooms, Starboy? Or am I just blessed?” Keith asks sarcastically.
Lance lets out a tired sigh. “You know, for an American Hero, you’re a real stick in the mud.” He says, taking a few calculated steps away from Keith. His smirk continues to linger. “But to answer your question--yes. You are blessed.”
Keith actually growls. “ Out .”
A careless shrug. “Alrighty. Just be out in ten minutes. Don’t forget to see the director for a mic pack.” He turns around and looks Keith over one more time, not even trying to be subtle. “See you on the flip side.” He says in a corny voice, and then he winks again . Keith feels like barfing.
He eyes the window, debating an escape route. Scaling the side of a building isn’t something he hasn’t done before, and it’s just the fix he needs right now. This room is starting to get stuffy and the lights are making his vision fuzzy and he needs the fresh air. The dangerous drop below him.
He thinks of Shiro, watching the news and seeing Keith scaling the side of a building in Hollywood. He sighs defeatedly. Maybe not the best idea.
He can hear a laugh muffled through from the other side of the door. It distinctly sounds like Lance’s; loud and obnoxious and most likely fake. Keith wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes for what is probably the fiftieth time.
He wonders how anyone in this studio can even deal with that insufferable asshole.