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panda-noosh · 5 years

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Change of Plans {Keith x Reader}{The Rockstar Series}

The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love.

Words: 11.4k

Summary: Now that Keith Kogane is a rockstar, it’s become very difficult to decipher whether someone likes him for him, or for his money. So, he’s decided to just stay as far away from love as possible.

Genre: mild angst, fluff

Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions! - I HAVE ONE PART LEFT OF THE ROCKSTAR SERIES WTF

---

Keith Kogane does not care about relationships. He promises.

They're pointless. He has a whole career to concentrate on, meaning he has zero time for anything besides his music. He has zero time for anyone else besides the fans and his band mates.

That's the bottom line.

This is what Keith tells interviewers. It's what he tells fans when they ask him if he's single. It's what he tells his mother when she asks him when she's going to get some grand-kids.

In reality, there's a deeper reasoning behind Keith's slight hostility towards the topic of love.

Being a rock star isn't as easy as some people make it out to be. Sure, he's living the dream, and he wouldn't trade it for anything, but there's a level to it that not many people see. They don't like to dwell on this particular level, because it dims the seemingly perfect life that apparently comes with being a rock star.

This level includes not knowing who loves you, and who just wants you for the fame and money.

Contrary to what the public think, Keith Kogane has been in a few relationships during his time in the spotlight. Of course he has. He's a growing boy, experiencing new things, learning from mistakes – some of his mistakes just happen to contain other people, people whom he trusted before finding out they'd maxed out his credit card, or got mad at him for not putting their relationship on Instagram yet.

Yes. Keith Kogane has trusted a few people in his life, but no longer.

He made the promise a few years back, when his music career was reaching a new peak. Whilst his band mates were busy getting into relationships, somehow managing to find people who actually like them, Keith sheltered himself from that side of things as best he could. It wasn't worth the heartbreak. It wasn't worth the anxiety, either, which is the main reason Keith has decided to dedicate his life entirely to the music.

“I'm married to my bass,” he tells Pidge. It's early morning, and Pidge has just crept into Keith's hotel room due to her boredom. She flops down on the sofa in the corner, watching Keith ruffle up the back of his hair to get his go-to look.

“Right, well, that's just sad sounding,” she replies. “Matt has this friend who I think would suit you perfectly.”

“I'm not interested.”

“Why not?” Keith opens his mouth to reply, but Pidge raises a finger to silence him. “And don't tell me you're married to your bass. It's a bad way to hide your loneliness.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I'm not lonely. Why don't you understand that not everyone wants a significant other? Before you met your partner, you didn't even mention getting into a relationship.”

“Yeah, but then I fell in love. It's difficult to ignore a socially anxious bartender, Keith.”

Keith scoffs.

Pidge sighs, letting her arm flop over the edge of the sofa. “I just don't want you to be on your own, man. You're a good guy.”

“Thanks.”

“You've just got trust issues.”

“No, I do not.”

“Yes, you do. How else would you explain this isolation you've got going on?”

Keith frowns. It doesn't matter how many times he explains to Pidge he's not isolating himself – the girl will never understand. She's been in a relationship for nearly two years now, and to everyone's surprise, she's certainly head over heels. Pidge was once one of those people who Keith thought he would have by his side forever, joined in harmony by their lack of love lives and their lack of caring.

But alas, that is not meant to be. Keith can put up with it.

So why can't Pidge put up with his decision?

“Can we drop this conversation?” Keith asks. “I'll find someone when I find someone.” Yeah, right. “Besides, I'm perfectly happy being on my own.”

Pidge frowns. She doesn't believe him, but Keith doesn't care. He stands up from his chair and heads towards the snack table, picking up his black bass on the way. Behind him, he can feel Pidge's eyes burning holes into the back of his head, but it doesn't matter – he's made his point, and he plans to stick by it.

He isn't going to get himself hurt. Not if he can help it.

----

Apparently, Smokey Saturdays is a big deal.

You'd heard of them before, of course. The new rising rock group with the millions of fans, and the members who broke hearts. Lance McClain is their front-man, from what you've read. They're on tour for half the year. They perform in sold out venues, and have paparazzi snapping pictures of them from behind bushes when all they want to do is go out to eat.

And apparently, you're their new bus driver.

It's an embarrassing comparison, you have to admit, but you have to pay the bills somehow. You're broke, you've got a drivers licence and an abundance of free time – so why not? When you applied for the job, you didn't think you would actually get it – and yet here you are now, standing in front of a massive black bus with the words 'SMOKEY SATURDAYS' written in red down the side of it. Plastered amongst the red lettering is a picture of the four members, an action shot that captures the sweat-soaked, good looking faces of each of them.

You have to bite your tongue to disguise your laugh.

“They might decide to stay in the hotel rooms,” Bruce, the owner of the bus, explains as he waves his massive hand across the exterior of the vehicle. “But there's beds in there for them, the fridge is kept full, there's a lounge area. The whole heap.”

You nod. “Right.”

“You can just stay up the front. Your job is to get them from point A to point B in time for their shows – not difficult to understand, is it?”

“It is not.”

“So do you understand what you have to do?”

He's talking to you like you're five years old. You're too busy staring at the faces of Smokey Saturdays to call him out on it. So, you slowly nod, hoping that is a sufficient enough answer for him to understand that he does not need to explain this job to a person who has been doing it for nearly a year and a half now.

Bruce smiles, gives you a cheery thumbs up before he wades off in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with his so-called pride and joy – his tour bus.

You step inside. It's not like you have a particular fondness for vehicles – you certainly don't. Most of the time, you can't even tell one car brand from the other, let alone admire them for anything other than surface level stuff. You can appreciate a nice bonnet, can comment on how nice a cars wheels are, but that's about as deep as your love for vehicles really goes.

You honestly just needed the money, and this job showed up on Indeed.com, and you applied for it. They saw you had a drivers licence and seemed to think you were a suitable candidate for the job, and here you are a year and a half later, parading one of the worlds biggest rock bands around the country.

The interior of the bus is leather – already off to a bad start.

Behind the drivers bay is an entire house. That's really what it looks like; bunk beds, sofas, a toilet in the back, a tiny little kitchen area that is blocked off only with an old shower curtain that's on the verge of falling off. There's cups hung up on the wall, and you make a mental note to go over every single pot hole you come across, just to see if the cups hold.

And placed on the coffee table that is nailed into the floor is a Smokey Saturdays poster.

You walk over and pick it up. The poster is the four of them lounging around a music studio, Lance holding a microphone with his hair spiked up, Hunk leaning against a drum kit, Pidge lounging across a sofa with a bass pressed against her knees.

And then there's Keith, leaning against the door in the background with his head down and his bass leaning against his long, slim legs that are hidden beneath a pair of too-tight black skinny jeans. There's a rip in the knee, revealing a bit of pale skin. His black hair is falling in his eyes with the way his head is down, and you wonder if he still has a mullet.

Keith is attractive, you will fully admit.

You've never been the type to latch on to the boy-band-type. You like a celebrity more for their music than anything else, but you would be a liar or a fool to claim that Keith Kogane does not have a side of good looks to him. Though you don't know too much about him, you've seen the posters. You've seen the album covers. You've seen the screenshots taken from interviews, where he's casually gazing at the floor, tapping at his leg, lounging against the chair as Lance and Hunk and Pidge take the reigns; he's just got that casual aura about him, and adding that to the black clothes and the cheeky little smirk he wears when he gets a compliment – god, he knows how to make his audience go insane.

Not like you're part of his audience. You're just his fucking bus driver.

You head back to the drivers bay and sit down. Pulling the keys from your pocket, you set them on the dashboard before finally turning to the radio. There's an array of buttons, all of which you know the meaning of – but you immediately go for the radio. Of course, Bruce – being the kiss-up he is – has already put the Smokey Saturdays album inside, meaning it is Lance's voice that immediately blasts from the speakers.

You don't even bother turning it down. If Bruce was telling the truth, then Smokey Saturdays won't even be out of their photoshoot for another twenty minutes, meaning you have a glorious amount of time to just lean back and enjoy the ambience of your new travel-buddy.

You lean your head back against the leather seat, listening to Lance's melodic voice. Even though he's the front-man, you can't help but zone in on the bass guitar in the background, Pidge and Keith working in perfect sync, as they always seem to do. Hunk's drums pull the whole thing together.

They're actually quite good.

It doesn't take long for you to find yourself nodding along to the beat, letting the album play on Shuffle so you can get a taste for each of their songs. Though they call themselves a rock group – and there's definitely a rock element to each song – there's a wide range of emotions that hit you all at once. There's sad songs, slow songs, fast paced songs, songs that sound more electric than anything else.

It's quite a journey.

The fifth song is playing when someone clears their throat beside you.

Your eyes snap open. Your body lurches, fingers immediately slamming into the radios OFF button.

You spin round, and are met by those weird violet eyes that every teenage girl across the UK seems to be obsessed with.

Keith Kogane can not look any less rock star right now.

He's stood in the door of the bus, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. His eyes are downcast, though he flicks them up every now and then before looking away when he so much as makes a second of eye contact with you. His ankles are crossed, his shoulder pressed into the door frame, and his mullet is real.

His. Mullet. Is. Real.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice sounds flat. Good. Make him think you don't give a fuck, even though he's just caught you jamming out to one of his songs.

He smiles awkwardly, without teeth. “Hi.”

“I didn't expect you to be here for another twenty minutes.”

“Yeah. The others are getting their make up off.”

“Oh right.”

Keith gestures vaguely to his face. “I – uh – just kept mine on. I need a nap.”

You nod. Are you supposed to say something to that? Does he perhaps want you to give him the Grand Tour of the tour bus?

You stand up and gesture vaguely. “Well, go crazy.”

Keith nods. You two seem to be doing a lot of nodding. It's the only way you can communicate without thinking you're somehow messing up.

He stares at you for a second longer before shrugging and heading towards the bunk beds. Over his shoulder is a single rucksack, and you have the sudden urge to ask him how he's going to survive for the next five months with nothing but a small rucksack worth of belongings.

Then you watch him shrug his leather jacket off and get into bed wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and you think that maybe the answer isn't as difficult as you might have originally thought.

You hollow out your cheeks once he's pulled the curtain over his bed and disappeared from view – great. Your first day on the job and already you've embarrassed yourself. In front of Keith Kogane, to make matters worse. The nations god damn sweetheart.

You slump back in the drivers seat and grumble under your breath. He didn't even seem that nice. He just looked weirded out. Maybe he was just tired.

Or maybe he's an asshole.

You really, really don't want to be dealing with an asshole for the next five months.

-----

Keith is running late.

Yet again.

He tries to keep his schedule clear and concise, but he has learned that is impossible when you live the life that he does; nothing ever goes to plan, and that's something he needed to learn sooner rather than later.

He'd woken up a few minutes late, but god, did Lance really have to start screaming in his ear because of a tiny bit of oversleeping? Now, Keith struggles to shrug his leather jacket on with one hand, the other busy running through his mullet in his attempts to flatten it down, because there's no way in hell he's going to get time for the bathroom this morning.

“We're already here!” Lance yells through the bus. “Y/N, location!”

Keith frowns. Y/N?

“Canduke Studios!” a voice yells back. A voice Keith vaguely recognises.

He straps his belt buckle into place, snatches his bass guitar up and darts to the front of the bus, where his band mates are already lined up waiting for him.

“Took you long enough,” says Lance. “We've got an interview today, then sound check, then the show and then the meet-and-greet at the end.”

Keith nods, too busy fiddling with the straps of his guitar case to really pay much attention to whatever shit Lance is spewing this time – he goes over the schedule before every single show, as if that schedule has a chance of ever staying the same. Something will show up and change it completely. Keith just knows it.

The four of them march out of the bus and are immediately met by the screams of fans who have no doubt been waiting outside the studio for days. Word was going round on Twitter a few nights prior, and there was no doubt in Keith's mind that the dedicated people currently calling his name have suffered through the bad London weather and camped out just for him.

He feels a little bit guilty, considering the only thing he can really do to thank them is put on a great show and wave as he walks past.

One of the girls makes a grab for his leather jacket. Keith smiles at her, even as fear bubbles in his veins. A security guard magically appears at the side of him and swats the girl away, and Keith is forced to listen as she wails his name.

“It's a bit hectic out here today, isn't it?” Hunk asks, leaning close. Hunk always gets a little panicked in public situations – Keith loops his arm through his friends and tugs him close.

“It's okay.”

“You sure?” Hunk glances over his shoulder. “They look dangerous. Those barriers don't look like they're gonna hold.”

Keith follows Hunk's gaze and immediately winces, because the bigger man is right. Behind him, the girls are knocking at the metal barriers, arguing with security and police alike, looking like they're really not going to take 'no' for an answer this time. One of the girls catches Keith and Hunk looking back at her and immediately throws herself into the outstretched arms of a police officer, screaming their names.

Keith tugs Hunk a little harder. “It'll be fine.”

They enter the studio and are led down the hall to the room in which they'll be doing the interview. The interviewer is a tall man called Donny who has a thick Yorkshire accent; Keith decides then and there that he won't be participating too much in this interview, considering he has to stop and ask Donny to repeat himself every two seconds; Lance is the best with accents, so he'll leave him to it.

Keith sits down, puts his bass guitar behind him and digs inside his pockets. Hunk, Pidge and Lance go off to get their make-up done, but Keith's make up takes about two minutes, so there's no rush. He can calm down, cool off from the hectic morning he's already been subject to. He hates being woken up by Lance's overreactions, but it seems to be a more and more common occurrence recently. Keith can hardly blame the guy, of course – Lance was the one who set this whole thing up in the first place. He just wants the band to get bigger, and he doesn't want Keith oversleeping getting in the way of that.

Nonetheless, it's a bit annoying.

Keith searches for his phone in the pockets of his leather jacket. He finds his keys, a packet of gum, a picture of his dad and his dog Kosmo. He even finds a piece of string he'd tied around Pidge's finger once to see how long it would take till the lack of blood flow made her finger numb.

But no phone.

He groans. “Hey, Pidge?”

“Hm?” she calls back, lips clamped shut as the make-up artist applies some black lipstick.

“Did you see me lift my phone off the charger this morning?”

“Mate, I didn't see anything this morning. You think you're the only one Lance harassed?”

Keith sighs and stands up – alright then. This is fine. Just because nothing has gone quite to plan this morning, does not mean the rest of his day is being set up for disaster. He just needs to keep a positive attitude and take it one step at a time.

The first step, however, is him retrieving his phone from the bus.

He doesn't even ask his manager if he can leave. He just walks back down the halls of the studio, ignoring the awestruck glances of the people working around him, and strolls right out the front doors.

Sometimes Keith forgets he's a worldwide known musician.

The fans immediately start screaming, startling him out of whatever daze his lack of sleep and lack of positivity had driven him into. He jumps, looks up just in time to see the police basically crumble to the ground as the fans dart towards Keith in a frenzy.

It's a fucking mob if Keith has ever seen one.

His first reaction is just instinct – he runs. He runs and he runs and he's dodging hands and trying to remain so, so polite but holy shit someone's just tried to grab his hair, and holy shit they're going to trample each other, and holy shit he was so stupid for thinking this was a good idea.

He didn't even think.

He heads directly towards the bus, ignoring the fans screams. He loves his fans – he really does – but he doesn't love crowds. He doesn't love frenzies. He doesn't love the risk of being crushed beneath a bunch of people who love him so much that they're willing to risk everything just to get close to him.

He stampedes up the steps of the bus, hits the OPEN button and throws himself inside.

“CLOSE THE FUCKING DOORS!” he wails.

Your head shoots up, but you listen nonetheless. Keith has to give you props on your quick reflexes.

The doors slam shut just seconds before the fans ram into the glass.

He pulls the privacy curtain over and falls to the floor, trying to catch his breath before he passes out.

“Alright then.” You slowly stand up. “Should I – like – call the police or something?”

Keith waves a dismissive hand. “They'll tire themselves out.”

“Right.”

He looks up from the ground, trying for a smile, but he's certain he just looks scared. Your eyebrows shoot up – that's enough confirmation for Keith. He sighs and slumps back against the wall, running his hands through his hair.

“Sorry,” he says, but he isn't sure why.

You nod. Keith remembers you did that a lot yesterday.

“Do you mind if I stay in here for a little while?”

You gesture towards the lounge. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa es tu casa.”

“Right. Uh. Gracias.” Keith pushes himself from the ground and flops onto a sofa instead. You continue staring at him, hovering awkwardly in the drivers bay. He kind of wants to ask you to mind your business, but then he remembers that you've just played a big part in the reason he isn't currently crushed beneath the weight of about fifty people, so he bites his tongue.

Instead, he says, “So you just stay in this bus all day and wait for us to finish?”

“Something like that,” you reply. “It's all good, though. I read a lot.”

“Oh.”

You clear your throat. “And I – uh – listen to the radio sometimes, too.”

Keith nods, picking at a loose thread on the pillow beside him. “Yeah, I heard that yesterday. You were listening to our second album.”

“Was I?”

“I think so.” He points at his head. “They get muddled up sometimes.”

“I'm sure that's a sign of dementia.”

Keith's lip twitches. “Fuck, I hope not.”

It goes silent. It's kind of awkward. Keith shifts on the sofa, bites his lower lip, looks at the floor because what else is someone supposed to do when they're stuck on a tour bus with an absolute stranger? What kind of things are you even meant to talk about in this situation?

You lean against the drivers bay and narrow your eyes. “Are you not gonna get in a shit ton of trouble if you don't get to your interview?”

Keith shrugs. “They'll put my safety first, I think.”

“You don't sound so sure.”

“No, no. Pidge and Hunk will definitely put my safety first – Lance might try and stab me when he gets back, but he'll come round eventually.” Keith pauses. “Hopefully.”

You slowly walk into the lounge. Keith stiffens on the sofa, suddenly afraid of you sitting beside him, but you instead take a seat across from him. He admires the way you so casually lounge against the cushions, propping your head on your hand, looking at him like he's a person and not just a rock star.

“How long is it gonna take for that crowd to clear out?”

Keith frowns. “It usually takes about. . . ten minutes, fifteen minutes. Depends how many police are on the scene.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Depends on how many police are left. I'm pretty sure poor Officer Baldy's broken his leg.”

Keith winces, and before he can think better of it, he leans over and yanks at your hand, tugging you away from the window. You slump back against the sofa, an amused grin now forming on your face.

Keith groans. “Don't do that.”

“I was just having a look. They don't care about me.”

“They'll get your picture, and then it's over for all of us.”

“Oh, yes. Scandalous. Who would have thought that Smokey Saturday's bus driver would be in the tour bus! I wonder what they've been doing this whole time!”

Keith gives you a blank look. “Ha.”

You grin. “So we're just gonna stay in here until the police come and get you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Awfully boring.”

“Better than getting trampled.”

You pause.

Keith raises a brow.

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I guess so.”

“You're not one of them teenagers who love the idea of death, are you?”

You guffaw, placing a clawed hand over your heart. “First of all, I'm an adult. Second, there's nothing wrong with being prepared for death. It's when you wish it upon yourself that it becomes an issue.”

“Was that meant to be philosophical?”

“I took psychology in university.”

Keith raises a brow. “And now you're a bus driver.”

You shrug. “Gotta pay the bills somehow.”

There's a little sad note to your voice when you say this, and Keith doesn't want to dwell on it, because he barely even knows who you are, but huh. It makes him feel something. He looks at you, and he genuinely thinks he kind of wants the best for you – just because you've shown him this ounce of normalcy for a few minutes.

He pulls his feet up onto the sofa, swinging one arm behind his head. “Did you want to do something with psychology, then?”

You start, clearly not expecting Keith to dwell further on the fun little fact you'd thrown into the conversation earlier. However, Keith feels like it would be a disservice to let this opportunity go to waste – the opportunity to get to know you a little better.

“I guess,” you reply. “I mean, I left university not even knowing what I wanted to do, so I don't really know. I think I just wanted to – like – survive.”

Keith nods. “A good goal to have.”

“I definitely didn't want to be a bus driver.”

He glances at you. “Do you not like your job?”

You shrug. “It's meh.”

Keith doesn't really understand that. His job isn't meh. He's never had a meh job before, because he's been blessed with the life he's always dreamed of. Nonetheless, he's seen people like you before, people who take what they can get. They settle for the bare minimum for the rest of their lives, not even taking into consideration that perhaps there's something better for them out there, something more.

Keith would have been one of those people if Lance hadn't dragged him into his makeshift band when he was only seventeen years old. Keith would have been rotting away in some rickety old house, just Kosmo there to keep him company.

But no. Keith is living his dreams, travelling the world, performing on stage every single night with three of his four best friends.

He smiles.

A pillow hits him in the face.

Keith yelps, throwing the pillow down to glare daggers in your direction.

You blink. “You were smiling at nothing.”

“Did you really have to do that?”

“I thought you were having a stroke, Keith.”

He narrows his eyes. “So you threw a pillow at me?”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. “I took psychology, not medicine.” There's a pause, and then, “When are you performing?”

“The show starts at eight,” Keith replies. He glances at the clock hung on the wall, immediately winces when he sees what time it is; the interview would have definitely started by now, meaning Lance is probably sitting there with that awkward, strained smile on his face, trying not to completely lose his head over the fact that Keith is nowhere to be seen.

Already Keith can picture the scolding he's going to get when his other band mates get back. There's going to be very little mercy shown tonight.

“You're doing it again.”

Keith's eyes snap up. “What?”

“That thing.” You gesture to Keith's face. “You're zoning out again.”

“Sorry.”

“It's not a bad thing. I just – you know. . . There's two of us in here. It would be nice if you could share your thoughts so I'm not left thinking you're going to kill me.”

Keith knows he should laugh – that was a joke. Definitely a joke, but Keith can't bring himself to feel anything other than pure disappointment. Disappointment towards himself, because he promised himself he would put his career first, and yet here he is, letting his fans down again.

He hates when his thoughts get like this. In the back of his mind, he knows he's not the one to blame. He can hardly help it if there's a dangerously large swarm of people outside the tour bus. He can hardly help the fact that he won't be able to move without the risk of getting trampled.

But still. He doesn't want to make the fans sad. He should be sat in that studio now, talking about his celebrity crushes and his plans for the next album – not sat here with a stranger.

You shift, and suddenly you're sat beside him. You keep your distance, though you lean forward in your attempts to catch his eye. Keith bites his lip and looks away; he doesn't know how good your analysis of other people is. He doesn't want to run the risk of you seeing his guilt.

“You feel guilty.”

Keith silently curses.

“Hey, that's not cool,” you continue, shifting a little bit closer to him. “None of this is your fault, dude.”

“I know that,” Keith grumbles, because lying is so much easier than sounding like a complete wimp.

And maybe its your psychology degree that makes you so good at picking up on deceit, but you don't let the subject drop as easily as Keith would like. “I'm not just saying that to – like – get in your pants or anything. I'm not like that.”

Keith's eyes widen. “I never said-”

“I mean, I know you're a big rock star and you have the nice hair, and you dress in all black, but I'm being serious when I say none of this is your fault. You can't help that them fans went batshit crazy.”

“Lance isn't gonna see it like that.”

“Lance can suck a dick.” Your eyes widen. Even Keith swings round, an amused grin bursting to the surface before he can even fully comprehend it.

You shake your head. “Please don't tell him or Bruce I said that.”

Keith snickers. “I won't.”

“You know what I'm trying to say though, right?”

Keith pauses. “You were trying to be comforting, weren't you?”

“I tried my very best.”

“Well, it worked.” Keith shrugs. “A little, I guess.”

You grin. “Good. Now, how about we play a game of Monopoly whilst we wait for the police to get their shit together?”

----

Keith is surprisingly good at Monopoly.

He's also surprisingly competitive.

He sits on the other side of the coffee table, legs folded beneath him, his head in his hands as he gazes out over the tiny plastic empire he's been building for the past ten minutes. His lower lip is raw from the abuse his teeth have given it. You're fairly certain you can see steam rising from the top of his head.

“I don't want to sell my property,” he mumbles.

“It's an important move to make.”

“I know. I know that. It's just . . . . god, that's 50k per turn that I'm losing. I don't know if I can afford that.”

You slap your hand against the table. “What the fuck do you mean? Your bank account is bloody thriving right now! You have six other properties!”

“But this is my best one!” Keith raises a hand. “You know what, you're just trying to distract me. Shut up and let me decide-”

“No. No, you're taking far too long, and it isn't fair. Give me the dice.”

Keith's eyes shoot up. He snatches the die from the middle of the table and presses it into his chest. “You're not allowed your go until I've made up my mind.”

“Then make up your mind!”

“Don't fucking rush me!”

“Keith Kogane, I swear to god, I have properties to look after as well, and I'm three steps away from Go, so if you-”

“Do you think real estate is a joke?”

You flip the Monopoly board.

Keith cries out as the pieces slap him in the face and crumble in his lap. Paper money litters the tour bus floor. The Chest cards disappear beneath the nailed down sofas.

You stand up, trailing your hands through your hair. “I had to. I had to. You gave me no choice.”

Keith raises his hands above his head, his jaw open. He can't break his eyes away from the wreckage of his plastic village. “Y/N...”

“You gave me no choice!” you exclaim, desperate to defend yourself. “I had properties to care for as well, Keith, and you were fully prepared to sit there and make me watch them crash and burn!”

Keith stood up. “You're a murderer. An actual murderer.”

You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. “Give me a break.”

“Another round,” he demands. “I want another round right now. I want my houses back.”

“You're not getting your houses back. I'm not playing another round with you.”

“Why? Scared I'm gonna take the lead again?”

“No! I'm not scared of anything.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Then you'll play another round.”

“No. Neither of you are gonna be playing another round.”

And suddenly, you can hear a pin drop.

You know who it is before you've even turned around. You continue to stare at Keith, but his eyes have long since flicked away from you, darting over to the now open door of the bus where Lance and no doubt everyone else stands waiting for you to notice them.

You slowly turn around, flashing Lance a smile that he does not return. Behind him, Hunk and Pidge are awkwardly scratching the back of their necks. You're fairly certain they're trying to blend in with the walls or something, as they are making it exceptionally clear they do not want to be here whilst Lance scolds Keith.

Because he is definitely going to scold Keith, if his face is anything to go by. Furrowed brows, flared nostrils, tanned arms folded over his chest.

“This is what you were doing whilst we were in that studio trying to come up with an excuse as to why you weren't with us?” Lance says. He's keeping his voice quiet, but you can hear the waver in his tone, the way he's trying to keep himself as calm as possible.

“There was a mob,” replies Keith. “Y/N and I thought we might as well play a bit of Monopoly while we wait for the police to sort it out.”

“The police sorted it out fifteen minutes ago, Keith,” Pidge mumbles.

Keith pauses. “What?”

“The mob was controlled fifteen minutes ago,” Lance confirms. “We were waiting for you to come out of the bus and join us, but it looks like you had more important things on your mind.” Lance raises a brow, points between you and Keith. “So how long has this been going on?”

You splutter. “What?”

Keith waves his hand in the air, stepping forward. He pushes Lance back a little bit, and you can just barely make out the amused grin forming on Lance's face at the sight of Keith's suddenly flustered state. “No. No, don't even start. You've got this twisted.”

“Wait.” Lance pops his head around Keith's shoulder. “You two aren't together?”

Hunk snickers. “You seem awfully close.”

“You're acting like a bunch of ten year olds,” Keith growls. “Look, I'm sorry I missed the interview – it was a one-time thing. I swear. But the only thing we can do now is move on, get to sound check and put on the best damn show to kick off the tour. Right?”

“You know I have the bunk above yours, right?” says Lance. “If you two want to get it on, I expect you to go into the hotel to do it.”

Your stomach curls. Quickly, you slip past Keith and his band mates and make your way back to the drivers bay, no longer wanting to be part of this conversation; had the crowd really been controlled fifteen minutes ago? How had neither you nor Keith noticed that?

You slump down in the drivers seat and turn the radio on. The band will be ready to move in a few minutes, so at least you'll have something to keep your mind occupied whilst they're out there teasing Keith over something that honestly isn't worth teasing him about; you two are just friends.

In fact, even the word friends seems like a bit of a stretch. He's a rock star, and you're a bus driver – you are on two separate planets.

You just happened to play a game of Monopoly together to pass the time. Where's the harm in that?

---

“You told me you didn't plan on getting into a relationship.”

“Shut up, Pidge. It's been two weeks.”

“Yeah, two weeks where you and Y/N have barely stopped talking. I've never seen you this chatty with anyone.”

Keith rolls his eyes; his band mates are so immature sometimes. Yes, he loves each of them more than words will ever be able to explain, but there continuous insistence over Keith's love life is starting to get under his skin.

He made a promise, both to himself and to his fans, that he would not be in a relationship any time soon. He doesn't have time for a relationship. He isn't really in the correct mindset for a relationship right now. And yes, he can't deny that you're nice, and your personality clicks with his almost perfectly, and you make him laugh more than anybody has ever done before-

But that's not enough. That doesn't change the fact he's currently on tour. That doesn't change the fact he barely has time for himself, let alone another person.

He plucks at the string of his bass. “You're all a bunch of nosy bastards.”

Pidge pushes herself up onto her knees. She's sat on the sofa across from Keith, the two of them being the only ones currently occupying the hotel room. Hunk and Lance decided to stay on the bus; the longer Keith is stuck in this room with Pidge, the more he's starting to see the sense in their decision.

“Tell me this,” she says.

“No.”

“Do you like this person?”

Keith pauses.

Pidge leans forward. “Well?”

“We get along,” Keith admits. He's treading on thin ice here. He doesn't want these rumours to continue. “We have. . . good conversations.”

“Mm.” Pidge slowly leans back, keeping her eyes firm on Keith. It makes him uncomfortable. “I hope you know you're blushing.”

Keith looks away. “It's hot in here.”

“It really isn't.”

“Can you just drop it?” Keith snaps. “I swear to god if things get awkward between me and Y/N because you lot can't mind your own business-”

“You just cherish their friendship so much-”

“Yes!” The word bursts from him before he can stop it, and he knows exactly what it sounds like, and there's really no coming back from it, but he means it. He really does mean it. It's been two weeks since you and Keith started talking, two weeks of tour, two weeks of him sitting up the front of the bus with you, eating Strawberry Laces straight out of the bag as you and him share stories of times neither of you will ever be able to relate to. He cherishes those moments, after shows when you meet him at the doors of the bus and ask him how it all went, and he wishes wishes wishes he could just ask you to go to the next show so you can see for yourself, but he never invites you because what if it sounds like he's asking you out?

Pidge goes silent. So does Keith, unwilling to take the confession back but even more unwilling to dwell on it.

Pidge clears her throat. “Oh. Right then. Sorry. I didn't mean. . . . You know I love you, right? You're like my brother.”

Keith mutters something under his breath.

“I just want you to be happy, that's all. I get worried when you. . . when you get that attitude, you know? The fuck the world attitude you seem to favour nowadays. You may think it's cool, but it's just worrying sometimes.”

Keith shrugs, slumping further down in his seat. He plucks another low string on his bass guitar, cringes at how out of tune it is.

“But Y/N looks like they make you happy,” she continues. “And I promise, none of us are going to get in the way of that. At least, not on purpose.” She smiles sheepishly. “Who knows? Maybe they like you back.”

Keith groans. “I don't-”

Pidge raises a hand, silencing him. “I wasn't trying to start anything. I'm just saying.”

Keith lets the subject drop after that. He stays curled up on the love seat whilst Pidge crawls into her bed and goes to sleep – she's always been good at falling asleep fast. Though she has a habit of pulling all-nighters, she's definitely not an insomniac.

Keith isn't an insomniac, either. He's just an over-thinker, and that's the only thing that keeps him awake. He lowers the amplifier to it's lowest volume and sits up for another few hours, gazing out the windows because he refuses to close the curtains just yet – he can see the bus parked outside, you no doubt sleeping in one of the bunk beds at the back. Keith hates the fact that's where his mind goes, but he doesn't try fighting it off – it's too late for that. His brain can't handle that kind of denial at this time of night.

So, he lets himself think, and think, and think, until the sun is peeking up over the horizon and suddenly his eight hours of potential sleep has dwindled to three hours, and then two. He finally falls asleep, knowing he's meant to wake up in an hour and a half, but not really minding, because at least he'll get to see you when he finally rises.

-----

“'Keith Kogane talks about staying single in latest interview with Rolling Stones!'” you announce as soon as Keith steps foot into the drivers bay. You've been waiting on him for the past hour and a half, flicking idly through one of the magazines Bruce provided for you in his last care package. Of course, the majority of it includes Smokey Saturday merch and magazines – you once would have complained, but this particular issue of Rolling Stones is one you're quite interested in.

Keith freezes in the door. He's sweating, a fluffy towel draped over his shoulders. He narrows his eyes when he sees you, to which you simply raise a brow and wave a hand, urging him to explain.

He shrugs. “I want to stay single. Where did you get that?” He snatches a Strawberry Lace out of the packet you have opened on the dashboard.

“Bruce sent it to me,” you reply. “That's a bit of a sad headline, isn't it?” You cup your ear. “If you listen closely, you can make out the sound of millions of hearts shattering-”

Keith snatches the magazine out of your hand and slumps down on the seat next to you. “Gimme that.”

“Have you not seen it yet?”

“I don't really make it a priority to read these things any more. They just put me in a bad mood.” He shows you the picture they used for the article; it's Keith leaning against his amplifier, his head down in his usual, mysterious fashion, hair in his face. If you didn't know of him, you wouldn't even know it was Keith in the picture, considering they hardly ever show anything more than his famous black locks draped over his forehead. “Do you see that picture? That was my least favourite picture we took, and they chose it to be the one everyone sees when they open the article.”

“Hunk said he was holding back a sneeze in the picture they used for him.”

Keith scoffs. “Hunk always looks like that. I, on the other hand, have the potential to look good.”

“Well....”

Keith shoots you a glare. You raise your hands in mock surrender.

“Yes, you're right. Fabulous. You look fabulous.” Keith grunts and looks back down at the magazine. Slowly, you lean in. “Is there a particular reason you want to stay single?”

The question is a risky one. Your feelings for Keith have undeniably grown these past few weeks, but you've successfully managed to squash them down into nothing. However, reading that article left you no other choice but to just ask – just ask. Just get the answer from him, and if he says it's true, and he gives you a valid reason for his feelings, then you'll back away. You'll be able to tell yourself there's absolutely no hope and move on before things get even deeper.

Keith chews his tongue. He looks like he's thinking, eyes never leaving the glossy paper. His jaw ticks.

“Has anyone ever used you for your money?”

You flinch back. That certainly wasn't the response you'd been expecting. “Uh....”

“Not even just your money,” he hastens to add. “You're gorgeous. Has anyone used you for your looks? Or maybe they've seen something you have that they don't, and they use you to get to it?”

“Uh....”

“It's not a good feeling.” He closes the magazine and sets it on the dashboard, his boots following suit. Usually you'd scold him from putting his feet up like that, but you're at a loss for words at the moment. “It really puts a damper on the whole experience of falling in love. I don't even wanna risk it any more.”

You pause. “Someone used you for money?”

“Multiple people have used me for money,” he confirms. “Money, fame, to get one of the others. It's just. . . happened too many times. I'm not really keen on risking it again.”

“How is that a good way to live life?” you ask before you can think better of it.

You know it's none of your business. Keith doesn't have to explain himself to you, and you certainly have no right thinking you have a say in whatever plans Keith has for his future.

Keith looks at you, raising a brow. “It's the safe way of living life.”

“Are you not lonely?”

“No. I have my band mates. I have my fans.”

“Yeah. Okay.” You nod. You understand that – not everyone needs a romantic partner to feel accompanied in life, but there's a difference between comfortably going through life without an interest in love, and avoiding it because of a bad experience.

“I don't know why you're chastising me,” he says suddenly. “I never see you with anybody. You just sit in this bus all day and melt.”

You should probably be offended.

“I'll have you know, I don't actually have a partner at the minute, but it's not because I've got trust issues.”

“I haven't got trust issues.”

“So what would you call it?”

“Self care.”

“You're scared of getting hurt. You think every person you meet is out to get you.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Your psychology major is showing again.”

“I'm serious!”

“So am I!”

“I think you'd make a great boyfriend.”

You wince. Okay. Shit. You didn't think that one through at all.

Keith's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before you're standing up and stretching. Your arms very nearly hit off the overhead light, and your lower back cracks painfully with how quickly you twist. “Okay! I actually have some errands to do right now, so if you don't mind, I've had enough of your company for one day.”

Keith doesn't respond, simply shifts his legs so you can squeeze past him. You give him one final smile – anything to play off whatever mess you've just made – before stumbling down the steps of the bus and marching across the road, fanning yourself the entire way to the corner shop.

No. That did not just happen. You did not just say those words to Keith fucking Kogane.

Things like that only ever happen in movies, right? People don't actually blurt out cringy confessions like that, because most people in real life have a thing called common sense. Most people in real life have a thing called self awareness. Most people in real life have this thing where they can tell when someone likes them back, and Keith certainly wasn't giving off those vibes.

So why did you feel the need to say something so stupid?

You bump your head against the shelf of ramen noodles. How are you ever meant to go back to that bus and face him now? How are you ever meant to cover this up and make it seem like an innocent slip of the tongue?

It seems impossible. You've bloody doomed yourself.

----

Keith stares into space.

Fuck.

So this is it then. This is what it feels like when someone's plans get thrown out the window because of a single mishap. This is what happens when every single promise you make to yourself is suddenly broken, because you've just realised that those feelings you've been hiding away can no longer be ignored.

Keith actually has to deal with his emotions.

That's not something he's particularly good at.

Your words echo in his ears. You'd make a great boyfriend.

The thing is, Keith hears that almost every day, or at least a variety of that sentence. He reads it on Twitter, on his Instagram – hell, even people in real life will often come up to him and confess that they believe he would indeed be the perfect candidate for them, that their personalities match so well according to the Buzzfeed quiz they took the night before.

Keith is usually so quick to ignore those kinds of confessions, but hearing it from you. . . It feels real, somehow, more than an in-the-moment fan confession that usually just leaves him feeling uncomfortable and uncertain how to respond.

He actually feels as if he could respond.

He closes his eyes, digging the balls of his palms into the sockets as if that alone could help dispel the feelings bubbling to the surface. They were previously hidden behind some kind of trap door, but your confession opened the latch. Your confession is the reason he's feeling anything at all. You're the reason he isn't able to hold back any longer.

A knock sounds on the drivers bay. Keith doesn't look up.

“Where did Y/N go?” Lance asks. “And what's up with you?”

Keith spins round and stands up, already grabbing his leather jacket. “Did you see where they went?”

Lance presses his hands into Keith's shoulders. “Woah, dude. What's going on? Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine. I just need to know where Y/N went.”

“I don't know,” says Lance, before raising a brow. “But we have an interview in ten minutes. You didn't forget again, did you?”

Keith falters. Fuck. Now is really not the time to fill his schedule with pointless interviews.

He bites his lower lip and glares down at the floor. Lance chuckles.

“Y/N got you a little distracted?”

“Do I have to do this interview? Will it really be that bad if I just don't show up to this one?”

Lance frowns. “You didn't show up to the one in Canduke Studios. People are gonna start getting suspicious.”

Lance is right, of course, and Keith knows this. Nonetheless, he looks out the window towards the road in which you'd just run through, away from Keith and his silence, away from Keith and the confession that is teetering on the edge of his tongue.

But Keith has other priorities. He has a job. He has duties that he can't just abandon because he's had an epiphany that maybe – just maybe – feeling things for other people isn't such a bad thing.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods. Lance grins, swinging his arms round Keith's shoulders before leading him down the steps of the bus towards the studios.

---

Do the lights really have to be that bright?

Does there really have to be twenty people staring at him right now?

Does he really need this much make up on his face?

Keith dabs his forehead with a tissue and scowls when his foundation comes off with it. Now he's going to look like an absolute idiot when the camera turns to him.

It's been rolling for a number of minutes now, but Keith has done what Keith does best and hidden himself in the background. Hunk and Lance are sat in front of him; Pidge had thankfully taken the seat behind Lance, meaning Keith could easily hide his form behind Hunk's build. If he's lucky, you won't even be able to properly see him.

That is, until he gets addressed, which really doesn't take long. News of the mob from a few weeks ago still has not died down, and Keith is growing tired of the questions asking him if he's okay, if he's recovered from such a scarring event. The amount of times Keith has laughed it all and said it was no big deal is uncountable at this point.

“So, Keith,” the interviewer says. He's an elderly man, grey haired with circular glasses. He doesn't know the first thing about Smokey Saturdays, and perhaps that is why not a single question about their music has been asked. “You were recently part of the Rolling Stones interview we were talking about with Lance; your article caught the eye of quite a few people.” He waits. Keith pauses; is he meant to fill in the gap here?

“I saw that.”

The interviewer nods. “Tell me how you manage that. You know, the whole wanting to stay single thing. It must be pretty difficult when you have thousands of people throwing themselves at you every single day. Do you never look in the crowd and think you know what, I like the look of that one?”

Pidge snickers. Lance and Hunk are biting their lower lips to keep their own laughter at bay.

Keith kicks the bottom of Hunk's seat as subtly as he can before replying. “Nah, that's not really my thing.”

“No? So you were serious when you said you don't want a relationship?”

Keith opens his mouth to say yes, that's exactly what he meant, but his words falter. He remembers you, and suddenly he doesn't really know how to respond, which is weird because he's been trained for this. He spent weeks with his publicist, trying to perfect his responses to questions like this, going through media training that left his mind numb and his entire life feeling like a lie.

How could you just come around and undo all of that?

Keith doesn't know, but he doesn't have time to dwell on the specifics. The interviewer is expecting an answer. Keith can't just stare into space, he can't just stay silent, he can't just-

“I mean, I wouldn't mind a relationship. Like, I'm not against the idea.”

Pidge nearly falls from her seat.

Keith barrels on, gripping his arm rests so tight he's certain he's got no nails left. “When I did that interview, I was in a place where relationships just weren't the top of my priority list – and they still aren't. But I was a little bit angry at the fact I couldn't find the time to dedicate to someone else. I was a little angry at the fact I couldn't live a proper, adult life that includes things like falling in love, and one-night-stands and all that bullshit.” Keith shrugs. “But I think I realise now that you shouldn't make decisions like that on a whim. All it takes is finding the right person to change your mind.”

The interviewer blinks. The whole room goes quiet. Pidge is breathing so heavily that Keith genuinely contemplates sprinting back to the bus to retrieve her inhaler.

You might not even be watching the interview, which is the funny thing. Keith has just poured his heart and soul out – as best as Keith Kogane really can – and the only people who will hear it is the entire world, but not the person he wants.

He bites his lips and slumps back in the uncomfortable directors chair. “So yeah.”

“Wow,” the interviewer says. “It sounds like you've found someone special, Keith. Are we correct in assuming you've fallen in love?”

“No.”

The interviewer frowns. “So that all just. . . . came from the heart?”

Keith nods. It's the best he can do. He thinks he's going to throw up.

Lance sits up. “Okay, anyway! Did you know, Larry, that we actually have a brand new EP coming out at the end of the year...”

---

You stare at the TV.

You're crying.

It's so stupid. This whole thing is so god damn stupid. Why are you being so emotional? What right did you have to sit here and cry over something as stupid as heartbreak?

You push a pillow against your face, letting the tears sink into the fabric. Maybe you're just being overly emotional because of earlier on – you'd already eaten two cups of ramen to try and soothe your anxiety and regret, but it clearly wasn't enough. You'd then decided to just say fuck it – this was basically your bus. You can sit in the lounge if you want to. You can put your feet up on the coffee table if you want to and nobody is allowed to tell you otherwise.

So that's how you've ended up in tears, watching Smokey Saturdays live on the Larry Newman show.

And it really is live. Keith really said all of that on live television.

You turn it off once Lance starts going on about the new EP; you've heard it all before, considering it's all he talks about. Plus, after hearing Keith talk like that, you're a little bit jarred to say the very least.

You finish up your third cup of ramen and place the empty cup on the sideboard, ready to be taken to the bin when you next pass one. You pace the bus for a little while, because that's all you can think to do – there really is nothing else. Keith said it before – you just sit on this bus and melt, wait until they're finished living their lives so you can get on with your own. Apparently, all your life currently consists of is driving a world famous band around.

And the thing is, you don't even mind.

That's the crazy part. Once upon a time, you would have felt complete shame and embarrassment when you had to tell people this was your job, but now it's just. . . . a thing. You enjoy it. You can sit up front, listen to music, eat Strawberry Laces.

You can talk to Keith.

You close your eyes. You don't want to admit that that's a bonus, because it just sounds so sad. Your life has never been perfect, and you're still wasting your degree, and your parents would be shaking their head at you right now, but you're happy. You're genuinely, utterly happy.

Despite what the tears pouring from your eyes may suggest.

You hear the band making their way to the bus shortly after seven pm. It's dark now. The street lights are on, and when you look out the window, you nearly choke on your own tongue because Keith looks so good, even though his head is down and he's walking with a determined march in his step that you're not stupid enough to be oblivious to – you know exactly why he's walking like that. You know exactly what he plans to do for the rest of the night.

You tuck yourself into the drivers bay, hoping and praying he'll just walk past.

The doors of the bus open and the band walks in. Lance, Hunk and Pidge all yell a little “Hello Y/N!” over their shoulders before marching off to their designated bunks. Keith, on the other hand, pulls open your privacy curtain and says, “Can we talk?”

“Do we have to?”

“Can we go outside? Do you need my coat?”

“Is it cold?”

“A little bit.”

You snatch his leather jacket out of his hands and follow him down the steps of the bus. You might as well get this over with. The sooner, the better.

You shrug his jacket over your shoulders. The two of you stand on the pavement, the glow of the street lights illuminating his pale skin and his black hair, those violet eyes burning into the crown of your head as you make it a priority to keep your own eyes on the floor.

He sighs. “Did you watch the interview?”

“A bit of it.”

“Did you see the important part?”

“Yeah. Hunk balancing that tooth pick on his eyelash-”

“You know what I mean.” Keith pauses. “You saw it, right?”

You bite your bottom lip. That's really the only confirmation Keith needs.

He inhales shakily, scrubbing a hand against the back of his neck as if he's nervous. Him! As if he has anything to be nervous about.

“Sooo...,” he drawls. “I – uh – just want you to know that I changed my mind.”

“I gathered that.”

“And the only reason I changed my mind was because I met you and realised that missing out on this chance really isn't something I like the idea of.”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out once his words settle.

Your eyes snap up, jaw opening and closing, words on the brink of your tongue but not quite making it that far. Keith grins down at you, a smile you've never seen on his face before – he almost looks excited. Perhaps if you pay extra close attention, you'll be able to see him jumping up and down on the balls of his feet.

You take a single step back. “Wait, what?”

“I like you. A lot. More than – More than I think I have a right to, considering I've been going on for months about how I don't want a relationship.” He hollows out his cheeks. “I'm so sorry you had to put up with that.”

“Keith-”

“And I get it if you don't like me back. I'm not – I'm not one of those celebrities who thinks everyone should be honoured to be liked by me, because that's such a – a douche thing to do, but I just can't sit in that bus with you and pretend you're not the only person in my life right now outside of the band who makes me feel completely normal.”

This is happening so fast. He's talking so fast. Your heart is beating so fast.

“So – uh – yeah. Yeah.” He waves a hand as if to say Now that that's over. “Basically, the interview explained it all. I was a bit vague, but it was all about you, really. Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Anyway, it really is cold out here. We should probably get back-”

“You like me back?”

Keith blinks. “Yah.”

“Keith. I don't even . . . . You said all that about me?” It shouldn't be such a surprise; at the end of the day, you and Keith are trapped in a bus together for a good portion of the day. You two get along like best friends. He brightens your day, so why is it so hard to believe that you brighten his?

Nonetheless, your heart is beating at a million miles per hour and your smile is forming so fast you can't even think of stopping it. Keith looks at you, eyes tracing every inch of your face before his own smile appears, slightly lop sided and forever cheeky, but so, so perfect.

He cups your face. “You're smiling. That's a good thing, right?” He tilts your head side to side, pokes at the corner of your lip. “Right?”

“Right.” And then you throw your arms over his shoulders and pull him into you. The kiss is a little bit unpractised, and Keith stumbles a little bit, but then your back is pressed against a lamp post and his hand is on your waist, and your hand is trailing through his hair, and for once, nothing really seems out of place, even though everything is out of place and this is the most bizarre thing you've ever done in your life.

Keith laughs against your mouth. It's such an uncharacteristic thing for him to do that you're nearly convinced to pull away, but he presses his fingers deeper into the flesh of your waist and that idea quickly slips from your mind.

He pulls away first, only when he needs air. You could have gone for another minute, at least, but you'll tell him that another time.

He groans, bumping his forehead against yours. “Holy shit.”

“Romantic.”

“I'm sorry for being such a depressing bitch a few days ago.” His voice has dropped to a mumble. “I was just. . . so scared of getting hurt again.”

You stroke your thumb along his jaw line. He closes his eyes, nuzzles into your touch. “You don't need to apologise for that, Keith. But – like – just so you know, I don't want you for your money. I actually think you're quite a decent bloke.” You twirl your finger in his mullet. “And you've got a nice bit of hair, too.”

Keith pinches your waist. “I actually think you have a really nice bus, and you listen to our music.”

“Not all the time!”

“Every time you turn on that radio, there's a Smokey Saturdays album playing.”

“Bruce put that there.”

Keith pulls away and laces his fingers with yours. “Right. That's the excuse you're using now?”

“I actually hate your music.”

Keith drags you towards the bus. You stumble after him. “Mhm.”

“I'm serious.”

“Okay.”

“Keith, I swear to-”

209 notes · View notes

langwrites · 5 years

Text

LUMINA, ARNO, AND NAVIYD DISCUSS SEX, SEXUALITY, AND FAILED MARRIAGES

Side note: All of the adult characters here are sort of in their mid/late twenties. Naviyd is the oldest, then Arno, then Lumina.

Khalil is about five-ish and Lumina is pregnant with the twins Alastair and Oriana.

Lumina’s office, despite its overladen shelves of books and comfortable furniture strewn all around, lay in complete disarray. The three occupants had long since pushed all the chairs and the meeting table against the walls and spread rugs, blankets, and pillows here and there, resulting in a wide, flat meeting space inside of another. Though the rest of the decorations were still hers, the arrangement was more like a comfortable gathering inside a desert-living Mishik tent than a Kaltekan solar.

The reason for this was lying sprawled on the floor, feet close to the fire to stave off the Gabilan winter chill, and under at least three blankets. He was facedown in the gap between two pillows, arms pillowing his head as he buried his face against the rug. He was probably breathing.

It had been six months since Zahara and Naviyd’s marriage dissolved into bitter recrimination and hate. She and little Mitra were long gone. Shadows, really. Memories.

Naviyd coped in cycles. The ups and downs ran long, but not so long that there was no pattern. Naviyd could stave off the worst extremes by distracting himself with hobbies—architecture, astronomy, horseback archery, and more. Whenever he had the time, at any rate; raising his son, even with Arno and Lumina’s help, often left him asleep on top of whatever flat surface he found first.

Tonight was a… night.

At least Khalil was asleep on Arno. Lumina might have volunteered her lap on any other evening, but the twins she was carrying seemed determined to eliminate it from existence. Khalil gave up on that refuge weeks ago, once he realized he couldn’t fit no matter how he contorted. Besides, sitting on Arno meant the five-year-old could grab all the tiny honey-cakes whenever he wished.

He still had sticky fingers wrapped around one last, uneaten crust. When he snuffled in his sleep, Arno had to keep his hand from applying the sugar to his face.

“At least you took your shoes off before doing this,” Lumina said, because there didn’t seem much else to say into the silence of her best friend’s sulk. She nudged his side experimentally, but Naviyd didn’t budge.

“What do you take me for, a barbarian? I have standards,” Naviyd grumped.

“Do tell,” Lumina said, raising one skeptical eyebrow.

He grumbled into the pillows and didn’t answer. So much for an articulate evening, though Lumina frankly hadn’t expected much. She’d just have to be patient and outlast his moping.

It didn’t take very long. Arno had just finished putting together a pot of tea—without disturbing the sleeping Khalil—when Naviyd finally said, “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?” Lumina responded. She’d been occupied by shifting the pillows around her to more adequately support her back and wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

“Or, I suppose—when did you know we would not be together?”

Hardly clearer. “You and I, or you and her?”

“Both. Either.”

“Naviyd, as generous as you are, I would prefer not to share in your headache.” Lumina sighed, because it was already too late. The slight throb at her temples was bound to get worse as soon as she sat up properly, and cursing Naviyd for giving it to her was akin to closing gates after all the sheep were long gone.

“A burden shared is a burden halved,” said Arno, in the light, mild manner of someone paying no mind to the meat of the discussion. His attention was wholly occupied by trying to drape a blanket over Khalil without waking him.

Lumina threw a pillow at him before she could think better of it.

Arno caught it with his forehead, which meant it bounced off toward the bookshelves. With no beading, it neither left a mark nor made a sound. He shot a look at it over his shoulder, then said firmly to Lumina, “You will not be getting that back until you learn to treat it with respect.”

Lumina pursed her lips and tried to look dignified, knowing she’d fail even before Naviyd started snickering into his arms. Still, the tension in the room was neatly broken. She turned her attention to her best friend instead of her distracted husband, saying, “Did you want an answer to your question or to laugh at me?”

“Can’t it be both?” Naviyd wondered as he pushed himself up on his elbows, and mockingly quailed under her glare. “I surrender! Genuinely!”

Lumina held her glare for a split second longer, then snorted. There was no point in pretending to be angry. Still… “You had a question.”

“I did.” Naviyd sobered. He ran a scarred hand over his face and then his head in one neat sweep, which sent his curls into disarray. A few dropped far enough to block his left eye from view. As he settled again, he said, “You and I—I think, from the moment we met, neither of us were interested in the more physical pleasures. Unless I am wrong.”

“I almost split your skull with a spear. I should hope not.” But still, Lumina humored him. “No, you have the right of it. There is and was nothing between us. Inarguably less, then—we hated each other.”

“Perhaps ‘hate’ is a strong word. I thought you harmless, then reckless and dangerous together.” Naviyd shrugged, smiling faintly. “And then, later, admirable for your strength. Beauty came in a very distant fourth.”

“Rearrange the details several times, and you have my thoughts,” Lumina said. She rearranged the blankets next, covering her slightly swollen ankles. She was tall, and her twins carried low, but her center of balance was off and her joints knew it. “Apart from our friendship, none of it was beyond the bounds of my feelings toward any other man I’d met before.”

“Likewise,” Naviyd muttered. He rolled over with some difficulty, entangled in blankets and unable to quite complete the motion. Finally, he managed to get his shoulders flat against the floor, then went on, “Before meeting her, I never seriously contemplated taking a woman to bed.”

“And no men?” Arno asked, while pouring tea for each of the adults. Khalil could go without.

“No men,” Naviyd confirmed. He put both hands behind his head and said, “No one, really. Even when I was as grateful as I’d ever been to the both of you, for giving my life back to me when I’d assuredly lost it—no.”

Lumina eyed him. “So, your flirtations—”

“Sleeping with someone in a transactional sense is not difficult, especially for men,” Naviyd countered, “and the act itself is enjoyable, but that hardly makes it necessary. Most luxuries are the same, so…” He trailed off, gold-green eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “It never seemed important.”

Lumina and Arno both nodded along as he spoke. Since Arno went back to trying to pry the forgotten honey-cake from Khalil’s fingers, Lumina said, “I never felt I was denying myself anything. Did you?”

“No. I knew, broadly, that there were celibate orders and solemn vows for this or that,” Naviyd said. He sighed. “But I thought only that the people who took them were far too serious. It was like being asked to give up cream buns or peaches. Irritating in the moment, but otherwise easily ignored.”

Arno snorted with suppressed laughter, and Naviyd grinned at the joke landing where it was intended.

“You see? I can mock the entire edifice.” Naviyd’s expression settled into a smile, though faint. “Really, the amount of time people spend eroticizing food is just ridiculous. I can hardly help mocking it all.”

“I always thought of love as more… Oh, working together, appreciating each other,” Lumina cast about for an extra word, and ended up with, “raising a family. Love and being loved. I never especially thought of the process of making love as all that interesting once I understood what people meant. We raised pigs.” Her nose wrinkled and both of her companions laughed. Arno at least avoided the belly-laugh for which he was famous, which would have sent Khalil tumbling to the floor. “Hardly the subject of romantic poetry, but very educational.”

“Horses, for me,” Naviyd admitted, once he recovered.

“Goats,” said Arno. “And helping the nannies deliver many, many kids.”

Lumina covered her mouth to hide her laugh, but it failed. “The lessons of the farm are truly wide-reaching.”

“Best schoolroom I ever had,” Naviyd agreed, showing all his teeth. “Milking, too. Gods, we really are too practical for nobility. I can’t imagine what those would-be kings and queens think of us upjumped muck-rakers.”

“You needn’t wonder if you read more of my letters,” Lumina said, gesturing at the almost-forgotten desk at the far wall. “As is your supposed job.”

“I have yet to see a single wooden penny for it,” Naviyd sniped back. eHe threw his arms out, like an overturned turtle. “I cannot work under these conditions!”

“You live in my castle.”

“Which I designed and built!”

Arno laughed again, drawing their attention. “You two are quite the pair. A pair of thundersnows, perhaps.”

“Bright, flashy, loud, and unstable? What a compliment,” Naviyd replied snippily, but he was smiling still. “All lightning seeks the ground, Arno.”

“And I am as much earth as the mountain.” Arno tapped the stone floor—what was visible of it—with his knuckles. His hands, unlike Naviyd’s, were neat and unmarked. “Personally, Naviyd? Had you asked at the right moment, you might’ve been able to steal a kiss—but not my heart, I think.”

“I would hardly know what to do with it, besides frantically try to fit it back in your chest by force,” Naviyd said. He peered up at them, smile fading a bit. “Hearts are such slippery things.”

Lumina rolled her eyes. “It helps if you clean the blood off first.”

“And do what? Eat it?”

“Bait bears,” Arno suggested. Khalil drooled onto the blankets and rubbed his face, smearing honey despite Arno’s best efforts. He looked down with false dismay. “At least there are no more of the white beasts.”

“Would one of those eat someone?” Naviyd asked. He sounded morbidly curious.

“I’ve been told so.” Arno rolled one shoulder until it popped. “Back to the topic at hand, though. Or something like it.” He rubbed at his beard thoughtfully, then said, “Your wife.”

“No longer mine,” Naviyd corrected, more dull than defensive. He sighed. “Now, I can hardly name a thing I miss about her. My love died after hers—a single stroke instead of a thousand bleeding cuts. So she says.” He got one hand out from under his head and clenched a fist. Beneath them, the castle rumbled faintly. “I’ll never forgive her for taking Mitra from Khalil. They were born together. How could she tear them apart?”

“I don’t understand,” Lumina said, frowning.

“Call it a superstition. Twins—or triplets, even—ought not be separated by anything but fate or their own choices,” Naviyd said, shaking his head. “Had the two grown together and drifted apart like all siblings, I would not—I could be upset, but not like this. They come into the world together by the gods’ will. What they do with the bond is not for the hands of mortals.”

“Did Zahara know that?” Arno asked.

“I had hoped so,” Naviyd growled. “But what do I know of the Mishik who live and breathe Kaltekan influence? Less than I know of spite, apparently.”

Arno nudged Naviyd’s elbow with his foot. “Well? Out with it. What made her so angry that she would drive the knife in like that? Why would she spite the gods?”

“…It was my fault,” Naviyd admitted. His voice was low with shame. “I was just too thoughtless to understand before it was too late.”

Lumina and Arno exchanged looks, as long-standing friends could. Husband and wife were secondary roles. Then, Lumina said, “I can believe that. You have a long history of behavior that could anger any wife.”

“You could stand to develop some convenient forgetfulness.”

“Never.”

Naviyd sighed. “Fine, then. If you want the sordid detail, I suppose you can stand to hear it. You’re old enough.”

“I am four years younger than you are, old man.”

“Neither of you are thirty,” said Arno, “so kindly shut up.”

“It was slow,” Naviyd said, as though the other two hadn’t spoken. “I didn’t notice at first. Everything was so busy—the twins were born, we were still putting Gabilan together, the Tear was vomiting monsters all the damn time. I never did thank you for keeping me alive then, did I?”

“You did,” said Lumina. “But generally while half-asleep or very distracted.”

“Oh, good.” Naviyd nodded to himself, then went on, “And I didn’t—we came here with nothing but the clothes on our backs and your sister’s goodwill. And gold, I suppose, but you can hardly eat it when winter rolls in.”

“True,” said Lumina.

“But the difference was that I had you two. She had no one, because Lucky wouldn’t hear of leaving the capital or her…second? Whichever lover she’s on now, subtracting one.” Naviyd’s fist tightened. “No Ismene, who disappeared before the war was over. No Fiamma or anyone else. There were no Mishik besides us, even, until Keyah arrived. And Keyah does not count herself.” Naviyd blew out a harsh sigh. “She hated you, Lulu.”

Lumina frowned. “Because I was the one who chose to leave Celeste?”

“Because I followed you,” Naviyd corrected, “and separated her from everyone who made any sense to her.”

“Then she should have left you,” said Arno, quite sensibly.

Naviyd’s laugh was bitter. “She should have.”

Arno frowned at the agreement. He patted Khalil’s curls, even as he said, “It sounds to me like Zahara would have been happier somewhere else. As much as I love your children, no woman ought to put love—even capped by great sex—before her happiness.”

“So, that was a poor start. I still thought you were both very much in love,” Lumina pointed out, folding her hands over her stomach. If she pressed, she could almost feel the two heartbeats under hers. If she didn’t, she’d still be kicked in the kidneys on occasion.

“We were,” Naviyd readily agreed. “Caught up in each other. In being in love, I suppose. Passionate lovers, numb to all else.”

It was all gone and dead now, but Lumina remembered that first year or so. The two of them had been wild during the early days of their marriage.

“But none of it changed how little she talked to anyone besides me. She needed more,” Naviyd said. “And I could never give that to her. Nor could you, Lulu.”

Lumina shook her head slowly. “I…never did like her.”

Truth be told, Lumina’s unsociable nature never made her many friends, and Zahara shouldn’t have been forced to fight her way through that barrier at all. There ought to have been other options. Gabilan’s steady trickle of veterans, mages, and old soldiers hadn’t arrived then. Luxana was always better at the bright smiles and smooth words, even if she didn’t feel them. Even if she couldn’t spare any for her twin sister.

“Oh, she knew. We argued about you. Not at first, but later.” Naviyd scrubbed at his face again. “But, again, I spent almost all day with you, or Arno, or whoever else needed something when no one could be in three places at once. We were a triad, were we not? Corners to a triangle, lending stability everywhere we went.”

Lumina frowned again. “Yes…?”

“And then she carried the twins, and things were different.” Naviyd’s eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight. “She and I were always together. Prying me from her side would take a pickaxe, and I would fight the entire way. We were starting a family of our own! How could anyone not be as excited as we were?”

“I trusted children more than you with tools during those days,” Lumina agreed. “I remember.”

Arno’s silly little smile was fond. “You learned to play the lute for her.”

“And she laughed at me! Often. I was never good. My best songs are shouted.” Naviyd’s face softened with the memory. “Scouring the land for whatever she craved. Not well, but I found those godsdamned olives all the same.”

“Too bad she hated the pickled kind,” Arno put in.

“You don’t, though, so I call it a success.” Naviyd shrugged. “And the twins were born, and everything was perfect.”

Lumina thought back to the comment about Zahara’s hatred and had a guess where the story would lead. Nowhere good.

“But… After the flurry of the first two years—infancy, toddling, and then Khalil learning to speak—work demanded more. And I could hardly say no to more responsibility. If I turned you down, you would have had to deal with all of Lucky’s demands after her ascension…” Naviyd pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the ones after. I think this would-be emperor might actually last. Radovan can hardly kill someone when exiled to the frozen nethers of the world.”

“Personally,” Lumina put in. “Or for a second time, come to that.”

“He might try.” Arno didn’t look happy about the idea.

“And so, four years.” Naviyd reached out with one hand and grasped Lumina’s. “And all the venom came out in one burst.”

“Naviyd?”

“A thousand slights. A thousand missed moments. How many times did I turn her away because I’d been run ragged by the demands of governing a province? How many times did I come to you instead, because we worked shoulder to shoulder in everything?” Naviyd squeezed her hand. “By the end, she thought the only reason I was here—the only reason I’d trap her here—was because of you, Lulu.”

“She thought I’d stolen your heart from her,” Lumina concluded grimly.

“And so she’d tear mine out.” Naviyd closed his eyes. “If I’d been a better husband, I could have seen it and soothed her. I could have done so many things differently. But here we are. When she realized she could threaten me all she liked, and I’d not budge, she broke us both. Seemed…right.”

Lumina said, after letting the statement sink in, “She threatened to slit you open from navel to nosering in front of twenty witnesses.”

“And that failed. How about that.” Naviyd huffed. “Besides, divorce is supposed to involve at least three witnesses, a threat of violence, and at least one god. She got it over with quickly.”

“Did she really?” What little she knew of Zahara’s movements since leaving Gabilan did not paint a lovely picture. She seemed to spend more time with her rising band of pirates than with any child. It was more in line with those last few, bitter days than the years before.

Naviyd couldn’t know if Mitra was even still alive.

“No. But publicly, yes.”

Lumina frowned. “And the twins?”

Naviyd grimaced and tried to pull away, but Lumina’s grip was too strong to escape. “She’d have been within her rights to take both. She’s their mother. But…”

“Come on, up,” Lumina insisted, hauling Naviyd upright with leverage and her uncanny strength, present even with her twins weighing her down.

Naviyd grumbled, but it stopped when Arno handed over both a teacup—somewhat neglected and now lukewarm—as well as the fur-covered bundle containing Naviyd’s sleeping son. All bitterness bled out of him faster than winter ice melted in the sun. He stroked his son’s face with the back of one hand, eyes downcast. “I should have fought.”

“Could you have?”

“I don’t know. Could have destroyed us, possibly.” He tucked Khalil against his chest, where the boy snuffled in his sleep. Lumina didn’t even want to think of the possibility of two masters of mind magic deciding to murder each other inside of a city. Legal recourse wouldn’t matter. Everyone would claw their own eyes out. “Khalil will chase Mitra as far as his legs will take him. It won’t happen soon if the gods are kind, but it will happen. I could never stop him.”

Lumina stored those words in a chest in her heart. Though she didn’t know when, Naviyd’s tone made it clear this prediction was as close to truth as he considered possible. For a Mishik, he generally put little stock in most of the religious practices—barring swearing by and at their gods—but this sounded as real as the power crawling beneath their skin.

“Sky-Mother above, I would keep him safe here forever if I could.” Naviyd nearly bent double so he could rest his cheek atop Khalil’s head. His son drooled on, undisturbed. “But…”

“He would climb the walls and drive us all to drink,” Arno suggested, but fondly. The first children born in this castle could only inspire fond feelings, even if they were the kind of avatars of chaos Khalil aspired to be.

“Neither of you can crawl into a bottle until I can join you,” Lumina told them. Lumina scooted across the floor with neither dignity nor ease, but managed to reach Naviyd and Khalil in decent time. “And it is well past this little one’s bedtime.”

“And not a drop of coffee,” Naviyd said. He caught Lumina’s eye, then added, “Not that I need it.” He sipped at his tea instead, which was herbal and not likely to keep him awake.

“So defensive,” said Arno. He got to his feet with only the slightest delay, as though his legs were numb. “I can put him to bed if you like.”

“No, no. I have him. He should stay with us tonight.” Naviyd set the teacup near the fire instead of within kicking distance. He coiled around Khalil and started shifting blankets, then settled on his side. Before he fully considered himself comfortable, he wedged himself up on his hand and said, “Lulu?”

Lumina nudged him with her foot as Arno picked up his entire pile of pillows and started transferring them to her side of the fire. “I can handle myself, Naviyd. Even when I cannot see my feet while standing.”

“I imagine you will never miss this part of the experience, even after the twins are as old as Khalil is and causing trouble. Speaking of, do they have names yet? I have ideas,” Naviyd remarked. His head dropped to the pillow beneath it almost on its own, and his voice came out a little muffled as he added, “Not that I want to impose.”

“No, Naviyd. Not until they’re ten days old,” Arno said. There was a hitch at the back of his voice, just barely audible as he curled into Lumina’s waiting arms. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

Black brows pulled together in a frown. “Why?”

“It is as bad luck as separating twins.” Arno hooked his arm around Lumina’s shoulders. Standing, he was shorter than she was, but lying down made no difference. “No names until we know their spirits are settled.”

Naviyd made a thoughtful noise, but it was clear he had no more interest in diving into cultural differences tonight.

“Sleep well,” was the wish around the solar, even with no beds to be found.

Khalil started snoring just as Lumina finally relaxed enough to sleep.

#terramir gang #lumina #naviyd #arno #khalil #my ocs

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sugaroons · 6 years

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resentment (2/?) | yoongi x reader

“You’re too good to leave behind.”

(image source)

pairing: min yoongi x reader, kim taehyung x reader wordcount: 2,870 chapter summary: when yoongi moves in, you don’t see much of him. (you tell yourself that’s fine by you.) that all changes when something catches him unawares. disclaimers/warnings: none (oh my god here i am cRAwLING BACK TO bts fic after so long lol i hope this is okay!! this’ll be a bit of a slow-burn, but i’ll likely be done in 3-5 chapters. cross-posted on ao3)

The piano instrumental is tinny as it blasts through the small speaker Taehyung had lent you, the only other sound in your apartment the simmering of the one-pot pasta your most recent paycheck let you buy. You’re still in your work uniform when someone doorbells, and you sigh. It could only be Min Yoongi, whom you’d been unable to shake after texting the number Tae had scribbled on a napkin the last time you’d met up.

“Damn it,” you mutter, lowering the heat of the stove and wiping your hands on a towel. You’d made a last-ditch effort to hustle on finding other roommates, but none of the people who applied online had as good an application as Yoongi. Maybe your requirements were a little steep—not many of the other ads required a pro-con list and a recommendation letter—but you were particular about your space, and the bunk bed situation meant you had to be a little stricter than usual.

Today’s when you’d scheduled his tour of the place and your discussion of terms, but part of you had still hoped he’d back out. You plaster on a fake smile as you open the door, finding Yoongi stepping gingerly on your tacky tiger-print mat, the paper bag in his hand emitting a divine smell that’s familiar to you.

“Is that from the lamb skewer place round the block?” you say, an eyebrow raised.

“I thought it’d be rude to come over without bringing anything,” he says, adjusting his black beanie and flicking his hair away from his brows. You haven’t thought about Yoongi since you graduated nearly a year ago; in fact, he is one of the people you’d wanted to forget about.

He simultaneously looks much better and worse than he had in high school. He’s grown into his features, and the dark bangs are leagues ahead of the bright-red mop he’d sported in your senior year. But the bags under his eyes are even deeper than your own, and he’s paler than your faded grey walls. Before you can feel any sympathy for him, though, you remind yourself of how he’d treated Tae in the past.

“A point in your favor,” you say, shaking off the fact you’d been checking Yoongi out. “Come on in.” You return to your electric stove, trying to concentrate on stirring the pasta at the bottom of the pot instead of the way his new piercing makes you feel. “You can look around while I finish this, then we can have dinner and talk a bit.”

There’s not much for him to look at, really. You’d sent the layout of the room to your friend back home to help you maximize the space, but Irene didn’t have too much work to do. You’d covered the bunk bed in the bedroom with the international klein blue sheets Tae had bought you with his first paycheck, the colour a stark contrast with the clinical white sheets you’d gotten on sale when you’d first moved in. The apartment’s a little tight, but you’d lucked out on the natural light that streams through your window when the sun’s out: it’s the main reason you’re loath to part with the room. That thought brings you back to the present, and you look up from the pasta to where Yoongi is sitting.

When you sneak a glance at him, his hands are moving as if your small dining room table is a piano, in time with the soft notes playing in the background. You take plates, utensils, and the pot of pasta, while Yoongi brings out the lamb skewers. The dining table looks a lot less lonely with two sets of plates. The idea of it being a regular thing to come home to makes you happier than you’d like to admit.

You’re both quiet as you eat, and you can already hear Tae scolding you for not trying to make conversation. Still you’re at a loss for words, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he helps you clear the table, and the two of you begin to do the dishes in companionable silence.

“Any burning questions?” You’re focusing on scrubbing a spot off the pot, avoiding the sudden nervousness you feel at the thought of hearing Yoongi say anything bad. He’d always had the sharpest tongue back at school, and though you’d never been on the receiving end, you often dreaded it.

“Just one,” he says. You watch his fingers, absentmindedly wondering whether they’re calloused or smooth. “Do you sleep with your blinds up like that?”

“Yes, I like waking up by sunrise.” Your eyes flick to him and you see him wince. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I’m open to negotiation, though.” You tell yourself it’s just because of the costs that you’re compromising, rather than the overwhelming loneliness the apartment’s been filled with in the three months you’ve been here.

“I hate the sun,” Yoongi says bluntly, “but your apartment is too good to pass up.” You spend the rest of the night hashing out details, with Yoongi insisting he take over an equal share of the upkeep chores, which puts you in a good mood. That’s the only excuse you have for what you say as you see him out the door.

“Hey, if you need any help moving in, let me know,” you say, your grip on the doorknob tightening.

“Sure.” Yoongi nods, raising his hand goodbye. “I’ll text you.”

That Saturday, you’re surprised to find he’s only got three big boxes to his name, but you understand. You never heard much about Yoongi’s parents, but you doubted they wanted him here in the city.

(When you’re done bringing his stuff into the living room and he gives you a gummy smile, you tell yourself that your breath only catches because of how heavy the box is.)

You easily fall into a sort of routine with Yoongi. You don’t really see each other much because between the four jobs you hold between you and your weird shifts, you’re barely at home at the same time. If there’s something you need to tell him, it’s easy enough for you to write on the whiteboard posted beside the kitchen sink.

You’d thought Yoongi was cold, and you still think this is true, but he’s clean enough, and the few moments you share in the apartment are peaceful. You hush the part of you that’s disappointed at the way things are: you didn’t need to be Yoongi’s friend. It’s fine by you that it’s almost as if you don’t have a roommate.

That is, until the day that you come home late to the sound of music. It was Yoongi himself who had set the rule of no loud noises past eleven in the evening, so the old-school rap beats are unusual. When you get inside, you find him passed out on the couch, his lips more chapped than they typically are and his laptop nearly falling off the cushion.

“God, Yoongi, do you really have to run yourself so ragged?” You pull his blanket off his bed and walk to the couch to place it over him. This close, you notice his arms shaking like he’s got the chills. When you place the back of your hand to his forehead, he’s hot to the touch. “You big idiot,” you mutter as you shut his laptop.

You run to the convenience store a block away to grab emergency supplies, cursing your overworked roommate beneath your breath. When you get back, his shaking is less violent, but his brow is furrowed. “Yoongi-ah,” you say quietly, kneeling in front of him and placing your hand on his shoulder. “Yoongi, please,” you say, sweeping his hair away from his face. “Wake up for a bit, then you can go back to sleep.”

He groans, and you place your arm around his shoulder to lift him to a sitting position. With your other hand, you shake the water bottle you’ve mixed hydration salts in. Mercifully, he drinks it as soon as you bring the nozzle to his lips, slowly but surely finishing it.

“No, no.” Yoongi grunts when you offer him painkillers. You wipe the dribble away from his mouth with your thumb before tucking him back in. You’re exhausted, but you can’t bring yourself to leave him, not when he’s weak like this.

He reaches out for something, and belatedly you realize he’s grabbing your hand. His palm is smooth, if slightly damp, and you find yourself interlocking your fingers with his. You glare at Yoongi, feeling your face burning up, but he’s fallen back asleep. Yoongi’s mouth is locked in a pout, and you lean your head against his arm as you watch him.

That’s how you wake up at three in the morning: your back sore from hunching over, a bony hand in your line of sight, fingers barely touching the lobe of your ear. You startle away, the sudden stretch bringing a soft whine from your lips.

Yoongi stirs, lifting his head to find the source of the noise. His eyes are unfocused until they land on you, and he grumbles, looking away. “Get some rest, would you? I’m fine.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to be angry at his tone. He never asked you to help him, and you have no right to expect anything. Still, you can’t help your brow from furrowing as you get up. “I’ve left some hydration salts and ibuprofen on the table in case you need it.” Your hand brushes his when you grasp at the edge of the sofa, and he tugs at your fingers lightly.

“Hey,” he says, sighing. “Sorry.” His thumb sweeps over your wrist once. “Not used to this.”

Does he feel how your pulse skips? You shake your head, too tired to worry about it. “Maybe a ‘thank you’ next time, eh, Min?” With your free hand, you smooth the blanket over him, finally standing. You’re so tired that you collapse onto the bottom bunk, the clean scent of Yoongi’s body wash lulling you to sleep.

That weekend before your long shift, you check the whiteboard and see “fridge” scribbled in the top right corner. You find a small almond cheesecake beside your peanut butter jar. It had always been your favourite, and you remember, suddenly, how you’d found one on your desk on your birthday in senior year. You had never found out whom it had come from, but now you have your answer. “Would have been cheaper to just say ‘thanks,’” you say, but a grin creeps onto your face anyway.

When you get home that day, Yoongi’s on his bed, and you shoot him a confused look. His Saturday shifts are normally late, and he’d gotten better the day after his night on the sofa. “I quit. It’s too far away,” he says, shrugging.

You don’t pry, shimmying out of your work skirt and pulling on an oversized sweater, your decade-old compression shorts barely visible under the loose hem. You’re checking for any holes in the mirror, fiddling with the tiny one right at your shoulder, when your eyes land on your roommate. You stare at his reflection for a second too long, and he catches your eye. His lips quirk up in a casual grin you find yourself returning.

You’re flustered at the friendliness of the moment. “The 20 minutes of daily sun exposure too much for your vampire ass?” you say, waiting for his scowl.

Instead, he laughs. “Something like that. Didn’t help that the boss was a dickwad. He yelled at me for showing up to work thirty seconds late the day after I took a sick leave.”

“It’ll be a hassle to find another roommate,” you say, tsking, “so you’d better be able to make the rent this month.” The light in his eyes dims a little, and you find yourself cursing your inability to chill out. You walk to the kitchen to make your nightly tea blend, relenting and sending him a picture of the ad you’d seen at the convenience store nearby.

“You won’t be rid of me so easily,” Yoongi says from his spot on the bottom bunk. Since he can’t see you, you smile.

He takes the job, and your hours sync up, disrupting the ghost roommate dynamic you’d been operating with over the past month. When you get home that Tuesday and he sees you, he starts, his eyes going wide as he looks you up and down. You lift the plastic bag in your hands—take-out Thai for the both of you—before sitting at the dining table.

You raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to say something. He shrugs, putting his earphones back in, looking back down at his notebook. You watch him mouth words, fascinated at his writing process. When he catches you staring, you look away, but in your peripheral vision you see him smirk.

“Can I hear it?” you say, pushing the rendang on your plate around. He cocks his head at you, confused. “Your music, I mean.”

He pouts a little, an expression you don’t expect to be as cute as it is. “I’m not done,” he says uncertainly. There’s a chance that’s true, but given your history, it’s more likely he just doesn’t want to let you hear it.

“Sure,” you say curtly. “Good night.” You shut the bedroom door a little louder than you probably should, but you’re disappointed. As you toss and turn on your bed, you try in vain to keep your mind off your last year at school. Your last thought is of an almond cake before you drift off into a fitful sleep.

You wake up in a cold sweat, tears streaming down your face. Your heart’s pounding in your ears, and you nearly fall as you climb down from the top bunk, your grip on the wood slipping. The tear tracks shine on your face in the dim light of the living room.

Yoongi’s in his boxers and a sleeveless shirt, laptop out and glasses on, sitting at the sofa. You don’t look at him as you move to the kitchen. “Do you want to talk about it?” You don’t look at him, busying yourself by making a cup of tea. Yoongi says nothing more, the sounds of his typing and your breathing allowing you to gather your bearings.

You make your way over to the couch, sitting in a ball at the other end. “I have this dream often,” you say, picking at the tea bag and watching him over your mug. “Taehyung and I are in the middle of the school field, and we’re both holding balloons. I look away for a moment, then suddenly, he’s flying, his face turned away from me.” You close your eyes and breathe in the lavender and honey scent, hating how irrational you sound.

Yoongi shuts his laptop, and you open your eyes to the sight of him studying you. He sighs. “You really love him, don’t you?”

You’re not going to deny it. You’ve loved Kim Taehyung since you were ten years old, since you figured that no one else in Tae’s life could fill that space the way you could. He’s yours and you’re his, and that’s not going to change. It’s only hard, you think, because you’re also in love with him. Taehyung’s never shown any interest in you and you doubt he ever will. Unrequited love you can handle, but the idea of him forgetting about you cuts you to the soul. Your eyes widen, the tears building up as you breathe deeply.

“He won’t leave you.” There’s a certainty in Yoongi’s voice that you’ve never been able to muster up. Something about his tone fills you with warmth. “You’re too good to leave behind.” And it’s back, that weird pitter-patter in your heart.

You smile softly at him. “Thank you, Yoongi.” He nods, powering his laptop back on. You watch him work while sipping at your tea. Soon, he gestures for you to come closer.

“Give this a listen,” Yoongi says, handing you an earphone. The piano instrumental begins, instantly pulling at your heart, but your eyes are drawn to the boy beside you. His eyes are closed as he whispers words. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Yoongi so earnest and passionate, and it feels almost too intimate.

When the track finishes, he opens his eyes. “I’m still writing the rap.” Yoongi doesn’t look at you, but he bites at his lip, and you realize he wants some reassurance.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, handing over the earphone. Your hand lingers on his, and you squeeze his fingers lightly. “I’m sure whatever it ends up being will be even better.”

“You might just be sleep-deprived. Go to bed,” he says. Yoongi’s staring at your hands, but you can see the grin playing at the corner of his mouth. You snort, shaking your head as you return to your bunk.

That night, you dream of a grand piano and Yoongi’s gummy smile. You wake up to the light streaming in, feeling more well-rested than you have in a very long time.

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