Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bass thrums heavy overhead, shaking dust and old confetti from the rafters of the venue. Keith hunches over the bar to shout his order to the bartender, and as he slaps a five down on the counter and takes his bottle, a sharp elbow punches into his ribs. He jolts at the contact, sloshing foamy beer down his fingers and cursing loud at the floor. Pidge cackles at his side and drives her elbow into him again.

“You’re really fuckin’ lucky I love you, you little gremlin,” he grumbles, taking a deep pull of his beer.

“Nah. I think you’re lucky that I love you,” she shouts back, a wicked smile curling her lips in mirth. “And anyway, I come bearing gifts! Well, a gift. I come bearing one gift!”

Keith arches an eyebrow at her in silent question, but instead of answering she quirks a finger at him, beckoning to follow her to the edge of the crowd. They weave through sweat-slick bodies, shoving through gaps in the crowd until they hit the edge of the pit. Somewhere up on stage, the singer shouts something about opening the fucking floor, and Keith rolls his eyes at the cliche. Pidge nudges him again and gestures to the center with her head.

For a minute, all Keith can see is a mass of kids, running in circles and flailing arms as if they know what they’re doing. They’re all fucking amateurs, but Keith has work tomorrow so he can’t hop in to show them how these things should go. He highly doubts Coran would appreciate him slinging lattes with a fresh shiner. Keith looks back down at Pidge in confusion, but all he gets is a disapproving look.

“Just wait.”

So he returns his attention to the opening on the dance floor. He bounces his eyes from person to person, watching them all writhe and thrash until a scrawny kid hits the deck. Keith is just about to jump in to grab him, but he’s beaten out by a mountain of a man cutting clean through in one swift motion. He lifts the kid up from the ground, dusting off his shoulders and shouting something in his ear. His back is to Keith, so all he can see is broad shoulders and tattoo coated, oil-barrel biceps waving around. The shitty lights of the venue stage shine off the studs on the man’s beat-up jean vest. It’s dim in the crowd, so Keith can’t quite make out the patches on the fabric, but he thinks he can suss out a few band logos. What he can see, he likes.

The guy laughs loud, bending back at the waist with his hands on his hips, and the kids in the pit part for him. They keep dancing and crashing into each other, but this man gets a respectful distance, a wide berth. The beehive continues to buzz, but he is their king, and they are loathe to interrupt his work. He turns his head to the side as someone shouts for his attention, and oh.

His thick hair is held back by a bright yellow bandana, which is just fine by Keith. It affords him a glimpse of a strong profile, a soft jaw, and expressive eyes. Pidge punches him hard in the arm.

“You’re welcome, bitch.”

Keith cuts his eyes to the side, barely glancing over the fluff of her hair. She’s doing that thing she does sometimes where she examines her nails and pretends that she didn’t just destroy someone’s world when she absolutely knows she just destroyed someone’s world. Pidge is very much like a cat that way. Ignore ignore ignore, attack with a quickness, ignore.

Some girl stumbles past them toward the pit, clutching a mixed drink in her hand. As she slips through the wall of people, Pidge plucks the bright pink concoction from her grasp and empties it in two long chugs. She crumples the cup and throws it into the crowd over her shoulder.

“Now,” she continues, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “because I know you, I know you’re not gonna ask even though he’s your actual dream. His name’s Hunk.”

Keith scoffs at the pit and dodges a flailing hand.

“Hunk?”

“Yeah. At least, that’s the only name anyone knows. He plays drums for one of the bands tonight. I can’t remember which.”

“Atomic Hand Grenade,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Keith spins on a heel, coming face to chest with Shiro smiling at the kids in the pit. “He drums for Atomic Hand Grenade. We played a show with them last month. He’s really talented, actually.”

Pidge grins between them. “Shiro, how much do you know about Hunk?”

“Pidge,” Keith warns lowly.

Shiro smirks down at him and crosses his arms over his chest. “You interested, Keith?”

“Fuck, of course he’s fucking interested, Shiro. Look at the guy.” Pidge snorts. “Keith would let that dude punch him right in the face, probably.”

“Pidge,” Keith whines. “What the fuck.”

“It’s okay, Keith,” Shiro laughs, settling a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We know you’re into that and we love you anyway.”

“Cool, well bye,” Keith grumbles and starts pushing through the crowd, “I’m going back to the bar.”

Pidge and Shiro’s laughter follows him as he threads his way toward salvation and another beer. Keith pulls up to the bar and sets down another five, thanking the bartender when she hands him his bottle. The first band calls their last song and Keith spins around to lean against the counter on his elbows so he can watch them from afar. The band really isn’t that good, so he zones out a bit as he downs his beer.

A warm presence at his elbow pulls him out of his stupor.

“Hey Shay! Can I get one of those, too?” the guy asks across the counter, gesturing to the bottle Keith has tipped against his mouth. “And lemme get three shots of your nastiest tequila on the rocks.”

Keith gulps another mouthful and raises an eyebrow. He turns to address his new bar neighbor, but draws up short, breath stopping in his throat as he takes him in. Up close and personal, Hunk is blinding. He’s tall and soft and beautiful. He’s all tan skin and gentle features, shaggy, shoulder length hair and wide-stretched earlobes. He lost his bandana somewhere since the last time Keith saw him, so his hair is an absolute mess atop his head, and Keith wants to die.

The bartender, Shay, Keith reminds himself, sets Hunk’s order down on the counter and flashes him a friendly smile.

“On the house, buddy. You have shit taste anyway. I feel guilty charging you for this swill.”

Hunk smiles beatifically at her and Keith thinks he actually does die. He picks the drinks up and spins around, mirroring Keith’s position at the bar. Keith tries his best to stay cool, but somehow, Pidge flits into his line of sight, waggling her eyebrows at him like the asshole she is, and he feels his ears light up red. A soft tap at his shoulder makes him jump, and he turns to find Hunk attached to the finger. He leans close to Keith, holding out the beer.

“It would be pretty fuckin’ weird to buy you a drink without getting your name, so. Hi. I’m Hunk. ”

Keith’s brain shuts right the fuck down. He looks down at the sweating bottle clutched in a meaty hand (holy fuck, his meaty hands), up at Hunk’s warm caramel eyes, back down at the bottle.

“Hey man, no obligation or anything. Seriously. I just, ya know. You were there in the pit and I was kinda busy, but I would have liked to say hello before now.”

Keith’s systems come back online and he reaches out for the bottle, dropping his empty on the counter behind him.

“You know, technically, I wasn’t in the pit. I was just kind of there,” he answers. It comes out way flirtier than Keith even knew he had the capacity for, and he almost flinches at the tone of his own voice. Hunk smiles down at him and leans closer.

“I saw you anyway.”

Keith sucks in a breath, steeling himself against the rush of blood in his head.

“But you didn’t give me your name,” Hunk continues casually, leaning back out of his space. “I’d really like to know.”

Keith blinks back at him for longer than is probably polite, but still he waits, patiently watching Keith’s face with a soft smile stretched across plush lips. Keith chugs half of the beer in one go.

“Keith.”

“Keith, huh?” he asks, settling a hand against his chin. “It suits you.”

“What?”

Nobody has ever said that to Keith before. As far as he’s concerned, Keith is just...Keith. A regular-ass name for a regular-ass street kid.

“Yeah,” Hunk affirms as if he’s answering one of the universe’s greatest mysteries. “Short and scrappy. Impactful. Like a punch to the gut.”

He squints his eyes and reaches out, grabbing at one of the lapels on Keith’s jean jacket, pretending to straighten it out for him.

“Pretty,” he says with a smirk. Hunk drops his hand and throws back the tequila like water. Keith loses his grip on reality. Hunk sets down his cup and stands up to his full height. “Well, Keith. See you around.”

And just like that, he’s gone, pushing through the crowd toward the backstage area. Keith sucks down the rest of his beer and leans forward, settling his hands on his knees just so he can breathe. A soothing touch drops down between his shoulders, patting him through it. He stands again, with Shiro standing at his side.

“You alright down there, buddy?”

“Is it too late to find God, you think?” Keith chokes out around his still parched throat.

Shiro laughs and pats Keith’s shoulder. “For you? Most definitely.”

“Well, then I’m fucked because my soul just left the planet.”

“Oof,” Shiro answers, “sounds rough. Should I get a priest?”

“Maybe.”

“Alright, well before we bury your lovestruck ass, let’s go catch this guy’s set, yeah?”

Shiro hooks a finger in Keith’s collar and drags him toward the front of the crowd, planting them just to the left of the stage. Atomic Hand Grenade climb up on the platform, tuning their instruments and checking their amps.

“I wasn’t kidding earlier,” Shiro says, leaning over toward Keith while he watches the guitarist replace a string. “Hunk is killer on his set. I’ve never seen anyone double pedal like he does.”

Keith’s eyebrows jump clean into his hair, and quite possibly into another universe.

“Double pedal?”

“Yeah, man. These guys love a heavy fucking beat.”

“Jesus Christ,” Keith mutters.

“Hmm, I don’t think you can say that until we get the priest.”

“Fuck you, Shiro.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not me you want,” Shiro answers with a raised eyebrow.

“FUCKING-” Keith’s got a lot of good shit he can unleash on Shiro. His tongue is sharp and always at the ready. He can raise hell, bury it, and raise it again before breakfast. He’s good and ready to unload at any moment. He doesn’t get to, because a microphone squelches loud through the room. A gangly kid with messy brown hair and a ridiculous belly shirt is wrapping the cord around his hand and yelling greetings to the crowd and Shiro isn’t looking at Keith anymore.

“We’re Atomic Hand Grenade, insert pun about warfare here!” the guy shouts. Keith glances around the stage and catches on Hunk, whose gaze is already locked on him. Keith shoots him a thumbs up and nervous smile, and melts back into the crowd. He definitely wants to get in the pit if there’s a double pedal drum involved in this band.

Atomic Hand Grenade is good. Atomic Hand Grenade is really good. Hunk’s legs are even better. Just before Keith hops in the pit, he glances up to the stage just to watch him work his kit. He’s wearing cargo shorts, because of course he fucking is, and Keith has to take a moment to simply watch his knees bounce with every kick. Those knees are going to haunt his dreams tonight. He didn’t even know he had a thing for knees.

Without anything better to do to distract himself from his own newly discovered kink, Keith throws himself, body and soul (although he’s lost track of it several times already this evening), into the circle pit. He still has time to show these kids how it’s done, and if he gets banged up, he’ll just apologize to Coran and do some extra organizing tomorrow. Coran loves it when Keith organizes.

Atomic’s set flies by, and before Keith knows it, the pit is collapsing and kids are running for the bathrooms in between sets. He turns his face toward the ceiling to get some cool air on his skin while he waits for the next band. A throat clears softly in front of him.

“So. Keith.”

Keith snaps his head down. There Hunk stands in all his glory - sweaty, hands shoved in his pockets, a casual smile on his lips.

“As much as I like Gutterfish, and believe me, I do-”

“Hunk, that was incredible!” some kid shouts from across the floor. Hunk lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree, raising a hand in acknowledgement.

“Thanks, man!” he answers, turning his attention back to Keith. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

“Hunk, holy shit, dude!” This time, a girl, ambling up to his side and grasping at his elbow. “You get better every show, I swear.”

Hunk smiles sweetly down at her. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

Keith’s skin buzzes. With what, he’s not sure. Jealousy? Annoyance? Contact high from Hunk’s smile? It’s not entirely comfortable, but it’s also not entirely un comfortable, and he almost hates it. The girl simpers for a few minutes more before wandering off, but when she finally does, Hunk lets out a deep sigh and steps forward, pushing into Keith’s space.

“Look, this is pretty forward of me, and I know you came with people, but I would really like to take you out.”

Keith raises his eyebrows in confusion. “How is that-”

“Right now. I’d like to take you out right now.”

“Oh,” Keith says softly.

Hunk’s eyes scan Keith’s face as he awaits an answer, and he looks so attentive and so kind in the dingy light of the venue. Keith huffs a laugh and pulls out his phone, typing out a quick text to Pidge.

Me: Hey, I’m going somewhere for a little bit. I’ll be back in time to go home.

He hits send and smiles up at Hunk.

“Sure.”

Hunk beams at him and grabs him by the wrist. He tugs him toward the doors, slapping hands and bumping fists as they go, shouting greetings and thanks to everyone who calls out to him. Keith bobs along in his wake, admiring the strong set of his shoulders and confidence in his gait. There’s something about Hunk that’s almost magical. Keith can’t quite put his finger on it, but he’s reminded vaguely of the mystical travelers told of in old fairy tales. He’s magnetic and entrancing, outgoing and a little edgy.

Briefly, Keith considers how in the world he’s going to keep up. He’s not all that exciting of a guy, he keeps to himself, he puts his head down and gets shit done. In comparison, he’s nowhere near this bright beacon of a man.

They push out through the front doors into the warm night air.

“So, Keith. Tell me about yourself.” Hunk asks, still holding on to his wrist.

“There’s not much to tell, really? I mean, I have a job. I go to school. I pay my rent.”

“You look like a dream and bust heads in the pit,” Hunk adds. Keith’s whole body ignites in flames. This guy is fucking smooth and Keith really doesn’t think he can keep up at all. He chokes on a breath but turns it into a little growl.

“Look man, I dunno what you’re trying to do out here, but I’m not a hookup kind of guy.”

Hunk stops walking and spins around to face Keith. His face is a little flushed and his eyes are so earnest under the flickering light of the streetlamps.

“I’m not, either. You’re just...I dunno. You’re just really attractive and you have this energy, man. I don't even know you and I like you.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Besides, I’m always hungry after shows, so I figured why not get some grub with new company?” Hunk squeezes Keith’s wrist and smiles softly down at him. “What say you, not-hookup-kinda-Keith?”

Keith huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“Great! There’s a really good diner around the corner, and you need to give me your opinion on their BLT.”

“A BLT is a BLT, dude.”

Hunk gasps dramatically beside him. “Keith. I don’t think this is gonna work out.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

“A BLT is not just a BLT. It’s an elaborate, nuanced construction.” They round the corner and Hunk drags him into the diner and straight to a booth. “Like, okay. Do you put mayonnaise on a BLT?”

“Mayonnaise is the devil.”

“See?! That’s a BLT-pinion. And what’s your favorite kind of bacon?”

“I dunno,” Keith answers, leaning back in his seat. “The crispy kind?”

“Oh my god, Keith, I have so much to teach you.”

Keith laughs and lets Hunk order him a BLT to prove his point. While they wait, they talk about themselves. Keith learns about Hunk’s moms and family. He learns that Hunk is in engineering school, even though his true passion is cooking. He learns that his favorite color is yellow because it’s bright and eye catching. Hunk tells him about the time he fell off his bike and straight into a three foot ditch when he was a kid, and his mother almost called the fire department because he got his foot stuck in the drainage grate at the bottom.

Keith tells him about his physics classes and how he’s always wanted to work for NASA. He talks about meeting Shiro and Pidge when he was at a low point in his life, and how they helped pull him out of it. He tells Hunk all about his obsession with daffodils and the wildflowers that grow along the highway. When he talks about his bike (“Pidge calls her Cherry Bomb.” “She should call you that.” “Okay, Casanova. We’re already eating together.”), Hunk immediately asks all about the engine and if it needs work. Does he have a reliable mechanic? Hunk knows a guy. And by guy, Hunk means he has a well-stocked toolbox and ingrained need to tinker. Keith laughs and promises to take him on a ride sometime to see what he thinks of her.

Their food arrives, and Hunk watches with bated breath as Keith takes a bite of his sandwich. There’s nothing about the thing that looks any different from any other BLT he’s had in his life, but once the first taste hits his tongue, he has to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. Hunk smothers a smirk as Keith swallows with a moan.

“Okay. Yeah, this is a good sandwich.”

“See?! Oh my god, I can’t wait to train your mouth.”

“Uh.”

“Uh.”

Keith’s phone buzzes heavy in his pocket, breaking the sudden awkwardness. He fumbles to get it out, and when he checks the screen, he can’t help but loud laugh into the air.

Pidge: Show’s over. Get your scrawny ass back here. Unless it’s otherwise occupied. Then...don’t do that.

“It’s one of my friends. The show just ended, so we should get back.”

“Wait, really? Huh, I didn’t realize we were here for that long. I guess time flies and all that.”

“I guess so,” Keith chuckles and waves the waitress down for the check.

“Yeah, no,” Hunk says, snatching the folder from Keith’s hand. “I asked you out, I made you let me order you a BLT. I pay.”

Keith is never one to turn down a free meal.

Hunk slaps money down on the table and leads Keith back to the venue. As they approach, he spots Shiro and Pidge out front, chatting with the kid that sang for Atomic Hand Grenade. He raises an arm in greeting, but before they get too close, Hunk reaches out and pulls Keith back by the hand.

“So look,” he says low, “I really liked hanging out with you, and I’d like to do it again sometime. If you’d wanna. You know. Hang out again.”

Keith smiles up at him through his bangs. “Yeah, I’d be into that.”

Hunk breathes out a heavy sigh and smiles back. It’s a little shaky with nerves, but still bright and shining, and Keith could collapse under the weight of it. Hunk pulls a battered old Nokia from his pocket and hands it over.

“Can I get your number, then? So I can text you?”

Keith takes the phone and huffs up at him. “You can text on this thing?”

“Alright, punk. It’s a perfectly good phone.”

“It’d make a better brick,” Keith teases, punching his number in. “But there.”

He holds the phone out, and Hunk catches it up with one hand while the other takes Keith’s outstretched arm and tugs him forward. Before he realizes what’s happening, Hunk has his arm around his waist and his lips pressed against his overturned fingers. Their friends whoop in the background, and Keith gasps. He knows his face must be bright red, but he can’t bury it in his hands. He really wants to bury it in his hands.

Hunk drops his hand from his mouth, rubbing the pad of a large thumb over Keith’s knuckles.

“Hand kissing is sacred, high romance and I think we need to revive it. You know?”

Keith is too busy spluttering and melting into the sidewalk to form a proper answer, but he manages a nod. That’s pretty fair, all things considered. Hunk hits him with another knee-weakening smile and steps back, motioning for the singer to join him. The boy turns to say goodbye to Pidge and Shiro, and while he does, Hunk leans close to Keith one last time.

“I’m gonna woo the hell outta you, Keith. Just you wait.”

He walks off with a smile, listening politely as his buddy goes off chattering about a fight that broke out in the middle of Gutterfish’s set.

“Holy shit,” Keith whispers. He replays the night in his head, and watches himself from afar, embarrassed at how a single guy can turn him all doe-eyed and swooning. Keith does not swoon. Keith wears combat boots and leather jackets and forgets to comb his hair. Keith doesn’t blush . Keith sleeps through three alarms and needs four cups of coffee to come alive in the morning. Keith doesn’t get wooed. Keith is not a wooer. A wooie? Either way, wooing and Keith are not words that belong in the same sentence.

But as Hunk disappears around the corner, Keith can’t help but rearrange himself just a little bit. Maybe being wooed will be nice. Hunk is nice. Anything related to Hunk will be nice, he thinks. He flexes his fingers and stares at the empty street ahead.

“So,” Pidge heckles, “How hard you gonna let him woo you?”

“Pidge,” Shiro chastises. “That’s not fair. The correct question is: How hard do you think he can woo Keith? Short of punching him in the face, that is.”

“Fuck you guys.”