Chapter Text
04.10.2119 (Earth reckoning)
4:51am
System X9Y; Earth; Galaxy Garrison
Keith actually likes that tattoo.
Okay that’s an understatement; he fucking loves the design as much as he did when he thought of it, and he had been just high enough to describe without self-consciousness what he wanted to the tattoo artist (okay, apprentice—they were in someone’s basement; someone’s cousin’s friend’s basement, two towns over; and Keith, in all his pubescent wisdom, became, yet again, a willing guinea pig in a body-modification-professional’s portfolio). How ridiculous it might be was not in the calculus: he just wanted to have “I want to believe” in winding script with a swath of stars, cutting from the small of his back to just above his right hip.
Keith still does not give a single fuck if it’s dorky.
It’s a throwback to a simpler time on Earth, and it’s intensely tied to the history of the American Southwest, and its deserts that live in Keith’s blood: aliens, conspiracy theory, skies like you usually only see in dreams… not giving a fuck if the establishment understands or condones you.
Just Southwest things.
It’s part vanity, too. Same reason he’s out here before dawn working up a sweat running around the Garrison’s perimeter. Who’s going to be looking closely enough at him in outer space to notice the gains may be neither here nor there, but…
At least he’s more muscular than he used to be. A product of living in a dimension where something was pretty much always trying to kill him—him and his long lost mother, who could easily defend herself but over whom he found himself becoming increasingly protective. But even now, he doesn’t think his ass is much to look at. Running helps, but not a ton. With his build, anyway, he thinks the dark lines of ink across his lower body are an appealing addition.
To that end, he’s always wanted a bunch of tattoos. And this wasn’t the only one he’d envisioned that would be either nerdy or aliens-related.
He decided, however, at some point, that “no more tattoos while fucked up” is probably a good rule. Really, the only times he’s felt certain enough about doing anything permanent with his body have been while intoxicated, which at some point would have to catch up with him…
So he’s declining to get anything until after the war ends.
Still. Recently, he’d asked his mom about traditional Galra designs, and about the material culture of her other people: a race whose name he can’t even pronounce and won’t try to spell. So for his quarter-Korean, quarter-Nordic, quarter-Galra, quarter-whatever-else-Krolia-is tribute, he’s done a shit-ton of research. What he wants is something dramatic, some beautiful piece to cover his left side (since it’s got less scarring; scars and tattoo ink don’t exactly mix). Something that goes from forearm to tiny threads of design that’d lick down his collarbone and up the sides of his neck-
Yeah, the next one will be good. A statement. Sexy. Something that maybe whoever he gets in bed with after the fighting is done can appreciate…
And with that thought-
His blood is up anyway, and thinking about sex is not exactly unexpected.
But the memory comes, less pleasant and more like the quantum visions once did.
Ruthless.
***
///
***
11.01.2111
System X9Y; Earth; the American Southwest
He decides the autumn after he’s moved into that first group home that he’s old enough, and brave enough, to be having sex. If he’s old enough to fly pretend spaceships for the Galaxy Garrison’s interminable interview process (seriously, how much data does the government need, about what kind of soldier he might be?), he’s old enough for this. He’s sixteen and he’s had enough of the tease that is heavy petting and making out with strangers.
Plus if he has to put up with any more crap about how he’s the last virgin in the home—or, for that matter, among the cadets—he is going to lose his goddamn shit.
Starting another fistfight at the Garrison cannot be in the cards, not if he wants to stay there.
This is the setup: A high school house party hosted while the parents are on a “business” trip out of town. Their son, Cody, is all bisexual swagger and well-known for the game he talks; but none of them are sure whether he’s actually screwed a guy before. That uncertainty can be exploited.
This is the crew: Holly Gonzales, Jeremy Schneider, Marco Espinoza, Danielle Smith, and Keith Kogane. Holly and Jeremy, who are on-again-off-again but currently at least on speaking terms, are the king and queen of the local high school. They’re the ones who procured the invitation. Marco and Danielle live at the same group home as Keith and are “well connected” in the teenage underground—not to mention that most of the men in Marco’s extended family are legitimate gangbangers. And Keith has a reputation as not only an excellent lock-pick but as a car-jack and, now that he’s gained a couple inches of his teenage height, a thirst-trap: and that will help them get where they want to go. Literally.
This is the goal: Score the cocaine that everyone knows the host’s parents have stashed somewhere on the obscenely apportioned three-acre lot. Cody’s parents are apparently actively moving the shit, and so one of the most likely places is one of their dozen or so cars. Most likely a cold-plated one.
Nobody thinks about the fact that reckless, horny teenagers may not be the only ones looking for that cocaine—and its source.
The house party is already well underway by the time the five of them walk up.
(No, they do not roll up; even though Keith could have easily stolen them a car, they didn’t want to put a target on their back before they even get started, tonight. Nor do they even walk up at the same time. There’s no way a princess like Holly would be caught dead with a lowlife like Marco; their association is of a much more clandestine sort.)
Even in the context of a party in full-swing—amateurish lighting, expensive but badly utilized sound system and all—it’s not difficult for Keith to locate Cody. He’s there, in the middle of the inexpertly writhing, grinding, flailing crowd. Easy enough, for Keith, to slide between the drunken bodies to approach him. But Keith, who has no game to speak of (and won’t, for years yet), doesn’t have a smooth way to start conversation that ends with anything approximating, “So, wanna bang?”
“Cody! You gonna take care of my friend Keith?”
It’s Jeremy who saves him. He must have been tracking Keith’s approach. Diplomatic bullshit, to make sure the orphan doesn’t mess everything up. One of his big arms comes around Keith’s shoulders, and he drags them all into one another’s personal space.
“Hey Jer, sure!” says the man himself. The immediate look of attraction—of appraisal—Cody directs Keith’s way is both encouraging and terrifying. “Here to party… Keith, was it?”
And it seems the local rumors about Cody’s parents are well-placed. Into Keith’s hands are pressed free (not “no strings attached,” but “free”) drink after free drink. He’s also afforded the first opportunity he’s ever had to put anything up his nose. He’s not even sure he wants to partake, but he’s tipsy enough by the time there’s a line waiting “with your name on it, Keith!” that he just does it.
And then… the immediate high is worth it. It’s a fucking revelation. What he gets out of the marginal discomfort of that inhale: the immediate sense that he not only should get on with trying to seduce Cody but the sense that he absolutely can do this and there’s no way that anyone would say “no” to him?
All worth it.
The flashing lights become atmosphere rather than annoyance. Same with the too-loud music, the feedback. And with the sense of audacity at himself, at his own arms around the neck of the guy that so generously helped him feel this way and then his own tongue working its way into that guy’s mouth.
And it’s fine that there are a dozen people around them egging them on. What’s the occasional wolf whistle between friends?
What does it matter if Marco presses up against the back of him while he’s trying to merge with their host right on the dance floor, and pulls on one of his arms, and presses something else into his hands—
“Because I know guys like Cody and he won’t use one unless you insist, and no fuckin’ knowing what that manslut has.”
—which appears to be a couple smooth little packets that Keith will worry about later?
Anyway—it’s up to him now. If Keith can keep Cody occupied and out of the way, their crew can do exactly what they came here to do.
***
Keith loses his virginity like a cliche in a bad teen movie.
To someone whose last name he doesn’t even know.
The guy leads him upstairs to an empty bedroom, in no way subtle. He shuts the door—letting go of Keith’s ass long enough to lock it, too—and shoves Keith down on the bed.
Keith wonders about it even in the moment: why he lets that happen. If the less-than-kind treatment is worth the outcome.
How much of a distraction is he really causing, bedding this kid? What if the shit they’re looking for is in here, anyway—in this room, not wherever Marco and Danielle are prying?
But with each lost piece of clothing, Keith cares less and less.
And he cares more and more that the little packets Marco equipped him with are what they are: lube and a couple condoms.
Now, he has fingered himself, before—but he’s never had more than one of anyone else’s digits near getting anywhere inside him. He’s not used to giving someone else this kind of control, of power over him.
But after a couple minutes, the guy probes with his middle finger—near enough to where the good spot inside is, and it’s got Keith moaning. And when the guy pulls his hands away and then tosses Keith over onto his stomach, Keith lets him do that, too. Thrusting a couple more fingers into Keith’s ass, the guy kneels impatiently behind him and does not seem to notice the way Keith chokes at three fingers. This tells Keith in no uncertain terms that is entirely about preemption and nothing to do with Keith’s pleasure.
Keith thinks he probably doesn’t help matters, with the ridiculous, wounded, needy noises he makes. With how he keens, and hides his face, presses it entirely into the pillow because he knows if he turns to the side, if he lets the guy see the set of his mouth and the pinch between his eyebrows, he’ll know how much it hurts—but that’s whatever. It’s Keith’s own fault that it hurts. His doing, he swears, as the guy’s fingers slide free and his cock slides between Keith’s cheeks and presses at his rim until it’s popping inside, too much force, and Keith is biting out his approval and his lament in noises that won’t quite stay in his throat—
He thinks, somewhere distant, than when you’re inside someone for the first time, you’re supposed to wait for them to adjust. To give a moment or two of stillness.
But this guy doesn’t do that.
When Keith finally manages to smooth the lines of his face, when he finds a grip he likes amidst the bedsheets, braced against the headboard, he lets his upper body drop. Sways into the arch of his back. Lets his face tilt to the side. He can finally breathe, like this—through his nose, just a bit, and after a moment of this tenuous grasp on air and sanity he’s vaguely wondering why someone would choose this position—except for the fact that it puts him at the other guy’s mercy completely, and that’s confusingly thrilling, and so he can do nothing but beg of the guy thrusting into him, “Ha- harder, please-”
He’s obliged in that request.
And it’s enough. God is it enough. The rhythm and the tantalizing pressure distract Keith from how much it hurts to be used like this without proper preparation. The distraction peaks his desire to get as much out of this as he can; so he shifts his grip and holds himself loose and sweat-slicked, squeezing hard on the upstroke when the guy rocks him backward on his cock. It doesn’t make sense, but Keith thinks: he could come like this, if the guy lasted long enough, thrust hard enough at this exact angle—and didn’t deviate—
But it’s over before Keith can come.
The guys hovers close to him as he finishes panting and trembling. He pulls out, abruptly. This hurts, too; Keith is sure he’s going to find blood when he’s cleaning up later—but then the guy reaches forward, picking Keith up by his hips and flipping him onto his back. He makes worshipful, awed noises as Keith grips himself tighter and, through a haze of arousal, alcohol, and the stuff he really doesn’t want to remember taking, tries to put on a bit of a show as he forces himself over into orgasm. Petting his thighs and his stomach, this stranger tells Keith how beautiful he is, “better than any girl,” how much of a thrill it was to fuck that tight little hole that’s gripping two of the guy’s fingers, now.
Keith shakes at the idea, and thinks it probably would have been a thrill—
Could have been—
—maybe, with someone else…
He lets himself pass out before he has any chance to undermine his own euphoria.
***
He’s asleep for less than twenty minutes.
He crawls out of the bed as silently as he can. Does so on his front, because his ass and hips fucking kill. Cody is out, stone cold; Keith doesn’t bother looking back at him after verifying that. He just locates his clothes, strewn about the floor. He only finds one of his socks, but he supposes it doesn’t matter that much; it’s still early enough in November that his feet won’t freeze even if he has to put his boots on without them.
The bathroom is, blessedly, adjacent to the bedroom, so he doesn’t have to try to escape through the hallway. The door squeaks, and at the sound, Keith winces.
Not as much as he does when he starts tending to himself.
Because yes, like he thought there would be, there is blood. And it kind of scares him. Makes him instantly regret the last two hours of his life.
“…think they’re done yet?”
He hears it, on the other side of the other door in the bathroom: the one that leads out to the second-floor hallway. Keith makes his way there as silently as he can—and as quickly, since until now, he didn’t realize the other door wasn’t locked. The last thing he needs is for anyone else to barge in and wake Cody up—or see the damage, the paper towels with the damning, dark stains.
The lock clicks a little more noisily than he’d like, but over it, he can easily hear Jeremy’s voice:
“If they were both virgins, maybe.”
Keith stays with his ear sort of pressed up against the door. Because as much as he doesn’t appreciate being the subject of this discussion, he wants to know what’s being said about his… contribution to the group’s plan.
“Well, not both virgins. Cody’s had sex with half the girls here.”
“Including you?”
“Fuck you, Jeremy.”
Keith—ridiculously—has to cover his mouth so that they don’t hear the laugh that escapes him at the banter. The near-slip makes him think that he’s still more intoxicated than he thought he was. Definitely drunker than he meant to be. He’s not sure how long coke is supposed to last, so he has no idea if he’s still feeling that.
“…took me forever to come the first time,” Holly is saying.
“Yeah, but Keith has some experience, if the rumors about him are true,” Jeremy answers. “Hopefully enough to give the other guy a good time.”
Holly snickers. “You know Marco will want to hear about it.”
“Especially if it means this kid’s gotten over himself enough to let Marco fuck him.”
“It’s embarrassing how hard Marco’s been trying… It’s like, if he fucks a Garrison candidate, he’s legit enough to bag the establishment. Legit enough to be of use to the fam.”
“How hot is this kid?” Jeremy asks. “I don’t like dudes; you tell me.”
“Mmm. Keith’s got too much of a baby face for my taste. Who knows, though—maybe if he’s around long enough…”
“You know he’s gay, dipshit.”
“Fuckin’ rude. Anyway, I think most gays are pretty fluid, aren’t they...?”
How callous the other kids are about this hits Keith in a place that feels sensitive and raw—especially after what he’s done tonight.
He doesn’t mean it to, but his mind’s eye drifts to a vista above a canyon. A view from Shiro’s hoverbike. He hears his own voice, and Shiro’s voice, too:
“You think I’m ready to try that?”
“What do you think?”
That comfort, the feeling of Shiro’s support, his unconditional encouragement, even when Keith probably doesn’t deserve it…
It’s so, starkly different from this lack of consideration. Both the dismissals, and the expectations.
Which, Keith kind of thinks he also doesn’t really deserve.
That sickening contrast, and the bile it sends up the back of his throat, makes the decision for him:
This is the last time.
Never again.
/ / /
He’s still thinking about it, still got that mantra of “never again” running through his head, as he’s e-wiring the classic muscle car Danielle and Marco have identified in one of the four garages on the property.
“The coke has to be in there,” Danielle had said, retrieving him and all but shoving him down the stairs once Keith had finally shown his face outside the bathroom, shaken but at least fully dressed. “It’s cold-plated for sure. So, like probably in one of the door panels or something. They’ve obviously been tampered with, and we looked everywhere else.”
“We’re taking it to my cousin’s garage,” Marco had added, from the bottom of the stairs. From which vantage point he was also giving Keith an expectant look—one that Keith absolutely did not like. “He knows about all that kind of shit. Could probably do it fast enough for us to get the car back here before Keith’s conquest wakes up.”
What they do not count on is Cody’s parents having GPS tracking and an automatic police alert on all of their cars.
Bold, considering what illegal activity this one’s been used for.
But nonetheless, when Marco’s cousin is pulling the panels off the passenger side door, and the lights from the cop cars descend, they are so disorienting that the teens’ attempt to scatter is nowhere coordinated enough.
*
The fact that he ends up in a quarantine area of an adult detention center—because nobody thought to verify his age, before they shoved him in the back of a cop car—does him absolutely no favors.
Nor does the fact that Keith is sitting on these metal benches that should not be so familiar. Because that time he stole Shiro’s car? Was not his first time in a lock-up. Yes, true; this is his first time in a place that isn’t a juvenile lock up, but that’s kind of neither here nor there. The purpose, the brutality of it, is the same. Even through that mildly pleasant buzzing in Keith’s limbs left over from all the various substances, he’s left empty.
Anyway, after what he’s been through tonight, sitting on these fucking benches must constitute cruel and unusual punishment.
And when Shiro comes to get him, after his one phone call—thank god, thank fucking god Shirogane agrees to come get him—the horrible disappointed look on Shiro’s face stays with him. Much more than the fact that this place smells infinitely worse than the juvenile detention center. Much more than the lingering feeling that there have been actual handcuffs around his wrists. So much so that the usual sick thrill he gets at being in trouble totally evaporates.
He’s still fucked up—drunk, high, sleep-deprived, he’s not even sure—when Shiro drives him back to the home. Parks the car on the curb. Breathes for a few seconds, and says nothing to Keith.
All Keith wants to do, in the face of all of it, is close his eyes.
“This wasn’t like the last time.”
Keith gulps.
Shiro continues, “You know I had to pretend to be your legal guardian to get you out of there?”
Keith flinches. Some adults he’s known have punctuated statements like these with violence—and even though Keith knows Shiro and understands he would never do anything like that, his body apparently doesn’t know it.
Shiro just sighs and leans back against the driver’s seat. “Please don’t make me do anything like that ever again.”
“I won’t,” Keith says, voice very small and shaky.
“Because the Garrison absolutely cannot find out about this. You’re already in the system and they know that, so I don’t think this will bring up an alert or anything. Plus all the paperwork’s already done, no reason to do another background check…”
Shiro is talking himself through how he’s going to handle this, he knows. He’s not really asking for Keith’s input; and that idea is horrible, too, that he’s put another burden on someone he has come to see as an actual friend.
“I’m- I’m really, so sorry, I…”
As Keith says it, he realizes that—whether it’s these long, humiliating, early hours, or the fear that this might be the last conversation he ever has with Shiro—he’s sober enough to continue, “I’m… Shiro. Do you think you can get me out of here?”
Shiro turns to him, looks a little taken aback. “Out of here? What do you-”
“Out of the system,” Keith adds. “So like…” Stumbling a little over his words still, starting to feel dry-mouth and nausea settle in, Keith tries to clarify. “So I don’t have to live here any more. I know I’m only a candidate at the Garrison, and housing isn’t a thing until we’re adults anyway, but…”
Shiro really looks like he’s thinking about it. He scans Keith’s face like he’s searching for something. “You just turned sixteen, so I think legal emancipation is an option. If you can demonstrate a way of supporting yourself.”
Keith clears his throat. “Don’t they have scholarships at the Garrison?”
“They do have scholarships at the Garrison,” Shiro echoes, tone mild. “And with your sim scores alone…”
Shiro turns away from him and stares down at the steering-wheel he’s still gripping.
“You’re still looking at a felony drug trafficking charge, so you’re going to have to deal with that first.”
Cold, primal fear slices through Keith.
Shiro sighs again. “But my brother—the lawyer, not the doctor—works for the DA’s office. And I think he’ll agree with me that going after stupid kids isn’t exactly the best use of their time… Keith, what happened? Why were you there?”
Fortunately, what Keith is able to explain about the party and the out-of-town, actual drug traffickers is enough for him and Shiro to put together the rudiments of a plan. As dawn breaks outside the tinted windows, Shiro calls that Deputy District Attorney of a brother, and they’re informed that those out-of-town parents are worth more—much more—than taking down a pack of dumb teenagers. They’re going to need their statements to corroborate one another: and Keith thinks he can pretend friendship with the other kids—maybe not Marco, who he is one-hundred percent convinced will see through his bullshit, and make him pay for it, but the others—long enough to get the rest of them to cooperate.
After ensuring an appointment at the courthouse later that morning to secure a video-recorded statement, Shiro walks Keith to the door. He makes sure he gets inside and stays there.
“Let’s get this done, okay kid?” Shiro says, mercifully. Ruffling Keith’s hair a little before he closes the screen door, he adds, “I think once you’re away from this place, the bad influences… I’m glad you asked for my help. I feel like I should have seen it sooner, because I think you’re onto something.”
Keith isn’t sure that that’s true: but he wants to try. For Shiro. To vindicate Shiro’s departing look—hopeful, but wary.
This’ll be his third chance.
At any rate, Keith has vowed: Never again. He’s never going to land in trouble in this way, ever again.