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Finally, she sees it: the champagne. There’s one bottle left, the night’s saving grace wrapped in crinkly gold paper. Keith reaches out to grab it, to get the hell out of here, but instead of wrapping around cool glass, her fingers bump against warm skin.
“Oh! Sorry!” a low, sweet voice says.
She turns to look at the person who is foolishly brave enough to stand between her and her angsty midnight plans, and her mouth falls open in surprise. She has to tilt her head up to meet the eyes of the woman in front of her, eyes that are silver and warm and framed with long, sweeping eyelashes.
“Don’t worry about it,” Keith murmurs quietly, a little stunned. She’s been in a stormy mood all day, and all she wanted was to get reasonably drunk and pout her way into the new year. She spent the walk to this store, the third one on her quest for some goddamn champagne, thinking about exactly which pair of sweats she would change into the moment she gets home.
And yet, she thinks, there’s a spark of… something. Whatever it is, the statuesque woman in front of her, smiling eyes framed by hair the color of starlight, suddenly seems way more interesting than Keith’s plans to get drunk, alone.
“Just the one bottle left, huh?” Keith asks, aiming for something like humor, or nonchalance, but her words come out petulant. It’s not this gorgeous stranger’s fault that she’s had a shitty year and is about to have an equally shitty New Year’s Eve.
“Oh, I’m fine. Here,” the woman says, and holds the bottle out to Keith. It’s sweet, really, but Keith can’t make herself take it.
“You know…” Keith trails off, eyes fixed on the label.
“Hmm?”
“We could always share it?” she says, praying her voice isn’t too desperately hopeful. Keith doesn’t do things like this, and honestly she’s not sure what’s come over her.
The woman’s mouth falls open in a small ‘o’ and Keith wonders if she just made a huge mistake. All she knows is it’s New Years Eve and she doesn’t want to start the year the way she has every other. And spending tonight with this glorious Amazon of a woman sounds much better than anything else she could have planned.
The woman recovers quickly from her surprise and considers Keith’s offer, before nodding and shooting her a lopsided smile. “Yeah, okay.”
“Great,” Keith says, “I’m Keith.”
“Shiro.”
“Well, let’s go Shiro,” Keith murmurs, relishing the way the syllables wrap around her tongue.
They’re both a little bashful in the wake of Keith’s boldness. Shiro tries to pay for the champagne but Keith is stubborn. A playful glint flickers in Shiro’s eyes when she offers a compromise—Keith can pay for the champagne, if Keith comes to her place and lets Shiro feed her junk food. Keith’s never agreed to something so quickly in her life.
When they make it outside, Keith hesitates. She eyes Shiro with a quirked brow.
“So, promise you’re not a serial killer or something?” Keith asks teasingly.
Shiro laughs, a deep, genuine sound that tumbles out of her, and it’s one of the prettiest things Keith’s ever heard.
“As far as I know, no,” Shiro answers with a grin. She tilts her head away from the shop and says, “My apartment is just a few blocks from here, if you want to come over now?”
Keith nods, and falls into step with Shiro. The silence is easy, comfortable, punctuated with the sounds of the city. Light pollution keeps the sky light, and stars fight to be seen, if just barely, in the spaces between high rises.
“Something interesting up there?” Shiro asks.
Keith blushes. She didn’t realize how obvious she was, watching the sky.
“It’s hard to really see much at all, let alone something interesting,” she answers, and she can’t keep a trace of bitterness from creeping into her tone.
“Oof! Not a fan of the skyscrapers, huh?” Shiro asks, a soft kind of humor in her lilting voice.
“You caught me—I’m still getting used to living in the city,” Keith says.
“Where are you used to living?”
“The desert, actually. New Mexico,” Keith says, and her heart squeezes at the thought of home.
“You’re a long way from home, then,” Shiro says, and something in her voice tells Keith that she might understand exactly how that feels. Keith nods, letting silence wrap around them once again as they continue walking.
After another block Keith looks around and realizes the high-rises surrounding them are upscale apartment buildings, far beyond anything Keith could afford. She thinks of her shabby studio in a precarious looking building, and thanks the stars for Shiro’s offer to host. Keith’s apartment is not a place to bring pretty girls home to.
Not that Shiro’s taking her home. Definitely not.
They reach a particularly nice building, the glass doors staffed by a well-dressed footman. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but his eyes crinkle when he sees Shiro, and he pulls the doors open for them with a quietly murmured, “Welcome back, Ms. Shirogane.”
Keith offers the doorman a lazy salute as they walk through the doors. She thinks she sees the corner of his mouth twitch. Shiro leads her through a spacious lobby, with tall ceilings and marble floors flecked with something iridescent.
In her torn jeans and scuffed boots, and wildly curling hair that hasn’t felt the touch of a brush in days, Keith feels pretty out of place. She can’t help but notice how Shiro moves through the space--confidently, like she knows she belongs here, but without the air of haughtiness that Keith has come to associate with people who live in this kind of building.
She knew what she was signing up for, life as a starving artist in the big city, but at times the struggle gnaws at her. She wonders what Shiro does for a living, to afford a place in this building. She doesn’t seem like the type to be living casually off of her trust fund, but Keith has been wrong about that before.
A lavishly decorated elevator comes to a stop before them with a pleasant ding, and Keith follows Shiro inside. Shiro pushes the button for the top level, keying in a short code.
“This place is… nice,” Keith offers.
Shiro laughs again, this time a smaller chuckle.
“It’s a little over the top, I know,” Shiro answers, and Keith can see that the tips of her ears have turned a delicate pink, “I don’t usually bring girls here.”
Keith stayed silent for a moment. Is that what’s happening here? She steals another glance at Shiro and realizes that if it was, she would be okay with that. More than okay. Her taste in women has been absolute shit this year, all chaotic or emotionally unavailable artists. Shiro doesn’t seem anything like them, and Keith is pretty sure that’s a good sign.
The elevator doors open directly into a large suite. The exterior walls are mostly large windows, some draped with curtains while others are left open to the lights of the city. The decorations are understated, in neutral tones with rare splashes of color; the apartment seems like a mix of comfortable and sophisticated. It’s definitely lived-in from the books haphazardly stacked on multiple surfaces, and the remnants of what looks like a smoothie in the sink.
Shiro’s cheeks are pink now, and it’s adorable. She moves her arms in a kind of stilted sweeping motion, and says, “So this is... This is it.”
“This is it,” Keith echoes back to her. She can only imagine how gorgeous it is during the day, with sunlight filtering in the huge windows. Keith thinks she’d like to paint in here, thinks about how the natural light would probably dance in Shiro’s hair and bathe her skin in gold.
Shiro doesn’t stay still for long, striding purposefully into the kitchen and rummaging in the cupboards. She reaches up to grab something off of a particularly high shelf with her prosthetic arm, standing poised on her toes. Keith can’t help but be distracted by the swell and curve of Shiro’s calf muscle as it flexes, and the little strip of skin she can see when Shiro’s sweater rides up.
A radiant smile spreads across Shiro’s face when she finds what she’s looking for. She has two stemless wine glasses in her hands. When Keith steps closer, she notices they’re definitely plastic, scuffed with use. Glitter trapped inside the plastic glints at Keith in the low light, surrounding chipped white letters that have been stamped on.
Shiro examines the cups thoughtfully before holding one out to Keith with a wry grin.
Keith takes the cup from her with a quiet “Thanks,” and spins it to read the lettering. Bold block letters read I NEED SOME SPACE. There’s a few stars stamped on as well, and she notices that the glitter is deep blue and purple. Surprised and pleased, Keith laughs abruptly. When she looks back at Shiro the other woman’s eyes are fixed on her, something warm burning in them.
Keith doesn’t get a chance to see what’s written on Shiro’s cup, because Shiro’s throwing snack foods and the champagne Keith bought in a reusable shopping bag--of course she uses reusable shopping bags--and pulling Keith right back out of the kitchen.
“Come on, I’ve got something better to show you,” Shiro says, and Keith follows without question.
Shiro’s hand is warm, fingers surprisingly calloused, and there’s no hesitation in the way she squeezes Keith’s. Instead of pulling her back towards the elevator, Shiro guides Keith to a simple, unassuming door that she assumed was a closet. Oh stars, maybe Shiro really was going to murder her.
But the door opens into a stairwell, and Shiro flicks on the lights before pulling Keith inside. They’re both giggling a little bit and Keith isn’t really sure why but she couldn’t stop it if she tried. She feels lighter than she has in months, maybe all year. Shiro pushes open the door at the top of the stairs and Keith follows her out, gasping.
They’re on the roof.
Keith has never been on the roof of a high-rise building, so she’s not really sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this. The wall around the edge of the rooftop seems suspiciously low--Keith is pretty sure it only comes up to her ribcage. There’s plants all over, terrariums full of succulents and Japanese Yew spilling out of large clay pots. There’s a swinging bench and piles of cushions and blankets, and an inset artificial fire pit.
Keith isn’t entirely sure how Shiro’s allowed to have a large fire on a city rooftop, but she isn’t going to ask too many questions. Keith’s steps are tentative, taking her across the cream painted rooftop towards the cozy set up.
“This is why I got this apartment, in this building,” Shiro says, from just behind her shoulder. For a moment, just one, Keith had almost forgotten about the other woman’s presence. Looking back at Shiro, shimmering with the lights of the city, she wonders how she could possibly forget.
The reality hits Keith again, that she’s on a roof with a perfect stranger, in the middle of the night, holding a ridiculous novelty cup and feeling entirely smitten. The Keith she’s used to being wouldn’t do this. That Keith is cynical and closed off and hidden behind walls of protection from the world. This Keith? She’s a total stranger. Realizing she’s just been standing there staring, Keith answers, “It definitely seems worth it.”
Shiro walks over to the fire pit, if you can call it that, and starts fiddling with knobs and buttons on the side. Keith moves closer, and Shiro talks as she works, “My job pays rather well, but I’ve always lived pretty humbly.”
Keith eyes the roof around them with a rebuttal in her eyes. Shiro chuckles, “Well, up until now. This apartment is probably one of the most lavish things I’ve bought for myself.”
“Why? I mean, the apartment is really nice, and this set-up is, is… incredible, but what makes it so important for you?” Keith asks. She realizes, after the words have spilled out of her mouth, that it’s a pretty personal question to ask somebody you met an hour ago.
Shiro’s silent for a moment. Then, “I also miss the stars. The city is so… clogged and crowded. I need the space to breathe, and remember things that are bigger than all of this.” She says the last bit while gesturing across the roof, at the skyscrapers beyond.
The silence they share then is heavy, full. It’s different than the quiet of their walk, and it feels more important. Striding over to the swinging bench, Keith takes a seat, laughing quietly when the bench sways under her. Shiro smiles and returns to her fiddling, until the fire starts up with a quiet whoosh. Keith pats the seat next to her, holding up her empty cup in a clear request.
Shiro laughs, bringing the bottle of champagne and her own cup. She grabs a soft green blanket from a pile and throws it over both of their laps. Between the fire, the blanket, and the heat of Shiro sitting inches from her, Keith has never felt warmer. Which is not something she expected to feel while outside on New Year’s Eve.
Shiro opens the bottle of champagne gently, instead of with a flourish and a spray of bubbles, and starts pouring. Once their glasses are full, Shiro settles in, tucking her legs up under the blanket, so one of her knees just barely brushes against Keith’s as they swing.
For a minute they sway in silence, sipping champagne and looking out over the city. It’s an effort to keep her eyes on the skyline, instead of studying Shiro, but Keith manages.
“So, Keith, tell me about yourself,” Shiro says, and it should sound clinical, cold. It’s how every therapist she’s ever seen has started off their sessions. But from Shiro the request seems genuine, like she really wants to know.
Keith blows out a breath, “Well, I’m not sure there’s much to know. I’m twenty six, I moved to the city from New Mexico when I was 19, after…” she hesitates, “After I finished high school. I studied art at NYU and now I’m a starving artist.” She knows the grin on her face is a little sad, and more than a little sarcastic, but it’s real.
“An artist, huh? What kind of art?” Shiro asks.
“Mostly oil paint on canvas, but I enjoy most mediums. Never got the hang of sculpture, though,” Keith answers with a laugh, remembering mounds and mounds of clay that never turned into anything but faceless lumps. God, she’d love to try and sculpt Shiro, though—two dimensional art couldn’t possibly do her any justice.
“Do you have any of your work that I could see?” Shiro asks, and her voice is tentative, hopeful. Keith hesitates for a moment but nods, pulling out her phone. Her art is her; it’s the most important parts of her, her soul and the way she sees the world, and sharing it has always felt vulnerable. Keith dismisses the texts from Hunk, her roommate, and a few emails from potential commissions to pull up her photos. Scrolling, she tries to find something she’s proud of, something she actually loved making.
Making a selection, she hands the phone to Shiro, who takes it gently. Keith isn’t sure if she wants to watch Shiro’s reaction, she’s captivated and terrified, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off Shiro’s face if her life depended on it.
“Wow,” Shiro says quietly, almost a whisper. She holds the phone closer to her face, eyes darting around the screen. Keith takes the phone back from Shiro’s outstretched hand when she offers it, and their fingers brush. It’s the first time she’s touched Shiro’s prosthetic hand, she realizes with a jolt; Shiro had been careful to hold her hand with the other one all night. Instead of the cold metal she expects, it’s warm, soft.
Shiro notices the contact, eyes widening as she tries to pull away. Keith stops her, her hand following Shiro’s until she’s twined their fingers together. Shiro freezes for a moment, and Keith is afraid she’s overstepped, moved too fast. Maybe Shiro doesn’t want to be touched like this. But there’s a soft pressure against her skin, a light squeeze of almost human fingers, and Shiro’s eyes are fond. Keith shivers as an overwhelming sense of right settles over her. There are friends she’s had for almost a decade that don’t make Keith feel quite this at ease. She wonders, not for the first time that night, if she’s actually caught in a late nap in her matchbox apartment, dreaming of a mystery woman with starlight hair and sweet gray eyes.
Keith doesn’t know if Shiro is real or a dream, but she decides she really doesn’t care.
Settling back against the cushions, Keith tucks one of her feet under her and lets the other drag against the ground as they swing. Somehow she and Shiro are high enough above the bustle of the city that it’s quiet enough to hear the light rasp of her shoe. The quiet is a soft blanket around them, warming Keith as much as the fire crackling a few feet away.
She watches the flame’s light dance over the line of Shiro’s jaw as she asks, “So, what do you do for a living, Ms. Shirogane?”
Another blush creeps over Shiro’s skin, a dusting of pink. She considers the question, or maybe her answer for a few moments before speaking, “I’m an engineer, actually. I work for Oriande Industries.”
Keith whistles low. Oriande is a household name, well-known for their trips into space.
“Engineering, so no trips to Neptune for you?” Keith asks, and she’s unprepared for the pain that shutters Shiro’s eyes, and the way her jaw works as she studies the cup in her lap.
Her prosthetic fingers slacken, no longer actively holding Keith’s, Shiro doesn’t pull her hand away when she whispers, “No. Not for me. They don’t send girls with one arm and failing bodies to space.”
Keith doesn’t push for information—she just squeezes Shiro’s listless fingers and whispers conspiratorially, “If this is what a failing body looks like, I’m not sure I want to see a healthy one.”
To her surprise, Shiro laughs. Really laughs, loud and real and a little out of control. Keith waits, but she can’t stop her own grin from slowly spreading across her face. But she waits, waits for Shiro to get control of herself enough to speak.
“I’m sorry I just—” Shiro starts, still fighting her laughter, “Everyone always asks. If not outright, then more subtly, throwing hints around. Everyone stares, and they ask, and they assume and they think they get to know.” There’s a hard edge to her voice now.
Keith stays quiet, waiting.
“Everyone always asks, and they don’t care if I want to talk about it. And now you’re here, and you’re so pretty and interesting and for some reason I think I’d be comfortable talking about it. But you’re not asking,” Shiro says. She doesn’t stop to take a breath, the words come out of her in a whoosh, water spilling from a broken dam.
Keith isn’t really sure what to say. Her brain short-circuited the moment Shiro called her pretty, and it takes a minute for her to process the rest of the other woman’s words. When she finally gets her mouth working again, she wishes she hadn’t.
“You… think I’m pretty?” Keith asks, inevitably.
“That’s… I mean, I—what I meant is—” Shiro stammers out, flustered and caught off guard. She lets out a harsh breath and turns to Keith, squaring her shoulders, “Yes. You’re gorgeous. And there’s absolutely no way you don’t know that already.”
Keith shrugs, taking a deep drink of her champagne instead of answering. Objectively, Keith knows she’s attractive, but that’s different than knowing Shiro finds her pretty. Keith scoots closer, just a little, holding out her cup for a refill. Shiro obliges her, refilling her own cup as well.
“I hoped at first, you know,’” Shiro says, her quiet voice edged in bitterness. “I thought maybe, maybe, they’d take a chance on me. I thought maybe there would be a way for me to see the stars.”
Her voice still carries all the awe of a younger Shiro; marveling at the endless reaches of space and her chance at adventure, but deep sorrow lines her face. The feelings don’t battle across her features, they coexist, both resounding and true all at once. Keith wonders yet again if it would be possible to capture the wonder of Shiro with something as basic as paint.
“And Allura, she really did try,” Shiro’s voice barely carries over the crackling of the fire, “my friend, she’s the CEO’s daughter. She fought for me, long after I stopped fighting. But it’s too risky, there’s too many ways for things to go sideways.”
Shiro’s fingers clench in Keith’s grip, and Keith swipes her thumb softly against the warm metal. She doesn’t know if Shiro can feel it, but god, Keith hopes she can.
“It’s okay, though, really. I stopped hoping, and that makes it easier. It’s gotta be enough to be part of the team that gets all the way out there, even if I’m not steering the ship,” Shiro finishes, and drains her glass. She looks like the world rests on her shoulders and the weight is unbearably heavy, and Keith wishes she could lift some of it off. Shiro’s shoulders are broad and she can probably carry that weight, but she shouldn’t have to, Keith thinks.
She wants to comfort Shiro, bundle Shiro up in her arms and squeeze her, or run reverent fingers through her hair. Keith wants to kiss the frown off Shiro’s lips, to not stop until Shiro can’t feel the pain of her loss, can’t feel anything but mindless, delirious pleasure.
Instead, she reaches over to tilt Shiro’s chin up, bringing their faces close before Keith whispers, “I think you’ll get there. I think if anybody deserves to see the stars, it’s you. I’ll keep hoping, even if you can’t.”
Their faces are close, so close Keith can smell the champagne in their mingled breaths. The dancing light of the fire flickers over Shiro, and her lower lip shakes just a little bit. She breathes, “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” Keith whispers back, and she feels more than sees Shiro’s sharp intake of breath. The silence is taut. Shiro looks dazed, her silver eyes are unfocused and overwhelmed. Her lips move and Keith freezes in anticipation.
“Do you want snacks?”
Keith reels back, stunned, and the moment breaks. The noise of the city filters back in slowly, and Keith feels a laugh bubbling out of her chest unbidden. “Always. Whatcha got?” she asks, eyeing the bag Shiro had stuffed before they came upstairs.
Shiro pulls the bag into her lap and spreads the goodies across the bench. She brought enough food for at least five people, and Keith is endeared all over again. Keith considers carefully, grabbing a package of strawberry pocky sticks and tearing them open shamelessly.
When Keith looks back at Shiro the other woman is making a disgusted face, and says, “Strawberry? Ugh, you have terrible taste.”
Keith gasps in mock betrayal and says, “How dare you! Strawberry Pocky Sticks are absolutely the best ones. I bet you like something stupid, like Matcha, or dark chocolate, like some kind of,” she eyes Shiro before finishing, “muscular health nut.”
Shiro says nothing, grabbing a package of matcha pocky sticks and eating them with exaggerated bites and a stubborn set to her jaw. Keith’s cheeks feel sore from smiling so wide. It’s a tiny twinge of pain, but it feels good, and earned, like aching thighs after a long run.
Feeling bold for just a moment, Keith adds, “Besides, I think my taste is pretty damn good.” She looks at Shiro through her eyelashes, delighted at the pleased surprise in Shiro’s eyes.
Keith settles in, not bothering with subtlety as she scoots closer, until she and Shiro are shoulder to shoulder. It’s almost too easy to tilt her head, to rest her cheek against the solid warmth of Shiro; to breathe in the sweet, woodsy smell of her.
They stay like that, swinging in the quiet, for a few minutes, maybe a few hours. Maybe it’s next year already, Keith isn’t sure. There’s a bubble of safety and contentment, and Keith thinks maybe, maybe if she doesn’t move or breathe or speak, it won’t ever pop.
But pop it does.
A loud bang shakes Keith from her reverie, followed by the sparkling light and crackling sound of a firework. It startles her, flinging her upright, and she spills snacks and plastic wrappers out of her lap. It’s been years since she’s seen a firework that close, close enough to smell the gunpowder immediately, to feel the ghost of the heat on her upturned face. The smell is poignant, it conjures memories of her dad’s laughter, and night air buzzing with cicadas and the hint of a storm. The memory catches in Keith’s throat and stings at her eyes, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to.
Shiro touches her back gently, and Keith relaxes just a little bit. Shiro says, “I forgot to warn you about the fireworks, I’m sorry. I forget how loud they are from up here.”
Keith looks back at Shiro, who is still the picture of relaxation. The eruption didn’t bother her at all, and she looks like she’s fighting back laughter. Her gray eyes dance with mirth, and Keith is at least ninety percent sure Shiro’s laughing at her. Keith narrows her eyes at Shiro, whose straight face dissolves into helpless giggling.
“I’m sorry, you just look like a startled cat,” Shiro gasps between laughs, “You’re so bristly.”
“I’m not bristly,” Keith says, and it comes out as something near a hiss. She deflates as soon as she hears her own voice, and she sounds disgruntled even to her own ears.
“Okay, sure you’re not,” Shiro says, pulling Keith back to her resting place against Shiro’s side, “but for the record, it was very cute.” Keith lets Shiro pull her in, lets herself be tucked into Shiro’s side and wrapped up in the arm around her shoulder.
Shiro glances at her watch and turns back to Keith, whispering, “It’s eleven fifty-nine.”
Keith can’t remember the last time she was excited for midnight. She’s not even sure if she remembers most midnights on New Year's Eve; she’s usually drunk or asleep, and she’s never excited. But now, electricity thrums across her skin, dancing at every place where she presses against Shiro.
Another boom, and the sky is lit up in a dozen places. The display can’t be more than a quarter mile away, and Keith can feel the reverberations in her ribcage as each firework explodes. She turns to look at Shiro, who she expected to be watching the display, rapt and attentive. Instead she finds the other woman’s face turned to hers, barely inches away. The light of the fireworks throws Shiro’s cheekbones into sharp relief, the edges of her skin gilded in red and gold and cyan.
Shiro’s a fireworks show herself. Bright and breathtaking, and Keith can feel her in her chest, vibrating through her. Shiro whispers, “Happy New Year,” and then her lips are on Keith’s. Keith sinks into the kiss; the way Shiro’s lips pillow against hers is a revelation. It’s a celebration of new beginnings and beautiful endings and joy.
Keith’s over eager, surging to meet Shiro, whimpering with need for something, she’s not sure what. Shiro gentles the kiss, holding Keith’s face like she’s something treasured and worthy of care, and Keith sighs into it.
Shiro’s lips are soft, and sweet with candy and champagne. She kisses Keith like they’ve got all the time in the world, like she could kiss her for days without anything else, and Keith knows she would let her. Shiro deepens the kiss, licking into her mouth, tasting her and groaning sweetly at the taste of Keith, the way Keith’s breath hitches. Keith feels like she’s on the edge of shuddering apart in Shiro’s arms, entirely unraveled at a kiss, of all things.
She pulls back, breath harsh in her ears, but she’s delighted to see Shiro look just as affected as she is. Her silver eyes are dazed, unfocused, and she has the softest smile curling the edges of her mouth.
Keith can’t stop the wide smile that splits her own face, whispering, “I think this is going to be a good year.”
She presses forward again, this time pivoting to throw a leg over Shiro so she’s straddling her lap. The swing sways slightly under them as Keith dips down to taste Shiro again, pushing deft fingers against Shiro’s scalp; her hair slides through Keith’s fingers like liquid moonlight, cool and sleek. The fireworks show carries on, loud booms and crackling punctuating the air as Keith loses herself in the taste of Shiro, the solid weight and warmth of Shiro’s body beneath her. She tastes like candy and champagne and hope, and Keith knows this is going to be the best year of her life.