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GRIFFIN / @arespilot

“it’s not anger.” even in the middle of the summer james is always impressed with how cold it could get in the desert once the sun had set. he shivers, trying to brush away the goosebumps on his arms with hot, open palms, fighting to keep his gaze on some point in the middle distance, the place where the edge of the world seems to smudge into the sky, everything indigo and black and velvet.

but every time keith shifts, moving his arm, curling his hand into a fist, hair blowing into his face, james is drawn to him, eyes darting over then away, guilty, of what he doesn’t know. not yet.

“it was never anger, not when we were kids.”

rizavi’s stash of booze hadn’t made it all the way through the end of the world, running out perhaps a good year after the galra siege had begun, but james thinks if there’s a moment he could use a beer, it would be now. anything to make this easier, to dull the sharp pangs of inadequacy. he owes everything to keith, even his success, and its more frustrating than anything.

because as hard as he tries, james is never going to beat natural talent.

in the space between them, envy rolls off in waves. james wonders if keith can feel it, wonders if it’s colder than the air around them, or if it burns. when he speaks, his tone is casual. it doesn’t betray the tension in his fist, blunt nails biting half-moons into his palm. “surprised you hadn’t figured that out by now.”

arms uncross, and he drapes himself against the rail, feeling the bite of cold steel on his bare forearms. he leans into the wind, listening to the soothing rustle of the garrison flags flying in the breeze, and james, his smooth voice and curt words cutting through the sound.

‘ alright — ’ keith allows, tone tranquil and disarming. there’s a touch of disbelief to his remark, but he doesn’t argue. maybe anger isn’t the problem. nothing’s ever that simple, anyways. keith, more than anyone, knows that anger is a symptom. and it’s not the only one: a sharp wit, a strong thirst, a defensive tongue. everyone is different. everyone has their own, special brand of self-destruction. so maybe keith was projecting — so what? there’s something smoldering in james. he’s not wrong about that.

keith considers him with a sidelong glance, silent and thoughtful. sometimes, even simple emotions were a mystery to him, and he’s never been good at reading between people’s words. is james being so damned vague on purpose — hoping he’ll fuck off — or is keith missing something here—?

snorting, keith rolls his eyes. he levels james with an incredulous stare.

‘ shows how much you know about me, ’ keith says, voice dripping with a dry, self-deprecating sarcasm. c’mon, is he gonna make him say it? so he’s not the best when it comes to seeing other people’s perspectives. but he’s not stupid. keith understands body language ( it’s the only language he uses, half the time ). and he can see the tension. jesus, he can practically feel it — like an elastic band stretched between them, about to pop. he just doesn’t understand why.

time to try another angle.

‘ I was angry— ’ he says. ‘ for a long time. and a real dick of a kid. but it’s never just anger, you know? it’s always something else. ’

#arespilot #keith vc: what's your damage heather #keith vc: i lied i'm still angry 92% of the time