𝟙 𝕐𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕌𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕝 ℕ𝕠𝕨

❅ day 11- eleven pipers piping ❅

     Never in a million years did Keith think that that's who he'd see tonight as he strode out onstage, shoulders squared and chest puffed; presenting himself like a peacock. The colors of the outfit he'd put together, on display for the entire audience, his entire audience; dazzling against the stage lights.

     Never did he think that that's who he'd see tonight, sitting next to Lance, eyes bright despite the crowd being enveloped in shadow.

     When he'd been backstage, floors creaking as he paced up and down the halls he listened to the other musicians prepare; watching them run their arms through the air as if they had a violin and bow in hand, playing the air's wispy notes and the silence in between.

     He remembered his first recital. When he'd sat backstage back then, his body could barely avoid being swallowed by the couch cushions in the waiting room. The air used to feel stale and free of oxygen as he struggled to breathe and calm his shaking hands. Because he knew he could never play with shaky hands. "Calm down," Shiro had always said. "I won't be able to hear your music if your hands are shaking. Your music deserves to be heard. You know that right?"

    Shiro had been a teenager at the time, so he was likely nervous himself. Nervous for his foster brother. Nervous to see the little boy, innocence already stripped from his calloused fingers, pop any more pills of disappointment.

    Keith had eventually gotten over it, the unrelenting jitters before his performances. Usually, these days, he sat. He sat and waited and remembered to breathe in and out as he watched the poor saps that still paced through the halls like chickens without heads; so afraid to mess up in front of such a large crowd.

     But today, somehow Keith found himself pacing. Pacing and pacing and pacing and barely able to catch any breath in his lungs as if they were spotted with cuts and holes. He'd stopped and sat on the very couch he used to sink in, body, mind, and soul trembling down to his fingertips. He hadn't understood what'd been going on when his vision seemed to blur or when he'd enveloped himself in his own warmth; cradled in his own arms.

     When the clock struck four, he could feel his organs drop soundlessly to his feet. The uproar of applause meant that his opposing contestant was walking off stage, sweat probably pouring from her face. Not a single, dark hair askew. Nails manicured down to perfection. She reminded him of what Ronna would probably look like when she got older, the same tenseness in her shoulders matched with the soft sincerity of a proud smile.

     Keith had stood up, his vision still blurred from the blood rush to his head. "Keith Kogane! You're up next!" a man said from the front where Keith was technically supposed to be.

     The boy grabbed his violin, holding it delicately, but the wood still trembled from the tremor in his hands. He was about to walk up and face his fate, knowing he couldn't play, not a single note with his hands feeling like they did. But just as he took his first step, he remembered something. Something in the pocket of his violin case; square shaped and daunting. But he had to try something.

     He unzipped the pocket. "Keith Kogane! Keith Kogane! You're up in five!" He pulled out the ring box, felt its smooth material against his fingertips and recognized an, almost immediate, calming in his hands. "Keith Kogane! We need you up front! Has anyone seen Keith Kogane?" He pulled the ring out, a band patterned in thin, silver and black stripes. It slid onto his ring finger effortlessly as if it were coming home where it'd always belonged.

     Immediately, the unsteadiness of his hands disappeared into nothingness; a memory soon forgotten and overtaken by others. The Ballet Bakery with Lance and Ronna. The café where he slept soundlessly on a cold, diner table with Lance's fingers smoothing his greasy hair; now washed and glistening. The pool. Their kiss. It all came flooding back, flashback after flashback. The scenes depicted in soft, dim colors as if they were taken in polaroid.