baby, why not waste it on me? | #sheith | eventual nsfw | genderqueer!keith takes an escort job as a favor, reunites with the love of his life, and makes a lot of questionable life choices over the course of a single night.



It’s the cocktail dress that convinces him.

The dress is a classy black number. Strapless, form fitting, with a slit on one side that will be hidden when he stands but expose the length of his leg when he moves. Romelle wouldn’t wear it - she favors pastels and doesn’t go strapless. So it’s been made for him, specifically.

“You’re serious,” he says. Somewhere between thinking it and saying it, the words turned from a question to a statement.

Romelle beams and shows him the slit in the dress again. There’s an inset of red lace from hip to mid thigh. Because the dress is slit up to the hip. Jesus.

“This lace is handmade,” she chirps. “In Italy.”

“Okay.” Yes, she’s serious. Enough that she bought him a custom dress with Italian lace. Romelle is generous, but even by her standards the gift is extravagant. Groaning, he gives in with a sighed: “Who’s the job with, again?”

Squealing, Romelle throws her arms around his shoulders. He’s used to her exuberance by now. Barely even staggers under the sudden weight. “You’re the best, Kee!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Seriously though, who am I pretending to be in love with?”

“Oh, just some Senator.”

Later - when he’s downing another glass of Coping Champagne - he’ll look back on this. On her casual dismissal. On how easily he let it go even knowin that Senators are prize clients. And Keith will know, down to the soles of his 3” Louboutins, that he’s been played.

The escort service Romelle works for is classy. Above board. Exclusive.

Romelle herself speaks three languages fluently, plays the violin, and has dual masters degrees in French Literature and Foreign Policy. Quite frankly, she’s terrifying. So are the rest of her coworkers.

It’s how they qualify to be the one night arm candy for business execs and politicians. Looks, Romelle tells Keith as she helps him style his hair, only get a girl so far.

“Just one problem,” he says. “I am not qualified.”

This is something of a diplomatic understatement.

“You totally are,” Romelle says. Her tongue peeks out between her teeth as she pins another lock of hair. The hairstyle she’d chosen is a braided updo that, for the amount of pins she’s using, should not leave so many tendrils framing his face and tickling the back of his neck.

“Sure, if they want to talk hoverbike repair.”

That earns him a reproachful ear pinch. “You know astronomy. You speak Navajo. You attended the most prestigious university in the nation—“

“For four semesters.”

“—And you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in real life.”

“I thought looks aren’t enough.”

“Trust me, if we all looked like you, it’d be enough.”

Blushing - because seriously, he’s not what she’s implying, not by a long shot - he looks away. Romelle squawks as she yanks him back into position. Their eyes meet in the bathroom mirror.

Romelle places her hands on his shoulders. “Just. Trust me, Kee. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think he loves you.”

“Loves me?”

“Will love you. When he meets you. For the first time. Ugh, you’re ruining your hair /and/ my elocution! Now sit still and hush.”

Keith sits still and hushes. Mostly because she’s moved on to make up, and he doesn’t want to get his eye stabbed out with her mascara wand.



The car sent to pick him up isn’t a limo. Apparently that would be too cliche. It’s a sleek black Lamborghini Aventador.

“Ohhh,” Romelle trills, leaning more heavily against the wrought iron railing of their balcony. “That’s nice. He sent his personal car!”

“Wait. That’s /his/ car?”

“Yesss?”

Inappropriately, Keith feels his mouth water. He loves Lamborghinis.

There’s just something about a gorgeous car made from love & spite. It probably handles like a dream. V12 engines always do. His fingertips itch to caress the sleek black lines of the hood and the butter soft leather of the interior.

“Cars like this make me want to suck a dick.”

“You’re not allowed to suck his dick.” Romelle pauses, pouting as if she’s considering all aspects of an equation. “At least not until you’re off the clock.”

“I’m not going to suck his dick, Rommie.” No senator who drives a car like this can possibly be under the age of 60.

“Sure, sure, but just remember you get off the clock at midnight.” Romelle leads him back into their apartment and helps him into a black fur stole. “After that you can do whatever you want with his dick. Suck it. Punch it. Castrate it. But not a /second/ before midnight.“

“I’m feeling very Cinderella,” he says.

Romelle rolls her eyes at his and fixes his lipstick. All I’m saying is you have to stay with him and behave until the clock strikes twelve!”

“Aye aye, Fairy Godmother.”

Hurried out the door, Keith takes his time walking to the elevator.

He needs time to pull himself together. This isn’t the first time Romelle’s pulled him for help at her job, but it is the first time she’s sent him out alone. Still. It’s fine. Totally.

Lackluster pep talk aside, he does enjoy the dress and the car.

Wearing one while riding in the other feels a like an actual fairytale. Too bad there’s not a Prince Charming at the ball.



According to the instructions left with Romelle, he’s meant to wait inside the museum the gala is being held at. ‘By the Colonial Era exhibit.’

Keith, for once in his life, follows instructions. There's lots of reasons. Like, it's Romelle's job on the line, not his. And, Romelle is the reason they can afford the apartment they do instead of the rat infested one he used to be in. And, he's not going to disappoint Romelle.

(Mostly, it's the last reason.)

After he gets through security, he leaves the fur stole at the coat check and makes his way toward the Colonial exhibit. It's a little like a walk of shame. People stare. Or they whisper to one another, eyes still on him, even though it's rude.

They can probably tell he doesn't belong with politicians and moguls and celebrities. Doesn't matter how well Romelle styled him.

Keith lifts his chin and finally ducks into the exhibit. It's mostly empty, people sticking to the main thoroughfare that leads to the event hall.

Without a watch, and with his cellphone turned off, it's impossible to tell how long he waits. Feels like an hour. From the ebb & flow of people it's likely all of ten minutes.

Keith can't even distract himself with the exhibit because he's never been one for history.

Another person enters the exhibit. Male, from the length of the stride and the absence of high heels on marble. Whoever he is, he's walking slowly. Killing time browsing the exhibits. Keith doesn't bother looking away from the display he's been eyeing for the last few minutes.

Still, he keeps an ear out. Isn't surprised when the steps slow to a halt about a foot and a half away from him. When he glances from the corner of his eye, all he gets is an impression of a broad chest in a well fitted suit. Huh.

Romelle would tell him to make small talk.

But Romelle isn't here to have an opinion.

Keith takes a half step to the side. Hopefully it comes off like he's a normal museum patron keeping the flow of traffic going. Instead of, well, a barely civilized former delinquent who still flinches when people get too close.

The man doesn't follow. So either he's oblivious, or he's perceptive, and that's a hell of a dichotomy.

Even with the new distance, Keith can smell the faint hint of his aftershave. It's nice. Well matched to his body chemistry, as Romelle would say. Clean, warm, masculine.

And, weirdly, almost /familiar/.

Closing his eyes, Keith inhales as subtly as he can. The scent reminds him of summer, and of the crisp expanse of the desert, and of safety. Like being held in strong arms. All the tension he'd been carrying between his shoulder blades eases.

When he breathes in again, it comes deep and easy and without the faint ache he'd learned to ignore. They say the body remembers what the mind forgets. Keith knows this scent in his animal hindbrain. Even if the rest of him tried so very, very, very hard to forget.

Whoever it is—because it can't be who Keith's body is telling him it is—clears his throat. Not in an impatient way. More like a 'hey are you okay' way. Why is Keith analyzing the throat clearing of a stranger?

"I'm fine," he says, automatically. Because he is. Will be.

Once he's done with this particular psychotic break, at least.

"Okay," the man—/whoever he is/—says. It's a nice voice. Rough but gentle. Worn in like a favorite pair of jeans. The kind of voice that makes even a wary kid from the wrong side of the tracks want to /trust/.

"Not a fan of this exhibit?"

"No," Keith answers. Short. To the point. No room to continue the conversation.

But the man doesn't leave. There's a pause, like he's reassessing. That's what /he/ used to do. Changing tactics like a general on the battlefield to coax Keith.

"Hey, can you look at me?"

Keith shakes his head.

"Please." The man can make a plea sound like a command. One of his hands presses against the small of Keith's back, in a touch that should be too familiar but instead registers as grounding. "You're worrying me, sweetheart."

Crossing his arms, Keith barely resists the urge to dig his fingertips into his bare arms. Now is not the time to be having flashbacks. Besides, it's creepy to try to read the man he loved and lost onto this stranger who's just trying to be nice to the lady having a breakdown.

"Please look at me, sweetheart," the man says. He tips Keith's face up with a knuckle beneath his chin.

Opening his eyes doesn't feel like a choice. None of this feels like a choice. It's been years since he broke down like this. Longer since he let someone touch him like this.

Swallowing, Keith reluctantly lets his face be guided up by the man who decided to accost him in a museum exhibit and ruin several years of emotional armor in the course of a single not-even-a-proper-conversation.

Because it can't be. It /can't/ be.

When he opens his eyes, though, he's not surprised to see Shiro giving him that old familiar grin. The one that's equal parts gentle and teasing. The one that's documented in a hundred and four pictures on Keith's phone. The one that's got him trembling on his 3" heels.

"I think I'm gonna faint."



Keith doesn't faint. It's a near thing. Shiro half guides & half carries him over to a nearby display—which is /not/ for sitting on but apparently US Senators aren't bound by petty shit like museum rules.