There’s something about looking at old photographs. It’s not tangible, it’s not an emotion you can really describe.
Keith would call it nostalgia, but it’s not, not really.
There’s nothing nostalgic in the photos where he stands alone, a pouty child that doesn’t look to the lens, the person behind it not catching his interest, not meeting his gaze.
There’s nothing nostalgic in the photographs he sent to his brother Shiro in his high school years, sitting behind a desk with bloodshot eyes and cigarettes roughly hidden in the background, photographs captured and sent only to prove that he’s alive and as well as he could be when staying alone, when his apartment was always too dark, too quiet. Too lonesome.
He supposes, though, that the feeling changes as he scrolls through his phone, looking to his recent photographs.
It starts slow.
A photograph of him, Shiro, Matt and Pidge, all looking to the camera with tired smiles, after a day of packing and moving; it was the day he and Pidge moved in together to start university, anxiety in their stomachs and a rush on their cheeks.
There’s more, of Pidge trying to reach a cupboard and standing on a chair on her tiptoes. Matt, playing video games with Shiro, his mouth open as if yelling, Shiro smirking as he glares at the screen.
Then come more people.
There’s Allura, her elbow resting cheekily on Shiro’s shoulder, looking to the lens with an effortless beauty, a small smile and a wink. Keith is somewhere in the background, his lips turned into a frown, a pile of books to his side.
Here comes Hunk next, a shy smile and hands forming the victory sign, Keith standing next to him with a neutral expression, Pidge in-between them holding a teddybear that’s the same height as her, the blinking lights of an arcade behind them.