3Disclaimer: I do not have synesthesia. I've done some research about it and I've tried to make things as accurate as possible, but I will admit up front that I have exaggerated things a bit to be more suitable in a story setting. If you are familiar with synesthesia and see something that you think can be done better, please let me know!
Keith has projective chromoesthesia.
Chromesthesia, which is more commonly known as sound-to-sight synesthesia, is generally what most people think of whenever synesthesia is brought up. There are two ways that people experience synesthesia: projective (seeing actual colors, forms, or shapes when stimulated - the widely understood version of synesthesia) and associative (feeling a very strong and involuntary connection between the stimulus and the sense that it triggers). In the anecdotes I've read, it's not unusual for people with projective synesthesia to think they are schizophrenic - I've taken that a few steps further.
Warnings: Child Neglect, Misdiagnosis of a Child, Medical Malpractice
When he was young, Keith didn't think much of it. It was the only thing he knew after all, and as far as he was aware, that was the way the world always was.
He would babble about the colors that filled the air at every little sound – a bird's tweet, a car's horn, someone's voice. He could watch the way the colors formed shapes that melted into dancing rivers for hours on end. Music was an adventure all on its own and he loved to watch his father's voice when he read bedtime stories. The way it dipped and darkened at a climactic moment or bubbled up when the characters in the story laughed.
He would draw pictures and hang them up on the walls, the doors, the fridge. His father would ask about each one and listen with a smile as Keith explained that the light green blob was a dog's bark and the blue triangle was a bird's song. He even got Keith a book filled with the names of different colors and a new box of crayons every other week when his old one had been worn down into little nubs. He encouraged Keith to draw what he heard and always smiled when he explained what he saw.
Keith would explain how his voice was red; it was made of jagged edges sharp enough to wound that turned crimson when he was angry and smoothed out into gentle, almost pink, curves when he was tired. Sadness made his voice still, wispy puffs of muddled cordovan that slowly drifted to the ground and lingered like fog. When he was happy, his voice was bright red – scarlet bubbling up between dancing streaks of ruby and fire.
That was just the way things were; sounds made colors and Keith liked to draw them.
He assumed everyone knew that. After all, his father never told him differently.
But then Keith was seven and his father was gone and he was surrounded by strangers with bright smiles and pity in their eyes. They spoke in bright words about how they would take care of him and how everything would be okay. But their voices were all muddled and the colors were wrong; bright, but cracked with the mud underneath showing through.
He learned quickly that things were not okay.
It was a lie the adults told to make themselves feel better. To make them feel like they had fixed something for Keith. But pretty words and false promises only made him angry. His bright happy red disappeared – buried under rosewood thorns and burgundy daggers and red so dark it was almost black.
He was moved to a new home after six weeks and, slowly, he settled into a new normal and his voice lightened to crimson streaked with dark. He started drawing again, filling sketchbook after sketchbook with the splashes of color around him. His new foster mom seemed delighted by his hobby and happily bought him supplies.
It was only when she started asking about his drawings that things started going downhill.
"It's Coco's meow," Keith explained.
His brow furrowed when she seemed to pause, confusion flickering over her features instead of the amused smile his father always wore.
She started asking more questions after that and Keith was more and more baffled.
"Sounds make colors," he said bluntly. After all, everyone knew that, the evidence was right in front of their faces.
His foster mom looked pained, her husband frowning next to her, "Sweetie, no they don't," she said slowly, as if it should be something obvious.
Keith scowled at her. "Ya-huh. My voice sounds red and yours is – "
"Keith," his foster dad interrupted sternly, "They do not make colors."
But they did. He knew they did. And he said so. Often and repeatedly. Because how could anyone be so wrong about something so obvious?
A week later, he was back at the group home, standing outside the door to the matron's office as his former foster parents explained why they couldn't keep him.
"He keeps saying that he's seeing things that aren't there. We aren't equipped to handle a child with those kinds of special needs."
"You didn't tell us he was schizophrenic; we wouldn't have taken him if we knew! We can't have some like that around our son. Jimmy's only four – he wouldn't be able to defend himself."
"He needs help and we just aren't in a place to provide it. Michael's right; our son needs to come first. We can't focus on Keith's mental deficiencies."
Keith drew away from them when they said goodbye. They had false smiles on their lips, offering apologies about how it didn't work out.
"Don't lie to me," he spat, rosewood thorns curling around them in way he was only now beginning to realize that they couldn't see, "You just don't want me."
After that, it was doctors and tests and big words that he didn't know and medications that made his head feel funny. They made him tired and his body felt heavy and his stomach hurt and colors still painted sounds even though all the doctors said the medicine was supposed to make them stop doing that. They were wrong, they never worked, and Keith hated taking them. People looked at him like they looked at rabid dogs; like he would snap any moment, like he was something they needed to keep an eye on lest he bite them. He felt their eyes follow him everywhere, judging him, waiting. And then he would get so fed up and yell and spit and curse and those eyes would turn knowing –
See, he's too dangerous.
He's insane!
We can't keep him, Sharon! I -
-knew this would happen.
He can't control himself. He should be locked up.
People like him don't belong.
We have to take him back! Did you see what he drew?
He said it was a voice.
-sees things, Janet, that's not normal.
The medication is just too expensive.
-not even taking them! I found-
-keeps talking about sounds-
-half the bottle in the toilet!
He says things about colors –
I can't do this anymore! He's a freak!Give him back.
We don't want him.
I'm sorry.
-not normal-
-doesn't help you know-
-you shouldn't talk like that-
-don't go near him-
He's hallucinating again.
-too violent-
-can't control himself-
Control your temper.
Stop talking about the colors! They're not real!
-people will think you're crazy!
– and he would be sent back to a group home with a new bottle of pills and a voice so dark, Keith could barely tell it was supposed to be red.
So he took his words and locked them up, tucked away the rosewood thorns and burgundy daggers and the dark that spilled from his lips every time he made a sound. No one listened to him anyway. They thought he was a lair. They called him crazy when they thought he couldn't hear them.
He always heard them.
He kept his sketchbooks close, kept them hidden. He still drew because drawing was something that was his, the sketchbooks were something he could keep, and his father had loved when he had drawn. But he never showed anyone anymore. Never drew in front others. Never let them see. He locked up his art the same way he locked up his voice – behind iron walls and steel locks, far, far away from anyone who might try to hurt them.
He stopped listening the pretty words and nice smiles families gave him. Didn't react when they talked about fixing him and helping him get better. Ignored the doctors they took him to see, tossed his medication the first chance he had.
Keith got used to being watched wearily. Got used to the frustration and anger and despair and pity people treated him with. It made him furious and he seethed every time, but he got used to it.
And then when he was twelve, he met Shiro.
Cardinals were weird birds, Keith decided as he drew his colored pencil across the paper of his sketchbook. They were bright red, but almost every single one he had seen sang in some shade of blue or green. The one currently twittering away outside the window sang in teal – short, little starbursts of color that danced between the leaves.
The bird hopped across the branch, letting out a sharp whistle that was a darker blue, and Keith huffed out a laugh – a dark maroon wisp – before biting back the sound. He picked up the navy pencil and drew in the sharp line of sound.
The door opened and Keith's head jerked up, his sketchbook snapped shut in an instant. Why was someone here? People generally avoided him, he preferred it that way, and most of the kids were outside right now anyways.
The boy that stepped into the room was not someone Keith recognized. He was older, a teenager, with black hair and storm cloud gray eyes. He looked around the room curiously before his gaze landed on Keith and his expression shifted to surprise.
"Oh! Sorry," he said, "Didn't mean to burst in on you. Is it okay if I come in?"
His voice was a sharp burst of surprised lilac followed by royal purple ribbons twined with amethyst. It was bright and vibrant and Keith's fingers itched for his pencils, to capture the sound on paper, but he didn't dare move.
He shrugged in answer to the teen's question. It was a public room, after all, it wasn't like Keith could keep him out and he didn't want to leave the only room that had art supplies (he wasn't allowed to have any in his room, not even his sketchbook, but they hadn't found the stash of filled books he kept hidden at the bottom of a suitcase that was never unpacked). The teen smiled at him and stepped into the room, surprising Keith by walking right up to the table he was at. Now Keith knew he was definitely new – hadn't anyone warned him away?
"You mind if I draw?" he asked, taking a seat a few spaces down and gesturing to the paper and pencils the other kids had left lying around.
Keith shrugged again, hugging his sketchbook to his chest.
He smiled. "Thanks," he said, an amethyst ribbon curling in the air between them, "My name's Shiro, by the way. Well, actually, it's Takashi Shirogane, but I prefer Shiro."
Keith blinked at him – at Shiro, and wondered why he was still talking to him.
Shiro just smiled and picked up an orange pencil and began to draw. Keith watched him, waiting for some comment, or look, or something. But Shiro wasn't even paying attention to him, too busy searching the mess of a table for the colors he wanted to use. They stayed like that, Keith watching Shiro draw, for an hour. The teen didn't try to engage him in conversation or try to make him leave the room, just sat there and colored.
"What do you think?" Shiro asked, holding up his paper.
Keith leaned forward, curious despite himself. He tilted his head to the side, staring at a colored diagram of the solar system. It wasn't the most artistic thing in the world, but it was neat and uniform and precise. Looking closer, he noticed little facts noted by each planet and moved closer to try and see better. He didn't realize how close he'd gotten until Shiro chuckled and the purple glided right in front of his face.
He jerked back, looking up at Shiro with wide eyes.
The teen just shrugged and gave him a sheepish smile. "I like space," was all he offered, not even commenting on Keith's actions.
Keith stared at him for a moment before tentatively pointing to the numbers written just under Jupiter. Shiro tilted his head and asked, "How do I know that?"
He nodded and was surprised by the grin Shiro gave him.
"I go to the Galaxy Garrison," he explained, "I'm going to be a pilot one day and fly through the stars. Gotta know about what's out there if I wanna fly there. Besides, it's interesting."
Keith gave him a skeptical look, slowly sliding into the seat right next to him.
"Don't believe me, huh?" Shiro asked with a chuckle, "Well, let's see…I think I first got interested when Mom told me about the constellations. She told me stories about them when I was little. Here, hold on." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone taping away at it and then turning it to Keith, showing him a screen full of stars. "This is Orion, he's an archer from Greek legend. See, these three stars here are his belt…"
Keith watched as Shiro traced his finger over the stars, leaving a line behind on the screen until there was a shape that vaguely resembled a person holding a bow. He listened as the teen told him the story of Orion and Artemis and one story slowly melted into others. Keith let himself get lost in Shiro's purple tones, idly tracing the ribbons that spilled over the table with his fingers. It reminded Keith of his dad. His dad loved the stars – would talk about them all the time, tell Keith stories he said that the mother he had never met told him. They didn't sound anything like the stories Shiro was telling him, but Keith liked them all the same.
The two of them were curled around the phone screen, Shiro pointing out the cluster of stars that made up Leo, when three adults walked into the room. Two of them were unfamiliar, a man and a woman, the third being Ms. Shelly, one of the home's caretakers.
"Takeshi," the woman said with a fond smile, robin egg blue cirrus clouds curling around her head, "We were wondering where you'd gotten off to."
Shiro looked sheepish. "Sorry, Mom," he said and Keith blinked because if these were his parents, then what was he doing here? "I was looking around and ran into –" He stopped, turning to Keith, eyes wide. "I just realized I don't know your name."
Keith huffed scarlet at him and he startled for a moment at the color.
"He doesn't speak, I'm afraid," Ms. Shelly started saying, mouth opening to no doubt explain Keith's many problems.
"Keith," he told Shiro softly, silencing his caretaker.
Shiro smiled at him. "It's nice to meet you, Keith," he said, holding out his hand.
Keith eyed it wearily for a moment. He'd been burned before after all. But. But Shiro told him about stars. Told him about space and constellations and flying and never once asked him to talk. Never once tried to make him. Didn't look at him like he was this shattered, broken thing that would lash out any second.
He took Shiro's hand.
The Shiroganes were looking for a child to adopt.
Their son was seventeen and home for summer break, but his parents wanted another child and decided adoption was the way to go given their ages and some medical complications that occurred when Shiro was born. Mrs. Shirogane's voice was robin egg blue clouds with teal rain and turquoise mist. Keith had seen her voice roil like storm clouds once as she talked in low tones to one of the caretakers before her husband distracted him. Mr. Shirogane's voice was full of earthy browns – sweet maple and sturdy oak and burnt umber. He spoke in geometric patterns, repeating strings of squares and rectangles that held strong and steady even under an onslaught of excited children.
They came by every four days, meeting with caretakers and playing with the children.
Shiro always came to Keith though. He might play with some of the others, but he would work his way over to Keith and stay with him until his parents decided it was time to leave.
Keith tried not to think about what that meant.
"You're always drawing when I see you," Shiro said as he took a seat next to him.
Keith didn't jump like the first time, but he still snapped his sketchbook closed, looking at Shiro with wide eyes and hoping he hadn't seen anything.
Shiro just huffed at him, a small smile on his lips. "You don't have to stop just because I'm here."
He said the same thing the past six visits and every time Keith has ignored him. He knows that Shiro's been told by now; he overheard a conversation discussing his "hallucinations" and temper problems and Keith knows that Shiro knows he's broken.
But he still comes over every visit. Still sits with him and tells him stories about the stars.
Keith fidgets with the cover of his sketchbook. He hadn't been able to get out of taking his medicine that day – Ms. Shelly watched him take it and then checked his mouth to make sure he swallowed it. His head is fuzzy and his body is heavy and he just wants to draw without worrying about what might happen.
So he flips his sketchbook open again and picks up his orange pencil, carefully watching Shiro's expression as he goes. Shiro just smiles at him, the smile growing when he sees the colors splashed across the page.
"That looks really cool, Keith," he said.
And that was nothing new – he'd heard that before. Before people found out what he was actually drawing. He tries not to let himself feel anything at Shiro's praise, but it makes something in his chest warm and he can feel a smile curling at the corners of his lips without his permission.
"What is it?"
And just like that, the warmth was gone. People never liked it when he answered that question. They looked at him funny after he answered that question, stepped back and left him and ran away like they could catch his strange brokenness if they stayed. But Shiro already knew. He knew and he kept coming back. Would he leave if Keith admitted it though? If Keith actually said the words out loud?
And Keith said so few words out loud these days. Only ever to Shrio, who would smile and never comment on how soft his voice was or how few words he said.
Keith licked his lips nervously.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Shiro said, placing a warm, reassuring hand on his back.
And just like that, Keith decided.
"It's the song," he blurted.
Shiro blinked at him in surprise, canting his head to the side as he peered down at the drawing again. Keith didn't know the name of the song, but it had been playing in the background for the better part of the morning and he liked the way it looked.
"So this is what the song would look like if you could see it?" Shiro asked.
Keith scowled at his lap. "You can see it," he muttered bitterly.
"I can't," Shiro admitted freely, looking at Keith with a spark of something knowing in his eyes, "Can you?"
Keith nodded, eyeing the teen wearily.
"Just music?"
Kieth shook his head.
"Voices?"
A nod.
"Breathing?"
Another nod.
"A door closing?"
A nod again.
"…all sounds?"
Keith hesitated a moment, but nodded again.
"Huh," Shiro said, looking at him with narrowed eyes for a moment as if contemplating something before he smiled again, "So what's my voice look like?"
Keith blinked at him, dumbfounded. That was it? Slowly, Keith flipped back a few pages and presented Shiro with a page full of purple.
Shiro beamed at him and Keith felt like he couldn't breathe when the teen leaned in closer to get a better look. "This is amazing, Keith!" he said, gaze curious and fascinated, "This is what I sound like?"
He startled at the phrasing; that sounded like something he would say. But Keith nodded and pointed to the upper right corner. "When you talk about space," he said softly, tapping the dancing ribbons once before moving to the left, "When you talk to your parents."
"What about this bit?" Shiro asked pointing to the bottom half of the page. It was filled violet ribbons and amethyst stars and indigo streaks that flowed together in a gentle looping pattern, soothing and calm with moments of swooping excitement.
"When you talk to me," Keith admitted, voice barely a whisper, dark blush wisps curling shyly around his cheeks.
Shiro grinned at him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "You liiiiike me," he sing-songed, indigo bubbling up through laughing streaks of wisteria.
Keith felt his cheeks heat up and hid his face behind his hands even as he sank into Shiro's hold. "Shut up."
Shiro just chuckled at him. "So I sound like purple," he mused, "Good to know."
"You don't think it's weird?" Keith asked cautiously.
"Nah," Shiro shook his head, "Sounds like one of those things that's pretty cool most of the time, but kind of annoying the rest of the time."
"I – yeah," Keith stuttered.
Shiro just gave him a knowing smile.
The rest of the visit progressed like normal. They talked about space and Shiro told him about the Garrison and Keith kept his sketchbook nearby, like always. Though, this time, he let Shiro flip through it and even answered a few questions about his drawings.
When it was time for Shiro to leave, the teen leaned in close and gave him a secretive smile.
"Just so you know, your name tastes like scarlet," he whispered.
Keith stared at him, wide eyed, and Shiro winked, holding a finger up to his lips.
"Next time," he said normally as he followed his parents out the door.
The next time Keith saw Shiro, it was in one of the small meeting rooms that were set aside for families to talk to the children they were considering adopting.
Keith stared at the three smiling Shiroganes, blinking slowly as he tried to understand what they were saying to him.
"Keith?" Shiro prompted when he had been quiet too long.
"You can say no if you want to, sweetie," Mrs. Shirogane said.
Mr. Shirogane nodded next to her. "We won't force you into anything you don't want."
Keith's gaze flited between the three of them, forcing down the warm spark in his chest at the idea that someone wanted him (- it was a lie; people had wanted him before, but they always, always, always, gave him back or left or changed their mind and he wasn't going to fall for it again, he wasn't -) and that that someone was giving him a choice. That didn't happen to someone like him. Ever.
But Keith remembered the last time Shiro visited, his words about tasting colors had been rattling around Keith's head ever sense and he couldn't figure out what it meant.
"Why?" he eventually asked, "I'm broken."
"You are not," Mrs. Shirogane immediately refuted, voice a roiling storm cloud of dark gray blue.
"We think you're like me, Keith," Shiro cut in, "I taste sounds the same way that you see them."
"We would need to take you to see a professional, of course, but we think you have something called Synesthesia," Mr. Shirogane added.
Keith shook his head. "Not what the doctor said."
And everyone always believed the doctors. Even Keith was starting too. After all, they all said the same thing. They couldn't all be wrong.
Mrs. Shirogane didn't look happy, her lips pressed into a tight line. "Synesthesia isn't a commonly known condition; a lot of people can miss it."
Keith shrugged. "You'll just give me back. Everyone does."
"Keith," Shiro stepped forward and turned him so that he could kneel in front of him, "If you say yes, we'll keep you. No matter what."
Keith narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.
"Even if we're wrong and you don't have Synesthesia, we'll keep you. I promise."
Keith was still weary. He'd been burned far too many times to just accept even though Shiro was…well, Shiro.
"We don't have to jump straight to adoption," Mr. Shirogane offered after a moment, voice the same strong, steady earth tones that always grounded Keith, "We can foster you first, if you like. Sort of like a trial run."
"And you'll keep me," Keith clarified slowly, "Even if you're wrong."
All three of them nodded.
"Even if we're wrong," they swore.
Keith left the group home with the Shiroganes.
Two days later, they took him to see a doctor.
They weren't wrong.