Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I've never kissed anyone."

Keefe lifts his eyes to Fitz. The corners of his lips twitch up in a confused smile, not really sure what to say. "Uh, where did that come from?"

"This girl at school. She just, like, brought it up. I didn't really say anything, but I—I can't stop thinking about it. And now I'm wondering what all the fuss is about. Is that weird?" Fitz fiddles with the marble in his hand, rolling his thumb over it continuously.

Keefe is still trying to wrap his head around the sudden change of topic. "Weird that you've never kissed someone, or that you can't stop thinking about it?"

"Both."

"Oh. I... I don't know." His answer seems to leave Fitz unsatisfied, so Keefe offers, "I've never kissed anyone either."

Fitz finally looks up from the marble, eyes widening to match Keefe's. "Really? But—" He stops himself and looks away, as if embarrassed of what he was about to say. He clears his throat and says, haltingly, "Well. So what? We're only fourteen. Who cares about kissing, right?"

"Right."

Keefe tries for airy, for indifferent, but it falls flat. Because now he can't stop thinking about kissing. He can't stop thinking about Fitz. Those two things are a dangerous combination. His ears burn like fire looking at the similar blush on Fitz's cheeks.

"Fitz—" he starts, at the same time Fitz whispers, "Keefe."

They're staring at each other now. Even from opposite sides of the room, it feels like they're too close. 

Keefe stands up anyway. He walks to Fitz anyway.

"What were you going to say?" Fitz asks softly, staring up at Keefe.

"I was just thinking," Keefe says, trying to speak past the block in his throat. "About kissing. If you really want to know what all the fuss is about..."

Fitz's mouth opens and closes, a silent gasp of air. "Do you—"

Keefe shrugs. "It wouldn't mean anything. Just to try it out, right?"

"Right," Fitz says softly.

Everglen is empty. The door is closed. For all it matters, they're the only people existing in this world when Fitz pulls Keefe in.

Fitz is gentle but firm, his grip on the front of Keefe's shirt tight but his lips soft. Keefe fumbles with what to do with his hands but he settles with one of Fitz's cheek, one in his hair. Their lips slide against each other messily, both unsure of what they're even doing.

Keefe can feel Fitz's heartbeat under his skin and he's sure his is just as rapid, but how could it not be? Fitz's hair in his fingers, hands twisted in his shirt, it's all so much. It's all so good.

He gets it, suddenly. He gets the fuss.

They break away at the same time, and they're left staring at each other, breathing softly and saying nothing as the reality hits them. As the scrambling panic sets in.

Keefe blurts, "Do you want candy?"

Fitz blinks. "Uh."

"I'll go get us some indigoobers."

Keefe runs out of the door, feet pounding in time with his heart, and he tries, tries his best to not think of Fitz's lips anymore.

⭒⭒⭒

They don't speak of it again. Not even the next day when their eye-contact lingers too long, when their hands brush and jump away just as quickly. Because it was just a kiss, and it means nothing, and their friendship is all that has ever mattered.

It seems like Fitz forgets pretty quickly anyway. Especially when Sophie Foster comes to the Lost Cities, with her soft blonde hair and quick wit, her strange eyes that light up every time Fitz comes close. 

Slowly, things go back to normal. The strangeness between them dissipates. They forget about the kiss, or, Keefe tries to. They're just friends, and that can't change.

⭒⭒⭒

"His mind. It's broken."

Keefe steps into the room carefully. Fitz is sitting on the edge of his bed, and it seems like he's talking to himself when he repeats, "It's fucking broken."

"I know," Keefe whispers. He closes the door behind him and stands there, wondering how to approach Fitz, who seems as fragile as a glass figurine.

"I don't—I don't know what to think."

Sophie had told him Fitz was angry, and Keefe can see how. Fitz's anger is a whip, harsh and cutting and cruel when he means it to be. But that whip has never showed itself around Keefe.

Slowly, he sits down by Fitz. Fitz doesn't even look up.

"What can I do?"

"I don't know," Fitz groans into his hands. "I'm so mad. I'm—I just—I want a fucking outlet. I want some way to let all of this out without—without, like, yelling at people."

Keefe nods, hesitating before saying, "I know something we could do."

Fitz turns, eyes rimmed red. "What?"

Standing up, Keefe says, "Come with me." He reaches his hand out to Fitz, holding his breath until Fitz finally nods and takes it.

It's only five minutes later that they're both standing in Candleshade, looking around a floor that could be completely empty if it weren't for the many boxes stacked up against the walls. 

Fitz shifts his feet. "Why are we here?"

The grin Keefe gives in response is almost devilish. He opens a box near him. "This is where my dad puts all our junk. Everything in here is completely worthless." He takes out a ceramic plate and hands it to Fitz, then gets one for himself.

Fitz looks down at the plate. "What do I do with this?"

Keefe winds his arm behind him and without any flourish, he hurls his plate forward. The ceramic crashes into the wall, flinging shards everywhere around it, but he and Fitz were far enough to be safe.

"Holy shit."

"That's what you do," Keefe says with a smirk.

Slowly, Fitz nods. He grips his plate tighter and, with a long, final look at it, throws it at the wall just beside where Keefe's had hit.  It smashes into pieces with a spectacular crash. The echoes of shattering ceramic fill the empty room.

An unsure smile grows on Fitz's face. "That helped," he murmurs, looking at Keefe. "I can't believe it."

Keefe grins and hands Fitz another plate.

With every object they break, every broken plate that joins the mess on the floor, Fitz looks lighter. Keefe can't remember the last time he's felt this carefree.

They get through the entire box when Fitz stops, leaning against a tower of boxes and breathing heavily, sweat sheening on his skin. He stares at the blank wall, and he doesn't say anything for a long time.

Slightly worried, Keefe moves closer. His hand is almost about to touch Fitz's shoulder when Fitz speaks abruptly.

"You're the only one who understood." 

"Understood what?" Keefe asks quietly. His hand stays hovering.

"My anger." Fitz turns, and his eyes are impossibly teal when he looks at Keefe. "Me."

Somewhere along their words, they've both drifted closer together. Fitz's breath fans lightly across Keefe's face, and when his eyes flick down, Keefe knows.

"You don't want this," he whispers. 

Because Fitz doesn't. What Fitz wants is an outlet, an escape. And kissing Keefe will provide that, but it won't mean anything to him. Keefe is sure of it.

Fitz just asks, "Do you?"

"Yes," Keefe breathes. It just slips out. He tries to take it back, but his resolve only collapses further. "Please."

"Okay." Fitz reaches out, fingers curving around Keefe's wrist.

Breathing hard and fast, Keefe searches for solid ground. "It won't mean anything. It's just a release, right?" 

"Right."

As Fitz leans in, Keefe's mind is a constant chant. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a release. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a release.

Then their lips meet, and all thoughts fly out, replaced by the feeling of Fitz's calloused hands on his face. Stronger and steadier than anything else in either of their lives.

Fitz kisses hard this time, like Keefe's lips are the only thing keeping him grounded, like if he lets go he might spin away into the clouds. Keefe has no problem with it, bracing his hands against the wall and letting Fitz take over. Fitz catches Keefe's bottom lip between his teeth, and the sharpness of it makes them both gasp just a little. 

Heat pools in Keefe, the feeling so unexpected, so new. He doesn't know how to handle it, so he just groans, pulling Fitz flush against him. They're pressed close together, tripping over their own legs, their entire weight leaning against the wall.

One of Fitz's hands knots in Keefe's shirt, twisting the fabric tight around Keefe's collar, and it reminds Keefe of the first time they'd kissed. The memory is distant and fuzzy, a dream. 

That kiss hadn't had any of the urgency this one did, none of the frantic energy humming under every movement. That kiss had been uncertain and new and careful. It had been filled with fear, but that was before either of them learned what fear really was.

This was tongue and teeth and twisting fingers, want and need swirled into one. It was reckless and dangerous, risked destroying all Keefe had worked hard to suppress, but how could he care now, with Fitz sighing against his lips?

Their kisses tangle together, one turning to another to another, until Keefe loses all track of time. When they separate, Fitz's pupils are blown wide, his lips red like crushed berries. They look at each other, trying to regain their breath.

Fitz speaks first this time. "That's it."

"That's it," Keefe echoes. "Nothing more, right?"

"Right."

If they believe hard enough, they think it could be true.

⭒⭒⭒

Sophie likes Fitz. 

Keefe sees it clear as day. The girl has never been good at hiding her feelings, and when faced with a boy like Fitz Vacker, there's really no hope for her. 

He doesn't care, though. He doesn't. If she likes Fitz, that isn't his business. If Fitz likes her back, that definitely isn't his business. 

Especially because they haven't talked about that day in Candleshade yet. It's disappeared somewhere under the layers of school and danger and grief, and now it's been two months but Fitz hasn't brought it up and neither has Keefe. He doesn't know how to.

Somehow, they've gone from best friends to best friends who've kissed several times. It would be easier for Keefe if there were more emotions involved, because he knew crushes. He knew dating. 

But there weren't. There was nothing here for them but friendship and a lot of pent-up feelings that are better misdirected into bruising kisses.

When Alden's mind had been healed, after he'd been brought back, Keefe had looked at Fitz. And Fitz had been looking back. They'd held each other's gazes until Keefe had had to blink away.

Whatever Keefe thinks, it doesn't matter, because Sophie likes Fitz. And Fitz may like Sophie. And none of it is Keefe's business.

⭒⭒⭒

"I don't want to be home right now."

Fitz's eyes widen but he lets Keefe in without saying anything more. Keefe collapses against the wall, trying to breath, trying not to cry. He can't believe he came here so late at night. He'd been lying, wide awake, under his blankets, and then the tears had started rising, and all his emotions had started snowballing, colliding into one another and spilling apart at Fitz's door into a glorious mess.

Fitz frowns. "Do you want to—"

"Talk? No." Keefe swallows and closes his eyes. He can feel a bead of sweat dripping down his face.

Then, he can feel Fitz gently wiping the drop away. The uncomfortable heat is replaced by a chilly shiver, one that isn't entirely unwelcome.

"Okay," Fitz whispers. "Okay."

Keefe's eyes are still closed when he feels the arms around him. A hug so unbelievably gentle, so unbelievably perfect, so unbelievably Fitz. Keefe lets himself fall into the embrace. He lets Fitz catch him.

"You're the only one," Keefe starts, his face still buried into Fitz's shoulder. "The only one I could think of. To go to. I'm—"

"Don't be sorry," Fitz interrupts. "Remember my dad? Remember what you did for me then? This is the same."

Keefe finally opens his eyes. "I didn't think you'd want to talk about that."

It had been months. Keefe had thought Fitz wanted to forget it all, them stealing away and breaking plates and then—the kissing. Everything about the kissing.

"I..." Fitz stiffens. "I just. I know it meant nothing to you—and me, me too—so I thought it didn't matter." 

"Why bring up something that isn't real?" Keefe murmurs. He stares blurrily at the window past Fitz's shoulder.

"Yeah. Yeah. It's just physical. I swear I don't—" Fitz breaks off the hug, staring at Keefe's lips, then his eyes. "I don't..."

"I know, don't worry. It's not like that. It doesn't mean anything," Keefe says, head suddenly throbbing with the intensity of Fitz's gaze on him. He forces himself to continue, "I wanted to help take your mind off your dad, an outlet or whatever. We both know that. I'm fine with it, seriously."

"Are you?"

"It's all meaningless." Keefe feels himself laugh. "Of course I am."

"Sure?" Fitz's voice is all needless concern, and it grates on Keefe.

"Of course. C'mon Fitz, can we just—"

It's like Fitz hardly hears Keefe. He goes on, "Because I—"

"Stop. Just—" Blood rises in Keefe's cheeks, a hot flush begging for Fitz to let this go. 

Just stop, just forget it. 

"Just kiss me again."

"What?"

Fitz's mouth drops open, but Keefe's eyes just narrow in a challenge. He can only think of one way to show Fitz that this, whatever it is, doesn't affect him. 

It's not at all because something deep in his gut is aching at the thought of Fitz so near. 

"Do it."

Closing his mouth firmly, Fitz swallows. He reaches a hand out to the collar of Keefe's shirt, lightly brushing both fabric and skin. Keefe nods, staring down at the distance between their lips.

A second later, Fitz yanks them both together, and that distance is gone. Their lips crush against each other, bruising and powerful. Keefe doesn't breathe as Fitz tilts in further, doesn't breathe as their chests press and he feels the outline of Fitz's body under the shirt. 

He's not ready when Fitz pulls away a few centimeters, eyes a shade darker than Keefe had ever seen before. "Will that do?"

Keefe huffs out a laugh. "Fuck you."

Neither of them have to say anything about another kiss. Like magnets, they draw themselves back together.

Keefe's fingers dig into Fitz's hair, trying his best to hold on when he can hardly stand on his own feet. Fitz brings a tumbling, spinning heat with every touch and Keefe is desperate to feel it all, gasping into the kiss and closing his eyes shut, even as colors twirl in dizzying spirals under his lids.

They break apart for a few seconds, only to stumble back to Fitz's bed. Keefe braces a hand behind him on the soft sheets and looks at Fitz, mouth open. No words come out, but Fitz nods softly, and without another pause, Keefe falls back on the bed. Fitz leans over him, one hand pressed into the spot beside Keefe's head, one hand not having once broken its grip on Keefe's shirt. 

Lips meld, skin solders together, legs tangle in a fervent heat. Keefe's hands trail down Fitz agonizingly slow, stopping where his shirt has ridden high. Carefully, he slips his fingers up, brushing them against the soft skin of Fitz's waist. 

"Oh," Fitz gasps, sharp but breathy, unlike any sound he's ever made before. 

Keefe smirks just the slightest and presses a little more, the heat of his fingertips bleeding into Fitz's cool skin. Fitz grumbles something against Keefe's lips, a rush of whispered swears. Then he pushes Keefe down and against the bed, kissing him fiercer as Keefe teases his hands up the warmth of Fitz's shirt. 

Fitz finally lifts himself from Keefe. He looks down for a quick moment, probably taking in the red of Keefe's mouth and cheeks, and then he leans lower. This time to Keefe's jaw, a feathery brush of lips there, and then trailing lower. Fitz finds the base of Keefe's neck, right above where the sensitive skin ends, and he puts his lips to it.

"Shit. Holy shit." Keefe's world blurs before him and he closes his eyes, tipping his head back and letting Fitz do whatever he'd please.

And Fitz does. When he's done, when he's lifted his head back up, Keefe's neck is thrumming all over with a welcome sort of burn. He doesn't want to think of what sight will face him when he looks in the mirror the next day. He only wants to think of the sight in front of him, Fitz's eyes swollen with black, his lips wet and parted.

They kiss deep into the night, bodies twisted on Fitz's bed. At one point kissing turns to breathing turns to sleeping, but they don't part, even then. 

Morning comes and Keefe wakes up first. He should leave before anyone finds he'd come here, he knows, but it's still a struggle prying himself off the bed.

The note he writes is a quick scribble, and when he puts it by Fitz's bedside, Keefe pauses. He looks at the calm of Fitz's smile, the way his lashes fan his brown skin. He wants to stay forever. He wants to at least leave a kiss on Fitz's forehead.

That's not the agreement, though. The agreement is that this means nothing. The agreement is locked doors and shadowed secrets is what they can have. With this golden morning streaming in on them, they're back to friendship.

Keefe is fine with friendship. He's fine with kissing when no one can see. He's fine with whatever Fitz can offer him.

⭒⭒⭒

They don't talk, not a word for the next few days, until it's time to go back to Foxfire. When Keefe sees Fitz in the courtyard, he beelines toward him, stomach flipping. Act normal, right?

"Hey," he says, smiling and meeting both Fitz and Biana's eyes. Then, his gaze focuses on the tunic Fitz is wearing—a drab, swampy green, made of a fabric that makes Keefe itch just looking at that. "Wow. Uh, what are you wearing?"

"I know!" Biana exclaims before Fitz can even open his mouth. "I begged him not to wear it, trust me. But he wouldn't listen."

Keefe slings his arm around Fitz's shoulders and laughs. "You should've listened to her. Not much can look bad on Wonderboy, but this is it."

Fitz rolls his eyes, but he doesn't bother to push Keefe away. "Oh, shut up."

"Make me." Keefe's voice is a whisper in Fitz's ear.

Fitz's eyes flick to the sky. Keefe can't stop thinking that he knows for a fact how Fitz's skin feels under that itchy, ugly tunic. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on something else, but his mind keeps straying to the silhouette of Fitz beside him.

Sophie comes up to them, then Dex, and they all walk into Foxfire together. Keefe meets Fitz's eyes again a few times and it feels as normal as it can be.

Keefe is too busy during his first class to obsess over Fitz anymore, can barely think past the history facts swirling in his head. At least, until break comes. Everyone heads to the lunch room in one big swarm, and in the crowd someone grabs Keefe's arm and drags him to the side, into an empty hallway.

The grip is familiar, and so is the shade of that tunic. "Fitz? Hello? What do you want?"

No response. They keep walking, then turn into a random classroom. Fitz shuts the door and window blinds quickly, then spins to face Keefe. "Sorry. I—Sorry."

"You grabbed me from the hallway and led me to an abandoned, locked classroom. And you won't tell me what's going on. Is this how you're trying to seduce me?" Keefe grins, the tease back in his voice.

"Please shut up," Fitz begs.

"Make m—"

Fitz's lips are on Keefe's before he can finish the sentence. Surprised, Keefe instinctively brings his arms around Fitz, supporting him as he kisses Fitz back.

"Okay," he breathes when they break apart. "Okay, so this is what's happening."

"You didn't let me say goodbye last time," Fitz whispers into his neck, his lips just barely brushing over the hickey he'd left on Keefe then. The spot's still tender. Keefe shivers.

"What if someone notices we're gone?" 

Fitz pulls away and grins, sorta cocky in the way only Keefe had ever been able to draw out. "Be serious. You used to make me skip with you all the time."

"Oh, I see. Putting all the blame on me. No one suspects the Golden Boy."

Fitz laughs and puts his arms around Keefe's neck, murmuring against his mouth, "Exactly."

⭒⭒⭒

The weeks pass, and Keefe starts to learn the rules of this strange arrangement they've got going on.

Rule one: They don't tell a soul.

Rule two: They pretend the thing between them—because it doesn't even have a name—doesn't exist. No talking about it out of bedrooms and closets and halls hidden away.

Rule three: Nine out of ten times, they are nothing but friends. 

Rule four: The other tenth of the time, they are something else, but it's not really them. It's just physical, nothing but two bodies and teenage emotions. It's nothing but a way to release anger and heartbreak and frustration, all the ugliness they don't know how else to express.

Rule five: They don't tell a soul.

⭒⭒⭒

And so it goes. 

Stumbling into each other's houses after a grueling day of school, stealing up to the bedroom and immediately pinning each other against the wall. Comparter calls—"Come over"—and not having to say another thing, because then the only sounds filling the space will be gasped swears, heavy pants. Convincing Fitz to ditch, and as Keefe presses kisses down Fitz's jaw in an empty classroom he can almost forget his father's ruthless words from last night.

Bad news in the Lost Cities seems to pile up. Trouble with Fintan, with the ogres, with the Council. The world grows more terrifying, and it feels like nothing can help.

"Do you really think my dad is in the Neverseen?" Keefe whispers, one day. He doesn't know where the question comes from, but he doesn't try to take it back either. 

Fitz pauses, his lips just shy of Keefe's collarbone. He straightens and looks at Keefe, teal fire in his eyes. "I hope he isn't. For his sake."

Keefe closes his eyes and takes a ragged breath. He's tried to seem indifferent about his father's situation to everyone else, like he doesn't care, like it doesn't matter much at all. He's not sure what to say now that he finally feels like he can talk about the tangled conundrum inside him.

"I don't know what I'd do if he was part of the Neverseen. I don't know if I could do anything." Fitz's hand laces with Keefe's, thumb rubbing smooth circles on his palm as he continues, "I don't know what I'd say, or where I'd go, and I just—I'm scared. I'm scared."

"You're allowed to be," Fitz whispers, mouth against Keefe's blond curls. "You know that?"

Keefe buries his face into the familiar crook of Fitz's shoulder, and he tries to breathe past the choking in his lungs. "I want to."

⭒⭒⭒

It's their first night in the Neverseen hideouts. The boys are meant to share the treehouse cabin but it has two rooms. Dex immediately claimed his own, leaving Keefe and Fitz to share the other one.

Keefe is fine with it, especially when he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring vacantly into space. Especially when Fitz steps in and sees him, and the only explanation he can give is a raspy breath.

"My mother."

It's hardly been a day since the reveal. Or has it been less? He isn't sure and it worries him. 

Fitz kneels before Keefe, takes his frozen hands in his own. "Your mother."

This is the first time they've talked to each other alone since. It's the first time Keefe has been able to look at Fitz's teal eyes without worrying about other people's gazes. The first time since that Keefe has really been able to breathe.

"It was her all along." Keefe smiles wobblily. "Mommy issues much?"

"I'll make her regret it," Fitz says, quick as his flashing eyes. "I'll do anything you want right now. Let me help."

Keefe laughs, startled out of his haze. Until now, everyone's only reaction had been pity, sweet and fake sugar on his tongue. Fitz's reaction was gritty, but at least it was real.

"You don't have to do that. Just—" Keefe chances a glance at the closed door. Wonders how good Dex's hearing is. "Kiss me."

"You really want to?"  

It's a dangerous game they're playing. Keefe knows, logically, reasonably, he can't depend on Fitz's touch to push the world away whenever he needs. It wouldn't help in the long run. But he doesn't care. He just wants Fitz's hands on him, just wants to make it through this night.

Keefe grins, as carefree as he can. "Why not?"

Fitz shakes his head, disbelieving. "Right."

But his gaze melts, and he kisses Keefe anyway, lets Keefe lose himself in heavy sighs and soft pressure. Keefe doesn't know why he still feels so hollow.

⭒⭒⭒

"It was Alvar. This whole time, Alvar was the traitor."

"I know. I know, Fitz. I'm so sorry."

"I don't know what I'll do if I lose someone else. Please, Keefe, don't ever leave me. Don't go anywhere."

Keefe doesn't know how to promise anything. All he knows is, he needs Fitz like he needs air, and it's getting painful.

⭒⭒⭒

When Keefe runs away, when he's lying on a cot in the Neverseen hideout, he thinks about so many things.

He thinks about how stupid he was. He thinks about his mom. He thinks about the Black Swan. He thinks about Sophie, and Biana, and Dex.

He thinks about Fitz. 

⭒⭒⭒

When Keefe comes back, he looks at Fitz, and he sees hate, sees eyes burning with betrayal. Even being near it feels like singeing his skin off, so Keefe begins to stay away. He avoids Fitz's gaze. He leaves the room when Fitz comes in.

He thinks this is it. He thinks he will never talk to Fitz again, never be friends, much less have what they'd used to.

He doesn't expect Fitz to come into his room, late one night, a couple weeks after Keefe returned. Facing him, after so many months filled with silence and betrayal, Keefe wants nothing more than to crush Fitz into a hug.

"Hi," he says instead.

Fitz doesn't bother replying. He steps forward, one hand a fist just barely restrained to his side, the other hand clenching his hair like he was about to rip it out. "You know what, Keefe?"

It feels like a trick question, but Keefe hasn't heard his name said like that, in that voice, for ages. He blinks back the pricking in his eyes. "What?"

"I hate you."

"I'm sorry."

"I hate you," Fitz repeats, coming even closer. "And you know why. God, I'm so mad at you. Literally consumed with rage. I've been, like, thinking up these whole monologues about how mad I am. I've been practicing what to say when you came back, and it would be an entire speech about how selfish and stupid you were, and you would've felt so bad, and you would've deserved it."

Keefe swallows. "I can take it. Say it."

"No!" Fitz says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "It's too late! Everyone else has made that speech already. And you've made amends to all of them. You've said sorry to literally everybody else, and you haven't even said a word to me. I know you're avoiding me! Do you realize what it's been like? How I've felt, going without you?"

"I didn't know I was that great a kisser," Keefe says, an absolute idiot.

Fitz's glare turns stony. "Are you really gonna be like that? Really?"

"No, no. I'm sorry!" Keefe says, quickly. "For saying that. It was dumb." He searches Fitz's gaze, laying his palms open in his lap. "I'm sorry for everything else too. For running away, for ignoring you, for lying. I—I'm so sorry, Fitz."

"I know," Fitz says, quietly. He looks at his hands, busies himself studying Keefe's bedroom floor.

Keefe swallows. "I'm so sorry. I felt guilty, like, all the time. Sick to the stomach."

"I'm still so mad."

"Give me the speech. Repeat it."

"I don't want that anymore. I want—" Fitz finally looks up. Keefe shivers seeing the heat in his eyes. "God, Keefe, you—"

Fitz never finishes that sentence. Instead, he yanks Keefe toward him and smothers everything with a blazing kiss. Keefe doesn't understand what's happening, but like instinct, his fingers curl into the fabric of Fitz's tunic, his body presses closer.

They hit Keefe's wall with a thump, and it presses into Keefe's spine, bright and sharp and probably bruising. Keefe feels like he's been deprived, like he's been going through withdrawal for months and months and all the symptoms are only now hitting him. He feels like he can't get enough of Fitz, the feel, the scent, the sound.

Keefe can feel the difference from every other time he had been with Fitz. Their entire arrangement had always been based off weird emotions, had always been a release for the intensity they carried. Pissed off about school, sure. Annoyed at a friend, fine.

But the anger had never been between them, not until now. Keefe can sense the fervor thrum in Fitz's veins, feels the desperate rage in how Fitz pins his arms to the wall. He understands that maybe Fitz can't give a speech, maybe that's been overdone, but they both know damn well no one else had done this to Keefe yet.

"I'm sorry—" Keefe says between gasps, and Fitz shushes him instantly, crushing every apology in Keefe's mouth until they both taste like tears. Keefe flips back to every time in the last few months he'd missed this, missed Fitz, and tries to make up for all of them at once.  

"Why the hell are you wearing all this?" Fitz begins to take off Keefe's cape, struggling to undo the signet pin.

"I wasn't expecting company," Keefe replies, gently reaching up and helping unclasp it, his hands careful and warm around Fitz's.

Fitz pulls away, eyes flashing. "Did you really think I'd let you ignore me forever?"

"A little bit, yeah."

Fitz scoffs and pushes Keefe against the wall again, hands warm on Keefe's skin. "Don't move. Don't go anywhere."

"I won't," Keefe promises. This time, the words come easy.

"Good."

⭒⭒⭒

When they finally slow down, when Fitz's kisses get less bruising, when he lets up his hold on Keefe's waist, they both take a moment to catch their breaths.

"Still mad?" Keefe asks.

"Less so, I guess." Fitz starts to pull his tunic back on, his arms just slightly flexing as he did. Keefe couldn't not watch.

"If you always get like this when you're mad, I don't have that many complaints." Also, like, wow. Did you spend all day training while I was gone or something?"

Fitz laughs, short and surprised. Keefe missed his laugh so badly. He missed making it happen. 

⭒⭒⭒

"Dude."

Keefe lifts his eyes, smiling blearily at the horror on Fitz's face. "Hey Fitzy."

Fitz shakes his head. "Sophie said it was bad, but, this is bad."

Keefe doesn't have the strength to peer down at his wounds, but he can feel them, even past the haze of all the tonics Elwin had had him take. And they do feel pretty bad. He keeps smiling. "I won a fight with the Ogre King! A few scratches are worth it, right?"

Fitz sighs. "Elwin's out. He said it's okay for me to replace the bandages and stuff." 

"Any excuse to stare at my abs."

"You're so stupid. Shut up." 

Keefe tries to laugh, but it just feels like a new stab to his stomach. He hisses in pain, and immediately Fitz is by his side. 

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Keefe says, smiling even wider to show it. He settles back in the cot and Fitz busies himself getting new bandages and salves. Keefe openly watches him, too tired to hide it the way he usually did, hoping Fitz would chalk it up to delirious pain. "I was pretty heroic, you know."

"I can imagine," Fitz says dryly. "I wonder how heroic you looked collapsed in a pool of your blood."

"Are you kidding? That's like, the most heroic thing ever!" 

"Well, now you're bedridden, you smell like disgusting tonics, and you writhe in pain when you laugh."

"Fair. But I'm constantly shirtless."

"And your entire chest is red and swollen," Fitz counters. He returns to Keefe's side, carrying a load of supplies in his arms, and dumps them all on the side table. "Okay, now don't freak out."

Immediately, Keefe screams, "OW!"

Fitz looks at him. "I haven't even come close to your wounds yet."

Keefe makes a sound. Unfortunately, that sound might have been a whimper. "Is this gonna hurt?"

"Probably a little bit."

"Owww."

"Again, haven't done anything yet." Fitz rolls his eyes. "Did you complain this much when Elwin did it?"

"I was sort of unconscious," Keefe admits. "Then I woke up, and everything was numb."

"What about when you were actively getting stabbed by Dimitar? Did that not hurt more?" 

"Adrenaline! I felt it, but there was a lot more going on!"

Fitz sighs. "Elwin's not letting me use the really good numbing cream. It isn't safe, I guess."

Keefe groans, staring at the sticky bandages all over his torso and shoulder. "I literally have two open wounds."

"Well," Fitz says. "It was your idea to duel an ogre."

Keefe groans again, louder. He sees Fitz hiding a smile, and can't take it anymore. "You know what? If I don't get painkillers, you're the next best thing."

Fitz blinks. "What?"

"Come on," Keefe says. He looks at Fitz's lips purposefully, waiting for a hum of understanding. 

"Oh. Um."

"What? Is it stupid?" Keefe can feel his ears burning. "Nevermind."

"No," Fitz quickly says. He darts to the door. "No, hold on."

Keefe's stomach is no longer burning in pain. Now it's just heavy with embarrassment, and, fine, some pain. He fully expects Fitz to run out of the room, to flee Keefe and his crazy ideas forever.

Fitz locks the door. And comes back. He leans in, carefully, and cups Keefe's face in his hands, sure to not touch any of the wounds. 

Keefe was right. Fitz was better than any numbing cream.

Slowly, methodically, Fitz replaces every one of Keefe's bandages, reapplies every salve and cream and balm just like Elwin had, painstaking precision. With each one, he kisses Keefe again, trails his fingers down Keefe's jaw, his touch blurring out every other sensation. 

Keefe doesn't even remember to scream with pain.

⭒⭒⭒

Sophie and Fitz have just had one of their Cognate sessions. Everyone can tell because afterwards, Sophie is always twitchy and blushy. This time is worse, though, because why are they sitting so close together? Why did Fitz just grab Sophie's arm? 

Keefe hopes no one asks him anything. He has no idea what everyone's talking about. He's laser-focused on Fitz's smile: soft, private, meant just for Sophie. Is that what they do? During Cognate sessions? Smile softly at each other? What the fuck?

Out of the corner of his eye, Keefe sees Biana and Dex give each other knowing looks. Knowing what? Is Keefe missing something? Is he out of the loop? He needs to scream, now. 

Keefe hates it. He feels the jealousy like a burrowing poison, knows it's eating at him from the inside, knows he should stop it for his own good. But the burn feels so good, and he can't help it. 

That evening, as Fitz bites a trail down Keefe's torso, Keefe is picturing the way he'd looked at Sophie, and wondering if Fitz had ever looked at him like that. He can't stop replaying it. He feels sick.

"Do you like Sophie?" he blurts.

Fitz immediately stops. His fingers curl where they are on Keefe's arm. "What do you mean?"

Keefe wants to shrug, but finds himself solid in place, a wooden board. "Um, you know. Do you like her?"

"Does it matter?"

Immediately dizzy, Keefe forgets how to breathe. The alarm bells in his head start to blare. "What?"

"Do you care?" Fitz asks him. His hands are still warm on Keefe's body.

Keefe tries to think. Why would he care? He shouldn't, right? As firmly and convincingly as possible, he says, "No." 

Fitz won't break eye contact, won't even blink. His pupils are swollen wide, gaze dark. "Right."

"This means nothing. To me," Keefe adds hastily, gesturing to their general positions, which are very entangled and not very "nothing". He tries to laugh it off. "Like, it's just fun. That's all. So, if you... if you and Sophie..."

"Right."

"I mean. It would be fine. I wouldn't care. Good for you, I guess."

Fitz continues to say nothing. Keefe continues to ramble.

"I mean, she obviously really likes you! You'd be such a great couple. Cognates and all, right? And—"

"Do you think I should date her?" Fitz interrupts. 

"Um, yeah! Obviously."

Keefe doesn't know what he's saying. He has a vague feeling he just sabotaged himself, but isn't quite sure how that happened. He is sure the self-loathing will hit him later, and would like to delay it as much as possible.

Fitz nods. He looks at Keefe again, very seriously, and leans back in, crushing his mouth against Keefe's, running his hands over Keefe's skin. Keefe groans, the alarm in his head immediately silencing. He tugs at Fitz's hair, flipping him over so that it's Fitz splayed on his bed, his hair mussed against the bedsheets, his mouth parted and red and shiny, his eyes fanned by dark lashes. 

Fitz is breathing heavily. "If I... if me and Sophie..."

Keefe understands. He also understands that it's not an if, it's a when. "I know."

"We can't do this anymore. This is the last time," Fitz tells him. "It has to be."

Pressed into Keefe's bed, messy and raw and hushed, Fitz looks like maybe the most beautiful thing alive. Keefe can't stand the sight, can't tear his gaze away either, can't promise Fitz anything.

He presses Fitz down into the bed, and quickly follows suit, letting Fitz's sighs and stormy eyes drown out everything else.

⭒⭒⭒

Fitz's arm is around Sophie's shoulder. She's smiling, pressed by his side. He takes out his Leaping Crystal and as they both swirl away into light, Keefe swears Fitz looks at him, just for a moment.

"Come to Slurps & Burps with me."

"What?" Keefe looks at Dex, confused. "Why?"

Dex rolls his eyes. "You look miserable. No one can be miserable at Slurps & Burps, trust me."

Keefe isn't sure how sound that logic is, but he doesn't have anything better to do in his life. "Sure."

In the backroom of the store, Dex gathers vials of smelly, colorful substances, bringing out tubes and vials. Keefe isn't sure what his role here is, so he sits on a stool in the back and zones out, watching Dex work.

Eventually, Dex speaks. "I think, out of everyone, I know how you feel the best."

"Cryptic much?"

Dex throws him a glare. "Dude."

"Sorry. Sorry. Not trying to be an ass. I just..." Keefe trails off, buries his face in his hands.

"It's fine. I had a crush on her too. So. I get it."

Keefe's hands immediately drop. He looks at Dex. "Wait." 

Her?

Dex flushes red, a shade to rival his hair. "Yeah. We both liked her. Isn't that so great?" 

"That's not..." Keefe doesn't know what to say, doesn't know whether to correct Dex or not. He wonders if the version of the story Dex believes would be better than the reality. Who is he kidding? It absolutely would be.

"Oh. Right. You still like her. Sorry, I wasn't sure."

Keefe struggles with the words. "It's not... It's not her."

Dex drops a vial and immediately begins stammering apologies as he picks it up. 

Keefe stares at him blankly, trying to accept what he just said. Maybe he should regret it, but truthfully, he's sick and swollen inside. Everything feels pointless now. Who cares if Dex knows? What would it change?

When Dex draws himself back together, he says, "Fuck."

"I know. Fuck."

"You teased her about them so much. I just thought—"

"I know." Keefe shakes his head. "I'm so stupid. I did all the wrong things."

"It can't have been that—" 

"All of them. I told him to get with her."

Dex winces. "Oh, okay. Um."

Keefe groans and they fall into silence. Dex is staring at the chemicals in his hands, but not doing anything with them, clearly a little stunned. Occasionally he opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but he quickly closes it again.

"How did you get over her?" Keefe asks him, finally.

With a cringe, Dex mutters, "I kissed her."

Keefe is slammed with a memory of Fitz laughing against his mouth, tugging him closer, shutting him up with a kiss. He swallows. 

Don't tell a soul.

"I think it's too late for that," he tells Dex, who nods solemnly.

They seem close to lapsing into silence again, until Dex says, "Hey. Do you wanna help me make this elixir?" 

Keefe jumps up from the stool. "Will this one smell?"

"Definitely."

"Awesome."

⭒⭒⭒

Does Fitz kiss Sophie the way he used to kiss Keefe, with those eyes, those murmurs? Do they fall on the same bed Keefe had been on just a few weeks ago? Does Sophie run her fingers through his hair the way Keefe had, the way Fitz loved?

Keefe tosses and turns and never sleeps. He touches his sheets and can almost imagine Fitz's weight on them, on him.

⭒⭒⭒

Keefe finds himself alone with Fitz for the first time in ages, in Havenfield of all places. 

He'd went to see Sophie. So had Biana and Fitz, apparently. And then Biana and Sophie had left, gone to a Team Valiant meeting with cheery goodbyes, resulting in Keefe staring at Fitz from across the room, and Fitz diligently avoiding his gaze.

"So," Keefe says. "Um. How's Sophie?"

Fitz's voice is positively withering. "You came here to see her. Alone."

"Um. Yeah?"

"You talk to her more than I see either of you."

Is that jealousy? "Are you mad at me?"

"Are you mad at me?"

Absolutely stunned, Keefe reels. "Wait. What? For what?"

Fitz throws his hands up in frustration, finally meeting Keefe's eyes. "I don't know! For dating her!"

"I—"

Keefe wants to deny it. He wants to say he supports them. He wants to say he doesn't mind any of this. But he can't push the lie out of his throat, not without choking on it.

Maybe he is mad. It's unreasonable, and selfish, and fully his fault, but the resentment has its roots in him. They were best friends, and then they became a little bit more than best friends, and now it feels like they're nothing. Keefe was too greedy, is too greedy.

"You told me to go for it," Fitz tells him, steely. "I wouldn't have. If I knew you liked her. I wouldn't have."

Everything's scrambled up, nothing's right. Keefe doesn't know how to correct any of it. "What?"

"You didn't tell me!" Fitz yells. "Stop being mad at me, stop ignoring me for it, because I didn't know!"

"I'm not—I—" Keefe stammers. "It's not like that!"

"Maybe I should've guessed—"

" I don't—"

"—but I was stupid, okay? So if you like her—"

"I don't!" Keefe screams, his face burning. He wants nothing more than to yank Fitz towards him, to knot his hands in his hair, but he can't. He thinks of Sophie and stifles a sob.

"Then why?"

"You know why!"

Fitz shakes his head, his hair falling in his eyes, which have become suspiciously shiny. "I don't! I never know with you, Keefe!"

Keefe's vision blurs. He has to get out of here, he has to go, he can't say anything he'll regret. He can't fuck this up anymore, although he probably already has. Keefe heads to the door, brushing past Fitz as he does, a headache building in his skull. 

But Fitz grabs his arm, pulls him back. Keefe feels faint being this close to him again, focusing all his will on resisting old habits. 

"Let go of me," he demands.

Fitz studies him, his eyes bright, the Vacker teal Keefe has loved since they were kids. "What am I missing, Keefe?"

Keefe sags against Fitz's grip, tries not to focus on how familiar the touch feels. "Please don't think I like Sophie," he begs. "It's not that. I shouldn't be mad at you. None of it's your fault."

"I just want to understand," Fitz says softly. His breath flutters against Keefe's cheek, his hold loosens on Keefe's arm. It could even be tender. Soft.

Keefe can't help it. His gaze flicks to Fitz's lips, and then he can't force it away.

He can see when the realization hits, because then those lips part, a soft gasp of understanding.

"Yeah," Keefe mumbles, pushing away. Fitz's hands fall, no resistance as he leaves. "Do you get it now?"

Fitz watches him go, doesn't say a word, doesn't look away.

⭒⭒⭒

Was Fitz's type always blondes? How had Keefe not noticed? Was Keefe not blond enough?

Was Keefe not enough?

He was never enough for his father: always placing second, always running too fast, always talking too loud. An Empath, sure, but it backfires when your son is just too emotional. 

He was never enough for his mother: a great experiment, a master plan, a lousy son. He bled and betrayed for her cause, and she remained disappointed.

Keefe thought he was enough for Fitz. But he was wrong. 

He was a best friend when everyone thought them both odd, and they only really had each other. And then a little experiment, sure, because it was so easy to fall into the arms of the one who knew you best. And then a mistake, because it never really meant anything, and Keefe had reached too high, hoped too hard.

Keefe had been many things, but never enough.

⭒⭒⭒

That night: a knock on Keefe's window.

Keefe doesn't dare to hope, but he peers out, and the floor immediately bottoms out. He's not sure what to think. 

"Hi," he whispers, helping Fitz inside. His skin is warm, palms callused from practicing with swords all the time.

"Me and Sophie broke up," Fitz tells him.

Keefe stares. "I'm sorry. Really, I am. Do you want—"

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Keefe. Kiss me." Fitz is looking at him, his gaze a roiling sea, dark and heady. Keefe searches for any uncertainty in them, and can find none.  

"Okay," he whispers, and places his hand at the base of Fitz's skull, furling his fingers into those dark brown locks, and kisses Fitz Vacker.

Fitz immediately sighs, his body loosening. Keefe brings his other hand to Fitz's waist, leading them both to the bed, where Fitz falls on his back and stares at Keefe through lidded eyes, open and pleading, but Keefe doesn't know what for. 

He isn't sure what Fitz wants from him, but Keefe thinks he might give him everything.

Fitz's hand drifts up Keefe's arm, curling around his sleeve, stopping at the clasp of his cape. "Always that goddamn cape." 

Keefe laughs, shrugging it off. "Do you think it's sexy?"

"Kiss me," Fitz repeats, fierce, pupils blown. "Again."

Keefe complies. He's missed this, the comfort of Fitz's scent, the familiar press of his lips. His mouth slides against Fitz's, his teeth catching just slightly, just enough that Fitz can't hold back his moans. 

Below him, Fitz closes his eyes and sighs and shivers at all the right time, doesn't say a single word except sometimes, "Fuck," and "Keefe". 

All the while, Keefe is trying to untangle what was happening. Fitz had said, last time: We can't do this anymore. Fitz had let him leave, just a few hours ago, shock and rejection written on his face. Fitz was here, right now, climbing through his bedroom window. 

The realization comes, a sick punch to Keefe's gut. He freezes in place and Fitz makes a sound, pulling Keefe back down to him, doing all the work as Keefe dazedly followed his motions, mentally flipping through the last couple years of their arrangement.

It was only ever a release. It never should've meant anything. They'd made a promise.

But Keefe had broken it. Even if all they did was make out behind closed doors, look at each other across crowded rooms, Keefe would give up everything else for this.  

Me and Sophie broke up. Kiss me.

Would Fitz?

"Why are you here?" Keefe whispers, the queasy feeling pooling within him. 

Fitz pauses, looks up at him, eyes wide, chest heaving, and not just because of the kisses. He looks terrified. 

"I was thinking about what you said. Today. At Havenfield."

Keefe's fingers twist into the bedsheets. "It was never about Sophie."

"I understand now," Fitz whispers. 

"Why'd you break up with her?"

Fitz shakes his head and laughs, rueful. He starts to prop himself up, sits on the bed at the same level as Keefe. "You know why."

"I never know with you," Keefe echoes.

"Yes, you do. You know everything about me. Everything but one thing."

"What?"

Fitz reaches out, traces his fingers down Keefe's cheekbone. "I used to dream about telling you to kiss me."

Keefe doesn't get it. "Why didn't you?"

"Then it wouldn't have meant anything to you. I wanted it to be something." Fitz shrugs. "I think I've been in love with you this entire time."

The world begins to spin, and Fitz is the only steady thing in it. 

Numbly, Keefe says, "You said it meant nothing."

"No, you did. I would've agreed to anything, Keefe. Literally anything."

"I didn't want to scare you off," Keefe whispers. "I was lying. Of course I was lying."

Fitz groans. "You're my best friend, Keefe. How could it ever mean nothing?"

"I thought you liked Sophie."

"You told me to get with her. I thought you were tired of me."

"Well, I say stupid things."

"We broke up and I came straight to your bedroom."

Stunned, Keefe laughs. "Is she okay?"

"It was mutual. She's better off, honestly. I'm a mess over you."

They look at each other, smiles creeping up the edges of their mouths. 

"I love you," Keefe says. "Did I forget to say that?" 

Fitz laughs, leans back on the bed and yanks Keefe over him, just breaths apart. "Say it again."

"I love you."

I love you, he thinks, as he rakes his fingers through Fitz's tangled hair, tugging just slightly. I love you, he thinks, as he spreads his hands on Fitz's chest and absorbs all the warmth he can. I love you, he thinks, as he presses kisses from Fitz's jaw to his neck, marking his favorite spots.

They fall asleep, their legs crossing over each other, Fitz's head tucked into the crook of Keefe's shoulder.

⭒⭒⭒

They wake up, golden morning streaming in on them, and it turns Fitz's eyes into a sparkling sea. 

"This means nothing," Keefe tells him, deadpan.

Fitz shoves him off the bed.