#he said keefitz

[when-wax-wings-melt]

i want to be the person people think of when they think of toxic fitz or fitz and alvar. i NEED to be the fitz and alvar girlie. please. please. please.

[synonymroll648]

OMG DID TOU READ THE BALLAD OF SONGBIRDS AND SNAKES HELLOOOOO I FUCKING LOBE RHAT BOOK

I DID AND I AM STILL SO FUCKING MAD ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO SEJANUS HE DESERVED BETTER HE DESERVED THE WORLD AND CORIOLANUS TURNED THE WORLD AGAINST HIM OUGH FUCK SNOW ALSO THE ENDING MAKES ME GO INSANE LIKE SNOW MY MAN WHY DID YOU GO DOWN THIS PATH YES I KNOW YOU WERE DESTINED TO BE AWFUL BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN I LIKE IT HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU

[multi-fandom-lunatic]

All's Fair in Love and War - Keefitz (Angst)

It was dark but it wasn't yet night. Smoke clogged the air and my throat, and fires erupted a few miles away. The once-green grass was a dead brown, sucked from its home in the soil.

Burly creatures with muscles and vengeance in their veins charged with spears and swords. They were monstrous, a sight that would find itself in a nightmare, but now they were here. They were here for me.

It was an accident, how the world went from colossal castles to the crumbling debris before me. The remnants of the buildings mocked me, glinting in the fire, sparkling like they were the same tall, beautiful structures they were before. But they weren't.

I stood up, my limbs aching and my head pounding. It was hard to breathe, hard to see in all the smoke. It enveloped me like an insult and hung over me. I stared down into the expanse, searching for a pair of ice-blue eyes, bright like the eye of a storm. All I could see was fighting, and bones in a heap on the ground.

I don't know how they hadn't caught me yet. I was in a suit, well ironed with a red tie, with blood now spilt over me. My sunglasses had fallen to the ground somewhere. It was too dark, too smoky so that I couldn't see.

Blue eyes caught with my teal ones. But it wasn't the regular Keefe blue that I loved so much. No, this was the ugliest blue ever, the most piercing kind that I felt a million knives stabbing me as I looked into them. It belonged to an ogre.

The crazed creature charged at me, spear in hand and murder in their eyes. I yelled, ducking out of the way, the spear missing me by mere inches. I shivered. I picked up a broken stick from the ground, holding it high as a weapon. That sounds pretty lame, but it was a cool stick, and I was out of options.

The ogre howled, angry that I was still alive, and threw their spear at me. I didn't dodge it this time. No, instead I hit it back with my stick. The ogre looked like they were ready to pounce. But instead, they turned away and ran at something else. I was relieved, my blood finally returning to my cheeks, but then all signs of hope disappeared.

Keefe Sencen, writhing on the ground, surrounded by fire, and a bloodthirsty ogre after his guts. I screamed so loudly my vocal cords could've passed away. I ran to him, summoning my love for him to carry me forward. I landed right in front of him, but it was a moment too late. The spear had pierced his skin.

Blood drenched the dead grass, sinking into the soil. Keefe screeched, breathing hard now that his guts were spilling out. The colour was fading from his cheeks, and his ice-blue eyes were losing their life. I ripped the suit coat off my back and tried to dab away the blood, but more just kept coming. I wanted to take out the spear, in case he got infected, but I did, he'd bleed to death, and there is nothing more terrifying to me than losing Keefe Sencen.

"Just hold on, okay?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Things will work out. Somehow, they always work out."

"Fitz," Keefe croaked out, and it was terrifying, hearing his voice leave him, "I think this time, we're out of luck."

"No!" I yelled. "How can you say that? What about everything we've been through? What about us?" I choked out the last words because the thought of Keefe leaving me alone here was enough for me to throw myself into the fires. The best moments of my life flashed in my head. Keefe and I trying ice cream. Keefe and I cuddling. Keefe and I crying. Keefe and I. That's what it has always been.

And now Keefe's bloody form threatened to strip away the last sliver of sanity I had. I thought I had it so nice because when everything fell apart, they fell back together. That's what Keefe and I were. Falling apart, and falling back together.

But that magnetic reassurance was gone now. All that was there was the cold, harsh reality and warm blood spilling onto me.

"Fitz," Keefe said, tearing up. He reached and grabbed my hand, a gesture too much for him in his state. "I know things don't look too good right now, but please, Fitz, I'm not going to be alive tomorrow, let alone for the next fifteen minutes." I choked at that. He continued. "You have a life, Fitz. You had one before me and you'll have one after. It won't be the same, but please, please, please don't throw it away."

"What don't you understand, Keefe? You are my life!" I screamed. Keefe's eyes widened at that, and a soft smile settled on his face.

"Thank you," Keefe whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm going to miss you so much."

Keefe's breaths were no longer shallow. They were no longer there. The pain left his body, carrying his life force with him. Keefe Sencen was dead.

I screamed so loudly all of the Forbidden Cities must have heard me. Not that there was any of it left. Keefe's blood was on my shirt, his corpse in my hands, and my heart in the grave.

The fires licked at the ground close to me, brightening my path to my inevitable death. I shivered, crawling so I was lying next to Keefe, and I placed a tentative kiss on his cold lips. The fires came close, but I did not resist them. I didn't even ask for help.

It was bright, though it was now night. I stared at the cruel stars, and the cruel world and pondered my cruel fate. I whispered, voice hushed. "We're in this together." As I allowed the flames to swallow Keefe and I whole.

***

aodsufhui;hfsd that's the Keefitz oneshot haha. Here at last. I kinda like actually which is strange because I wrote it in such a rush.

@thesfromhms this one's for you

[darkchocolatedimples]

the tortured poets department (sponsored by my procrastination)

excuse my essays for each song the lyrics are so interesting to me so there’s like actual analyzation for each one.

fortnight - dex

that lingering resentment disguised by surface level friendship is that not literally him and sophie come on. “run into you sometimes, ask about the weather” the awkwardness!! “your wife waters flowers, i want to kill her” he was the #1 fitz hater for multiple reasons after all (although i think he was over it by the time keefe became prominent)

the tortured poets department - sophie

this is so keefe from her perspective come on “you’re in self sabatoge mode, throwing spikes down the road, but i’ve seen this episode and still love the show” “i chose this cyclone with you” “sometimes i wonder if you’re gonna screw this up with me. but you told [biana] that you’d kill yourself if i ever leave. and i had said that to [dex] about you so i felt seen. everyone we know understands why we’re meant to be.” also let’s be so real keefes drawing journals + goodbye letters, he’s giving tortured poet

my boy only breaks his favorite toys - fitz

guys he’s just a silly little boy with anger issues, and he’s MY silly little boy with anger issues stop hating him 😞 “the voices in his head called the rain to end our days of wild” “he saw forever so he smashed it up” he may have fucked up but it happens!!

down bad - dex

CUZ FUCK IT HE WAS IN LOVE!!! also if i may present to you: “i might just die it would make no difference” in the context that outside of sophie saw no purpose to his own life. he saw himself just as he is presented in the books: as her best friend and nothing more. so in losing that (blaming himself and his own feelings for it) what was left of him? who was left? sophie was also his ONLY friend. not to mention in the context of the fact that when he WAS presumed dead nobody cared, they still cared more about sophie.

so long, london - keefe

no not bc of london actually but because “and you say i abandoned the ship but i was going down with it, my white knuckle dying grip holding tight to your quiet resentment” is actually a direct reference to keefitz’ friendship falling apart as fitz got angrier and keefe got more closed off. “you swore that you loved me but where were the clues?” “im just mad as hell cause i loved this place” me when everglen is no longer keefes safehaven. nor anyone’s for that matter bc its haunted by alvars betrayal and alden’s mind break and fitz’ anger.

but daddy i love him - biana

“i just learned these people only raise you to cage you” “i just learned these people try and save you…cause they hate you” “dutiful daughter all my plans were laid…growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all.” i hate alden vacker. how do u manage to use and fuck up all ur kids by age 12 like wow. “i’ll tell you something about my good name: it’s mine alone to disgrace” she would 100% say this. she would also 100% say “im having his baby! no im not but you should see your faces.”

fresh out the slammer - keefe

sokeefe or keefitz take it as it comes. “in the shade of how he was feeling.” “as i said in my letters.” “my friends try, but i wouldn’t hear it…for just one glimpse of his smile” “swirled you into all of my poems” it’s so him it is truly.

florida!!! - keefe

THIS one’s about london! “well me and my ghosts, we had a hell of a time! yes i’m haunted but im feeling just fine” ethan and eleanor wright who?? “your home’s really only a town you’re just a guest in” candle shade/shores of solace type beat “i need to forget so take me to [london], i have some regrets i’ll bury them in [london]” “i don’t want to exist so take me to [london]” aw bae

guilty as sin? - dex

i don’t know how to explain but i just feel like this feeling of i shouldn’t be doing/feeling this the literal guilt and all these delusions and the sheer intensity of it all is just giving me dex. “this cage was once just fine, am i allowed to cry? i dream of cracking locks, throwing my life to the wolves or the ocean rocks” “i keep these longings locked in lowercase inside a vault” this must be the way he loves if he thinks so little of himself and doesn’t let himself have good things. “i choose you and me religiously” because at the end of the day when he makes a decision or chooses something or someone he puts his all into it.

who’s afraid of little old me - sophie

“you lured me and you hurt me and you taught me. you caged me then you called me crazy. i am what i am cuz you trained me.” all of it’s literally giving her growing into herself in stellarlune and making decisions on her own. SHE IS NOT A PAWN!!!

i can fix him (no really i can) - tam

idk its just giving him defending rayni with his life when everyone else including linh was like who tf is this girl.

loml - fitz

every sad pining song is fitz vacker to me. esp the refrences to the romance being dead but never buried... "still alive killing time at the cemetery, never quite buried...i'm your holy ghost" the way that sophie switched up on him in stellarlune (although i fully support her) didn't give him much time to recover. "are they second-hand embarrased that i can't get out of bed because something counterfiet's dead" give me heartbroken fitz!!! for once instead of angry fitz just give me tired, resigned fitz. "it was legendary, it was momentary, it was unecessary, should've let it stayed buried" is such a good summary of sophitz imo.

i can do it with a broken heart - linh

linh is so interesting to me as a parallel of fitz: meaning she, just like him, is always angry. however she masks it in smiles and kindness the way he never learned to, he just lashes out. this song feels like it’s talking about that mask: “i’m so depressed i act like it’s my birthday everyday” “i can read your mind ‘she’s having the time of her life’ …i can show you lies” “cause im miserable and nobody even knows” “i can hold my breath, i’ve been doing it since [i] left”

the smallest man who ever lived - keefe

it’s giving a letter to cassius/gisela/alvar. “and i don’t even want you back, i just want to know if rusting my sparkling summer was the goal. and i don’t miss what we had” “did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?” “in 50 years will all this be declassified and you’ll confess why you did it, and i’ll say ‘good riddance’” “i would’ve died for your sins instead i just died inside. and you deserve prison but you won’t get time” “in plain sight you hid, but you are what you did. and i’ll forget you but i’ll never forgive.”

the alchemy - sophie

“cause the sign on your heart said it’s still reserved for me. honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?” aw sokeefe.

clara bow - biana

BIANA BEING COMPARED TO HER BROTHERS AND ALL THE VACKERS BEFORE THEM "the crown is stained but you're the real queen" "beauty is a beast that roars, down on all fours, demanding more...its hell on earth to be heavenly" i love her.

the black dog - fitz

bring back petty fitz!! i think the young girl not knowing the starting line could parallel with keefe not being able to understand things about telepathy that really connected fitz and sophie. i also think we could shift the angle and make it about alvars betrayal and how it sparked his angry trauma response. “you said i needed a brave man, then proceeded to play him until i believed it too.” “now i want to sell my house and set fire to all my clothes…even if i die screaming, and i hope you hear it.”

imgonnagetyouback - fitz

he is 100% this delusional. he's just like me. "you'll find that you were never not mine" "even if its handcuffed im leaving here with you." "told my friends i hate you but i love you just the same, pick your poison babe, i'm poison either way"

the albatross - keefe

“one bad seed kills the garden. one less temptress, one less dagger to sharpen.” “the devil that you know looks now more like an angel. i’m the life you chose, and all this terrible danger.” HE IS THE ALBATROSS. i can’t wait for the movie i want edits of him to this. ACTUALLY I WANT A LOT OF THINGS maybe I’ll make a separate post about that.

chloe or sam or sophia or marcus - keefe

you saw it coming. this song SCREAMS KEEFITZ. like- “you said some things that i can’t unabsorb…you needed me but you needed drugs more.” “changed plans and lovers and outfits and rules all to outrun my desertion of you.” “if you want to break my cold cold heart just say ‘i loved you the way that you were’” WHAT THE HECK DUDE IM SOBBING “back to the moment i crashed into you like so many wrecks do” that line solidified this as keefe’s pov for me. in conclusion. SOBBING.

how did it end - biana

i propose to you: not a relationship, but the vacker family falling apart and the way they became a huge subject of gossip in the lost cities. when alden’s mind broke, while fitz had turned to anger biana became depressed, and i think this song could relate to that as well. the whole part of “guess who we ran into at the shops” feels very much like conversations others would have about the vackers at the time and when alvar betrayed them. “soon they’ll go home to their [brothers], smug cause they know they can trust him.” and i think at the end of the day when all of it happened biana was just young and betrayed and lost, because she didn’t see it coming or understand why (who did?) “the deflation of our dreaming, leaving me bereft and reeling” “i can’t pretend like i understand, how did it end?”

so high school - biana

HER VIBES ALL THE WAY she’s so cute and lovely and i want this for her (and dex. specifically dex. not anyone else.)

i hate here - sophie

was leaning dex until “you see i was a debutant in another life but now i seem to be scared of going outside” but the whole idea of escapism applies to both of them. especially to sophie though when she lived with humans and was so alone because even her own family couldn’t understand her, and she canonically is a bookworm and probably found more comfort in those other lives than she ever could in her own. "I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind...i read about it in a book when I was a precious child" "ill get lost on purpose, this place made me feel worthless"

thanK you aIMee - tam

aimee 🤝🏽 the song parents. “everyone knows that my [sister] is a saintly woman. but she used to say she wished that you were dead.” “but when i count the scars there’s a moment of truth: that there wouldn’t be this if there hadn’t been you.” thank you song parents 🫶🏽

i look in people’s windows - fitz

i thought this song sounded so creepy till I actually listened to it and now the idea of like lowkey stalking someone just to see if they still care about you or have moved on is slightly making sense. "does it feel alright to not know me? i'm addicted to the if only." it's giving keefitz (when isn't it?)

the prophecy - dex

"let it once be me, who do i have to speak to about if they can redo the prophecy?" THIS JUST REMINDS ME SO MUCH OF THE BEGINNING OF STELLARLUNE WHEN HES LITERALLY MOURNING WHAT HASN'T EVEN HAPPENED TO HIS BROTHER YET i need more dex being the oldest sibling and shouldering that burden. the love-hate relationship with his siblings while simultaneously trying to make their quality of life so much better than what he had. also "a lesser woman would've lost hope, a greater woman wouldn't beg" is so him. he is so that middle.

cassandra - tam

"so they killed cassandra first cuz she feared the worst...do you believe me now?" "you can mark my words, i said it first. in a mourning warning, no one heard." tam when keefe joined the neverseen fr

peter - keefe

pls tell me you saw this one coming. "are you still a mindreader? a natural scene stealer, I've heard great things [fitz], but life was always easier on you than it was on me." "promises, oceans deep, but never to keep" "forgive me [fitz], my lost fearless leader...from when we were just kids. is it something I did?" i think I'm just in a constant state of mourning their friendship.

the bolter - keefe

obvious reasons but also "i can confirm she made a curious child, ever reviled by everyone but her own father." "hearts are hers for the breaking, there's escape in escaping." "she's got the best stories, you can be sure, as she was leaving, it feels like freedom."

robin - dex

had to do some research for this one but apparently its talking about preserving a child's innocence! for this reason it reminds me again of dex and his siblings because of the way he really wants to protect them from things that haven't happened yet (especially considering rex being talentless). "way to go tiger" definitely sounds like something he would say to them feeling all sentimental but then, knowing siblings, they'd probably grill him about why he's being nice 💀

the manuscript -

we know the drill by now, fitz gets all the breakup songs because they could be about sophie OR keefe. "afterwords, she only ate kid's cereal, and slept in her mother's bed" while the song is discussing reverting back to childhood habits in vulnerability, fitz's vulnerability made him angry (but it was still a big change from his regular self) "looking back might be the only way to move forward" I hope he does get to move on!!! im tired of the love triangle plot if we're not gonna focus on keefitz' friendship 😭

[the-way-astray]

Keefe headcanons???

when keefe realized he could inflict, he had mixed feelings. on one hand, he always wanted to be able to. on the other, he can only really do it because his empathy's so strong and why is his empathy so strong? because of his mom's genetic manipulations. so like. he struggles with that

he takes longer than cassius to do his hair. look, i know canonically he makes fun of how long cassius takes to do his hair, but you know keefe takes longer then thirty-one minutes, let's be so for real here, anon. canon doesn't exist actually

anyway fitz taught him to do his hair, actually. they were experimenting and keefe liked that style so fitz taught him how to do it

speaking of fitz, they share a room in the elite levels. oh, but the elves don't really do sharing rooms because there's space enough for every- well, guess who doesn't care. that's right. me

keefe learned his . . . dubious use of empathy from his dad. when he was a kid, his dad would always read his emotions and then just casually tell his mom what he was feeling, so keefe learned to do the same thing and doesn't realize it's fucked up

fitz was the first one to call out that behavior but keefe still struggles with it

fitz keeps keefe in line. in my head

fitz is actually the one that won't let keefe touch his hair everyone has it flipped

this post is turning into a keefitz post lemme backtrack

keefe really likes the elvin equivalent of oranges/citrusy fruits and in unraveled if i don't see him intimidatingly eat a lemon like an apple i will simply perish

before the series started, he changed his hair and eye color all the time with elixirs from slurps and burps so he did know dex kinda even before sophie was in the picture

one time he dyed the tips of his hair black so he looked like a porcupine

he's one of those people that buries himself under the comforter even if it's like 150 degrees outside and inside (i think this is canon actually)

(spoilers for crooked kingdom whoopsie) you know that scene where they fall through the ceiling because they spilled really potent acid on the ground? keefe has definitely done that. that's why Nobody Goes To The Fifty-Sixth Floor Of Candleshade. there's just a gaping hole in the floor between the fifty-fifth and fifty-sixth floor

keefe decorated the rim of said hole with tiny chunks of lumenite he secretly shaved off his dad's statue and since his dad never goes to that floor he doesn't know about it

keefe performed the elvin equivalent of a satantic ritual with the hole (he was high on fathomlethes)

his favorite scent is sharpie. unfortunately he's never actually smelled it before. come on, shannon, give the people (me) what they want in unraveled

when he first heard about sophie (not from fitz) he thought she was a rumor

he's ridden verdi before once when grady made him do chores waiting for sophie to come home

he fell off. painfully

he has never baked ever not even once in his entire life. not ever. this is important to me

keefe and fitz are the epitome of the newest, hottest romance trope that's taken the book world by storm: baker x cannot bake for the life of them

keefe was the one that painted that vacker family portrait actually

della told fitz she wanted to commission a portrait of them to celebrate alden's recovery and fitz was like "i know just the guy"

fitz just didn't tell sophie that because he didn't want to ruin the mood during the flashback scene

remember when fitz said he went to the hekses place for a delivery once? actually alden took keefe too and keefe thought it was cool. yes i know canon says keefe wasn't there and thought it was gross but we ignore canon in this headcanon household

he tried to convince fitz to join his hair and eye color changing ways by changing his eye color to teal and hair color to brown but alas fitz refused to join him

oh shit i'm keefitz posting again

he only turned the lab table to silver because it was ugly he wouldn't have done it if it wasn't so crusty-looking why doesn't lady galvin appreciate his efforts no one understands him

he once showered in the elvin equivalent of orange juice

[thesfromhms]

KEEFITZ THOUGHTS

Hi sso I'm gonna do this now. Give me your KOTLC ships and I'll think of thoughts and headcanons for em :3 just reblog with your ship or comment your ship!

Fitz getting stabbed by the Neverseen and Keefe desperately tries saving him, but he refuses care because he knows it's finally the end for him

The Neverseen forcing Keefe to hurt Fitz, or else they'll do much worse to him (Fitz)

Ok headcanon time

—Keefe is the only one that knows what happened to Fitz in full detail

—Fitz is the only one that has had a sleepover at Candleshade

—Fitz bought home a comic book once when they were around 11. He said that Alvar got it for him, but in reality, he was the one that bought it. They talked about it for HOURS

—Their kisses mostly consists of Keefe kissing Fitz's cheek and Fitz kissing Keefe's hand

—Keefe secretly likes their height difference. Well, more like has a love hate relationship with it. He definitely likes whenever Fitz is happy, but he does NOT like being used as an arm stool

—Fitz bought Keefe to the forbidden cities when they were around 9. Secretly, of course

—Keefe, for some odd reason, prefers if mallowmelt is made by Fitz specifically. He'll est whatever, don't get me wrong, but he prefers it more if the 'whatever' is made by Fitz

—Fitz tried growing out his hair once. Keefe just kept on saying that he "had a tail", so he cut it off. Just to spite him

—FITZ BODYPILLOW WAS ORIGINATED BY KEEFE. POINT BLANK PERIOD. He quite literally said, TO THE ENTIRE GROUP, "Fitz is comfy. Like a pillow". Poor Fitz's body has been extra numb ever since

[telugu-girl-13]

Y’all Keefitz shippers are actually corrupting me because when I read this earlier, I thought Ro had said “He said he would need more than that” implying that Keefe and Fitz are “more than just friends” and that Sophie was jealous (of who, I don’t know) 😭😭

[siennamakeschaos]

i'm a horrible writer but-

keefitz fanfic :)

i kind of hate it tbh but here it is :D (only chapter one, that's as far as i've gotten so far)

under the cuttt

TW: minor swearing <3

Fitz stared at the ceiling of his room, shifting slightly to get into a more comfortable position. He heard footsteps outside of his door and groaned. 

"Biana, I swear to the stars, if you're trying to steal more of my skin care products, I will put a lock on my door." He sat up, surprised to see it was not his beauty-product stealing sister, but instead a grinning Keefe. 

"You know, maybe I'll steal some of those skincare products, Fitzy..."

Fitz rolled his eyes at his best friend's comment, sitting up in his bed. "Hello you too, Keefe. Why are you here? I thought tou and Sophie were doing something..?" He asked, leaning back as he waved Keefe over.

"Oh, you know, just dropping in to make sure my bestie hasn't died on me." Keefe shrugged, falling back onto Fitz's bed. "You sounded pretty sick the other day, y'know."

Fitz remembered talking to Keefe the other day- the conversation... hadn't ended so pleasantly.

"So... Fitzy boy, what've you been up to that made you look like hell?"

"What!? I don't look like hell!"

"Deny it all you want- you've got  huge bags under your eyes and your voice sounds off. You pulled another all-nighter, didn't you?"

"Well, uh... not exactly..."

"What do you mean not exactly?"

"...two allnighters. I only slept for an hour the other day as well..."

"EXCUSE ME!? Fitzy, you HAVE to take better care of yourself! That's stupid- three days, only an hour of sleep."

"I know it's stupid, it's just...I haven't been able to sleep, okay? Can you just drop it?"

"No, no, no, I am NOT dropping this, Fitzy. You couldn't sleep, or wouldn't? Were you up all night thinking about a certain blonde somebody..?"

"What? No! That's- no- no!"

"Not convincing me there, Golden Boy."

"Oh, by all the stars, just drop it, Keefe!"

"You need to get more sleep!"

"You need to stop poking into my business!"

"It's my business if you're harming yourself by not getting enough sleep."

"Keefe- drop it!"

"No, Fitzy, you need more sleep, I'm not going to just drop it. You're going to burn yourself out."

"Shut up! SHUT. UP. I don't need you going on and on about how horrible my sleep schedule is, can you just let me handle things by myself for once!?"

"Fitzy-"

"No. Just...just go, Keefe. Please."

"Okay."

Fitz had been trying to put the memories of the conversation behind, but of course- being his stressed, emotional self- he couldn't. He groaned as he leaned back into his bed, glancing at Keefe. 

"I've gotten sleep since the other day, if that's what you're asking. Only four hours the other night, but last night I got six." Fitz finally said, although Keefe just rolled his eyes.

"Oh, wow, such an amazing sleep schedule!"

"Shut up." Fitz's voice was laced with mild amusement, however. He didn't have the energy to be irritated. "What did you really come here for, Keefe? I doubt you'd abandon your project with Sophie for nothing."

"You really underestimate me, Fitzy...it's disappointing, really!"

"Keefe!"

"Alright, alright." Keefe chuckled. "I came to give you something. Grizel was on edge today, though. She stole what I have for you and looked over it for a full five minutes before letting me in, y'know. I was scared she and Sandor had swapped places." He took an object out of his pocket, offering it to Fitz.

Fitz took a good look at the object, realising what it was. "I asked you if you could look for this...years ago..!" He gasped. It was a small glass locket, with a picture of him and Keefe with their arms around each other's shoulders inside. "I lost it when I was with you over two years ago...how the fuck did you find it!?" 

Keefe chuckled at Fitz's reactions. "There, there, language, Fitzy! I found this just the other day, remember when you made me promise if I found the locket, I'd bring it back to you? Wasn't gonna break that promise, was I?" He grinned. 

Fitz took the locket from Keefe, astonished. He couldn't believe Keefe had been able to find this, after the locket had been lost for two whole years. "I- this is- wow..."

He didn't know why he was reacting so strongly to this, it was just that... Fitz could remember clearly the day Keefe had given him this locket.

"Hey, Fitzy. It's been a whole year, y'know. A whole year since I found you sitting in the cafeteria all alone, trying to work on an assignment."

"I found YOU, remember? I don't know how you weren't caught holding a GULON of all things."

"Well, you know what happened after."

"Oh, I know all right. But what were you saying before?"

"Technically, it's our friendiversary. I think."

"Wait, it is?"

"So I got you a present!"

"It's...a locket. It's beautiful, Keefe!"

"Are you talking about me or the locket, Fitzy?"

"Can this be used to choke somebody?"

"You would never!"

"I have a feeling I just might."

"Aww, I thought I was your bestie, Fitzy! Anyways, where's YOUR gift?"

"Gift? I- uh-'

"Don't worry, Fitzy, I was-"

"Here! Flowers. I know you like daisies, here's a bunch of them!"

"...you just got those from the ground."

"No witnesses."

"Except me."

"You can't be your own witness! HAPPY FRIENDIVERSARY!"

The memory still made Fitz laugh when he thought about it. He and Keefe had been twelve, turning thirteen, then. They had been young and innocent.

"Thank you." Fitz shot Keefe a sincere smile. "I was so upset the day I lost this...my first friendiversary gift..."

Keefe chuckled. "Oh, you getting attached to a locket. Why am I not surprised?"

"Hey, I wasn't attached!" Fitz protested. "It had sentimental value!"

"Oh, yeah, because you were a lonely, sad child back then."

"I wasn't lonely! I had Biana, you know."

"Siblings don't count."

"Oh, come on."

This was how many conversations with Keefe seemed to go- tease, sarcasm, a light joke, an attempt to get Keefe to be serious.... but Fitz couldn't deny that he liked it.

"Sooo...." Keefe had a smirk on his face. This couldn't be good. "Those skincare products...didn't know you used those beauty products..." He grinned. "How often do you use these, dare I ask?"

Fitz groaned again. "You're the worst." He complained. "I- uh... I have a nightly routine.... and a morning routine."

Keefe burst into laughter. "Of course you do. Plus haircare, right? You are the craziest person I've ever met, Fitz Vacker."

Fitz rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, you spend half an hour on your hair each morning! You can't say anything."

Keefe placed a hand over his heart, feigning mock offence. "How dare you accuse me of such felonies, Fitzy!"

"Felonies indeed."

[aphelea]

like an old enemy (keefitz)

Ao3 Link

hi @when-wax-wings-melt i was your secret santa!! apologies for the late gift, it got slightly longer than expected, but i hope you enjoy this keefitz royal AU :)

(also thank you @song-tam for hosting this!)

quick note: the fic is non-linear and the scenes alternate between the adult and child/teenage versions of fitz and keefe, with excerpts of letters in between.

Summary: There’s a long pause before Keefe finally replies. “I swear to the moon and the stars, Fitz. I would never, ever kill the only person who ever loved me like a son.”

And how could Fitz’s will ever hold against that?

(Or, the story of two princes, through childhood wonder and wartime unrest.)

Warnings: vague mention of vomiting and canon-typical violence

-

The guards find Fitz in the garden at sunrise, pen in hand as he attempts to write a letter to be sent with tonight’s delivery to Candleshade. He is surrounded by drafts deemed unworthy of his intended recipient’s eyes—though, these days, Fitz thinks that nothing he could write would ever be truly worthy enough for him. No words could ever fully communicate what he needs to say—and yet he tries anyway.  

“You’re here early,” Fitz says, upon hearing approaching footsteps. He pats his pockets frantically and sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t have any payment for the delivery right now. Or a delivery at all, actually.” He turns, expecting to see the palace’s messenger—but he is instead met with the carefully blank faces of five goblin guards, each quickly moving to surround him. Grizel, his personal bodyguard, stands in the middle, but she refuses to meet his gaze—Fitz’s first clue that something is terribly wrong. 

“Your Highness,” one goblin begins, after a long moment of tense silence. “I—”

She’s cut off by a scream, loud and harrowed, from inside the palace. Immediately, Fitz scrambles up and reaches for his own sword, but is stopped by Grizel’s outstretched arm. He casts her a quizzical look, but she only shakes her head and looks toward the doors. 

“Who did this?” comes the next cry, now in his mother’s voice. Fitz’s heart stops for a moment. He’s never known such anguish from her. 

“Grizel?” he asks, and his voice wavers dangerously. “Who…”

Fitz can’t bring himself to say the words. Of course, it isn’t the first time that rebels have come after one of their own—he still vividly remembers the night of Jolie’s death, and how the fires had been so deceptively warm for a moment—but today, of all days? If he knew better, he’d take it as a sign from the universe. 

But even the universe could not have prepared him for the words Grizel utters. 

“King Alden,” she says quietly, and the world stops for a moment.

Even the birds are silent, as if mourning alongside him. 

Fitz’s throat thickens. He’d seen his father just hours ago, in this very garden. They’d spoken about the state of the world, and as always, he’d told Fitz that there was no reason to worry about the rebels, and Fitz had scoffed and told him to stop treating him like a child. Was that truly the last thing he’d said to him? The last thing he would ever say to him? 

His turmoil must be evident on his face, as Grizel reaches out and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. But he can only stare at the ground, unblinking. 

“I thought the palace was secure,” he says, after a long moment—ever since rebels burned the old Havenfield Palace, the Alliance kingdoms have been incredibly careful with who enters and exits the palace grounds. Everglen is perhaps the most secure kingdom of the five—or, rather, it used to be. 

From the grim expressions on the guards’ faces, that might no longer be the case.

“It appears to have been the work of a clever assassin,” Grizel says, and Fitz is surprised to see true fear in her eyes. In all his years of knowing her, nothing has ever shaken her composure, and certainly not enough to be plainly visible on her face. “They somehow exploited a secret entry into the palace just outside the gardens.” 

A secret entry. 

Fitz tries his best not to react, but he knows the recognition is all-too-obvious on his face. The only other person who knew about the path was…no, that’s impossible. He wouldn’t do this. 

And Fitz wants, so desperately, to believe it. He wants to say that he trusts him more than anything—but when it comes down to it, in the final choice between right and wrong? Fitz isn’t sure where he would go. 

Keefe has no reason to kill a king, he tells himself. 

But the people he keeps company with certainly do, his mind rather unhelpfully supplies. 

Fitz shakes his head, as if that will erase the presence of his thoughts. Why does he torment himself with speculation like this? He looks to Grizel, trying to appear as unshaken as possible, the furthest from his true turmoil. “Who did it?” he asks; the only way he has ever taken after his mother. 

Grizel is silent and unreadable. But she has experience in stealth that the other guards do not, so the glances between them are all-too-obvious to Fitz now. “Who did it?” he repeats, raising his voice. “Who? Answer me!”

“Fitz,” Grizel warns, in that familiar way that tells him he won’t like the answer. 

“Was it Alvar?” he asks, well aware that his voice is slipping into an unrestrained shout, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Quinlin? Biana?” She frowns, but remains silent. “Somebody just tell me!” He doesn’t realize he’s drawn his knife until it’s pointing at Grizel, tickling her throat. 

Gently, she removes it, watching him with all the sorrow he’s not sure he deserves. “We recovered one of the many arrows found at the scene. It carried a…familiar flag.”

“Of the rebels?” Fitz asks. He knows the sign of the swan by heart; he has known it since it graced the cloaks of Jolie’s murderers, all those years ago. And it would make sense—too much sense, perhaps.

“No,” she replies, her voice so soft it’s barely a whisper. “Though that would be more predictable.”

“Then who?” Fitz asks, racking his brain for another group that would both want his father dead and shatter him badly. He doesn’t exactly keep close connections with many people, personally. With war looming over them, it’s easier to trust nobody but the people he loves.

Grizel lets out a shaky breath. “It carried the flag of Candleshade.”

Oh.

Oh, God. 

Fitz leans over and throws up in the roses. 

-

Dear Prince Keefe,

Hi! It’s me. Fitz. Obviously you know that, because what other royal from Everglen would be writing to you (unless you’re secretly pen pals with Biana, which would be weird since she doesn’t even know how to send a letter yet. Also, her handwriting is atroshous atrocuos atrocious.) I figured since it takes forever to get from Candleshade to here, it might be easier for us to send letters while we can’t see each other. Although, my father says that your father is coming over next month for a trade meeting, so maybe you can come then?

(Please come. Biana and I are really bored without anyone else our age around.) 

Anyway, I used that goop you gave me earlier to prank my bodyguard. It worked! She was stuck to the wall and I swear it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Biana and I were laughing so hard that the other guards ran in because they thought we were choking! Then we had to get her out, sadly, and Grizel was pretty mad, even though some of the other guards were definitely laughing too. But at least I didn’t have to do my sword fighting training. So thank you! I’m sending some ripplefluffs along with this letter as a thank-you gift. 

(I didn’t make them, though. I’m still banned from the kitchens after that prank we pulled last time.)

Oh, and on that note, I also found…

-

The first time Fitz speaks to Keefe, it’s by Jolie’s insistence. They’re eight years old, sitting in the gardens of Everglen and pointedly avoiding each other’s gazes—it’s the first time that the prince of Candleshade has ever visited, and he seems to be much more interested in his sketchbook than speaking to any of the other children. Though Fitz isn’t exactly interested in being social, either; he’s still sulking from being banned from the meeting room, despite the fact that he’s certainly old enough to be discussing grown-up matters. And if Alvar is going to be there, then why isn’t Fitz allowed? It’s all stupid. And unfair. And stupidly unfair. 

The Princess of Havenfield, to her credit, listens to all of Fitz’s concerns. She doesn’t let him leave, of course, but at least she doesn’t treat him like a baby like other adults. This appeases Fitz a bit—but that still doesn’t mean he wants to run around the gardens playing games with his little sister and her new best friend. He’s not six anymore. 

“I know you’re not,” Jolie says, sighing. “But I’m sure they would still really appreciate it if you joined them. Hey, you two, what game are you playing?” She directs the last sentence to the two girls who are currently galloping around a tree and waving sticks around wildly. 

Princess Stina stops and grins. “Super Cowboys!” she shouts gleefully, then returns to hitting the air violently. Woltzer, Biana’s bodyguard, watches the whole situation with clear discomfort—it’s only a matter of time before he’s forced into playing one of their characters. Likely as whatever thing they’re killing. 

Jolie raises an eyebrow. “And what are you cowboys fighting?”

“Rebels,” Biana answers, glaring at whatever imaginary person she must see in front of her. “We’re fighting rebels!”

Jolie pales, ever so slightly, but she still manages a smile. “See?” she tells Fitz. “You can play a…rebel-fighting cowboy.”

“I don’t want to be a cowboy. I hate cowboys.” Truthfully, Fitz doesn’t know much about them, but he definitely doesn’t want to be running around with a bunch of babies. He’s almost nine. If he’s going to be a good prince for his kingdom, he has to give up on childish pretend games now. 

“Why?” Jolie asks. “Cowboys can be fun.”

“Yeah, but you only think that because you live in the land of cowboys. That’s different.” Fitz has never been to her kingdom, but he remembers learning about Havenfield during his diplomacy lessons—while it’s certainly not lawless, the towns on its outskirts are nowhere a prince should be sent to. Plus, it’s the closest Alliance kingdom to rebel country, so danger is always lurking around the corner outside the capital. 

Grizel snorts behind him, and Jolie sighs. “Look,” she tells him, standing up, “it’s fine if you don’t want to play with them. But your father told me to watch over you here, so don’t plan on going anywhere else. At least, nowhere where I can’t see you.”

Fitz only wrinkles his nose and turns away. Why can’t his father just trust him? Alvar’s been attending Alliance meetings since he was nine. And Fitz has excelled in all his lessons; he’s done even better than his brother in most of them. And he’s not ignorant, either—he knows why today’s meeting was called. He’s heard the whispers of the growing rebel conflicts in all the kingdoms; he’s heard the rumours being spread about the real reason the Crown Princess of Havenfield was sidelined to babysitting instead of speaking for her kingdom. Rebel sympathies, they say. Will Princess Jolie’s first act as queen be removing her kingdom from the Council Alliance? Who was the mysterious commoner seen at her Winnowing Gala? Is she truly planning on betraying her country?

“Maybe you can talk to Keefe, then,” Jolie says, after a moment. “I’m sure he’d like some company.”

“Who?” Fitz asks, and then notices the boy sitting on a bench near them, drawing quietly in a sketchbook. 

The boy—Keefe, apparently—looks up upon hearing his name. “I’m fine, actually,” he says, then returns to his drawing without giving Fitz so much as a glance. 

Fitz scoffs. “Yeah, me too,” he says, moving to sit on the furthest possible bench that’s still in Jolie’s sight. Which, unfortunately, isn’t far. He should really ask his father to build more benches in these gardens. 

For at least ten minutes, they sit in tense silence—Keefe, with his nose buried in his sketchbook, and Fitz, sulking and glaring at the dirt beneath him. Jolie and Grizel are having a conversation about the hardships of babysitting, or something. Fitz tunes them out. 

Then, he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to find Jolie looking at him with raised eyebrows. “What did the ground ever do to you?” she asks, gesturing to where he’s kicked up enough dirt to create a small hole in Everglen’s perfectly pristine path. Oops. 

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Fitz replies. It’s a lie. 

She sighs. “Why don’t you two just talk to each other? I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend you earlier. Besides, you two must be about the same age.”

Fitz huffs, but he knows she’s not wrong. He can’t sulk like this forever, after all. And the artist in front of him does look to be closer to his age—which is refreshing, since Fitz is used to spending all his time with either his six-year-old sister or his nineteen-year-old brother. Life in the palace isn’t exactly conducive to healthy social development, anyway. 

So he sighs, gets up, and sits down next to Keefe. “Hi,” he says, in a perfectly normal and very chill way. 

“Hi,” Keefe replies, still focused on his drawing. 

“Uh,” Fitz starts, but he doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s then that Keefe finally looks up and meets his gaze, and it’s then that Fitz suddenly realizes who the boy in front of him is: Keefe Sencen, Prince of Candleshade. Of course, how could he not have realized? He’s seen the king and queen of Candleshade dozens of times, as Everglen’s closest ally. Fitz had been vaguely aware that they had a son, though he’d never stopped to think about him much. 

“Want a cookie?” Keefe says, after a long moment of awkward silence. 

Fitz stares at him. “What?”

“Here.” Keefe shoves a cookie in his face, and Fitz accepts—at first, for politeness, but then he takes a bite and he’s not sure he’s ever tasted a cookie this good. “I made them yesterday.”

“You…made these?” Fitz replies, frowning slightly. He’s never even been in the Everglen kitchens. And he doubts he could make a cookie that’s even edible, much less tasty.

Keefe shrugs. “Yeah. I like baking. It takes my mind off things.”

“Wow,” Fitz says with wide eyes. “I wish I had time to learn that. I feel like I spend all my time in lessons or training or something.”

Keefe snorts. “Oh, I’m supposed to be doing that. I just skip.”

Fitz’s jaw drops. “You…skip? Your lessons?”

“Yeah,” Keefe replies casually—clearly, he has no idea how much he’s just completely overhauled Fitz’s mind. “If I don’t want to be there, I just don’t go. Besides, I already know pretty much everything they try to teach me.” He pauses and wrinkles nose. “Except for the sword fighting stuff. That stuff sucks.”

“Woah,” Fitz breathes. “That’s pretty cool.”

The longer they talk, the more Fitz starts to forget about the meeting he’d so desperately wanted to attend. Something about this boy—a boy like no other he’s met before—is entrancing, the only puzzle Fitz has ever encountered that he hasn’t been able to decipher immediately. 

He resolves, that night, that one day he will figure out the mystery of Prince Keefe Sencen. 

No matter how long it takes. 

-

Dear Keefe,

I think something serious is happening. You know how your father arrived in Everglen over the weekend? I’ll admit, I was kind of disappointed that you weren’t with him, but I think I understand why now. He, King Grady, and my father have been locked in the King’s office for nearly three days now—and every time I see them, they have these terrible, grim expressions on their faces. I’ve been asking everyone for information, but nobody will tell me anything! Not even Alvar. He keeps telling me that everything is fine. What a liar. 

I know that it’s something to do with the rebels, though. I can see it in their eyes. 

Anyway. I just want to make sure you’re okay, since I heard that there were a lot of rebel attacks in Candleshade recently, and you haven’t responded to my last letter yet…no pressure to respond quickly, of course. I just like knowing that you’re not dead. 

I miss you I hope you’re okay, Keefe…

-

“You have a lot of nerve asking me to come here,” Fitz says. He doesn’t turn around; he won’t give Keefe the satisfaction of looking into his eyes, no matter how much he desperately wants to. 

Keefe’s breath is warm on his neck—it’s December, and Fitz is so, so cold without someone to hold—and he sighs. “And yet, you still came.”

“I need to know why,” Fitz says. He keeps his gaze trained on the horizon, even as Keefe moves to stand in front of him, begging for his attention. What attention does he deserve? The attention of a prison guard, perhaps. Not a prince. 

Keefe shakes his head in Fitz’s peripheral vision. “I didn’t know,” he says, and Fitz can only scoff. 

“Didn’t know what?” he says incredulously. “That I would find out? Your kingdom’s flag was on the arrow that killed him! They found footprints on the path behind the roses—the path that only you and I know about. I’m not stupid, Keefe. I know what that means.” Fitz is well aware that he’s shouting, now, but they’re deep enough into the woods that he doesn’t quite care anymore. He directs his fury at the air beside Keefe’s perfectly-maintained curls—of course he has the nerve to look pretty even among all this pain. Fitz wouldn’t expect any less. 

But Keefe only stares at him, with something akin to grief in his eyes. “Fitz, please,” he begs, stepping forward. “Look at me.” And if they were just a few years younger, Fitz wouldn’t have hesitated to do so; after all, most of their childhood had been spent following each other blindly. Now, though, they are both hardened by the war at their borders; now, Fitz shouldn’t trust Keefe as he once did, even if his faith in him has become muscle memory. 

 “Just tell me it wasn’t you,” is all Fitz can manage to say without succumbing.  

There’s a long pause before Keefe finally replies. “I swear to the moon and the stars, Fitz. I would never, ever kill the only person who ever loved me like a son.” 

And how could Fitz’s will ever hold against that?

So he gives in, and finally meets the gaze of the only man who could ever ruin him; it’s stormy, terrifying, and all too familiar. Under the moonlight, it reminds Fitz of their younger days—before war caught up to them, when they would spend most of their nights together running off to where they weren’t meant to be and ignoring the shouts from their bodyguards in favour of each other. He’s forced to remember that the boy in front of him is the same boy who taught him how to prank his tutors, years and years ago; the same boy who taught him that love is as easily taken away as it is given. 

“What happened to you?” Fitz asks, and even he’s not quite sure what he means by it. 

Keefe chuckles dryly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

It’s then that Fitz notices the bruises on his cheeks, nearly covered by the blood and mud smudged across his skin. “You’re hurt,” he realizes. He reaches out to examine further, but stops midway—he can’t hold Keefe like this anymore. They aren’t who they once were. 

“Oh, that,” Keefe says, rubbing his face. “I lost a fight with some rebels.”

Fitz gapes at him. “What?”

Keefe looks away and moves his hair across his face, presumably trying to hide the extent of his injuries. “They attacked the palace three days ago. It shouldn’t have been as bad as it was—we have more than enough forces to counter them—but they were one step ahead of us. As they always are.”

A million situations run through Fitz’s mind, but he’s studied the rebel tactics long enough to understand what Keefe is saying. “They had people on the inside.”

Keefe nods. “They knew every weakness in our defense, and every single passage in or out of the palace. Even the ones I thought only I knew about. I was only able to run because Ro fought them off behind me.” 

That means… “So the rebels killed my father, then.”

Keefe pauses. “I don’t know. I’ve been on the road for three days—I didn’t even know he was dead until I got into town. But I can’t imagine that my father would choose to make an enemy out of our only allies.”

Fitz sucks in a breath. “Which can only mean that Candleshade has fallen.” It seems almost impossible, but if what Keefe is telling him is true…then the rebels have grown much more powerful than he ever thought. 

“This is the start of the real war,” Keefe says quietly. “They’ll stop at nothing to take down the Alliance. And with your father dead…Everglen is definitely going to be next. It’s an easy opening for them.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to prepare for a fight,” Fitz says. “After that, hopefully, we can help you reclaim Candleshade.” And with it, perhaps, they can reclaim some of themselves too. 

At this—strangely—Keefe’s face falls, and he winces. “About that…” he begins, and suddenly, he won’t meet Fitz’s eyes. “I’m leaving.”

Fitz stares at him. “What?”

“I can’t stay here,” Keefe says. “You said it yourself—people think I’m a killer. And even once I tell them I’m not, if they believe me…what can I do? The rebels need me dead to end the line; they’ll be searching for me everywhere. I’ll only bring death to your door even quicker.” He chuckles, though it’s as dry as the winter air surrounding them.

The idea is so absurd, Fitz can’t even believe it’s coming out of his mouth. “So, what, your best solution is to run away?” Fitz snaps. “You have a duty, Keefe! A duty to your kingdom, a duty to your legacy, a duty to—” He stops himself before he can say something ridiculous like a duty to me. 

Keefe scoffs. “I have no obligation to a kingdom that despises every bone in my body.”

“You’re a prince.”

“I’m well aware,” Keefe snaps. “Not all of us are as obsessed with our legacies as you, Fitzroy.” The name is like a punch to the stomach; it’s a dirty trick, hitting where he knows it’ll hurt Fitz the most. 

The reply tumbles out of his mouth before he can fully process what he’s saying. “Then maybe you should just leave!” Fitz says. “Clearly I can’t stop you.”

For a moment, the devastation is evident on Keefe’s face, But it’s gone in just a second, replaced by a fiery determination unlike any Fitz has seen before. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

 Is this what you want, Fitzroy?

“I’m not the one who called you here. I don’t care what you do,” he lies. “I haven’t cared in a long, long time.” Lies, lies, and more lies. Keefe can see through it, of course—he knows Fitz better than to believe anything he says out loud. 

“Fine,” Keefe says. “Then I guess this is it.” 

He turns, and Fitz can only watch, frozen, as Keefe mounts his horse. Say something, his mind begs him, Tell him you don’t mean it! But wouldn’t that be too easy?

He waits silently, until Keefe is entirely out of earshot, before he mutters one final wish to the wind—perhaps Keefe might think he’s forgotten about what today is, but of course, he hasn’t. He can’t. “Happy birthday, Keefe,” he says, hoping that the wind can carry his message home. 

Then, he begins on the path back home, and resolves to forget that this—that Keefe—ever happened. 

He fails, obviously.

-

Keefe,

Do you see her too? In your dreams, in your nightmares…Do you hear her screaming? Because I do, every single day and it doesn’t stop please Keefe you’re the only one who understands

Look, I know there’s snow piling outside my window, I know it should be icy and frigid and terrible without a fire on—but somehow I can’t stop feeling like every inch of me is warming up, exponentially and endlessly until I’m burnt to a crisp. Like a pig on a spit, forever roasting. 

And logically, I know we’re not there anymore; I know I’m safe behind the walls of Everglen—well, as safe as anyone can be, in these times. But somehow, for some reason, I can’t stop feeling like I’m still stuck in Havenfield, doomed to watch her burn forever. 

I guess what I’m asking is…does it haunt you too? Does she haunt you too?

You’re the only one who saw it like I did. Running to the woods for just a moment, and then we come back and the world’s on fire right in front of our faces…were we the last people she saw? The last people whom she trusted, I mean. 

Or maybe I shouldn’t be asking these kinds of questions. It’ll only make it worse—at least, that’s what my mother says. But what does she know of real terror?

I think life was easier when I saw the rebels as this distant, intangible thing. I used to be obsessed with being allowed into Alliance meetings, and I never understood why they wouldn’t let me in when I knew so much about the war—but I understand now. I had the information, but I didn’t truly know them. I didn’t have the fear that’s required to really understand what they’re capable of. I didn’t have these dreams that remind me of how cruel the world can really be to people who don’t deserve it.

I do now, though. 

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because nobody else listens? My mother tries, but she just can’t understand what I’m feeling. And my brother keeps ignoring me, for some reason. I’m trying not to read too much into it. 

I just wish you were here, Keefe. Being around you is kind of like a cure for everything, you know? Like I’m a walking wound and you cauterize me. Or maybe you burn me. I’m not quite sure yet.

-

The unfortunate consequence of sneaking out of the palace at night is that the much-harder process of sneaking in has to occur eventually. 

The first time Fitz and Keefe find themselves in this predicament, they’re fifteen, and regretting many of the night’s decisions as they stare up at the heavily guarded palace in front of them. Sneaking out hadn’t been incredibly difficult, surprisingly. It’s Grizel’s day off, and her substitutes aren’t quite used to the antics of the young royals yet, so they’d employed Biana to distract the goblins—with a promise to do whatever she wants for the next three days—and had successfully lowered themselves out through a first-story window. Easy. 

What’s less easy, however, is getting back in. They’ve searched for an easy entrance back into Fitz’s room for nearly an hour, now, to no avail—and Fitz is starting to shiver, in the cool autumn air. 

“Do you want my cloak?” Keefe asks, and he doesn’t even wait for a response before slipping it off. 

“Won’t you be cold?” Fitz replies, staring at his friend with wide eyes—Candleshade is considerably warmer than Everglen, so there’s no way Keefe is used to the cold here. Fitz isn’t even used to the harsh winters of his home, and he’s lived here his whole life.

Keefe shrugs. “I’m really not cold, and your nose is turning red, so.” 

Fitz probably turns even more red at the comment. “I’m fine,” he swears, and Keefe raises his eyebrows. “...Maybe I’m a little cold,” he concedes. 

With the admission, Keefe grins and reaches around Fitz’s shoulders to wrap his cloak around him. He’s forced to step closer to pin it shut, and Fitz finds his face burning once again at their proximity. Please don’t notice, he begs, but of course, the universe hates him. 

“Are you okay?” Keefe asks, frowning. “You look a little weird.” He hasn’t moved, yet—he’s still just inches away from Fitz, so close that he can make out all the little scars on Keefe’s face. 

“I’m fine,” Fitz replies, and he knows he’s staring. But how can he not, when Keefe is so close? 

What he doesn’t expect is for Keefe to meet his gaze with equal intensity, a small smirk growing on his lips. “Are you?” he asks, with a teasing lilt to his voice. 

And for a moment, Fitz is stunned speechless. 

Then Keefe leans forward, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and steps back as if it’s just a casual motion—as if he hasn’t just stopped and started Fitz’s heart all in the span of two seconds. “Hey, what’s that?” he calls, already running toward a random patch of roses before Fitz can say a word.  

Not that Fitz knows what he would say, if Keefe had waited. He can’t confess to feelings that he doesn’t understand. 

So he runs after Keefe, as he always does, bracing himself for the pain of the thorns. Hopefully the healers don’t ask too many questions about his cuts and bruises from the night—though it’ll be obvious to them once they notice that he matches Keefe. (It’s nice, knowing that they’ve been marked together. Even when the wounds fade, his memories certainly won’t.)

“What are you doing?” Fitz whispers once he finds Keefe crawling beneath a particularly thick rosebush. 

“There’s something beyond this,” Keefe says, pushing forward. “Something hidden in the roses. I think it’s a clearing of some sort.”

Fitz scoffs. “Why would there be a hidden clearing in the middle of our gardens? What could we possibly have to hide—”

“I found it!” Keefe suddenly exclaims. “Come on, come through!”

Well. That’s certainly strange. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way through the dirt, wincing each time a thorn catches on his clothes. Thankfully, he has Keefe’s cloak to protect his arms—though he can’t imagine how scratched up Keefe must be, with only a sleeveless tunic to protect him. 

 After a minute of fighting a maze of flowers, Fitz emerges in a dark clearing, with flowers above blocking the moonlight. The ground beneath him is dusty, and he realizes with a start that this isn’t just a clearing—it’s a path. “What the hell?” he mutters, and Keefe snorts. 

“It’s a bit concerning that the Prince of Everglen isn’t aware of a secret passage into his palace,” Keefe says, and Fitz can tell he’s grinning even without seeing him. 

“This goes all the way into the palace?” Fitz asks, glancing around at the little he can see. 

“Yeah,” Keefe replies. “I followed it to the end. Turns out, Everglen isn’t quite as secure as it claims to be.”

And Fitz really shouldn’t be celebrating a secret breach in the castle’s defense. But clearly, no potential intruder is aware of it, since no-one seems to have discovered it…so there’s really no harm in using it himself, right? “You know what this means, Keefe?” he asks. 

“What?”

A Keefe-like grin makes its way onto Fitz’s lips. “This means we can get in and out of the castle any time we want.” It’s both a terrifying and exhilarating thought—for the first time in his life, he’s free. At least, in some sense of the word. 

Keefe laughs. “I guess you’re right,” he says, smiling softly. “Oh, and, by the way, I have a gift for you.”

At this, Fitz raises his eyebrows. “A gift?” he repeats. “Why? It’s not my birthday.”

Keefe shrugs. “I just thought you would like it.”

“Oh.” Oh. It’s a strange feeling, to be known like this, and Fitz loves every second of it. He watches Keefe bring something out of his pocket and hand it to him, gentle and delicate, and it takes him a moment to realize what it is—then he’s blushing wildly again. “Is this a rose?”

Keefe smiles. “Yeah. It’s classic, you know?”

Fitz does know. In fact, he knows quite well, since he’s read practically every novel in the library…but Keefe can’t possibly mean it like that.

In response to his shocked silence, Keefe steps forward and tucks a strand of Fitz’s hair behind his ear. His hand then falls to Fitz’s chin—still as gentle a touch as ever—and Fitz can barely breathe. Maybe he’s reading far too much into this, but… “Isn’t a kiss classic, too?”

Keefe grins. “I suppose it is.” And Fitz doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting to hear it, or how long he’s been waiting to step forward and hold Keefe’s face like this—like a lover, like a dearest friend. But he holds him, now, and it feels like releasing a breath of air he never knew he’d been holding. 

Keefe’s lips are as soft as morning sunlight. 

And Fitz’s world has never been so peaceful.

-

Dear Keefe,

I wish we could live forever. Just you and I, immortals for eternity—wouldn’t it be fun? We could look at the stars together, every night until the end of the world. We could speak as we wish and love as we’d like and nobody would have the guts to bother us…we’d be gods, really, in our own little world. 

But since we aren’t immortals, I think I’d like to know you for every remaining night of my mortal life. And who knows how long that will be?

Truthfully, Keefe, I’m terrified. I’m terrified that this war will take over our lives and we’ll forget who we truly are amidst the chaos. I’m terrified that I’ll become someone who you don’t know how to want anymore—I fear, sometimes, that I already am. 

I just wish you and I could stay the same forever. I know it’s ridiculous—impossible, even—but wouldn’t it be nice to have something constant in our lives?

Just promise you’ll never let go of me, Keefe. Not until our dying breaths. 

-

“I heard about Keefe,” Biana says from the doorway, and Fitz startles. He’d been so engrossed in watching his ceiling that he hadn’t even noticed her come in—a luxury he doesn’t have, now that rebels could be coming for him any day now. 

“What about him?” he asks, forcing himself to seem as nonchalant as possible. 

It’s impossible to hide anything from his sister, after all these years together. “That he’s gone,” she states, three simple words for such a complex thing. “I’m surprised you’re not with him.”

Fitz scoffs. “I wouldn’t abandon our family like that. Especially not now.” Not now, when the throne where Alden should sit still lies vacant, with no agreement on who should fill it next. Not now, when there could be killers around every corner. 

Biana’s expression softens, and she moves to sit beside him on his bed. “I know,” she says quietly. “But…don’t you ever wish you could? Just leave, and be free of all this. Be a normal person.”

Every single day, he wants to say. But these are times that call for his strengths, not his weaknesses. “That’s what the rebels want us to do,” he says. “Run away from our lives, and give them our kingdom without a fight. We can’t give up so easily.” 

“But we can’t let our fear of them control our lives, either,” Biana replies. “Let yourself be selfish for once, Fitz. What do you actually want to do? Who do you actually want to be?”

Fitz laughs dryly. “When did you become so wise?” he asks, hoping to avoid a real answer. But she keeps her gaze sharp and steady on him, and he realizes that there is nowhere for him to run from this. “I don’t know,” he finally answers—the most honest he’s been with himself in a very long time. 

Biana smiles. “Yeah. Me neither,” she says, and it’s strangely comforting.

But as peaceful as not knowing sounds, Fitz knows that he can’t afford to indulge it for very long. Perhaps, as a child, he’d been able to run and play to his heart’s content, but those days are gone now. Those people are gone. 

“I can’t afford to be selfish, though,” he tells her. “Maybe in a few years, once this is all over, I can be who I want. But not today.”

For a long moment, Biana just looks at him, with something like sadness in her eyes. “Well,” she finally says, her voice wavering slightly, “I suppose you’ll make a great king, then.”

What?

Fitz sits up so quickly that there are spots in his eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asks, because there’s no way she’s saying what he thinks she is. Because that would mean…

“Alvar officially abdicated this morning,” she tells him, softly. “The throne is yours now.”

Fitz…doesn’t even know what to think. For as long as he can remember, he’s had a set path for his future—Alvar would be king, and Fitz would work by his side, a prince with the freedom to travel the continent, learning everything he possibly can. “Why would he abdicate?”

Biana sighs. “You know he and Dad were never on the best terms.” It’s true, though Fitz hadn’t understood why until he was nearly an adult. Alvar has always had drastically different ideas on how to run the kingdom, and there were certain things that Alden simply wasn’t willing to change. 

The older he gets, the more Fitz realizes that neither of his idols are quite what they seemed to be.  

“You know, you don’t have to do it,” Biana says. “You don’t have to bear the burden of the crown just because it fell to you. We have more than enough cousins to give it to.”

And the idea is tempting, for a moment. Handing off the crown and living life as a normal citizen, away from the pain that this palace has brought him…but he has a duty, both to his father and to his kingdom. Fitz was raised a prince, unlike his cousins—this has to be his burden to bear. It has been his burden since he was born. 

“No,” he tells Biana. “I won’t run away. Not anymore.”

If this is what his destiny is, then so be it. 

Fitz will be a king. 

-

Dear Keefe,

My Winnowing Gala is set for November. 

Isn’t it strange, how old we are now? I don’t feel old enough to get married. Or engaged, even. Though I suppose I don’t have much of a choice—with how long Alvar is waiting, my family is itching for a wedding. To bring joy to the citizens, if nothing else. 

Anyway, I’m writing to you to ask if you can come. I need someone sane to be around while everyone is caught up in the chaos of finding me a perfect match. That, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve attended a single gala without you since we were twelve, and there’s no reason to change that now. 

Also, I miss you. 

Please come. 

- 

Fitz spends the first ten minutes of his Winnowing Gala hiding in his bedroom, watching the swarms of carriages arriving through his window. There can’t possibly be this many women here to see him. This must be more people attending than he’s met in his entire life—though given that he’s only ever had two friends who weren’t related to him, perhaps that isn’t much of a bar to set. 

While he panics, Keefe is standing at the vanity, aggressively scrunching hair gel into his curls. “You look fine,” Fitz says, after hearing far too many frustrated grunts—and then he really stops to look at him. “More than fine, actually. You look incredible. So stop fussing around with it!”

“The beauty is in the details,” Keefe replies, carefully adjusting one singular strand of hair. “It has to curl away from my face. Not toward. That’s my secret to looking perfect everyday.” He sends Fitz a wink, and for some reason, Fitz’s face burns. Charming fool. 

But he rolls his eyes anyway. “You would look perfect even if you dyed your hair green and shaved half of it off,” Fitz says, and immediately regrets it as a grin grows on Keefe’s lips. 

“Good idea,” Keefe replies, that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eye—but before he can elaborate on his terrible plan, they’re interrupted by a loud banging on the door, accompanied by a chorus of shouts. 

“Your highness, where the hell are you?” comes Grizel’s voice. 

“You lovesick fools better be hiding in there, or I’ll kill you!” comes Ro’s. 

“Fitzroy Avery Vacker, get your ass out here right now!” And Biana. 

None are particularly promising. 

Fitz immediately runs to hide behind his curtains—he can’t possibly go down there and speak to all those people, what if they hate him? What if he trips and falls in front of everybody? What if he scares off every single possible match?

(That last one doesn’t seem so bad, actually. It’s not like he wants to get married soon. He can’t imagine falling in love with anyone else, right now.)

Keefe grabs his wrist before he can fully tuck himself away. “Fitz,” he says, and his voice is suddenly serious. “You’ll have to go eventually, you know. Might as well get it over with now.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to have a Gala,” Fitz says with a scoff. “Suddenly you’re a fan?”

Keefe sighs, but his hold on Fitz’s arm never wavers. It’s a comforting constant, right now. “I didn’t want you to go through with it only because your family asked you to. I thought you, of all people, should get at least somewhat of a choice in who you love...but it’s too late to change that now, isn’t it? The Gala is happening. So we might as well show up, if all of this is in your honour.”

“I suppose,” Fitz agrees, electing to ignore the parts he doesn’t understand. He has his suspicions, of course, as to what Keefe is implying—they’re suspicions he’s carried himself, after all—but this is hardly the time to be thinking about that. Now that he is about to walk into the traditions of a prince, he cannot be bound to his past distractions. 

Though his worst distraction still sits here, holding his wrist gently as if it were porcelain. And Fitz cannot bring himself to send him away. (He brought him here, after all, despite his parents’ protests—rarely are friends allowed to attend Winnowing Galas, but Fitz had insisted. He couldn’t bear to think about love for a whole night without the boy who personified it by his side.)

Another series of loud bangs on the door prompts Keefe to stand up, bringing Fitz with him. He sends Fitz a look—the kind only the two of them can decipher—and Fitz nods. He is as ready as he can ever be—which still isn’t quite ready at all.  

“Finally,” Biana says when they open the door. “I’ve been fielding questions about you left and right. Your potential matches are awfully inquisitive.” 

Keefe snorts. “Good luck with that.”

As it turns out, when they reach the gala, the attendees are indeed strangely curious about him—his favourite colours, his morning routine, his favourite things to cook, and more ridiculously irrelevant things. More than once, their conversations fall into awkward silence, because Fitz finds that he has nothing substantial to say to them. He isn’t actually interested in finding a wife here, anyway. 

Though many of them aren’t even here for him—they’re only here to see the legendary palace of Everglen, and he’s simply their ticket inside. Which he doesn’t quite mind, except for when they’re swarming him and asking him a million questions about the size and the material and the location of the palace…things that he doesn’t know, and things that he cares even less to talk about. 

And now there’s about twenty people trying to talk to him at once, and probably at least one hundred people surrounding him, crushing him, suffocating him, and suddenly Fitz just can’t breathe. 

“Get me out of here,” Fitz whispers to Keefe, interrupting his conversation with some blonde Noble from Havenfield who looks eerily like Jolie. 

Keefe mutters an apology to the girl—Sophie, apparently—and immediately slips out of the room beside him, a worried expression on his face. “Are you alright?” he asks, and Fitz shakes his head. 

“There’s people everywhere,” he says. “Nobody is giving me space to even think.” 

Keefe sighs. “Yeah, well, seeing how many people are on that list, I’m not surprised you’re overwhelmed.” He gestures to the wall behind them, where a long scroll is pinned to the wall, covered with a long list of names and check marks. 

“Oh,” Fitz realizes. “That’s my match list.” He never even knew that they had taken it from his bedroom—but, then again, he had stayed as far away as possible from the gala planning. 

Keefe walks forward to examine it, and Fitz’s breath catches. These two worlds—his duty and his choice, his head and his heart—were never meant to exist so close to one another. And yet, here Keefe is. 

“Your number one match is Sophie,” Keefe reads out, his expression indecipherable. “She seems nice enough. Maybe you should consider her.” 

The words are so incredibly foreign to hear—Keefe, telling him to marry someone else. Some stranger. As if Fitz was ever truly going to walk out of this ball engaged. He doubts he’s even capable of giving his heart to anyone else, now. He’s invested too much of it in one place. In one man. 

“You know,” Fitz says, after a long moment, “I wanted it to be you.” It’s as close to a confession as he’s ever gotten, and Fitz regrets the words immediately after they’re spoken. Now, Keefe is staring at him like he’s said something outlandish, when it’s certainly nothing he didn’t already know.

After a minute, Keefe rips his gaze away from Fitz, and stares at the wall with the intensity of a thousand stars. 

“Keefe?” Fitz says. If only he could read his thoughts. 

Keefe shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the din of the Gala. 

“What?”  

Keefe sighs. “You deserve someone better than your kingdom and better than me. I’m not what you really want, Fitz. You just don’t know any better.” 

And before Fitz can respond, before he can protest that he’s not a child, he knows exactly what he wants—Keefe is gone. Out the main doors, into the rain. 

And the silence that lingers has never felt more suffocating. 

-

Dear Keefe,

Happy birthday, you idiot.  

I miss you. 

Please respond. 

What the hell am I writing?

I can’t tell what you want from me. You tell me to want freely, and then tell me I shouldn’t want you. You want me to live selfishly, and then claim I can’t live beside you. Do you despise me? Do you fear me? 

Or is it that you’re too afraid of it all, yourself?

I know that I can be both your prince and Everglen’s. I resigned myself to living two lives, long ago—but you? You’ve always wanted more. More than your duty, more than our secrets—but when will it all be enough?

Part of me doesn’t even want to send this letter, because I know you won’t respond to it. 

Happy birthday, Keefe. I hope you think of me. 

-

His coronation is far too grand for the times, but Fitz lets it slide. The kingdom needs some joy, after all. (And a distraction from the fact that their new king, who is supposed to lead them through war, is barely twenty years old.)

There’s still over an hour before it’s set to start, but the hall is already filled with decorations and massive displays of opulence. The guest list is small, by Fitz’s own request—he can’t risk inviting anyone he doesn’t know well into the heart of the palace. It would be far too easy for someone to send an arrow through his throat while he’s distracted, even with Grizel’s extra security measures. 

Right now, though, he’s more concerned with trying to find his siblings. In the chaos, he somehow managed to lose Biana, and Alvar is, of course, nowhere to be seen. Though that isn’t entirely unexpected; ever since Fitz had agreed to take the throne, his brother hasn’t spoken even a word to him. Alvar walks out of every room Fitz enters, eats only in his own bedroom, and refuses to even look at him. Fitz can’t deny that it hurts—in the span of just a month, he’s lost three of the most important people in his life, and only one is actually dead. 

But he pretends to be unfazed, for the sake of Everglen. He can’t let his personal issues get in the way of leading his kingdom. 

Through the crowd, Fitz suddenly notices Alvar, pushing through and running with some strange sense of urgency. Where could he possibly need to go right now? There’s nothing in that wing of the palace except for…

Except for Fitz’s room. 

Fitz drops his staff and rushes after him. 

But when he finally reaches his bedroom, he finds it to be empty. “Odd,” he mutters aloud. He looks around, but everything seems to be as he left it in the morning, with nobody else in sight. Fitz could’ve sworn he saw Alvar run up these stairs. Where else could he have gone? 

He gets his answer in the form of cool metal to the back of his neck and a sudden, strong grip on his shoulder. 

“Don’t move,” Alvar snarls, pressing his dagger into Fitz’s skin. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Fitz snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t let you become King,” Alvar says. “I can’t let you continue this madness.”

Fitz scoffs. “What madness?”

“The madness of the Alliance, Fitz!” he spits. “Not one of these kingdoms truly cares about their people. Don’t you see? The endless exiling of so-called rebels, the matchmaking system—it’s all built for maximum control.”

“So your solution is to kill me?” Fitz replies, and he so desperately wants to run, but he needs to understand whatever curse has befallen his brother. This cannot be the man he idolized as a child. 

“I had high hopes for you,” Alvar says. “You used to be more than a prince, you used to have passion! I really thought you would be the one to change things, when we were younger. Now I see you’re no better than your father.”

“Our father was a good man!” Fitz protests, but even he can’t entirely believe it. 

Alvar scoffs. “Alden was a good king, but he could never be more than that. That’s why he had to go.”

It’s a strange way to word the statement, and to Fitz, it almost seems like… “You’re talking as if you killed him.” The idea is absurd, but the more he thinks about it, Fitz can’t deny its plausibility. In the months leading to the King’s death, Alden and Alvar had had such dramatic disagreements that practically the whole palace knew about them. Fitz had been too worried about Keefe to really pay attention, then, but…it certainly makes sense. 

“Because he did,” a voice suddenly says from the shadows behind them. 

Fitz’s blood runs cold. 

Alvar’s dagger falls from his neck and he pushes Fitz to the floor, whirling to face the intruder. A cloaked figure emerges from the corner, a pair of curved blades in their hands—blades that Fitz is all too familiar with. 

“Keefe Sencen,” Alvar sneers, stepping backward. “The disgraced prince returns.”

But when Keefe’s hood falls, Fitz is practically faced with a stranger—his face is decorated with scars from all manner of weapons, and his once-beloved hair is now a tangled mess that reaches past shoulders. No longer is he the man Fitz had known. This is someone new. 

“I’m not a prince anymore,” Keefe says, bringing his hand to his chest where a small pendant sits—too small for Fitz to really make out what it is. But Alvar seems to recognize it, as his eyes widen.

“So the Black Swan have finally decided to emerge from the shadows,” Alvar says, reaching for the sword at his waist. “How cute.”

“Step away from the king,” is Keefe’s only response.

Alvar glances between the blades, both pointed at him, and Keefe’s dark scowl. “And what if I don’t?” he asks. “What will you do when the strongest kingdom in the Alliance falls to us?” He steps forward, drawing his own sword and matching Keefe’s stance. 

Quietly, Fitz draws himself up to a sitting position. Neither Keefe nor Alvar are paying attention to him anymore—they’re too focused on each other, waiting for the first strike. And while Fitz knows that he and Keefe have been strangers for far too long, he doubts that Keefe’s skills in swordsmanship have improved enough over the past year to beat Alvar. He’d been a sword fighting prodigy in his youth, after all. 

So while they circle each other, Fitz draws his own dagger from his pocket—a gift from his father, once upon a time. He wonders how Alden would feel, if he saw his sons now. Probably disgusted. 

And then it all happens at once—Alvar lunges toward Keefe, and Keefe parries wildly though it’s clear he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Fitz scrambles to stand up, watching with increasing alarm as Alvar pushes closer and closer toward Keefe. There’s a clear winner, already, and Fitz knows this fight will not end until Keefe is too injured to fight any longer. 

He watches Alvar kick Keefe to the floor, some unbridled fury in his eyes. And as he holds his blade above Keefe’s chest, Fitz realizes he has only one option. 

He lunges and tackles Alvar to the floor, sinking his dagger into the skin above his collarbone. 

It’s deathly quiet, for a moment. 

Then Alvar starts gagging, and Fitz suddenly realizes that his hand is covered in blood. The blood of his brother. 

“Fitz,” Keefe says, his voice wavering. “What did you do?”

Alvar squirms beneath him, and the horror of what Fitz has done washes over him like a wave of fire. “I had to,” he says, as if he can make himself believe it. “He was going to kill you.”

Keefe is silent, for a moment. Then, he says, “I didn’t think you would care if I died anymore.”

“No,” Fitz replies, laughing bitterly. “I didn’t think I would either.” Somehow, in the month since he’d left, Fitz had managed to convince himself that he didn’t care about Keefe at all. He’d convinced himself that he had finally grown out of his old distractions; that with the crown, he could be reborn with a fresh heart to give.  

But the blood on his hands is proof that he can never truly break free of his childhood devotion. And the body beneath him is proof that he has let this love corrupt him beyond his ideals. 

“I hate that I love you,” he confesses, and it’s as much a confession to himself as it is to Keefe. 

Keefe rests a hand on his shoulder, as gentle as when they were kids. “I know,” he says. “I know you.”

I know you. 

And Fitz hates that he’s right. 

[bookwyrminspiration]

“how did you even get sick? you look ugly. come here.”

+ keefitz (platonic or romantic, your choice)

oh what a delightful idea! I love them very much you're honor and have decided to go for an ambiguous relationship, so I hope you enjoy :)

our corner of the world <- ao3 link

-warnings: illness (as expected of the prompt), self-doubt, anxiety

-word count: 6k

It’d been…longer than Keefe wanted to admit since he’d been to Everglen. Without the gate, its shine, the sprawling grounds were missing something, an emptiness echoing and whispering through the grasses as he made his way to the front door.

He wasn’t anxious. He wasn’t. His fingers were tapping against themselves because that was a normal thing he usually did. His hair stuck up in all manner of different directions because he liked to run his fingers through it to fluff it out. No matter that both of those things were dead giveaway nervous tells.

Stopping before the door, he raised his hand partway, fingertip resting on the doorbell. Was anyone home? He hadn’t hailed ahead to check, had leapt over in impatience and fried nerves because--

No. Everything was fine. It was good. Never better, even.

Chimes rang through the whispering, gossiping air as he hugged his arms close to himself, and his foot had begun to tap against the paved pathway when the door swung open.

“Hell--oh, Keefe? I wasn’t expecting you here. Is everything alright?” Della’s head tilted to the side, strands of hair falling from whatever messy-but-somehow-still-flawless style she’d thrown it into.

His mind blanked. Completely unprepared to actually talk to another real person, he floundered about for a moment before his instincts kicked in and he flashed a faux, easy smile.

“Oh, yeah. Just was, uh, looking for Fitz. Sorry. I’m not trying to intrude--” Della waved him off. “Oh, nonsense. Our home is always open to you, you know that. Here, come inside. I haven’t seen Fitz yet today--he’s probably off doing his own thing, but even so, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like and find him.”

Off doing his own thing?

But…today? When they were supposed to…

“Right. Perfect, thanks,” he said, as though his mind wasn’t crumbling his heart into pieces. “I guess I’ll do that.”

Della gave a sweet smile, stepping aside so he could enter, the cavernous halls threatening to swallow each and every fragment of him. Walls loomed towards vaulted ceilings, doorways gaping and empty, the scuff of his feet against the gleaming crystal floors echoing back at him, overlapping itself again and again.

He shivered, and yet the place had, for so long, been the closest thing to a home he’d ever had.

Maybe that wasn’t because of the building though, but rather…

He cleared his throat, feeling Della’s eyes on his back. “Thanks, I promise I won’t break anything too important.”

She laughed, and the success of the interaction softened the tension in his muscles. See? He was making people laugh; he was fine.

Twisting labyrinths of halls and rooms turned the mansion into a trap if you didn’t know where you were going--it’d been years and Foster still struggled to find her way around whenever they got together, playing Base Quest as though the world was still normal. As if it had ever been normal.

His feet moved of their own accord as his mind spun, following the ever familiar path he’d memorized before he’d learned anything else. A right, then another right, a left.

Off doing his own thing.

Past the window in the hall overlooking the expanse of the grounds, trees bordering around the edges where that blaring golden light had made it near-painful to look at. Not anymore.

His own thing.

He stopped outside the door to Fitz’s room, a shimmering golden F inlaid at about eye-level, curling with all the flattery and accessory of a Vacker. There was a fleck of neon green in one of the grooves set with jewels; Keefe had painted it that color when they were kids as a prank, but Fitz had left it until some well-meaning gnome had washed it away, unaware Fitz had left it on purpose.

Some part of himself liked that more than he’d ever admit.

But now it was like it’d never been there.

Rhythmic, frantic pounding was all he could hear, heartbeat drowning out all other noises as he stared stared stared at the letter, at the door, perfectly fine.

He was fine.

Everything was fine.

Fingers running through his hair, he knocked on Fitz’s door.

He didn’t answer.

Keefe knocked a second time, slightly louder, other hand falling from his hair and tapping against his lip.

Fitz still didn’t answer.

Maybe he wasn’t here, maybe Keefe was standing outside an empty room listening to his heart distort and strangle itself and there was no one else in the world to see it. To care.

Della was probably right, and he was off doing his own thing.

Off doing his own thing even though they’d said, they’d agreed--

Keefe stumbled forward, desperate to get out of his own head, pushing down on the perfect golden handle and shoving the door open all at once, blinking frantically as he tried to adjust his sight to the shadows of the room.

All of the curtains were drawn, casting a heavy damper over the light that usually poured through; the brightest beam came from behind him, spilling past his body as he looked around.

Taking a step forward, more confused than anything in that moment at how un-Fitz-like the place looked--clothes on the floor, papers out of order on the desk, discarded vials and dirty dishes beside them.

He let go of the handle.

It rocketed back into place with a startling click, the spring mechanisms clattering against each other loud enough he jerked away.

A sharp intake of breath caught his attention, rustling accompanying movement on the bed as what Keefe had thought was a pile of blankets shifted, a hand and then a head emerging as Fitz blearily rubbed at his eyes, wincing at the light from the hall as he averted his gaze.

“Oh,” Keefe whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Hmm?” Fitz hummed, but not in a pleasant way. In a croaking I can’t remember words right now kind of way.

The anxiety Keefe had been denying drained from his body, every vein and artery and passage in his body easing as relief clawed its way through him for a blissful moment, a new worry taking its place.

Puffy eyes, bags heavy under them like bruises, skin flushed and clammy, fingers trembling as he peeled a sweat-soaked shirt off his skin, tattered human clothes matching the mournful state of his hair, which tangled and stuck to his forehead.

“You look awful,” he blurted, then regretted, but it was true.

Fitz’s eyelids drifted closed, then shot back open as he asked, “Keefe?” He squinted through the light, clearly trying to process something, his brain failing him.

Keefe swallowed, pushing the door closed behind him so Fitz wouldn’t have to strain. “Uh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He hadn’t known he was sleeping.

Fitz didn���t seem to notice the apology, and if he did he ignored it.

“Why are you…” what little color could drain from his face, did. He scrambled for his imparter, shaking hands somehow finding it in the mound of blankets drowning him, Mr. Snuggles tumbling to the side. He winced as the light washed over him from its screen, scrolling through all the notifications he’d missed.

Keefe knew they were there; they were all from him.

Message after message, attempted hail after attempted hail, each of them unanswered until he’d given up and rushed here.

“The lake,” he mumbled to himself. His panicked adrenaline rush gave him the clarity to say, “I’m really sorry, Keefe. I didn’t--I didn’t mean to miss it. Honest.”

Keefe shook his head, tempted to laugh, ignoring the echo of the twinge in his heart. He was fine. “Nah, now that I see you, I’m surprised you’re still alive. You okay?” he frowned, watching Fitz slump back against his headrest, moment of terror passed and the sudden rush with it.

“It’s almost half-way through the afternoon and I slept through the whole day.” His voice rasped with the words, and he looked towards his bedside table, leaning forward slightly.

Keefe took the opportunity and stepped forward, grabbing the half-drunk bottle of Youth and handing it to him, lowering himself down on the edge of the bed. It was large enough there was still a considerable distance between them as their fingers brushed.

Keefe tensed as a wave of broiling nausea and clammy heat passed through him at the touch.

“Sorry,” Fitz got out, grimacing as he took the smallest sip of Youth he could, letting the bottle fall to his lap. He frowned at the clothes on the floor, the untidy papers. “I’m a mess.”

“Sorry, Avery, but between the two of us, there’s only room for one mess and that’s me.” His grin was half a wince as Fitz’s brows scrunched up, eyes lagging as they found his face, looking through him. “But if you’re worried about the chaos, you’re good. My room is way worse, I don’t mind.”

Fitz fanned out his clingy shirt as he shrugged. “I guess. You’re right. I just hate it. Makes me feel worse to see it.”

Keefe scanned the room with new eyes, the echo of that exhausted nausea casting it all in a new light, imagining he were as neat as Fitz, which was hard. Suddenly, the normalcy of clothes on the floor became reminders of lost energy, the papers evidence of things he wasn’t getting done.

He was an empath--among other, less positive things--so feelings were his specialty, and he was not about to sit around and let his…let Fitz feel ickier and ickier because his room was a mess. Not if he could do something about it--and he could.

“I don’t like that look,” Fitz said, managing another minuscule sip as he watched Keefe.

“You look worse,” Keefe promised him. “So we’re fixing that.”

“Huh?”

Keefe stood, spinning around and assessing the room. “Whatever illness has claimed you is no match for the powers of the Keefester and his incredible good looks--I have to have enough for the both of us right now, you know--so if you hate this, we’ll fix it.”

He pointed at Fitz, then at the door to his bathroom. “You need a shower. Don’t even try to deny it; I can smell your funk from here,” he added when Fitz opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he flushed an unhealthy, sweaty red.

“It’s so far,” Fitz mumbled, looking across the dim room to the bathroom door as though a marathon stood between them. “I’ll never make it.”

“You survived being impaled in the chest by a giant bug. I think you can walk to the bathroom and take a shower.”

Fitz made a face at him. “The bug wasn’t fun. It nearly killed me.”

Keefe’s heart stumbled at the word, killed killed killed playing on repeat in his head. But he refused to let the cracks show as he rolled his eyes in a big show of exasperation. “Semantics, Fitzy! Do you need me to carry you? Because one way or another this is happening. You can get that refreshing bath you clearly need--hopefully with lots of soap--and I’ll…do something about all this.”

He gestured wildly around the room, not exactly sure what he was planning to do, but determined to do it.

Fitz assessed him, concluded that he was serious for once, and gingerly started moving the covers off of his body, lips pressing together as his body shivered under the rush of cold, a fresh wave of sweat breaking out on his brow.

“Fine. Have your way, Mr…Mr. You,” he said, voice weakening as he stood, which must’ve been the same reason he didn’t bother looking embarrassed he’d fallen short of the teasing remarks they loved to trade.

All it inspired in Keefe was more worry, more concern as he questioned whether Fitz should really be listening to him at all. If he looked so unstable, should he really be standing? Should he be awake at all and talking? Should Keefe have just left him to rest the moment he’d awoken him on accident with that pesky door handle?

Fitz made it to the door without incident, pausing to lean against it as he looked at Keefe, then the room. He offered a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Keefe didn’t have a chance to say anything before the door softly clicked shut behind him, leaving him in the dank, stuffy, dim room Fitz had been sleeping in all day.

Water started rushing, spurring him into motion.

How did cleaning work?

He’d spent so much of his life purposefully messing up his father’s perfectly curated spaces, he’d forgotten how to maintain them. He knew how to leave old clothes on the floor, to crumple all his blankets into a pile impossible to smooth out, how to leave old dishes in the strangest places, fingerprints of charcoal all over the place from his messier drawings.

How were you supposed to undo that?

His nose wrinkled. The sickly smell of sweat and unease saturated the air now that he wasn’t distracted looking at Fitz. Of all his jokes, the funk hadn’t been one of them.

Keefe threw the curtains open, and this time he was the one blinking through the light as warm afternoon flowed through the shutters, unlatching the windows and opening them as far as they’d go.

He’d only have so long before he’d have to close them again, so he should do more now, right? Was that how it worked?

Peering down at the grounds visible from Fitz’s window, he took a breath of the clear air blowing in, free of the weight of the room.

That solved one problem.

He frowned at the clothes scattered on the floor and across the bed, so unlike his…

He was not folding all that, and wasn’t entirely sure how to fold it. Keefe’s eyes drifted from the fabric mess to the closet. Perfect.

Grabbing everything he could off the floor, he shoved it into the closet like it was a black hole that could eat it alive, shirts and pants and cloaks all in a wrinkled pile on the floor as he closed the door with a grunt, shutting it away. Problem solved. You couldn’t even see the mess anymore.

He poked at a corner of a garment sticking out under the door that’d refused to cooperate, shoving it back out of sight.

See? He was super good at this cleaning thing.

Floor significantly clearer, he surveyed the two other problems: the desk and the bed.

He tackled the first, thinking it would be quicker, satisfied when he was right. Pens and pencils back into the cup at the edge of the desk, dishes all combined into one pile to be taken to the kitchen later beside empty vials, all the assortments of papers and assignments in one neat stack in the middle. If they were supposed to go certain places, he definitely didn’t know, so Fitz would just have to deal with this.

After all, Keefe was being super nice and helpful in the first place.

Nevermind that he had offered to do it. Nevermind that he would do anything for Fitz.

Water continued to run in the bathroom as he turned the bed. His final task. The centerpiece of the room.

The blankets were all tangled around where Fitz had been cocooned in the middle, suffocated beneath without even his head sticking out, the innermost layers damp from his sick, clammy body. Mr. Snuggles had been spared the worst of it, so he set him off to the side as he tackled the rest.

He nearly worked up his own sweat rearranging and smoothing everything out to the best of his ability, taking all the blankets off and dumping them on the floor in the hallway to replace the sheets--he’d stayed over enough as a kid to know where the Vackers kept the spare linen and blankets.

Standing back near the breeze of the window to cool himself off, he was fanning out his shirt when the water turned off in the bathroom. Pulse traitorously picking up speed, he scrambled to close the shutters allowing that blaring afternoon light into the room, turning it instead into a muted glow--brighter than before, but hopeful not as painful.

“Um…Keefe?” Fitz’s thick voice called, muffled beyond the door.

“Yes?”

“Slight problem. All my clothes are in my room, and I am not.” Keefe had been so intent on getting him to freshen up that he’d forgotten to check whether or not he’d grabbed a change of clothes. He hadn’t.

Keefe stared at the door like it would keep talking, then flushed and said, “Right! Clothes. One second.”

Rushing to the closet, he cursed himself as the pile of garments started to spill out when he wrenched the door open. He kicked them back into the pile as he searched through the clean clothes hanging above the mess he’d made, grabbing the most comfortable thing he could find in a minute before he shoved the door closed again, that pesky little bit of fabric sticking out under the door in protest.

“I’m going to open the door and pass you an absolutely stunning outfit with my eyes closed, that good?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“You act like you don’t trust me.”

Keefe put his fingers on the handle to the bathroom, screwing his eyes shut so tight colors danced across the back of his eyelids.

Pushing the door open a crack, he shoved the clothes through, banging his hand against the door frame since he couldn’t actually see where the opening he’d created was.

Fitz took the clothes, fingers once more brushing against Keefe’s.

He shuddered at the warm stuffiness that washed through him, but brightened with satisfaction as he realized it wasn’t as bad as before. Still woozy, still icky, but more alert. Fitz felt less like he was slowly dying in bed and more like he was…less slowly dying on his feet.

His mind recoiled from the word, death, but it was too late to unthink it.

“You really don’t need to punch my house, but thank you,” Fitz told him, and Keefe opened his eyes when he heard the door click shut, wet footsteps retreating away.

Keefe put a hand to his heart, taking a step back in offense. “I’m going to get you back for that one.”

“Am I not suffering enough already?!” Fitz managed between sniffles.

Keefe’s heart stuttered, lips pressing together. Suffering. Was that what he brought, was that what he did to Fitz? Did he make him suffer?

He shook himself off, refusing to let any of his stupid, unimportant thoughts show as Fitz opened the door, warmth from the steam of the shower drifting out behind him as he braced himself on the doorway, finding his path blocked by one awkward blond boy with too many troubles to ever make him worth the effort.

Keefe looked Fitz up and down, taking stock of their new situation--a much cleaner and less gross situation. A loose grey t-shirt with an embroidered boobrie emblem in the center of the chest was slightly tucked into the waistband of darker grey lounge pants, as though it’d gotten caught in the rush to put them on. The fabric still clung to his skin slightly, but in an “I just showered” way, no longer an “I’m sweating all my skin off” way.

“Better?” Fitz asked when Keefe didn’t move, only kept looking and looking and looking.

Keefe opened his mouth to answer, but Fitz started coughing into his elbow, cutting him off.

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. This was his life. “This is ridiculous. How did you even get sick? You look ugly. Come here.”

Fitz’s eyebrows shot up as Keefe grabbed him by the arm, ignoring the rush of feelings surging at the contact, pulling back towards the very-neatly made bed, climbing back onto it as Fitz followed, sagging at the first touch of the mattress and collapsing face first into it.

“I’m willing to forgive you for that one since you’ve made the…are those gulons?” he interrupted himself--which Keefe thought was incredibly rude, since he’d been in the middle of giving him a compliment.

Keefe proudly fluffed up the pillow Fitz was squinting at, which was completely covered in little cartoon gulons like Elwin always wore. If he’d pull back the blankets atop the bed, he’d find more of them on the sheets underneath.

“Well the other sheets were really gross--sorry, but how on earth do you sweat that much? It can’t be healthy. So I checked your linen, and it turns out you still have these. Don’t know why you don’t use them, because they’re clearly the coolest sheets you own.”

Fitz looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Can’t be healthy? Obviously not. Does anything about me look healthy right now? You probably shouldn’t even be here.”

He mumbled the words, letting himself sink into the blankets, eyes closed, wet hair leaving a mark he knew would be cold to the touch. He mumbled the words like they didn’t matter.

And yet they slipped a tiny pin-prick into his heart, touching on that throbbing, anxious wound he’d shoved from his mind the moment he’d seen how unwell his…how unwell Fitz was.

“Trying to get rid of me, Fitzy?” He forced a laugh, but it came out breathy, hurt, too-high pitched to be okay.

“Never,” Fitz responded, cracking his eyes open as he frowned up at him. He tried to school his expression into that careful, carefree neutrality, but it must not have worked because that worry-crease between his brows had appeared, and he pushed himself off his stomach and onto his elbows. “I just meant that I don’t want you to catch whatever this--” he justed to his puffy, red face ”--is.”

Keefe nodded. “Right. Yeah. Smart.”

He averted his gaze, glancing at the papers piled on the desk, the pictures on shelves lining the walls, the unlit lamps, anywhere but the piercing teal he knew studied him.

“Hey.” Fitz’s fingers bumped against his leg, trying to get his attention. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Lethargy that didn’t belong to him swept through his system as Fitz bumped him again, this time brushing against his hand.

“You’re what’s wrong,” Keefe joked, forcing the mirth from his lips. “I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious you’re all sorts of fucked up right now. Can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

Fitz shook his head, wet hair falling in front of his flushed face. “No. Stop it. Don’t brush this away--what’s going on?”

Keefe couldn’t stop his traitorous eyes from slipping to the imparter on the edge of the bedside table, screen dark.

Fitz followed his line of sight, twisting over his shoulder to look as he rubbed at his temple.

“Is this about our…? I really am sorry I missed all your messages, Keefe.” He pushed himself from his elbows to a sitting position, the two of them across from each other, knees almost touching in a way that had his breath catching in his throat. “I didn’t mean to. I can’t…I can’t promise it won’t happen again, because I can’t promise I won’t ever get sick and sleep through everything again, but you know it doesn’t mean anything, right?”

“Right,” Keefe repeated, staring down at their hands, each in their own laps, finding it safer than meeting those teal eyes that always saw too much of him.

He watched Fitz’s hand reach towards him but stop half-way, unsure of itself. “Keefe, please. Don’t do this. Talk to me--it’s me.”

Yeah. That was the problem.

It was him. Fitz Vacker . Wonderboy, Golden Boy, oh so far out of Keefe’s world. A prince with a voice and a resolve and a kindness he could never match. A confidence and an ease that commanded a room. Everyone loved to look to him, to look at him, to gape.

Why would he ever look back?

Especially to Keefe.

Keefe Sencen, who everyone only knew as trouble, the one who could never take anything seriously even when his life depended on it, who didn’t even know how to fold his own fucking clothes.

A cough interrupted his thoughts as Fitz turned away, covering his mouth with his arm, other hand braced on his chest. Wet and grating, he grimaced as he readjusted himself and turned back to Keefe.

Keefe, who had been wallowing in self-pity while Fitz was ill. He had no business complaining.

“Still--still waiting for an answer,” Fitz choked out, reaching back for the bottle of Youth on the bedside table as he cleared his throat.

“I thought you’d…” Keefe mumbled, then straightened, eyes widening. That wasn’t what he’d meant to start saying. He was supposed to come up with something witty, something to deflect. Not this.

“I’d what?”

Fitz looked at him so gently, all his attention--even foggy as it was--focused on Keefe, that worry crease more endearing than it had any right to be, pushing his hair out of his face as he leaned closer, unaware of the movement as his lips twisted in concentration.

Pounding pounding pounding away, Keefe worried his heart would bruise his ribs, further destroy his already battered self as his eyes started to burn.

“You didn’t show,” Keefe said, staring at his hands, his fingers through the burn, picking at the skin of his cuticles, anything to give him something to do that wasn’t look at that stupidly lovable concerned face.

Fitz took a deep breath, rubbing at the bags under his eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“For being sick? You haven’t done anything. Just me being a mess, like always.”

It was like he could hear Fitz’s jaw working as he took another breath. “Wow, there’s a lot to unpack there. Okay. Keefe?” He waved in his line of sight, and refused to continue until Keefe looked at him. “Hey. We agreed you’d start being nicer to yourself, remember? Like I said I’d wait, and I’d do my best not to push you. And that I’d try to keep my anger under control when it gets bad, and that we’d both try to communicate better. Remember?”

“Photographic memory. I can’t forget,” Keefe said, tapping listless against his temple.

He’d never forget.

Keefe had been lamenting about how he’d never get all the sand out of his hair, how Fitz had doomed him to shed the tiny granules wherever he went, refusing to admit how much he loved the feeling of the sun-soaked beach beside the crystal stillness of the lake, looking as though they were the first to find it in centuries, millenia, maybe ever.

Fitz had shut him up as he turned to him, his hesitation so strong it drifted through the air and killed the words in his throat.

He’d kept looking at Keefe as he spoke, something hesitant about how he’d never told anyone about this place before, a quiet corner of the world he’d discovered on one of his morning runs, the ones he used to take in various places around the globe before Grizel had confined him to Everglen.

He’d had nothing to say, watching the water drip down Fitz’s flushed cheeks from the wet strands still soaked with lake water.

And they’d promised each other things would be different now. That they’d try. That they’d be better. For each other.

And they’d agreed to meet back there every few weeks. Just the two of them in their silent lake, brush and flora crowding the edges with color and unbothered life, warm sand sticking to wet skin, cool waters reflecting the patterns of clouds crossing overhead.

They were supposed to meet there today.

“You weren’t there,” he whispered, breath shaking as he tried to blink away the burn in his eyes. “I waited and you weren’t there.”

Fitz said nothing, wet hair from his shower falling in front of his flushed cheeks, and Keefe could practically picture the beach around them, that day.

It was that image, that reminder, of how earnest, how genuine he’d been when they’d promised they’d try. Fitz couldn’t do all the work trying to hold their broken pieces together. He had to contribute, too.

“I thought you’d finally had enough of me.” The words fell from his mouth as though they didn’t belong to him, didn’t believe he could ever put voice to something that heavy.

“Never.” Fitz reached out again, paused again. Waited for Keefe to lean forward and meet him half-way. He’d back as far away as Keefe wanted without hesitation.

But that wasn’t what Keefe wanted. Not even close.

Their knees bumped together as he closed the gap between them; Fitz’s warm palms cupped his face, thumbs brushing stray tears from his cheeks as he searched his eyes. “I will never have enough of you, okay? That lake, you with me…I love it. I like being with you and spending time with you--even now, when I feel like shit. You showed up and all of the sudden it’s way less miserable being sick. It’s funny, now. The gulons, the boobrie shirt. It’s not perfect, because I still can’t breathe through both nostrils, but it’s better. Because of you.”

Keefe’s eyes closed as he listened, resting his hands atop Fitz’s and holding his breath as the concern, the earnest, the care, the love washed over him. Golden and glowing, feelings that didn’t belong to him but were for him lit his body from the inside out, washing out all the decrepit, icky things lurking in his mind.

That churning, frantic anxiety he’d held so close to his chest, away from Della’s eyes, away from his own, mellowed under the light and melted away, his shoulders sagging from the relief of a burden he hadn’t known how to set down on his own.

“Are we good?” Fitz asked, teal eyes better than the blue of their lake.

The corner of Keefe’s lips curled up as a wet laugh choked out of him. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.” He almost said sorry, but knew he wasn’t supposed to, so instead he went with, “Thanks.”

Fitz hummed in satisfaction, leaning closer so their foreheads touched as he held Keefe, the two of them breathing in tandem as Keefe regained his composure, strengthened by the reminder that whatever the two of them had, it wasn’t going anywhere.

Foreheads pressed together, he frowned. “You’re burning up.”

He pulled back, freeing one of his hands to press the back against Fitz’s forehead, teal eyes falling closed as he did so, like they couldn’t stand to fight against the pull anymore.

His other hand still on Fitz’s, the intense wave of overwhelming love was shadowed by a thrumming, deep seated ache of exhaustion.

“What a surprise,” Fitz mumbled, half the syllables near unintelligible. “Only been burning up the whole entire day.”

“Have you taken anything for it? Should we call Elwin?”

Fitz shook his head, slow, lagging motions. “Nuh-uh. I don’t wanna talk to anyone else. Besides. We’ve got basic elixirs here--I took one…” he trailed off, thinking. “What time is it?”

“About three.”

“Then it’s been long enough. I can take another dose. For the everything,” he gestured halfheartedly at himself, still leaning into Keefe’s hand, still holding his face.

Keefe scrunched his brow. “Okay, where’s that?”

“Bathroom counter. Purple.” His words had started to blend together, more of more of his weight leaning forward, muscles retiring for the day.

“Perfect,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure what that meant. “I’ll get it for you. You should lay down. I’m usually all for breaking the rules, but you really look like you could use some rest like you’re supposed to.”

Fitz only hummed again in response, offering no resistance as Keefe guided him to lay back on the covers, his legs curling in a little on instinct, hugging Mr. Snuggles tightly to his chest as Keefe placed him in his arms.

Quickly, he crawled over the bed, crossing to the bathroom, stuffy, damp air hitting him as he opened the door and scanned the counter.

A handful of glass vials had been haphazardly piled next to the sink, as though someone had rifled through them without bothering to clean up after them.

A particular handful were bright purple in color in the same shaped glass as the ones left on the desk, so he grabbed one and returned to Fitz, who’d already started to succumb to the throes of sleep, all his energy spent in that quick burst of affection.

“Hey. Fitzter. Don’t fall asleep on me just yet--I got your feel better elixir.”

Fitz grumbled something he couldn’t understand, but after another attempt, his eyes cracked open, brows softening as he saw it was Keefe, taking the vial he offered and propping himself up long enough to gingerly swallow the contents.

Despite the sweet aroma, he grimaced. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, I can feel that.” Keefe took the empty vial from him, setting it on the bedside table besides the Youth.

“Is that…what is that?” Fitz looked towards the closet, squinting at the bottom, that dastardly corner of fabric that had refused to cooperate with the rest continuing to stick out from under the edge of the door.

Keefe smiled. “I cleaned for you, Avery. You’re welcome by the way, doesn’t it look so nice in here now?”

“You just shoved everything in the closet, didn’t you?”

“Like I said, I cleaned for you.”

Fitz laughed, a soft, gentle thing, rubbing at his eyes. “Wow. Well, thanks, Keefe. I’ll fix it later, I guess. Too tired to even think about that right now.” He shook his head, sighing.

“Then stop thinking--that’s always when I do my best work.”

“Oh yeah, we can tell.” His eyelids started to fall shut, body wobbling as his muscles tried to give up. “I don’t think my brain can take anymore,” he admitted.

Keefe straightened. “Right. I, um, I’m sorry I interrupted your nap. But also you look better now, less like a disgruntled rat. So you’re welcome for that part, but I’ll just…” he cut off before he could ramble himself into any more of a corner, getting up, running his fingers through his hair as he looked to the door.

He’d only taken a step before Fitz said, “Wait.”

Turning back, Fitz had dropped his hands into his lap, looking at Keefe, something inscrutable in his gaze.

He held out his hand. “Stay? Please. If you…if you want to.”

Body refusing to cooperate as his mind caught up, he stood there mouth falling open for a few moments. Words failed him, so he stopped trying to find them.

Instead, he took Fitz’s hand, exhaustion and annoyance and comfort and soft sunsets and warm wind passing over hills and love flooding through the touch as he let himself be pulled into the bed, stopping only long enough to kick off his shoes.

Fitz grabbed Mr. Snuggles again--he’d set him aside to uncork the elixir--his fluffy body held close in one hand, the other holding Keefe’s.

Keefe said nothing, refusing to interrupt this peaceful bliss, as still and clear and breathtaking as the view at their lake.

Almost immediately, Fitz’s breathing evened out, grip loosening in his as sleep claimed him once more, his battered, worn body in need of a break. But he could’ve sworn the flush of his cheeks had dimmed, the heat radiating from his skin softened.

Taking a deep breath, he squeezed his fingers in reassurance, a smile curving the ends of his lips as he lay in the dim light, just the two of them in their little corner of the world. They’d have to emerge from it eventually, to brave the rest of their lives.

But Fitz hadn’t had enough of him yet, and he’d be there by his side.

He let the thought warm him like golden light as he breathed, heart content in his chest, hoping Fitz could feel the love through their fingertips.

His Fitz.

[dreaming-of-the-end]

a lesson in running away (the art of returning)

compiled links to all the chapters of my beloved keefitz longfic!! Find it on ao3 and wattpad!

Summary: In which Keefe writes a series of letters and Fitz waits for him to come back. And then he does, and everything gets a whole lot worse. Replacing the events of Stellarlune but carried on a similar track.

or,

"I'm going to leave you behind," Keefe should have said. "I meant to leave my heart behind, but sewing it to Sophie's sleeve left needles in my stomach instead of butterflies." / "I know you," Fitz will say when he sees him again. "So why does it feel like you've forgotten everything I ever was?"

Chapter One: Dear Biana — of all the secrets to tell (im glad you were the one to hear them) (wordcount 876)

Chapter Two: a lesson in forgetting, and being forgotten (wordcount 871)

Chapter Three: Dear Della — to throw yourself into the wind (and trust that it will catch you)  (wordcount 1162)

Chapter Four: a lesson in putting violence on a pedestal (wordcount 1325)

Chapter Five: Dear Linh — to staying brave through the floods (raise a glass!) (wordcount 999)

Chapter Six: a lesson in missing someone enough to lose a lung (wordcount 1971)

Chapter Seven: Dear Dex — how to keep the anger down (from behind the foggy glass) (wordcount 1496)

Chapter Eight: a lesson in failures and new endings (wordcount 1714)

Chapter Nine: Dear Alden — the right way to be proud (and hate me all the same) (wordcount 989) 

Chapter Ten: a lesson on seeing the shadows and knowing how to let the light swallow them (wordcount 1877)

Chapter Eleven: Dear Tam — of knowing&loving selfishness (by seeing it in yourself) (wordcount 1766)

Chapter Twelve: a lesson in guilt, leadership, and broken glass (wordcount 1946)

Chapter Thirteen: Dear Cassius, (wordcount 2350)

Chapter Fourteen: a lesson in knowing regret when you see it (wordcount 1998)

Chapter Fifteen: Dear Sophie — lies to tell (like i love you) (wordcount 1557)

Chapter Sixteen: a lesson in jealousy, guilt, and other things we know better than we know ourselves (wordcount 2096)

Chapter Seventeen: Dear [YOU KNOW WHO] — of being made from stone (and learning to let it crumble) (wordcount 2082)

Chapter Eighteen: a lesson in change, and stopping it before it goes too far  (wordcount 1496)

Chapter Nineteen: Dear Keefe: Be Grateful. (This Is Not A Request.) (wordcount 3118)

Chapter Twenty: the art of coming back (a lesson in staying) (wordcount 1912)

Special: Dear Fitz — in a black and white world (you’d still be golden) (wordcount 792)

Special: Dear Forkle: the right way to be empty (and wake up nevertheless) (wordcount 359)

Special: Original notes for Keefe’s letters + Letter Thought Process

[fitzvackertheritzcracker]

SOKEEFE (AND KEEFITZ) FIC BASED OFF 1D SONG WITH LOVE LETTERS AND ANGST:

Summary: In an alternative universe in which the characters are members of the English nobility in the 1910s, Keefe is madly in love with Sophie. When he is whisked away to war he spends his days writing to her, and after what feels like forever she finally forgives him and replies. However, how will he react when he finds out that his responder isn't Sophie, and more importantly, who has been writing said letters?

Word Count: 70,618

Chapters: 25 + Epilogue

Taglist: @laylasvision, @cutebisexualmess

[kindling-of-sorts]

looking for the shapes in the silence

a/n: if you squint hard enough this is the prequel to my kam superpower au that i haven't posted yet,,,, enjoy!

[ao3]

pairing: keefitz

TWs: none

summary:

“I swear that I loved you,” Fitz blurts, words nearly incomprehensible but determined nonetheless. For a moment, Keefe wonders if he’ll crumble. He hesitates a moment longer, and finds himself intact. “I know,” Keefe says, because he does.

Or: Keefe and Fitz are exes and Eternalia's greenhorn superheroes. They go out stargazing with their friends, and talk about their past.

word count: 1.5k

Their eyes meet, and the world does not end. 

Keefe and Fitz pause as the rest of the group stumble out of the van excitedly. The night sky is brilliant and sharp, and half a year ago, it would have reminded them of the other.

They smile at each other, and not at the reflection of themselves in the other’s eyes. If they rip their gaze away quickly enough, the mirror inside is easier to ignore.

Keefe looks away first. It doesn’t feel like victory or defeat, but quiet understanding. Silence is kinder to him, these days.

Biana calls for Fitz’s help on setting up the blankets, and the magic evanesces, if there was any at all. He’s getting better at letting go.

“I’m never trusting any of you ever again,” Stina announces loudly. “Stargazing, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. We literally drove twenty minutes to my backyard.”

“We asked you and you said yes,” Biana calls out, laying down on her back.

“I was playing Candy Crush!”

“No, you were supposed to be doing paperwork.”

“Shut up!”

Sophie sighs wordlessly, head in hands as she pulls Stina and Biana apart. Keefe thinks she might be tired of babysitting in case they start bickering. She’s running on three hours of sleep, which she excitedly told Keefe this morning, much to his chagrin.

“You guys are kind of killing the stargazing vibe right now,” Keefe says, thinly veiling a grin. The city sky is brilliant, but also just as bare as it has been for its very polluted history.

Once everyone settles down, Keefe sees Fitz has been kicked out from Biana’s. Fitz doesn’t fight back, even with Sophie’s equal, if not slightly less, exasperation across his face, though it’s hardly malicious.

Keefe doesn’t hide his smile this time. He’s never stopped being jealous of the Vackers, even after the tense glances and tenser arguments. As one of the rare insiders—if barely—Keefe saw their picture-perfect frame whole, then shattered, and then he realized the fractures were always there.

Still, the jealousy never dissipated. He’s a lot less ashamed of admitting that, now.

Fitz and Biana are a lot happier than they were half a year ago.

He’s proud of them, really. As heroes, as friends, as the closest thing to family he’s ever known.

He’s proud of Fitz. He loves him still.

They never stood together. That’s okay. One day, they will.

Keefe waves Fitz over when he catches him staring. Fitz’s eyes widen, a little, and tilts his head. Keefe recognizes the habit perhaps a moment too quickly.

Yet he doesn’t look away. He shouts, “If you stay there you’re gonna get your ass wet again!”

Fitz huffs, like the huff he always makes when something mildly amuses him. He rolls his eyes, even. Keefe counts it as a win.

Just as Keefe is about to speak again, Fitz stands up and stumbles his way over to Keefe’s blanket. 

“My jeans are already wet,” Fitz almost complains, but his tone is light enough that it sounds like an observation. It’s actually a bit more disconcerting that way. “Biana is ruthless.”

Keefe snorts. “We all know.”

When their laughter fades, they let their friends’ quickly moving attention span entertain them. Their current debate topic is the validity of the artificial cherry flavor. 

“The city’s most promising up-and-coming heroes,” Keefe muses, “arguing over whether cherry flavored Twizzlers actually taste like cherry or not.”

“You would be there waxing poetic about your burning passion for Twizzlers right now if I wasn’t here,” Fitz mutters, head tilted back to observe the spanning, empty night.

“You’re wrong, I hate Twizzlers.” Keefe flashes his teeth unabashedly. “You haven’t left me yet.”

Fitz’s gaze softens, and Keefe might just melt with it. He did, not too long ago, a lifetime before tonight.

“Yeah.” Fitz gulps. “I haven’t.”

The following silence is awkward, but not cruel. It follows, yes, but it doesn’t chase.

They never stopped talking. It’s hard to, when they’re both in every other mission together. Their friends are the same, though that’s kind of inevitable, considering their group is the only heroes around their age.

“Do you remember when we went stargazing in the countryside when we were eight?” Keefe asks. 

Fitz’s expression brightens in recognition. “Of course I do.”

“You were so excited, you fell asleep by the time we could actually see the stars, and I had to wake you up.” Keefe nudges Fitz with his arm. The touch doesn’t spark anymore.

“I lived in Eternalia my entire life and couldn’t leave! Of course I was excited,” Fitz says.

Keefe tilts his head. “You weren’t wrong. It was one of the only interesting things in that town.”

“It’s your hometown.”

“Exactly,” Keefe drawls. “Not my home anymore.”

Fitz offers an indecipherable hum. “It was beautiful. I remember it being beautiful.”

“You went home crying. I think that was, like, a life-altering moment for eight-year-old you.”

Fitz drags his hand across his face, but the sheepish smile is impossible to miss.

“Why do you think I came here today in the first place?”

“Uh, Biana manhandled you across the city?”

“Stina’s house is not across the city.”

“Did I lie?”

Fitz doesn’t dignify that with a response, and shakes his head. That smile hasn’t left. “No, I—I wanted to think, I guess. Just sit down and think.”

“Me too. I guess.” Keefe is at a loss for witty responses. Fitz has a way of making people lose their words.

The reminiscing pauses, and the quiet feels tenser. Keefe fidgets, drawing the blanket closer to himself. He opens his mouth to say something, anything—

“I swear that I loved you,” Fitz blurts, words nearly incomprehensible but determined nonetheless.

For a moment, Keefe wonders if he’ll crumble. He hesitates a moment longer, and finds himself intact.

“I know,” Keefe says, because he does.

“I still think about you.”

At that, Keefe laughs. It sounds more genuine than any he’s shared today. “I know.”

Since they gave up.

Fitz’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he studies a particular star, or so Keefe guesses. Keefe is following Fitz’s eyes again. Old habits die hard—but slow.

“I still miss you.” Fitz looks like he musters all of his courage as he fixes his eyes on Keefe’s. There’s resolve in the stare. Strength. Not walls between them.

Keefe opens his mouth, and finds it dry. Still, he speaks. It is the only thing he knows.

“I know.”

“And I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’m—I’m sorry.”

The desperate boy in front of Keefe is not Fitzroy Vacker, but something more intimate. Perhaps more than the one he kissed.

He still remembers how Fitz’s lips felt on his own. Everyone marvels over their softness, but Keefe remembers them chapped and trembling.

Keefe has ruined so many secrets. He won’t let this one become one of them.

“You’re an idiot,” Keefe declares, “and I love you.” Now. Present tense. Because it’s true.

Fitz looks at him again. Shit, those eyes. Keefe can’t forget those eyes, burning, hurting, exciting. He doesn’t want to.

“And we’ll be okay.” Keefe grabs Fitz by his shoulders, limbs twisting oddly in the uncomfortable position. “Promise.”

A minute passes, then another, and Keefe has half a mind to start shaking Fitz. He worries he said something wrong. Fuck, did he cross the line? He shouldn’t have—

“I can’t really give you my pinky like this,” Fitz mumbles, and there’s that huff again.

Keefe smiles. “I don’t care. Promise.”

“I promise.” Fitz doesn’t hesitate.

“You’re going to be so good, and I’ll be right there cheering you on,” Keefe says firmly, because it’s easier than, I won’t stare at your back all day anymore, or, I’m sorry I can’t let you go, or, I hope I can love you in a way that matters.

“We’re going to be so good,” Fitz counters, “most promising heroes, and all that.”

“I think I might have heard you say more run-on sentences today than in the past sixteen years.”

Fitz sputters. “You have a way of making people ruin perfectly good grammar.”

“I think you’re just easy to make fun of.”

Fitz laughs, not huffs, vivid and lilting. Keefe breathes, and decides Fitz is the brightest star he could ever gaze at tonight.

“Linh Song, you are a filthy traitor.” Dex seethes, who Keefe finds to be drawing twenty-four. “I cannot believe I ever trusted your innocent act.”

Linh shrugs with a polite smile. Dex continues wallowing as everyone groans and finished their round of Uno. The champion is Linh. Again. For the fourth time in a row.

“Oh, I am going to obliterate everyone,” Keefe says.

“I’m sure you will.”

“You are literally the worst at every board game ever.”

Fitz’s eyes gleam. For all the prim and proper facades he’s managed to plaster, his competitiveness has been left untamed.

“Thank you,” Fitz says, gentle, and the words unsaid are not hidden.

“Me too,” Keefe whispers, and corrects himself: the magic never left.

[multi-fandom-lunatic]

Happy Birthday, Butler - Mostly Butler + Keefitz (fluff)

"This is Butler Vacker. He's my emotional support cat." I picked Butler up, and he mewed in response. The lazy, tired mew. Keefe was almost in tears.

"Butler?! That's the best name ever." He sniffed, stroking Butler, who was surprisingly calm. He was so averse to Sophie, it was strange how quickly he'd warmed up to Keefe.

I grinned like a fool. "Today is his birthday." Keefe squealed more, and Butler mewed again. He knew what this meant for him. "Come on," I told Keefe, dragging him to my closet. I threw open the doors, and lo and behold, below my extremely elf-sized clothes, were smaller, cat-sized clothes. And these weren't just a typical cat-sized T-shirt, but rather the most colourful, ridiculous costumes. Keefe burst out laughing, leaning against my shoulder to stand up.

I put Butler on the ground, the black and white cat stalking away and nestling into a pile of blankets in the corner, meowing in resignation. I squatted on the floor, sorting through the clothes. Keefe sat down on the floor, grabbing my face and pressing a kiss to my cheek. His blond hair obstructed my view of the closet, but I didn't particularly mind, seeing as Keefe Sencen was kissing me. I sighed, but it came out through a giggle, and nothing was more perfect.

"This is the one," I said, deciding on a sparkly pink outfit with a happy birthday cap. Keefe nodded excitedly. Then came the task of getting Butler into it.

"Come on, Butler," I said, begging him with my teal eyes. He loved teal. "Please? We need you in this."

Butler let out a pathetic meow before crawling into my arms. I grinned, scratching him. "Well, that was easy. I think he likes you here."

"Obviously." Keefe swished his hair.

"Don't get an ego about it."

Butler complied, and soon he was wearing a sparkly pink skirt with a teal and pink shirt and a stripey birthday cap. I pulled out my imparter, snapping multiple pictures of a pouty, princess Butler.

"Say, cheese, baby," I said, angling the imparter to Butler's side.

"CHEESE!" Keefe yelled, photobombing the picture. I laughed so much I snorted. Butler meowed.

I left the room for a moment, returning with a cat treat and a candle on top of it. Keefe giggled. I held Butler in my lap, with Keefe's arm around my waist and head on my shoulder, as we sang an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday. Keefe and I blew out the flame, and I took the candle away soon after, much to Butler's delight. He retreated to the corner of the room, content now with his treat.

Keefe handed me a wrapped box. I eyed him curiously. He shrugged. "What's a birthday without presents?"

I tore the wrapping paper, gasping as I took out two pyjamas; one for Butler and one for me, both teal with smiling cats printed all over them.

I threw my hands around Keefe's neck, burying my face in his body. He laughed again, but it was soft and whispery, like the sound of curtains swishing in the night.

Somehow, Fitz and I ended up next to each other, leaning against the doors of my closet. and somehow, Butler had made his way into Keefe's lap, snuggling into the fabric of his pants. Peace enveloped us, and I was breathing in the perfect stillness that was now. I sighed, a small smile on my face.

"Happy birthday, Butler."

***

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FAVOURITE FICTIONAL CAT!!!! just a quickfic because i'm too tired. also this is a lottt longer than i planned aha (genuinely thought it'd be like three paragraphs max, now its *checks notes* 606 words)

@thesfromhms i have delivered

[darkchocolatedimples]

endings are bittersweet (for you and me)

ngl its 11:00pm on saturday but i did want to make something for keefitz week considering the brain rot sorting through taylor swift's albums threw me into, but i was super busy so i just finished right now. i think this loosely follows the prompts for days 2 and 3. thank you @when-wax-wings-melt and @skylilac for hosting this!! its such a fun idea!

heavily taylor swift inspired fic under the cut!! (songs in the tags)

Hindsight is the clearest rearview mirror, and it’s in hindsight that Keefe should’ve known there was a flaw in his plans for the day. Afterall, Fitz being open to hearing him out wasn’t entirely in his cards.

Maybe when they were younger, before he’d ran way (twice), it would’ve been. But now, Fitz seems to have less to say and more scores to settle. Keefe guesses that's fair. He's not beyond owning up to what he did.

Yet he doesn't entirely expect Fitz to simply nod hello and cut to the chase of whatever he wanted to say. Although, Keefe had probably relinquished the luxury of speaking first when he tore Fitz’s heart in two and walked away. 

At least, he assumes that’s what he did. And it was, if Fitz had actually cared. But maybe Keefe miscalculated that as well.

“You know, I was thinking…” Well that was wonderful, Keefe had been thinking too, over and over again, over the words they’d said and if they’d meant anything at all and if it was fair to ask for it all again- “And I want my bramble jersey back.”

Keefe blinks. “What?”

“You took it like, years ago? Remember the one?” Fitz prompts, accent crisp and unforgiving.

The bramble jersey. The one he forgot he still owned- no, the one he’d forgotten he’d stolen from Fitz’s closet ages ago, before they drifted apart, before everything got complicated, before Sophie even. Though some of those things were related.

“Do you seriously want it back?” he asks underneath his breath, lowering his head towards the ground so Fitz wouldn’t see the water beginning to gather in the corner of his eyes, as if he didn’t already know it was one of his nervous tells. Why was it so tough for him to imagine? Whatever this was between them fell apart ages ago. So why did returning the jersey feeling like sealing their tragic fate?

They’d always known they were bound to burn in the end.

“If you still have it,” Fitz confirms, digging his heel into the ground. Keefe can't tell what his face looks like, but if he had to guess, he’d imagine a perfect ‘gosh, I’m sorry’ grimace that doesn't look half as mean as it should on someone. Fitz is better than everyone else, anyways.

Keefe used to be able to contest to that. Keefe used to know the taller like the back of his hand; understand him better than he understood himself. Keefe knew Fitz, and even if he doesn't anymore, he knows what this must be to him. A last little loose end to wrap up so they can leave this decaying chapter of their lives in the past and move on. Be mature and embrace new beginnings. Ones that might last. But Keefe just feels like a weed being plucked.

He probably is a weed, infecting the perfect garden of Fitz’s life since the moment he’d taken his hand that day when they were kids. So if it's better to leave, if it's better to move on, why is it so hard? Why can't he let them die?

"I'll try to find it," Keefe mumbles beneath his breath.

Fitz shrugs, "Thanks," and then it's over and he's light leaping away like he didn't tear Keefe's plans to rekindle their relationship down the middle and leave him in sprinkles from the sky, slowly gaining weight. Only fitting, considering Keefe left first, and the weather was worse.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Raindrops the size of bullets pierced Fitz's skin, drenching his hair and tunic and blurring his vision as he tried to find the right lock to click open the way Keefe had described to him years ago. A useless piece of information, considering he'd never intentionally brought Fitz to his home, but the request of "Tell me something I don't know about you," had arisen under lazy pink skies and that was the only thing the blonde could think of. They'd already known everything there was to know about the other at age twelve.

The door creaked and Fitz pushed it out of the way, fumbling into the foyer as his clothes dripped water onto the mat. He only rubbed his boots against it for moment before leading himself up to Keefe's bedroom.

If Lord Cassius was home at the moment, he didn't run into Fitz as he made his way through the halls. He wouldn't have much to say if he did, although his reason for the impromptu visit was innocent enough. Cassius probably wouldn't believe it.

Would anyone?

Maybe that's why Fitz was here: because he had something to prove. He needed to convince everyone he didn't consider his relationship with Keefe a hopeless cause.  

He needed to convince Keefe himself.

So really, shuffling around in his closet for his favorite sweater wouldn't hurt. It would show him he cared, he remembered, maybe even help him remember-

A cluttering noise caught Fitz off guard before he could start ruffling through the clothes in the chest before him, and the man flitting quickly down the stairs shocked him cold. 

Days later, Fitz would be stuck wondering why he didn't give up sooner; why he hadn't thrown Keefe away like a broken record when everyone had expected him to. At least then he wouldn't have been present for this. His heart would've been spared.

"Keefe?" he asked tentatively, making the blonde boy flinch as he raised his head, spotting him. "What are you doing here?"

Keefe shrugged, holding up the elixirs he was carrying, but he didn't speak. Fitz hadn't entirely expected him to.

"Back to pulling pranks already?" The empty smile Keefe gave him sent chills through his body. It almost felt...mournful. "I thought you're supposed to be at Elwin's."

At that, Keefe couldn't hide his grimace, and Fitz couldn't help but sound accusatory when he noticed. "What's the bag for?"

His hunch must have been right if it made Keefe curve into himself in shame. "No, you can't seriously be- Again?"

"Keefe, don't," he pleaded, abandoning the open chest to make his way towards his friend. "They said they'd help you, Alina and Oralie and whoever else."

"It's not enough," Keefe croaked out, facing the floor, and Fitz sighed.

"How would you know that? Have you even tried?" He shook his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Keefe, please don't leave on all of us again."

The noise that left the younger’s throat sounded equal parts distraught and irritated, like he couldn’t deal with any of this much longer. That was probably why he was leaving anyways; maybe everyone’s nagging to just try and just believe wasn’t working, and maybe Fitz was only making things worse. So he tried a different approach. “Please don’t do this to us.”

Us was a large term in broad daylight; but like this, in the rain, alone, Keefe had to have known who Fitz was referring to. “Us” was Fitz and Keefe, like it should’ve always been. But things got too complicated for “us” to be just them anymore.

And it was probably those same things that made Keefe push back the hoarseness in his throat from lack of use just to say, “I’m sorry.”

But Fitz couldn’t give up. Giving up was giving in to everyone else’s idea that they were falling apart, and Fitz would be damned to call himself a Vacker if he gave up. “Please stay Keefe. For me.”

It was a stretch, but the words hung between them for a moment, vulnerable, open, and targeted, and Fitz almost wished he could snatch them back and fashion them into a more formal request, something that better fit the current state of their relationship. 

And then Keefe shook his head.

“Oh…oh.” Fitz stumbled back, tripping into the bed. “Carry on, then.”

Keefe didn’t waste a second before exiting the room.

Fitz only wondered if he’d felt his heart splintering as he’d rushed past.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The question itself was unfair. How could Fitz have expected anything else when there were bigger things at play than just the both of them? Keefe had a reason for leaving, and he doesn't entirely regret it.

But that wasn’t what hurt him. Fitz wasn’t stupid, he knew it wouldn’t work. Alas, he still put himself out there, waiting for some sort of signal or sign that Keefe cared. And he didn’t give it to him.

He walked out. Without a second thought. And he’s regretted it everyday since, because if he had to go back and pinpoint a moment when their lives stopped being intertwined and became two lonely strands of bitterness, he’d say it was right then, when he’d shaken his head and said nothing. That was his mistake. This is his fault.

He hadn’t said anything, and now Fitz is done waiting. He wants his jersey back. He wants this to be over.

So Keefe digs through his room and finds it buried under tunics he’d never liked and capes he wanted to tear to shreds for years. A piece of fabric that held more memories than he’d like to admit. Sifting through the emotions tied to a simple jersey shouldn’t feel like a landslide, but maybe Keefe’s empathy is still oversensitive. Or maybe Fitz just means much more to him than he should.

Keefe doesn't want to think about it anymore. He doesn't want to think at all, about how everything is falling apart, about how stupid he is for having this occupying his head when there was a war to be worrying about. But even if they won, what was he coming back to?

He slipped the jersey over his head, watching it fall down his frame in the mirror and wondering how it was still big on him. He'd always been smaller than Fitz, but he assumed he'd grown. Apparently, not half as much as he'd thought. He tore his eyes away from his reflection before he dwelled on it for much longer.

It became habit, at some point along the way, to flip open his gold journal to a fresh, blank page and cover it with the sparkle in Fitz’s teal eyes as he looked at someone else, the swoop of his hair and the angles of his jaw. Today, however, when Keefe let the pencil in his hand guide him to whatever image his mind was creating, the slopes of nose smaller, his jaw softer, and his hair longer and slightly more unruly. Fitz was younger, and asleep, in the same jersey Keefe was wearing now.

If he closed his eyes it almost smelled like him.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“Fitz…Fitz wake up.” 

It was a solemn thing, to have to wake up the boy when he was so blissfully passed out, gentle features rounded out by the pillow underneath his head.

Keefe considered letting him sleep, but being only six years old made him increasingly impatient, and there wasn't much to do with his best friend snug asleep in the bed next to him. He sighed, sitting up and letting the blankets pool around him.

"Fitz. Fitz. Wake up loser," he whined, pushing the elder's shoulder. He only let out a groan in response.

After another shove and tearing off the covers to expose him to the cold air, Fitz blinked groggily, rubbing his eyes to make them focus on the blonde boy next to him. Keefe reached over to the bedside table and handed him his glasses.

Fitz mumbled something like a thank you, slipping them on and looking at him with tired confusion on his face. Keefe misses the look of it, he hadn't worn his glasses in years, but they'd always hold a special place in his heart, nestled right next to the beginnings of their friendship. "Is it the middle of the night?"

"No, I think it's morning," Keefe answered. "And I'm bored."

"Well, I think we should go to sleep again," Fitz decided, turning over and burying his bed head back into the pillows. Keefe wonders how he hadn't changed in the ten years since.

"No!" And he hadn't either. Not by much, besides their friendship holding on by a single thread.

Fitz groaned as Keefe pulled the blankets away again, bothering him as much as he could. "Keefe, you know if we sleep in a little longer Mom and Dad will let us just eat mallowmelt instead of breakfast?" he mentioned.

Keefe stopped his meddling abruptly. It never really was a hard task to get his attention, especially with food involved. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," Fitz confirmed. Keefe considered it for a moment, about to settle back into the bed before they heard footsteps coming down the hall. The boys widened their eyes at each other.

The two dove under the covers, doing their best attempt of faking sleep before the door unlocked.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The door swings open as Biana twirls in with at least six different cosmetics in her hands and a flowing purple dress barely hanging onto her shoulders. “Ah! Fitz, zip me up, will you?”

Fitz does as asked, moving her hair out of the way as she set all the products down on the bathroom counter and tries to find the lip gloss she wants. She settles on a light tint of purple that matches her dress.

“Where are you going?” Fitz questions, leaning back against the wall when he’s done.

“Dinner with the Dizznee’s. Haven’t really been able to spend time with them since school started,” she explains, rubbing her lips together.

“Right,” Fitz agrees, watching her flit about the bathroom, getting ready. 

“How was Keefe earlier?”

“Oh.” Fitz doesn’t remember telling Biana what he was doing that morning, and something about her nonchalance was unsettling. He probably hadn’t told her at all. It wouldn’t be surprising, Biana knows everything there is to know about him anyways. Perhaps more than himself. “He was… Alright, I guess. I asked for my jersey back.”

Biana freezes. Her eyes fly across the mirror to look into his. “You did what?”

“I asked for it back. The jersey, from when we were kids,” Fitz clarifies. 

She sighs, turning back to herself in the mirror. Her words are almost exasperated when she reminds, “You still are kids, you know. We all are. That’s why none of this works.”

Fitz could ask what she was referring to; the war? Being members of the Black Swan? Their friendships? He could ask, but he can tell with the tired look in her eyes that she means the latter.

“I don’t think I like Sophie,” he admits softly out of the blue. The words dance across the fragile ice in the air, like they’d break it and send everything crumbling if they wanted to. “No, I know I don’t.”

Biana’s responding chuckle melts the ice before they have a chance to crack it. “I think we knew that.”

Fitz freezes as the words flow through him. “You- what? Was I that much of a jerk?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know,” Biana corrects, working her deft fingers through her hair as she braids it back into a twisted bun. “You should let her know, kindly. But how could you have, honestly, with Keefe around.”

“I- I don’t know what you mean,” Fitz stutters, looking at her in the mirror with furrowed eyebrows. “Keefe’s my…friend.” Hardly. Was that really the message he sent to him earlier?

His sister’s hands drop from her hair as she spins to look him straight in the eyes. “Friends don’t use kisses as currency, Fitz.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“If you come, I’ll kiss you.”

Fitz raised an eyebrow, making no move to get up from his arm chair. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll never kiss you again!” Keefe decided, sitting on the chair’s arm. “It would be a shame though, I thought you said it was fun.”

“You’re seriously giving me an ultimatum about this?” Fitz questioned, dropping his book into his lap. Keefe nodded shamelessly, and the elder couldn’t help the smile growing on his face.

“It’s just a party, Fitz,” he pleaded, slipping down from the couch arm and landing next to Fitz. “We finished level 3, we deserve to celebrate a little.”

“We can leave after two hours if you get bored,” he added softly, studying the elder’s eyes. “I just wanted to go for a little bit. And I wanted to go with you.”

Fitz pretended to think for a moment, watching Keefe look up at him, wide-eyed and waiting patiently. Three years later, Fitz isn’t be able to remember the last time Keefe looked at him like that. He just misses it.

“I mean, a kiss?” he said after a moment, scrunching his nose. “You drive a hard bargain. How could I say no?”

Fitz doesn’t miss parties. He doesn’t miss the fake smiles and empty greetings, nor does he miss the noise and the lights and the small flaring headache afterwords. He does, however, miss Keefe.

Surprisingly for such a usually shy person, parties were Keefe’s scene. It was like all his introverted qualities flew out the window once he was in, and in contrast to Fitz, he loved the lights and the music. In the end, Fitz grew to like seeing the younger surrounded by it all.

Keefe also used parties as an even better excuse to flirt with anything that breathes. And more often than not, that ended up being Fitz. Not that he’d ever complain.

“Do you want to leave?” Keefe whispered quietly, leaving the crowd towards where Fitz sat blissfully alone. His hair was messier than when they’d arrived, like someone had run their hands through them, and Fitz’s jaw almost clenched until he remembered that no matter how confident Keefe got under bright lights and crowds, he wouldn’t let people get that close. Well, not anyone but him, of course.

“No I’m fine, go dance,” he waved off, sipping his lushberry juice. Keefe pouted instead.

“I want to dance with you,” he complained softly, tugging at the elder’s arms to get him off the chair.

“I don’t dance,” Fitz reminded, but his words didn’t match his actions as he put the glass down next to him and let Keefe pull him off the chair with a joyful smile. 

The younger pulled him close, his lips almost brushing against Fitz’s ear as he whispered, “Thank you,” and Fitz would’ve kissed him again right there. Alas, there were people around, and he didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. 

He’d also rather not have his second kiss have a crowd. Everything was sweeter in secret, wasn’t it?

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

It was. It had to be. It was the same mantra Keefe had been repeating in his head that whole summer. 

There was a reason they weren’t telling anyone. And it wasn’t because they were doing anything wrong. It was just a fun little joke. They tried it once, it felt nice, so they did it again. And again.

It was simple. It was a normal thing to do. No one would say otherwise if they knew. But…they didn’t really need to know either. Best not confuse them.

Keefe was confused enough already.

Fitz was growing taller. He had a few inches on Keefe already, and the younger despised it. Maybe he would’ve hated it less if the other didn’t constantly lord it over him, standing just close enough so Keefe had to tilt his head up to see him, resting his arm around Keefe’s shoulders like it belonged there. They’d been the same height since forever, and Keefe was not going to let himself go down like this.

Especially not considering the way his heart rate sped up when Fitz was leaning over him. He couldn’t let the elder hold that power against him, and he couldn’t let him know. So he took a deep breath and stayed calm when Fitz pushed him into a tree halfway through his tangent about how cool Alvar was.

“Well, that was rude,” Keefe huffed, trying not to shy away from the elder’s bright teal eyes as they stared down at him. “I was talking.”

“I don’t want to talk about Alvar,” Fitz responded, as if it was an excuse. His hand didn’t move from where it was pinned above Keefe’s shoulder.

“You know Fitz, there’s this thing called communication, where you use your words-”

The elder cut him off by layering his lips over Keefe’s in a sweet, chaste kiss that still left Keefe stunned and a little breathless when he pulled away. “I don’t really want to do that either.”

Keefe rolled his eyes, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah I can see that.” But he didn’t stop him from kissing him again.

Kissing Fitz was a pleasant thing when it didn’t leave Keefe spiraling down a hole of Why do you care so much? It was easy not to think, with Fitz’s lips on his, about his father, or his mentors, or any of the small things plauging his life when they pulled away. Kissing Fitz made it feel like he’d never have to go home, like this was his home, and he’d never have to leave. He never wanted to leave.

But those were the same thoughts that kept him up all night that whole summer, as relieving as they were in the moment. Fitz had always felt more like home than anything Keefe had ever called home his entire life. And if he was honest, he never wanted that to change. He never wanted them to change.

He never wanted whatever this was that they were doing to change. He didn’t like the thought of Fitz doing this with anyone else, being this comfortable with anyone else, or sharing his space this much with anyone else, but he had to face that that was the reality. Someday, Fitz would go marry some girl, and all of this, all these remenants of them would be left behind in the past. But Keefe didn’t want to think about all that. He just wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

Now, Keefe wishes it had lasted a little longer. But then they were in Level 4, and Fitz finally found Sophie, and their lives began to change so rapidly that Keefe just felt like he was along for the ride as everything he’d ever known turned upside-down and faded away. 

Maybe Keefe had known back then too, that it wouldn’t last long, and that that day would have their last kiss, because when he’d pulled away, he’d asked, “You won’t forget me, right?”

Fitz had raised an eyebrow. “What? Where did that come from?”

“Nowhere, just-” Keefe looked back down at the ground as he caught his breath and sorted through his thoughts. “You won’t, right? Ever?”

The elder was only silent for a moment before he admitted, “Keefe, I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

He was charming, Keefe would give him that. And it made him feel like a shy and red-cheeked kid all over again. 

Sitting in his room years later, with the blush faded and rose-colored glasses lost, Keefe wonders if mememories like those haunted Fitz now, as he tries his hardest to forget him. If those promises meant nothing, and now both of them are nothing, it’s honestly better that they hadn’t told anyone. Looking back, they probably wouldn’t have understood anyways.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“Just because you didn’t tell me doesn’t mean I never knew,” Biana continued on, ignoring Fitz’s frozen stare. 

“But…how-”

“I’m your sister Fitz. And you kissed outside my bedroom once,” she admits, turning back to the mirror. "My point being, friends don’t do that.”

“Just because yours don’t-” Fitz cuts himself off as Biana gives him a sharp look in the mirror.

“You hear how ridiculous you sound, don’t you? There’s no point.” She continues pinning up her hair as she adds, “You love him."

Fitz gulps, watching himself go pale in the mirror. “That’s a strong word.”

“Yeah, and the right one," she agrees. "You’ve loved him since we were little kids, and you still do."

“You’re not an empath-" Fitz starts to argue, but Biana doesn’t want to hear it.

"I don’t have to be. I’m your sister," she reminds quaintly. "But he is an empath."

Fitz bites his lip subconsciously, going over the implication. "You think he knows?"

"No. I don't think he ever understood what your emotions meant, and he probably still doesn’t," she admits, looking through the products in front of her. "Especially not with you asking for the jersey back. Honestly, Fitz, what was that?"

"I just wanted all of this to be over," he answers shamefully, looking down at the floor so Biana's eyes in the mirror won’t rip him to pieces.

She slides over next to him, leaning against the wall as well. Her voice is the calmest thing wafting through his head when she speaks. "This is never going to be over unless you face your fears and try to figure out what you actually mean to each other."

It’s easy in theory. But the thought of actually acting on it is giving Fitz a massive headache. “How do I do that?”

“You think, Fitz. It’s a foreign concept, I know,” Biana chuckles, nudging him in the side to make him look at her. “Just sort through your memories. You have millions, we’ve been friends since he was 7. There has to be answer in there somewhere, even if its from when you were little.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Keefe always considered himself a strong eight-year-old. He held his own even when his father battered him down, and he dusted it off with a sigh and moved on. No one helped, definitely not his mom, but that was okay. Keefe could handle it.

He was sure of that. He really could handle it, he had so many times before, watching his father tear up his doodles and drawings, scold him for his childish acts when in the back of his head he couldn’t help wonder, Am I not still a child?  but was too terrified to ask. He would draw more. They would get ripped up again. It was a fine, easy cycle.

He practically lived with the Vackers, regardless of how much his father nagged at him. It was the one thing Keefe liked that he supported.  Keefe didn’t know why, but he learned early on not to question the good things. Fitz and Biana were a safe space, and he would take that gladly. Being at Everglen practically erased whatever distressing moment had taken place right before, and it was easy to laugh, move on, and play bramble without a second thought. It always was.

So why wasn’t it today?

Maybe it was because the drawing was a special one. Him and Fitz, sitting by the edge of the lake, small feet swinging over the water and wind brushing through their hair. He hadn’t even gotten to finish coloring it yellow and brown before his father had snatched it up without a second thought and shredded to pieces without even looking at it. He wouldn’t dare encourage any sort of  foolishness.

The drawing stayed pinned in the back of his mind though, he had his photographic memory to thank for that, and he couldn’t help but feel the slightest remorse as he thought about it, even in Fitz’s room, far away from the man who’d ruined it all in the first place. It was a pretty drawing. It would’ve looked even better finished.

Fitz might have liked it.

Keefe didn’t notice the tears dripping down his cheeks until Fitz made a surprised noise, sitting in front of him with concern etched between his brows, looking far too mature for a nine-year-old.

“Oh,” Keefe realized, wiping his cheek with small hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Fitz responded, teal eyes peeled open wide as he watched him. “Are you upset?”

“Only a little. It’s not a big deal,” Keefe tried to wave off. But Fitz, even at this young of an age, was always a gentlemen, and waited silently and encouragingly for Keefe to explain further.

“It’s just…my dad tore apart a drawing I made,” he elaborated, eyes steaming as the tears started coming down faster. He wiped his hands against his cheek more furiously. “I didn’t even get to finish it.”

“Why would your dad do that?” Fitz asked catiously, tilting his head with the curiousty of a young kitten.

Keefe wonders how, even at eight years old, he’d known that Fitz was a Vacker, and because of that he’d never truly understand. “He doesn’t like it when I draw.”

Fitz was silent then, and Keefe was too busy trying to stop his crying to realize, but suddenly small arms were pulling him into a warm embrace and the tear gates flooded, making him give up. “I think it’s really cool that you can draw.”

The younger tried to choke out a thank you, but the tears were choking him and he couldn’t do anything but cry into his friend’s shoulder, letting him hold him and save him from everything that waited outside of his arms, in this room, and back at home. None of it mattered if he had this, anyways. His parents didn’t matter, if there was still someone willing to hold him together. And of course that someone was Fitz.

And of course he’d ask, like always, “Want a blitzenberry muffin?”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“Make me blitzenberry muffins.”

“Is that an order?” Fitz questioned, his eyebrow raising as he continued folding his tunics.

Keefe sighed dramatically, throwing himself across the elder’s bed and distracting him. “Can it be? I’m so sick of these books and I need something to bring my dampened spirits up.”

“Dampened spirits, wow, you’re a poet, Keefe,” Fitz applauded, sitting down next to him. The empath flipped his head up towards him, blonde splashing against the green sheets. “What do you even read about? Isn’t empathy kind of straight forward?”

“Not really. Just because I can feel what you’re feeling doesn’t mean I know what it is. For instance-” Keefe laced his hand through Fitz’s, startling him. “Something creepy crawly is going on in your stomach right now, but you’re head’s kinda fuzzy. I think that’s happiness?”

Fitz stopped himself from blushing. “I think so too.” Keefe grinned.

“See, it’s not like the words just come flying at me. People feel emotions differently, which makes it harder to decipher what someone else is feeling. Some emotions are easy, but others, not so much.” He sat up, keeping their hands intertwined. Fitz tried not to stare. “All those books are just theory, trying to teach you certain tells so you can guess emotions more easily. And then like…philosophy or whatever.” 

“Sounds atrociously boring,” the elder commented, tearing his eyes away from their hands and getting lost in the sharp blue of Keefe’s eyes instead. 

He didn’t seem to notice, huffing. “It is. That’s why I want muffins.”

“Valid.” Fitz stood up, yanking the younger along with him towards his room door. “Do you know where the kitchens around here are?”

“Calla showed me one the other day when you were staring into Sophie’s eyes or whatever,” Keefe grumbled. Fitz wonders if it was jealousy, or maybe that was just his wishful thinking. Just because he’s reinspecting their story didn’t mean he can add in details about Keefe that were never really there.

But the tightening grip on his hand was there, ever present, and Fitz hopes that Keefe didn’t notice his heart rate spike right then and there. Had he been that obvious all along? With an empath no less.

Keefe pulled him out of the treehouse and ran down the steps, pulling along Fitz just like he would when they were in Everglen, young and blissfully unaware of how dangerous the world really was. The worst problem at the time must have been Keefe’s parents.

In a bitter, unsurprising way, Fitz remembered they still were.

“There we are, the splendid gnomish kitchens,” Keefe presented with a flourish, cheeky smile flitting across his face as he walked over to the pantry. It was a kitchen alright, but everything was draped in browns and greens, giving the area a  very much earthy vibe to it. Fitz loved it immediatley.

Blitzenberry muffins were routine, and soon enough the batter was being mixed together in a bowl with Keefe sitting on the counter, licking the finger he’d just dipped in without permission and Fitz shaking his head with a smile, always unable to put on a stern face at the younger’s antics. They made him feel rather normal, anyways. Like they weren’t teenage runaways or rebels or anything of the sort.

Keefe stared off into the distance as his finger left his mouth, and Fitz stared at him, watching his eyes glaze and something hard to decipher appear in them. It wasn’t the first time. Something about Keefe had been off lately, like he’d been thinking too much. There was enough to think about anyways, with his mom captured by ogres and his dad waiting back home. Even the pendant around his neck was enough to send him spiraling. 

It was silent for a little too long, and Keefe’s eyes were getting a little too glassy, making the elder feel the need to interupt. “Are you okay-” Fitz started, then a tuft of white blurred his vision like a bakery-smelling blizzard. He coughed, daring to open his eyes wide to a sheepish looking Keefe with flour-stained hands. 

“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry at all. “Intrusive thoughts.”

Fitz smiled right back, acutely aware of how ridiculous he must have looked as he slowly raised a large handful of flour from behind Keefe using telekineses, then promptly dropped it on his head. “Sorry. Intrusive thoughts.”

Keefe wiped his eyes in disbelief. “Don’t start with me.”

“You’re the one who started it!”

The younger didn’t seem to hear as more flour flew through the air, soon beginning to cover the entire kitchen in white. They ducked and hid behind the counter, laughed loudly like no one could hear them, smiled so hard their cheeks hurt from the motion. Fitz misses the feeling, misses being the cause of Keefe’s ectastic smiles instead of his nervous frowns. He misses the freedom, the moments they shared like this where there wasn’t a single other person in the world but each other, not another pair of eyes he’d ever care to look into. There wasn’t anything to see.

He misses Keefe. And his hair and his smirk and everything he’d been working hard to ignore and weave into their history just to leave them there, where they belong. But how could they belong there if Biana was right?

How could he forget about Keefe when he’d known him since they were kids?

“You’re my best friend,” Fitz spoke, breathless watching the white powder float down in the air around them like snow, like the winters they’d spent as children by the lake with ice skating and never ending adventure. Keefe was his best friend then too. Hadn’t he always been?

Hadn’t he always loved him?

“Yeah. Obviously.” Keefe smiled, shaking the flour out of his hair in Fitz’s direction, but the action was boyish enough to make his foolish heart long for a past they couldn’t reach back into. At least they had moments like this. 

Not forever though.

“Nothing’s going to change, not for me and you,” Keefe added, smile softening and making the other’s heart melt right out of his ribcage.

Fitz wishes he hadn’t lied.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Leaping to Everglen is something Keefe is used to, but leaping straight onto the property will never fail to catch him off guard now that the gates have been taken away. Just another testament to how much has changed. 

The way to Fitz’s room didn’t, however, so Keefe’s steps are a trail he’d walked many times before, straight down to the same door he had spent so much his childhood hidden behind. The jersey in his hands weighs more than it should, like instead of just giving back a piece of cloth, he’s about to hand over their past and everything they’d ever known. His place behind that door. 

Or maybe he’s just overthinking it. Maybe he’s spent the whole day overthinking it, like the dramatic little boy he is. Things change, Keefe, the voice in his head reminds. You have to too.

He takes a deep breath, steels his face, and knocks before he can back out and leave it in Biana’s room with a note like a loser.

“Come in.” Keefe does.

The room is dark. His eyes take a moment to adjust before he notices Fitz buried underneath the blankets of his bed, staring blankly at the dark ceiling. Teal eyes lift themselves up to catch his. “Oh.”

It isn;t a bad oh, but it certainly not a good one either, and Keefe finds himself wanting to leave even faster than he came. “I found the jersey, I just thought I’d drop it o-”

“No, keep it,” Fitz decides, pushing himself up to a sitting position so he’s leaning against his pillows. 

Keefe blinks in confusion. “What?”

“Keep the jersey, I don’t want it back,” he repeats, but Keefe still doesn’t understand. That isn’t what he had said that morning. All he said was that he wanted it returned!

“But you-”

“I was wrong,” Fitz shruggs. The younger can’t see him too clearly in the dark but if he’sstill wearing his nonchalant perfect Vacker smile, Keefe’s going to have a meltdown.

Or maybe he is regardless. “What do you want from me?”

Fitz might frown, Keefe can’t tell, but he sounds startled when he responds. “What do you mean?”

“I try to go and apologize to you for everything, and you don’t even let me start before you’re asking for the jersey back, and now you don’t want it anymore?!” Keefe catches his breath, eyes burning. “What were you wrong about? I wouldn’t want to be around me either.”

“I never said tha-”

“You didn’t have to.” Keefe drops the jersey to the ground, trying to keep the tears from falling out of his eyes. “I can’t even pretend to know what’s going on in your head anymore, Fitz, but that’s exactly what you wanted. And I can’t blame you, I’ve screwed this up two more times than I should have.”

“I missed you. Both times, but especially this last one. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I left and…” Keefe shakes his head, sighing under his breath. He’d practiced this more than enough times before today but here he is, and the words have run off once more, leaving his mouth dry. “I didn’t mean it like that. I would do so many things for you, Fitz, but I couldn’t stay. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I can’t be someone you still want.”

“Keefe that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” A record player scratches in Keefe’s mind, prompting him to look up again. Fitz is climbing out of his bed as he speaks. “Of course I still want you. I spent so much time missing you, and convincing myself you would be okay, and that all of this would be okay that I didn’t even stop to notice that it wasn’t. I don’t want the jersey back, because I want it to be with you. I want you to have the memories-”

“I don’t want memories,” he interrupts. Fitz stops right in front of him, looking down at his eyes and making Keefe gulp. That godforsaken height difference will never go away, will it? “I… That summer, I don’t know if I was imagining it but-”

Fitz grabs his hand and suddenly Keefe is hit with purple butterflies and crimson vines wrapping their way around his chest tight enough to suffocate him. “You’re not imagining anything.”

If those are Fitz’s emotions he’s feeling, and if he’s looking into his eyes like that, and if he’d meant it all back then, then maybe there isn’t much to make excuses for anymore when he leans in.

Keefe had missed it, the feeling of Fitz so close, his emotions flowing through the younger’s veins, so much stronger now, so much more desperate. Like they’d been starved for too long. Even the stupid bend in his neck when Fitz tilts his head up with a hand on his chin is nostalgic in a way.

It’s still dark, but that doesn’t stop Fitz’s eyes from twinkling when they separate, noses so close they were touching. Keefe could feel his breath hit his cheek as he whispered, tracing a finger along his cheekbones. “It’s always been you.”

[burgundyonmyt-shirt]

All Things Keefe

A Keefitz fanfic 

A/N: this is legitimately the first piece of non-academic writing i have completed. i tried not to be too cliche, but i think i may have failed? anyway, please forgive my long sentences, and affection for commas, and, yes, the cliches. 

Summary: they’re friends, but that’s not enough 

Word count: 1119 words 

It had started on a warm summer day.

Well, Fitz wasn’t really sure of when it started, but if he had to be exact, he’d say it was on that day.  

It was hot outside, the buttery, soft kind of hot. The kind that made Fitz want to lie on the grass with his favourite person in the world, and stay to watch the sky turn orange and the sun set, and still stay to watch the stars slowly show their light, and the moon its bright face. 

If Fitz were a writer, or a poet, or an artist of any sort (like he was), he’d portray him not as the sun or the moon, as what seemed to be common, but rather as the axis that the Earth spun around. 

Because that’s what he was. Tilting everything in Fitz’s world, changing his entire trajectory. Staking him right through the core—his centrepoint. 

Keefe. 

He’d known Keefe for ages, since they were barely children. Past the tumultous years of teenage life, into the odd year of turning nineteen. And yet—and yet, he couldn’t get enough of him. 

If Keefe smiled he wanted to make him laugh, and if he laughed he wanted to contain the sound and keep it forever, listen to it when he was wallowing, when he was pining, when he was rejoicing. (Let his laugh keep him company, if he could not.)

And, well, if they were friends, he wanted them to be more. 

But that summer day—that summer day changed everything. 

They were lying on the grass, in the middle of nowhere. No mat, nothing to cushion their backs from the digging of the earth other than the other’s presence. 

They talked a lot that day. About school, the parents, home. (Fitz didn’t tell Keefe that if home was where one found true solace, his home was in Keefe. Not yet. He didn’t know it himself yet.) But when the sun shifted, and the sky turned pink, they fell silent. Watching your days slip by without you knowing had a certain way of making you shut up. 

But Fitz didn’t want to shut up. He wanted to tell Keefe everything that was on his mind, to pour out everything in his soul and give it to the boy lying next to him. He wanted to devote his entire life to looking at that blond head, now golden in the sun, those ice blue eyes that had pierced his soul with a feeling he could not name multiple times. 

But would looking be enough? Could Fitz spend his life whiling away his time intead of spending it with the one he—he—

“It’s a whole different feeling, y’know,” Keefe said, and Fitz didn’t know if he was grateful or annoyed to have been shaken out of that train of thought. 

“What is?” he asked. 

Keefe shrugged. “Like... to be sitting—lying, whatever—here, just watching another day go by and doing absolutely nothing about it.” 

Fitz hummed in confused agreement. “I mean, I get what you’re saying, but... what do you wanna do?” 

Till then, Keefe had been watching the sky with rapt attention, probably committing it to his memory so he could paint it later. (Fitz knew this because he’d been watching Keefe with rapt attention.) But at that, he turned to face Fitz, and suddenly Fitz couldn’t breathe. 

The sun was shining right onto his face, highlighting it in the mellows of orange—the slope of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the length of his lashes. And his hair—Fitz had noticed that it looked golden from the side, and it still was, but what he hadn’t realised was that the light bounced right off his hair forming a glow above him, almost like a halo. 

He looked like an angel. (He was an angel.) 

It wasn’t that Fitz had never seen his friend lit by the sun before. In fact, they’ve spent so much time together that he’s pretty sure he’s seen him lit by all kinds of light before. It’s just that he’s never been in such close proximity to Keefe when was looking like that. (Like so out of his reach it physically hurt.) 

But that wasn’t what changed his world. What changed his world was what Keefe said next. 

He said, “Well, I guess I just want to make the best of it,” and then he was looking at Fitz’s lips. 

And suddenly Fitz’s world was spinning in the opposite direction, and everything was hanging on those words, and Keefe’s flickering eyes. 

Did... Could Fitz have misunderstood? Was Keefe referring to... No way. No. Way. 

Keefe. And Fitz? 

But then he looked at Keefe again, and he felt something tug at his heart. As though trying to tell him that he would never possibly get a second chance if he missed this. 

So Fitz lifted his own eyes from hovering around the bridge of Keefe’s nose, and met his hopeful eyes, and gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod. 

Keefe lifted a hand, stretching it out until his finger grazed Fitz’s face, his fingers under Fitz’s jaw and his thumb swiping across his cheekbone. 

Fitz inhaled feverishly, and then he felt Keefe pull him closer, so he went. He saw him close his eyes, so he closed his. He felt him move closer, so he waited. And waited, and w—

Bliss erupted from every point of his skin that was touching Keefe’s. His jaw, his cheek, his knees—which were pressing against the other boy’s from when he pulled him closer—his lips. It was everything he had never imagined, everything that could not be contained, could not be formed by his mind. It was everything, and then more. It was soft skin and subtle fireworks and loud heartbeats and oh in italics. It was every thought wiped from his brain. 

It was all things Keefe. 

Too soon, Keefe pulled away, and Fitz nearly followed him. But he saw Keefe’s cheeks tinted pink, heard his ragged breathing, felt his forehead rest against his own, and he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last time he got to experience that. 

He couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at his lips, and he couldn’t stop the joy that bubbled out of his smile from his chest, turning it into a laugh. And he saw the same happen across Keefe’s face, till they were both laughing, curling into each other as they rejoiced what was long overdue.

And it was then that Fitz knew. It was then that it hit him with sudden, startling clarity that this—exploring and trying and laughing, felt more familiar with Keefe, and that this was what he wanted. 

He wanted all things Keefe.