Archive of Our Own

    Fitz's breath steamed white in the cold air, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. His knee had started aching the morning before and hadn't stopped, even after the two hot showers he'd taken, and it put him in a rough mood. And it was fine -of course it was fine- but it was one more thing on his Jenga tower of "why is this happening now when everything is already shit", and he was tired of it.

    Tired of his father not-so-subtly bringing up the topic of girlfriends and relationships, tired of the stress that came with hiding his relationship with his best friend, tired of researching colleges to go to because he couldn't put it off anymore, and tired of his damn leg hurting. Fitz kicked at the ground as he walked, his jaw tightening. If anyone had asked, he would have said that he was trying to stretch it out, to ease the pain, but there wasn't anyone there and no one asked him. His knee twinged and he scowled harder.

    Fuck the weather. Fuck winter.

    If Keefe had heard that, he would've rolled his eyes and argued. "Winter is prime cuddling season! Warm drinks and fluffy blankets!" He'd protest, grinning at Fitz's exasperated expression and throwing an arm around his shoulder as he'd gesture with the other in mock awe at the imaginary scene he'd described. 

    But Keefe wasn't there yet; He'd texted Fitz exactly three minutes prior to say that he'd get there in fifteen, which meant that Fitz had at least twelve more minutes to glower at the dim, three o'clock-in-the-evening sky as he cursed the entire winter season.

    Well, ten minutes, he realized as he glanced at his phone, he'd have to head back to the house to get the cookies out of the oven before Keefe arrived. He heaved a sigh and paused, standing still for long enough that the chilly silence caught up with him. There was a brief internal debate on whether leaning on his bad leg or taking all of the weight off of it would make it hurt worse, and then he was spinning back towards the house and deciding it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like his knee would stop hurting either way.

    It was cold enough that the sidewalk seemed crunchy, even though there wasn’t snow or ice on it’s surface, and Fitz knew that in different circumstances he would find that interesting. Maybe he’d take the time to examine all the different intricacies that changed with the weather; the way it got quiet when it snowed, the way everything grew emptier when it was raining, and the way the sidewalk managed to crunch at 3:48pm on a winter evening when there was absolutely nothing crunchy on it.

    Another foggy cloud of white drifted around Fitz’s head as he huffed another sigh. And then he gave a rueful smile when the mental image of Keefe popped into his head, chiding him for going out in the cold without multiple Hot Hands and gloves and a hat, and eventually insisting that Fitz was going to get pneumonia from breathing all that cold, damp air. So what if chilly air didn’t actually make you sick? Keefe would insist anyways and then offer -in his smug and planned-out way- to kiss away the cold and keep Fitz’s hands warm by tucking them between his own. Fitz wouldn’t even be able to refuse at that point.

    The scene drifted away with his steaming breaths as his thoughts turned to actual memories of him and Keefe.

    Him and Keefe, seven years old and both suspicious for different reasons. Fitz, thinking, a kid at the playground down his street, late at night. Too late. Keefe, hands clutching the chains of the swing he sat precariously on, trying to teach himself the leg-pumping motion that would have him learning to fly, like all the older kids did. Wondering why a doe-eyed kid would creep from his well-lit house and make his careful way towards Keefe, hesitant smile curling at the edges of his lips.

    Keefe at first glaring, legs still swinging uselessly, at the intruder who interrupted his brief escape from his own, less welcoming home. Then his own hesitant smile crawling curiously out when this stranger sat on the swing to his right, moving slowly and determinedly as he rhythmically leaned and pushed, swing rocking at first before inevitably settling into a pattern.

    Fitz, his legs not reaching the ground as he slowly showed this strange, lonely kid, how to move in the right way, to get the swing moving, back and forth, till they were both flinging themselves bodily into the rocking and wild feeling of the backwards drop, and the forward soar. The swing’s cool metal chains groaned and clicked, and after a few minutes of abandon the two young boys let their limbs stop pushing for momentum, instead they slowed, Keefe’s eyes wide with a desperate and deep-seated need to trust, and Fitz’s heart open and bleeding with something he didn’t understand. 

    Fitz and Keefe, age eleven and hiding from their respective parents. Keefe’s manic and thrilling shrieks of half-laughter as they both ran through the small wood that the Vackers had maintained in the back of their property, both boys’ hair catching and whipping in their self-constructed wind. Fitz’s cheeks were ruddy and his smile as untamed as his hair as he galloped alongside his best friend. Eventually they tumbled to the ground, giggles tumbling out like the incessant and unstoppable bubbling of a freshwater spring.

    Sometime during their fall and subsequent laughter, one of them scooped up an acorn and chucked it at the other, sparking a swift and complete retaliation. They peppered each other with acorns for the better part of a half hour, only stopping when they collapsed into a heap to wrestle. The condition that the loser had to carry the other in a piggyback ride all the way back was gritted out between a tangle of arms and flimsy headlocks, and when Fitz finally tapped out from exhaustion and a lack of caring enough to finish it, Keefe graciously got up and let him breathe for a few moments before launching himself at his friend and hanging himself onto Fitz’s back like an especially heavy and oversized coat being flung onto his shoulders.

    They both got scolded once they had made back to the house, but as Keefe’s family had driven away he peeked out of the backseat window and waved with a smirk that melted into a brilliant grin at Fitz’s own waving hand.

    Sixteen year old Fitz clutching sixteen year old Keefe’s hand, hand trembling as he white-knuckled his grip, like if he just held tight enough then Keefe wouldn’t be stone-faced as tears tracked downwards on his cheeks, against his will. Like he could convince Keefe that him being pansexual was fine, like he could convince himself that the fact that he couldn’t love anyone romantically wasn’t something to be afraid of.

    Like if he held tight enough, then they wouldn’t be broken and crying on his bed, they’d be somewhere else. Somewhere where the world didn’t end when kids didn’t grow up to be their parents’ dream.

    A warm breath slipped from between Fitz's chapped lips as he stumbled slightly, and he flung out his arms to balance himself. He swore. The crunchy sidewalk had apparently decided to grow a large rift at the perfect height for any wandering idiot to trip on when they weren't paying attention. As he gathered himself, pausing to rub the top of his knee, Fitz found himself almost hoping that Keefe was speeding. He missed him.

    A minute and one last glare into the hazy winter twilight later, Fitz was opening the front door of his house and calculating how much longer the cookies were going to be baking for. He guessed about five minutes, but peeked at his phone timer to be sure. 7:26sec. Well, off by two minutes wasn't so bad. He hung up his coat and turned the porch light on before heading to the kitchen and warming his hands with the heat wafting up in sweet-smelling waves. Fitz breathed in the warm smell and felt the full-body shivers begin to lose their grip on him.

    After a few minutes Fitz heard the door open and close, hearing Keefe's unmistakable shuffling as he hung his coat on its place on the second rung of the long coat-keys-and-hat rack -Keefe and Fitz had actually been the one's to install it a year or two before, thus earning Keefe his very own spot- and Fitz smiled, tossing the towel he had been using to dry his hands onto the counter as he walked to the hallway to greet Keefe.

    "Hey Loverboy," Keefe smirked, melting into Fitz's open arms with a sigh and one final shiver as he shed the last of the chill from outside. "I missed you."

    Fitz was about to respond when Keefe decided to bury his nose into Fitz's bare neck. His cold nose.

    "Keefe I swear, you don't get any of the cookies I made."

    "That's not true," Keefe said, extracting himself from Fitz's arms with a pleased look on his face. "You made them chewy specifically for me."

    Fitz rolled his eyes and ruffled his fingers affectionately in Keefe's soft blond hair, eyes relenting when Keefe sighed happily and leaned into the touch, relaxing enough to let his eyes droop with lazy happiness. Eventually Keefe pushed his hand away, instead linking his own fingers through Fitz's and tugging him towards the kitchen.

    "I want them while they're still warm, and if you mess with my hair much longer it's not going to look 'artfully tousled', it's gonna look like a stuffed animal that's been through the ringer a time or two."

    "I could think of another way to ruffle your hair," Fitz threatened, but Keefe just snorted and kissed Fitz's shoulder.

    "I'm sure you could, but then we wouldn't get to have the delicious cookies that my boyfriend made for me."

    Fitz puffed up his chest and put on a haughty expression before his composure cracked and he laughed, grabbing two still-hot cookies from the cooling rack.

    "I'm going to make another batch, care to wait here with me?" He asked, handing one of the cookies to Keefe's waiting hand.

    Keefe hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging as he rocked side-to-side. "Yep. Hurry up though, I have a date with your weighted blanket."

    Fitz snorted as he poured some chocolate chips into the mixing bowl. "If you cheat on me with my weighted blanket, I'll make all the cookies crunchy so you can't eat them." he promised, plopping in some brown sugar.

    Keefe didn’t bother to respond, and instead continued rocking as he finished his warm, chocolate chip cookie, periodically stopping in order to shake out his hands a little. He watched as Fitz continued to work on the second batch of cookies, content with their silence.

    Once Fitz finished mixing the ingredients and placing mounds of dough onto the cooking sheet, he turned to Keefe. “Wait down here for them to bake, or upstairs? We have like, twenty minutes.”

    “Like twenty minutes or definitely twenty minutes? You were the one who just turned on the timer.” Keefe grimaced at the crumbs he had in a thin coating in the corners of his lips and brushed them away. “It makes more sense to stay down here and wait in the living room, but I have to get out of this pair of socks.”

    “Like twenty minutes; Definitely nineteen minutes.” Fitz moved so he was leaning against the portion of counter that Keefe was sitting on and tapped a few fingers on Keefe’s knee, “I think I still have a pair or two of good socks, but you’ll need to bring more over next time you come. I can't have my boyfriend come over just to leave again because I don't have socks for him," He teased.

    "I would probably survive," Keefe admitted, "It just would be living hell. Like having my hair done 'nice', blegh." Fitz laughed.

    "That's what I mean; It's either stay here and have a bad day because Sensory Sucks, or go back home and have a bad day because-" Fitz draped himself against Keefe, placing the back of his hand dramatically against his forehead- "you miss your darling boyfriend too much."

    Keefe laughed and shoved at Fitz's back, "Ah fuck off Loverboy, you only say that because you would miss me. Admit it. Fitz 'Golden Boy' Vacker is at his happiest when Keefe 'Lord Hunkyhair, Autistic Boyfriend Extraordinaire' Sencen is hanging onto his every word. Go ahead, my liege, it's okay to admit that I'm the one light in your life."

    Fitz snorted, eyes crinkling against his will with mirth as he patted Keefe's knee with fake sympathy.

    "Nope, I'm at my happiest when asleep actually."

    "Oh," Keefe wriggled his eyebrows and gave a lecherous smirk, "Because you dream of me?"

    "Fuck off Keefe." Fitz's brown cheeks were stained red but he wasn't that upset. "My family might be out at the moment, but if my dad came home and heard you trying to seduce me I think he'd have an aneurysm."

    Keefe hopped from the counter and draped his arms over Fitz's shoulders, tugging him into a loose and lazy hug, his face nuzzling deliberately into Fitz's neck and making his breath tickle him.

    And then, in the most uncannily accurate impression imaginable, Keefe (in Alden's voice) said: "You boy's had best take it to the bedroom, or there WILL be a reason to worry."

    Fitz recoiled amidst Keefe's bubbling laughter and stumbled back, hand clutching his stomach as he pretended to hold himself back from retching into the kitchen's garbage can.

    "Keefe that was the single most wretched thing I've ever heard. I take it back, you can forget about the socks. I don't think I want you to come back after that."

    Keefe's face went unreadable for a moment, but when he realized that Fitz was teasing his expression slid back into that same, easy smirk.

    "Okay Fitzy-" Keefe was still speaking in Alden's voice- "Now be a dear and grab me my socks. Stat. Or else I'm going to talk like this the rest of the night and you'll have to kiss the guy who's talking in your dad's voice." He switched back to his normal voice. "Okay saying that out loud made it weird, never mind."

    "That's what made it weird? Fuck Keefe, I'm thinking you have to get your own socks. I'll stay here, suffering in silence while I wait for the cookies to be done." Keefe rolled his eyes at Fitz's melodramatic sigh, and tugged his hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles before heading up the stairs to rummage for a pair of socks.

    Fitz gazed after him fondly, glancing down at his hands where he softly ran the pad of his thumb over the place that Keefe's lips had pressed. Love was weird, and Fitz didn't understand it. But if asked, he would still say that he loved Keefe. He did, of course. Loved him like the feel of a sunset creeping down the horizon, pressing warmth into his back like an affectionate embrace, ticking the small hairs at the base of his neck. Loved him like the way Keefe loved talking about art, like the way his stomach churned pleasantly when Keefe's hands dragged across his waist when they hugged or the rare occasions they danced together. Fitz didn't love people romantically, but that didn't matter when it came to Keefe because Keefe was love to him. Was love the way the sun was day and the moon was night. Separate, but still the reason they had those meanings.

    In all honesty, when it came down to it -dripping down the cracks of Keefe's infodumping as Fitz prepared the day's confection, or winding up their legs when they snuggled chest-to-chest in either of their beds- Fitz completely and utterly adored Keefe. He couldn't explain how it worked anymore than an alloromantic poet might, but it was true and he didn't mind that it seemed paradoxical. He was still aromantic, and to anyone that mattered nothing had changed when he came out. Biana had punched him in the shoulder and made a joke about the Three Musketeers and the Three Disappointments of the Vacker children -to which Fitz had given a half-hearted smile that soured in his chest when he thought about Alvar, and the rest of his friend group had been equally supportive.

    The one area that there had ever been a problem with, when it came to his various children's placements in the lgbtq+ community, was Alden Vacker. That great Vacker patriarch that ruled with the illusion of a gentle hand and kindly reassurances.

    "No reason to worry," and it was Alvar, seventeen and Fitz thirteen trying not to show he was watching, Alden's misguided support showing in the way he rolled the words uncomfortably in his smiling-too-wide mouth. "No one needs to know if you just settle down with one girl and break up later." The emphasis on 'one' and 'girl' wasn't lost on either of the Vacker sons.

    "No reason to worry," and it was Alvar again, except this time he wasn't present. This time it was Fitz and Biana sat down and they could be good, they could be better than that "Poor, embittered and misguided son of mine." Alden's hand heavy with disappointment, with expectations, on their too-young shoulders. And Alvar wasn't coming back. Wasn't coming back to apologize, or to bring Fitz and Biana with him this time. Wasn't coming back at all. 

    (And Biana was glad he had gotten out, and Fitz tried to be grateful too, but God, couldn't have Alvar waited until he could take them with him?)

    It was Biana, seventeen and hand clutched in Marella's, her face that blank and self-taught wall of perfect impassivity as she explained that they were dating. Fitz, barely nineteen and already out as aromantic, seeing his father's face drop as a pleasant smile slid hollowly onto his lips. And ever since it's still "Biana's friend Marella." Never partner. Never the acknowledgement that oh, just maybe his kids are queer and just maybe it's not something that needs to be changed.

    And now, the present. Fitz an older nineteen and still fucking aromantic and Alden. Still so smugly sure that Fitz could still settle down with a lovely girl. Fitz hated that thought for many many reasons, but he wasn't sure what he felt about the fact that it was so similar to how Alden had reacted to Alvar. Fitz was becoming his abandoning betrayer of a brother. (Who had been treated just as badly by their father, his mind whispered. Traitor. He tried to ignore it but the fact remained that Alvar had come out alone, and Fitz and Biana had had each other to support them when the time came).

    So yeah, Alden Vacker -Good Man, Good fucking Father- didn't have a great track record with his kids being queer. And he was already hounding Fitz about getting a girl, getting in college, getting somewhere in life, that Fitz couldn't stand the thought of trying to explain that yes, he was dating Keefe and yes, he was still aromantic.

    Just on time, Fitz's knee decided to reintroduce itself to his brain's pain receptor's and he stiffened. Ah yes, his never-ending reminder that his plans had been irrevocably  fucked over when he'd taken one just a bit too hard on the bramble field. It throbbed again, as if to spite Fitz for his bitter thoughts and he sighed, reaching down to massage the soft part right above his kneecap. Just fucking lovely.

    Keefe's footsteps sounded on the stairs. "You forgot to put your coat on the first hook of the rack by the way. I moved it when I came in." He moved into the warm yellow light of the kitchen, footfalls muffled by the soft, sky blue socks he had put on.

    "Mm, thanks Keefe." Fitz stared at the oven, trying to determine if thinking harder about his knee would make the aching go away or if it would work better to just ignore and try to forget about it. The pain petulantly stayed the same dull, rocking thrum deep in his joint. Damn.

    "Also, today has been fucky sensory-wise, so cuddles once the cookies are done? Marella texted and he said that Biana thought they'd be out for a few more hours, which means we could have at least an hour nap. Together. In your bed." He made grabby hands at Fitz. "Maybe even piggback ride?? For your most favouritest Keefe?"

    Fitz huffed a nose-exhale-laugh and nodded patronizingly. "Piggybacks for my most beloved boyfriend, because he is simply too weak to go up the stairs more than once a day? How could I refuse."

    "Hey! I happen to know that I've beaten Biana at least one whole time in tackle-bramble. That takes skill and stamina. I just choose to not climb up the stairs when a much better option is available. Such as you, Loverboy." 

    Fitz was deciding how to respond when the timer went off for the cookies. He silenced his phone and grabbed a pair of oven mitts in the shape of bear claws -a gift from a laughing Marella during their yearly Group Christmas- before opening the oven. Another wave of delicious smelling air wafted into the room and he hummed in appreciation, his heart settling into something a little less stressed at his baking success. 

    A few moments later he was grunting at the weight of his boyfriend clinging, monkey-like, to his back, arms a stranglehold around his neck.

    "You realize that if I pass out from lack of oxygen and then fall, knocking my head on the counter and dying on impact, that you'll never get another piggyback ride?"

    Keefe just kissed the base of Fitz's neck, lips velvet-soft against the smooth skin, and Fitz grew quiet, sighing breathily into the otherwise silent air. He shifted Keefe's weight on his hips and reached out, squeezing Keefe's foot affectionately.

    "Love you," He murmured, hesitant as always when it came to that fickle word. Because yes, he meant it, but it was a double-edged weapon when he said it, even though Keefe would never press that particular knife into his back. It still felt like a lie when it came from his own lips, like Fitz was doing it wrong. But Keefe just pressed his face closer into the space between Fitz's shoulder and neck, and kissed him again. Fitz shuddered comfortably.

    "Your hair is getting long on top, enough to be curly. Can I mess with it?" 

    Fitz nodded, neck flushed where Keefe's breath kept tickling at it. They tended to have the best conversations when Keefe was messing with his hair. Well, maybe not, but it did seem like there was an easy intimacy when it was just them, Keefe's slender fingers buried in Fitz's soft hair as they both opened up about life. When Fitz could relax into Keefe's fond touch. 

    Fitz clenched his jaw when he reached the steps, bracing himself as he prepared to go up. Yeah, it was gonna do a number on his knee come morning (or, more likely, in the middle of the night when he woke up from the pain and couldn't fall back asleep), but he didn't want Keefe to feel guilty about it, and besides. He shouldn't let his stupid knee get in the way of being goofy with his boyfriend.

    He ended up making it all the way to his room without limping too obviously, but that was partially because Keefe had gotten sidetracked with mimicking a few of their friends. Sophie's voice chirped about the new art technique Keefe had discovered, and then Dex's voice piped in with a complaint about pencils smudging when you don't want them to and then not smudging enough when you're actually trying to smudge it. Marella and Tam both weighed in on the merits of pastels and then it was Keefe's natural voice again, whispering against the hem of Fitz's shirt that he was tired and wanted a nap, and wanted cuddles. 

    Fitz smiled and tugged his bedroom door closed behind them, turning so he could drop Keefe backwards onto his bed.

    "Okay." He dropped his head onto Keefe's chest, functionally laying on his lap. "Do you wanna cuddle first or mess with my hair first? Pros and cons." Fitz twisted his head so he could look at Keefe, which, admittedly, was only a view of the soft skin of his throat and under his chin, and a less ideal view into his nostrils.

    Keefe hummed, chirping a moment in Fitz's voice -a non-mocking repeat of 'pros and cons'- before tangling one hand in Fitz's dark hair. "Pros of cuddling first are... Weighted blanket is much needed right now, though-" Keefe patted the top of Fitz's head once- "You are an excellent weighted blanket yourself."

    "I pride myself on it."

    "Mm." There was a smile in Keefe's voice. "Also pros are that naps with you are lovely, and nap first means we'll probably be awake when people get home. And! I just changed my socks so nice socks while napping. Best world. Umm..." His fingers tapped across the crown of Fitz's head. "Cons... It will take longer before we have our Hair-Being-Messed-With Conversations, which you know I enjoy. Conclusion is... Nap first. I think we both need it."

    Fitz rolled so he was lying stomach-down on Keefe and moved upwards till they were nose-to-nose, and then he kissed the corner of Keefe's lips.

    "Okay, sounds good."

    Keefe laughed softly and pushed Fitz off of him enough to sit up.

    "Alarm."

    Fitz sat up too, "Yeah, I got it. Oh, do you want to have the weighted blanket folded in half so it's extra weight on you? I can use my comforter." 

    "I'd rather share the same blanket as you," Keefe winked at him and made a suggestive face, to which Fitz merely snorted and set his phone -alarm set- onto his bedside dresser.

    Keefe crawled towards his (unofficial) side of the bed, and wriggled under the weighted blanket that Fitz had tossed onto the top of the covers, patting it as he waited impatiently for Fitz to follow suit. And then Fitz was slipping under it too, careful to allow Keefe's leg to be on top while still being a bit ginger about his knee as he tangled their limbs together. Chest-to-chest now, Fitz moved his head forward until both of their foreheads were pressed together, noses brushing.

    "Love you Keefe," He murmured, pushing his bottom lip out to puff at a lock of Keefe's hair that hung right by his eyes. "Sleep well."

    Keefe just nuzzled his face in closer, tucking his nose under Fitz's until their lips were a hairsbreadth apart, sometimes grazing with the small movement of their inhales and exhales. Fitz closed his eyes.

    Fitz drifted in and out of a hazy sleep, brain foggy with the bleariness of exhaustion interrupted by pain. His knee grew worse and finally Fitz was completely awake, one arm clutched sleepily in Keefe's grasp. He could feel Keefe's steady heartbeat from where the back of his hand was pressed against Keefe's chest, and he smiled.

    After a few more minutes of laying quietly, Fitz reached behind himself and fumbled for his phone, turning off the alarm. He could wake Keefe up when he needed to, it would be more pleasant than the harsh blare of his phone's timer. Task completed, he curled back against Keefe and tried to ignore the throbbing in his knee that was the entire reason he couldn't sleep in the first place.

    It had been worth it, to carry Keefe up the stairs, but Fitz had been hoping that the repercussions would wait until the next day, or at least until that night. He hated feeling weak like this in front of Keefe, and it was made worse by the fact that if Keefe noticed he would feel guilty for asking Fitz for a piggyback ride, even though Fitz had known and had still decided -by his own choice- to carry Keefe. 

    He shifted the slightest bit in hope that it would alleviate some of that relentless ache, but it merely quieted for a moment before returning, worse than before. Fitz tried not to groan. God, he just wanted it to stop hurting once in a fucking while, was that too much to ask?! He clenched his jaw and shifted again, stirring again until his head was snug under Keefe's chin and his other arm joined his first, pressed to feel Keefe's peaceful breathing and calm heartbeats. Keefe sighed in his sleep, his exhale waving through Fitz's hair in a warm ghost of honey-thick bliss, and Fitz found himself relaxing into it, his eyes fluttering shut. He sighed too, and tried to consciously un-tense his shoulders, back, and legs, where the pain tended to gather and tighten as his knee led the rest of his body in mutiny against him.

    It worked, a little bit, and he sunk into the forced comfort contentedly, enjoying the way Keefe curved around him, his legs tangled with Fitz's, his arms holding Fitz's arms, his breath tangling in Fitz's hair. He sighed again and that damp, heavy warmth sent a prickle of goosebumps down Fitz's neck and shoulders. He angled his head to kiss Keefe's collarbone and then relaxed again. Keefe continued breathing gently.

    Fitz drifted again, his knee a tugging annoyance to the world of consciousness, but every so often Keefe would sigh and send another lovely thrill down Fitz's spine, and he would loosen deeper into that half-dreamt world where it was just him. Just him in Keefe's arms and feeling ever so loved.

    At last Keefe sighed and adjusted, his grip on Fitz's arms tightening unconsciously and slackening once more, and then, with another sigh, he tightened his grasp and sniffed, bumping his nose into Fitz's hair to kiss the crown of his head.

    "I'm awake Loverboy, and if you don't wake up soon I get to kiss you awake," He whispered, half sing-songing and half giggling, clearly suspecting that Fitz was awake, or at the very least not really asleep asleep.

    "Well-" Fitz sprawled out a little, fingers tip-tapping at Keefe's chest as he yawned, nose scrunching and eyes blinking away the bleariness- "I would not mind being kissed awake, as long as it was you doing it. Feel any better?"

    Keefe grinned and kissed at Fitz's temple. "I am much less likely to commit mass murder now, if that's what you're asking."

    Fitz lazily turned his face towards Keefe and smiled, slow and affectionately teasing. "Oh my," He said, mock concern dripping cloyingly from his voice. "Should I worry about you having full access to my hair?" Keefe popped his head up.

    "Oh Fitzy darling, I didn't become Lord Hunkyhair for nothing."

    "Hm, well you're certainly Lord Hunky-something, but I don't know if I'd say it's your hair."

    Keefe's eyes widened and then he tipped his head back and laughed, bright and lovely as the rest of him. Fitz felt that toasted feeling of fondness pool in his chest as he watched Keefe laugh, eyes crinkled at the edges and lips curling upwards, his adam's apple bobbing where the soft-white skin of his neck flashed. A perfect opening to Fitz's attack. And he did attack then, peppering that smooth, white patch with kisses till it was a flushed pink to match Keefe's cheeks as he started to giggle and writhe away from Fitz's tickling lips.

    "Fitz I will dye your hair green."

    Fitz immediately stopped. "You wouldn't; Not after you dyed it pink. You promised."

    Keefe smirked. "I promised I wouldn't dye it pink again." Fitz poked him in the side.

    "Fuck you, Keefe."

    "Oh I fully intend to- mmph!" Keefe licked Fitz's hand until he snatched it away, and then Keefe dragged his tongue in an obscenely wet arc around his lips. "I'm going to kiss you. On the lips. And it will be so fucking slobbery."

    Fitz rolled out from under the blanket and thumped onto the ground, grunting at the impact. "No." He called from the ground. "I won't let you. And you don't get to touch my hair for five whole days."

    Keefe peeked over the edge of the bed, hair falling messily into his eyes. "Fitz that's not fair." Fitz waved his hand dismissively.

    "Keefe it's my body, my choice."

    Keefe gasped and said, in Biana's voice: "You're pregnant?! I could be a dad!" Then he squinted. "Probably shouldn't have done that in Bee's voice huh."

    Laughing, Fitz propped himself up to look at Keefe. "No, that was weird. ANYWAYS-" He said, moving so his back was pressed against his bed- "Hair time!"

    "Right, and here I thought you didn't want me to touch your hair for five days." Keefe tugged the weighted blanket over his shoulders and scooted to the edge, letting his legs fall to either side of Fitz as he settled, giving one more tug to the blanket before bringing his hands to rest on Fitz's hair. "Do you have a conversation in mind?"

    Fitz flopped his head back to gaze up at Keefe, who poked at him to move his head back.

    "Not really," Fitz admitted, decompressing as Keefe started running his finger's through Fitz's dark brown hair. " 'M worried about Biana."

    Keefe paused his movement. "Did she get hurt?"

    "No." Keefe continued, waiting for Fitz to keep going.

    "It's just... Dad's been pushing at me about college and a girlfriend, which I'm not going to think about, by the way, and Biana's worrying herself about it on my account. I don't need her to -I'm the big brother for God's sake- but she cares too much and it messes with her when she can't change anything. I think she's numbing herself to things again, but I don't know if it's on purpose or not. And I haven't asked Marella about it; I don't want to say anything that's not mine to say- but... I am worried. Y'know?"

    Keefe hummed, "Yeah, I know." His fingers tugged lightly at the curls at the bottom of Fitz's neck.

    "I'm not really bothered by the badgering. I can handle that, I've handled that all my life. It's not like it's some 'new' thing that Dad's trying to push me to be better, so I'm okay with that part. But I'm... scared?" He paused, running his tongue over his canine tooth and then biting his lip, forming the right words. "College is... a big deal. And I've been avoiding it because I'm scared that- that I won't be good enough at it or something? Like I got through high school but it's been a year and maybe I won't make it. Maybe I won't be good enough."

    There was a long, silent stretch of time when Keefe just buried his fingers in Fitz's hair, twirling strands around his pointer fingers and pulling lightly.

    Fitz hesitated, then- "I've been trying to be the Golden Kid for so long, what if this time I finally fuck it up completely?"

    Keefe's hands stilled.

    "I don't know what to say to fix it." Keefe stated, simply. And Fitz's throat tightened at the way the regret dripped in Keefe's words. "I don't think I can fix it, but you're not the Golden Boy, Fitz."

    "Gee thanks." Halfhearted sarcasm, but what else did Fitz have to offer?

    "No problem? I just mean..." Keefe rolled the words around in his mouth, trying to get the feeling of them right. "I just mean there's nothing for you to live up to. You aren't the Golden Boy, and you never have been. You're you, Fitz. Human. You can't be the Golden Boy because the "Golden Boy" is just an idea. An ideal representation of everything your father's tried to force you to become. It's a- it's a character, Fitz. One that you've tried your hardest to play the part of, if that's the right expression. But you're not some actor or a puppet that can just do that. There's more facets to you. A character -an ideal- can only be that. A created idea that someone else brings to life.

    "And that's the thing, isn't it? If someone else needs to perform to bring it to life, then it's not full. It's not like, fleshed out. It's only half there. Like when you're drawing and the whole picture is there, but if you flipped the page over it'd be blank. You're not a drawing, Fitz, and you're not the Golden Boy because it doesn't exist outside of your dad's mind. It's like the rest of the social constructs. Fuck 'em."

    Fitz was startled into laughing at that, thick and wet, throat still too tight to form a coherent response. He sniffed. "God, Keefe. I love you."

    Keefe pattered his fingertips on Fitz's forehead. "I love you too. Was that okay?"

    "Yeah. You're actually really good at pep talks." Fitz scrubbed a hand over his face and gave a weak smile, even though Keefe couldn't see his face.

    "Well it's either because I've had my share of practice with shitty dads and expectations, or because I'm just an incredibly sexy and smart individual."

    "Mm, I will agree with that last part."

    Keefe smirked, "Oh yeah? Do I need to say the jorts joke or will you regret saying that enough without me mentioning it?"

    Fitz groaned and pulled away, wincing as his weight shifted. "I regret it enough! I regret! But also, am I not allowed to find you attractive?" He batted his eyelashes and then turned, heaving himself up and off the floor to grab his phone.

    "Are you still on the Niall Horan kick? I'm thinking of playing some music."

    Keefe flopped backwards onto the bed, arms thrown out to the sides. "Yep," He replied, popping the 'p' with gusto. "Flicker album still." Fitz fiddled some more with his phone, swiping past a text from Biana that he'd have to remember to answer later, and settling on Spotify. After a moment a song started playing, and Fitz sat back down in front of Keefe, keeping his leg bent as he sat.

    "Sorry it's buzzy, I lost my speaker and my phone's shit when it comes to music."

    Keefe shrugged and sat up, tipping Fitz's head back so he could trail his fingers across Fitz's face. His pointer finger slid over the bone just beneath Fitz's eye, down the bridge of his nose, hovering feathersoft on his lips... then up again, across his jaw to his cheekbone, the pads of his fingers ever gentle, barely touching Fitz's skin as his breathing quivered and sighed. Keefe leant forward, brushing a kiss to Fitz's eyebrow. Fitz breathed a soft exhale and opened his shatteringly teal eyes.

    His gaze pinned Keefe's heart in his chest like a frantic moth finally caught, and Keefe felt pierced. Stripped.

    Naked.

    Fitz broke the eye-contact, a simultaneous chemical burning and cool compress, and traced his eyes over Keefe's face, as delicate as Keefe's fingers had lain on his lips. He drank it in; Keefe's yellow, yellow waves, hanging curtain-like and wild in his eyes. The crimson burning up the pale skin of his neck, crawling ivy-like onto his cheeks. And there, the corner of his eternally soft, pink lips. There was a freckle there, small and insignificant, but to Fitz it represented every small and achingly lovely aspect of Keefe that he could not stop himself from caring for, recklessly, fervently, with a heat and desperation that ate at his very bones, that pulled at his lungs and commanded him 'scream' that commanded him 'love and be loved in return', that said 'love in a way you cannot take back and cannot return from'. 

    Keefe tilted his head down, lashes so dark against his pale blue eyes, pale pink face. His velvet lips so damn soft, so damn pink. And then Fitz was dragging his head up, twisting to meet Keefe's. Lips pressing, lips pressing to that holy corner of Keefe, that freckle that hung at the edge of his holy lips. And Fitz, head dizzy with it, honey-drunk and adoring. Moth, pinned fluttering in his chest. His love, pinned fluttering in his chest. Something ardent and burning and rosy, the way too much honey burns in your throat like sweet things that bite you back. Lips pressing into that piece of Keefe like Fitz could take it into his very soul and burn in it, like he wouldn't even mind that consuming fire.

    Lips dragging from freckled-corner to full contact, Keefe's hands coming up again and burying themselves into Fitz's hair; Entombing, immersing, consuming. Velvet lips, pink lips. Keefe moving, soft lips pressing, kissing; Fitz's cheek, the soft skin under his eye, his jaw, burning him. Loving him.

    "Keefe," Fitz whispered, teal, sparkling eyes hidden under heavy lids, chin tilted up, neck bared. "Keefe I don't know how you love me." An apology, a broken thanks, a prayer.

    "Fitz, I don't know how not to." Keefe, slender fingers in Fitz's brown almost-curls. Keefe, eyes so blue it could make Fitz cry. Has made Fitz cry. Hands holding Fitz so gently it could break him.

    Fitz's throat grew tight again, chest thrumming -that great, terrible ache; It's love, always has been, always for Keefe- and he realized that he didn't really mind. He didn't mind that loving Keefe felt like thick, sticky destruction in his lungs, like his heart would pound itself until it's gears came wildly unstuck and burst into a thousand piercing metal pieces. As long as he loved him. As long as he got to love him.

    "God Keefe, you're gonna kill me one day." Fitz reached a hand up, awkwardly trying to get it the right way till it came to rest, fumbling, on Keefe's jaw. He was looking straight up again, instead of that neck-cramping twist he had been doing, and his pointer finger caught in the dip just under and behind Keefe's ear, his thumb hooking carefully under his jawbone, pressing against where Keefe's throat started it's slope downwards. Keefe looked down, an eyebrow raised in slight concern, mostly affection.

    "I hope not." A lovely, curling smirk. Fitz grinned back.

    Abruptly. A sickening click of the door opening. A sickening flicker of fear on Keefe's face. A sickening roll of panic in Fitz's stomach. The door swung open further, creaking. Fitz didn't want to look up. Didn't want to look up and see why Keefe's jaw was clenched so tightly beneath Fitz's hand that it might have broken if Fitz had only tapped it. Didn't want to see what he knew he would see. Didn't want to look up...

    Fitz looked up. 

    "Well," Alden stood stock-still, framed by the hallway light. Towering. His eyes blazing brightly into the room, brighter maybe than even the yellow light spilling from the hall.

    And Keefe thought that that's where Fitz's piercing eyes came from. And Fitz thought that this was finally going to kill him.

    "I was-" Alden coughed with what, had he been a mere mortal who showed emotion past impassive politeness, would have been a rather uncomfortable tone- "Under the impression that you were of the 'aromantic' persuasion."

    Fitz knew that comment would have had him seething, if his father wasn't standing in front of him right then, if his stomach wasn't curdling in that (apparently genetically passed) moth-pinning gaze. If he hadn't practiced his whole life to play the part of the Golden Boy. The boy who couldn't hate his father no matter how much his father couldn't bring himself to love his son.

    And Alden still stood, more shadow than man, towering in that doorway. Intense emotions fighting over his face in the muted way of a man who had spent his entire life learning to show just exactly how much he didn't care. Just how much missing love could be pretended to be hidden rather than withheld. Dangling in front of his children's reaching hands.

    Alvar, trying to reach the Great Vacker Legacy, and failing (maybe the only Vacker kid who even realized that the legacy was unattainable anyways). Fitz, trying to be the Golden Boy for a stone-faced father. Biana, learning her father's apathy till she didn't even know how to feel things right (even when she wanted to, even when she was desperate to even be angry, to be sad, to be scared).

    Alden had already broken his kids so utterly, and now he stood in Fitz's doorway and he fucking scoffed. 

    Fitz dragged himself up, knee locking and unlocking, and he let it. His hand was clenched and he knew his fingernails would leave half-moon imprints in his palm, knew that if he pressed hard enough it would sting when he washed them next, knew he might even make the scratches bleed. But his father stood across from him, saw his knee failing him, and Keefe sat behind. He was not his father. Fitz agonizingly unclenched his hand, and, finger by finger, loosened his grip.

    "And you've got the whole damn world thinking you're a good father. Out of the two of us I'm not the God-damned con man!" It dragged out of him like someone had reached their fist into his chest and wrenched it out of him, and there was no going back from that. No taking back the bite in the words. No taking back the bitterness that seeped into Fitz's lungs and spilled out in his awful words. Fitz felt Keefe shift on the bed behind him. His heart pounded wildly.

    He wanted to take it back. He wanted to say it again. Say it worse, say it burning and vitriolic and pushing every fucking ounce of his hatred into those words. Say it scared. Say it forgiving, like if Alden could just see how it hurt-

    Because he wanted Alden to love him, and if he couldn't do that he wanted him to hurt like Biana did. Like Alvar did. Like Fitz did.

    Alden blinked, jaw imperceptibly tightening, his temple flexing. "Well..."

    Fitz held back a snarl in his throat. That was it? Couldn't he stop fucking saying that? 'Well.' Like how shitty he had been to his kids was something to be considered, mulled over and then set to the side like all the other comments that had no claim on reality. Fitz was beginning to shake, but he was done with it all. He was done. Alden wasn't going to listen. Wasn't going to change.

    "Now Fitz, I don't think that's quite-"

    "Damn what you think Dad!" Fitz cried out, something tearing in his chest. "You find out I'm- what? Making doe-eyes at my best friend? And THAT'S what you say? Fuck Dad! You don't even know if we're dating -we are, but you wonder why I never told you?- and you say some bullshit about me being aromantic? So what, it's not quite...? Go on. Tell me it's not fucking fair, Dad. Tell me it's not fair to say that you're not even a half-good father to us, when you've never once just simply said 'I support you' when one of your kids have come out to you. When you've never even used your daughter's partner's fucking pronouns right." Fitz cut himself off, chest heaving, eyes burning ragged with unshed tears. He swiped at them with the back of his palm and waited for Alden to respond.

    Waited for him to finally listen.

    Alden opened his mouth but Fitz started talking again.

    "Don't tell me," Fitz whispered, jaw working tightly, "Don't tell me I'm not being fair. When you have treated Biana's queerness as a problem to be solved. When YOU made Alvar leave us. When you- when you have always tried to find some. Some solution to our identities. We aren't something to be fixed, Dad." He was quiet for a moment, trying to calm his choking breaths.

    Niall Horan's voice sung tinny through Fitz's shitty phone speaker.

    "We aren't. We aren't broken, Dad, for being queer." And God, maybe after all those years he was his father's son, because his eyes were blurry and wet but he still couldn't let himself fucking cry. He wished he could. He wished he could cry, and he wished Biana could cry too, because she does it even less than him, if that's even possible. Fitz's jaw started clenching again, tightening and loosening like he was trying to work on a tooth that was one right tug away from coming out. He wished Keefe was holding his hand. He shook where he stood, and Alden composed himself again.

    "I have given you, and your siblings, the world. You have wanted for nothing while under this roof, and now you're, what? Saying I've been half-hearted in loving you? Just because you have this view of the world that-" He wriggled his fingers at Fitz while he pitched his voice up to a mocking 'baby-ish' voice- "that says everyone needs to be kind and soft or you'll pout your lip and whine about it. Frankly I've raised you stronger than that. I've raised you and Biana into people I can be proud of, despite those few characteristics that you stubbornly cling to. I don't know what more you want."

    Like if he only knew what they wanted he would have given it to them. Like they haven't been trying to tell him that they just wanted his love, this whole time they just wanted him to love them. Just wanted him to listen, to hear them.

    Fitz was swaying, his knee stubbornly locked just to keep his leg from giving out beneath him. He was gonna be sick. His dad was standing in his doorway, frame and shadow like an angel with a flaming sword, and Fitz was going to be sick because he still wasn't listening. His hand clenched and unclenched, and the place where his nails had dug into earlier stung.

    "I've never complained about things not being 'easy', Dad. It's not weak or soft to expect to be treated like you're not some fucking factory reject that no one could deign to return to the store. It's basic fucking respect, and past that, it's how you show your kids that you love them. Guess I shouldn't be surprised that you don't get it, should I? When you look at me and wonder at all the parts that are fucked up, it's not that I'm all sorts of wrong, it's just the pieces of me that wouldn't conform to the mold you tried cramming me into. And I'm sick and tired, Dad, of trying to get you to love me."

    There was something wet and hot in his sticky chest, like he could choke up his own heart if he tried to. His stomach churned. Abruptly he paused, a steady touch at the base of his back causing him to suck in a half-panicked breath. Keefe slipped off the bed and stood by Fitz's side, hand winding to curl around his waist and pull Fitz close, letting him lean on Keefe. Fitz reached across and grabbed Keefe's other hand, squeezing gently all while he stared down Alden.

    Thank you.

    Keefe tightened his hold on his waist.

    I'm here, I've got you. I'm with you.

    "Fitz-" And finally Fitz saw it. Alden's jaw tensing the same way Fitz's did when he couldn't school his emotions, as he tried to answer. And worse, Fitz saw his dad's eyes burning in that glittering way that meant he was trying not to cry. Keefe had said that Fitz always looked so pretty when he cried. Something about the way his eyes shined with the tears. And now, the very same shine in Alden's eyes.

    Fitz couldn't handle that. He'd been drowning in his father's expectations since he was born, been clawing his way through since before he knew what the word "disappointment" was. And now, the doorframe became a mirror to himself. Same teal eyes. Same unshed tears.

    But Alden wasn't allowed to cry about this. Not when Biana still didn't know how. Not when Fitz and Alvar were never going to be brothers again. The cold had seeped from the crisp air outside and now lodged itself icy in Fitz's throat, in his joints, in his lungs.

    "You don't get to be upset that you ruined us, Dad-" Alden's face shuttered again and Fitz fought back an ugly, bitter smile- "But right now you're standing in my room and I'd like to ask you to leave. Maybe we talk later. Maybe you apologize - and it still doesn't fix anything - and maybe you don't. But you don't get to pity yourself and you don't-" Fitz's teeth ground on the word- "You don't have the fucking right to say a word about my boyfriend, or Biana's partner, or even whoever Alvar's shacking up with. 

    "So," Fitz tried to straighten a bit, jaw set. "Close the door behind you."

    Neither Keefe or Fitz moved until the click of the door closing sounded and Alden's footsteps faded. And then Fitz's bones went limp and he sagged against Keefe's side, head turning to press into Keefe's shoulder.

    "God, Keefe. Everything's fucked now."

    "I was kind of hoping he'd burst an artery or pass out," Keefe admitted, adjusting so he was fully hugging Fitz against him.

    Fitz snorted. "For a minute there I thought he really would. Homophobic enough that all his kids are screwed up and screwed over, but not homophobic enough to have a heart attack when he sees two guys in love. Figures."

    He fell silent, biting his tongue. If he was being honest, Fitz didn't know what to think. What to say. To Feel. He'd just told his dad, in no uncertain terms, that he was a bad father and to fuck off. And, right as that was... Fitz still felt his chest seizing and stomach roiling uneasily. He didn't think Alden would kick him out, or anything.

    He hoped not, at least.

    "Things are gonna be intense, Fitz. Want to stay at my place for a bit? My parents aren't much better but..." Keefe let the offer hang, his hands working soothing circles on Fitz's back.

    "I think," Fitz swallowed and pulled back far enough to see Keefe's face, "I think I'll stay here. Be with Biana for the fallout, y'know? Thank you though, Keefe. Honestly I'd- If you hadn't been here... Just. Yeah. Thank you." 

    They stood like that, forehead to forehead and swaying gently, until the album finished and the music died, and then Keefe smiled and tugged at Fitz's waist.

    "C'mon Loverboy, I never finished messing with your hair. Can I stay the night?"

    Fitz fell asleep that night curled into Keefe's chest, Keefe's arm over his hip and his other hand in Fitz's hair, and his pillow was damp with tears that he was finally able to shed. He dreamt he was running, running in the sun and grass, bare feet catching the earth in long strides.

    And Keefe ran beside him, golden hair blazing in the sun, cheeks pulled up in laughter.

    And for once, his knee didn't wake him up.