Chapter Text
Fitz stood on the corner of a New York crosswalk, taking in the city and wracking his brain to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his life from now on.
Just a day ago, his dad had kicked him out of the family house in London with nothing but the clothes on his back, a small suitcase filled with his belongings, his messenger bag, and a one-way ticket to New York. He still had a bruise on his face from when his own father had slapped him across the cheek. He reached up to rub the bruise and walked across the street when the light gave him the all-clear.
There was a set of brick apartments arranged in a square across the street. Perfect. Hopefully, someone would have a couch to crash on. He walked up the few stairs, lugging his suitcase behind him. He walked up to the first door and knocked.
An old man with a beer belly opened the door and looked through the screen. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. Go to number 3.” the man slammed the door, and Fitz stood there for a second.
“Oookay then.” Fitz took his suitcase and walked over to the apartment with the number 3 carved into the plate next to the door. He knocked, half expecting to get the same response.
Instead, a young blonde man in a paint-covered apron stepped out. “Hey, can I help you?” he had messy, wavy hair, and a paintbrush in his right hand.
“Uh, yeah,” Fitz replied. “I’m looking for somewhere to stay, and uh, the man down in flat 1 told me to come here.”
The man nodded, looking a little flustered and blushing a little. “Okay. Come on in and we can talk.”
Fitz walked into the apartment, and immediately felt a sense of comfort. There was parchment paper all over the floors, paint staining the carpets and two Tupperware containers of paintbrushes by the sink.
“Leave your suitcase by the door, and you can sit in that stool by the counter. I have cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches if you feel hungry.”
Fitz nodded. “Yeah, I am a little hungry.” he slid into the stool at the counter.
The man grabbed sandwiches out of the fridge and began filling cups with lemonade. “So, tell me everything. I’m Keefe, by the way. I’m assuming you’re British, cause of the accent.”
“Yeah, uh, so it’s a bit of a long story. My dad kinda kicked me out of our house in London and gave me a plane ticket to New York. I wasn’t allowed to bring much, he just didn’t let me. Basically, all I’ve got is my laptop, my clothes, a toothbrush, and, well it’s embarrassing, but my stuffed Stegosaurus. And my wallet.”
The man, now revealed to be Keefe, nodded. “Man, that sucks. Musta been a long flight.” he slid a plate with two small cucumber sandwiches over to Fitz. “I mean I’m happy to let you crash on the couch, I just don’t have much money. I’m a bit of a starving artist if you catch my drift.”
“Yeah, I get that. My writing hasn’t really taken off yet.” Fitz sipped his lemonade, slightly wincing at how sour it was.
“Oh, so you’re an author?” Keefe cocked his head, popping a smile. Fitz nodded, not really wanting to talk about his work. “Anyways, I’ll pull out a few blankets and pillows. You can go ahead and unpack your stuff, and put it by the hat stand if you like.” Keefe left the kitchen and opened a closet in the hallway.
Fitz grabbed his plate and cup and set them down on the coffee table. He unzipped his suitcase and began sorting through his clothes. Keefe came back and put the blankets on the couch, leaving the other boy to unpack. He sat back at the counter and pulled out his phone.
While unpacking, Fitz found a picture of his family. He got choked up, wishing that they were all back together in one place, and all of them were happy. Since he had come out as gay, things had been tense between all of them. His sister and mom were fine with it, but his dad wasn’t. And ultimately, it led him to unpacking his clothes in some stranger's flat in New York. He folded up the photo and tucked it in a random pocket in his suitcase.
Keefe left the room again, and Fitz heard a door close down the hallway. He figured the other man was going to his bedroom, or maybe he had a studio for his artwork. When the blonde had mentioned that he was a starving artist, Fitz instantly understood that feeling. As he had mentioned to Keefe, he was an author, but his books hadn’t quite taken off yet. Before he was forced to relocate to New York, he had to work a day job at a gas station store and write late into the night. It wasn’t working out, but Fitz had faith that it would all come together at some point. After all, he was only 21 and already had a college degree in creative writing.
After his bag was unpacked, Fitz began laying out the blankets on the couch and setting them up the way he wanted. He internally thanked the young man for letting him stay. Hopefully, if he could find a job and get back on his feet soon, Fitz wouldn’t have to stay too long.
All of a sudden, he heard the sound of someone dropping something in the other room. Fitz looked up and heard Keefe’s voice. “Hey, I’m kinda holding something and I dropped a can of brushes, can you go through the door at the end of the hallway and come help me?” Fitz responded with a yes, and followed Keefe’s instructions.
When he pushed open the door at the end of the hallway, Fitz was stunned. All over the room, there were beautiful paintings. They were on easels, hanging on the walls, or leaning against cupboards. Sure enough, a can of brushes had been spilled on the floor. Keefe smiled and thanked Fitz. He had a smudge of red paint on his cheek and was holding a paint palette in his left hand.
Fitz gathered up the brushes and put them back into the can. “You keep your brushes in a bean can?” he laughed a little, gathering up the last couple of brushes.
Keefe looked a little embarrassed. “Yeah, gotta use your resources! Ah, the joys of being a broke 21-year-old with no degree in art.”
“I’m 21 too,” Fitz responded, handing the can of brushes back to Keefe. “I have my creative writing degree- started college a year early. I’m impressed that you don’t have a college degree since your art is so good.”
“Thanks, dude.” Keefe smiled, tilting his head. “I’ve just loved painting for so long, especially oil painting. It’s expensive though, so I’m kinda limited to working with acrylics at the moment.” he gestured to the painting on an easel in front of him, which was a portrait of an orange tabby cat surrounded by herbs and underneath an apple tree. “That’s a painting of my cat, Mister Greenbean. Don’t ask about the name.”
“It looks like it’s made with oil paint.”
Keefe nodded. “Yup. Using the last of my oil paints.”
Fitz suddenly yawned. “I think I’m a bit jetlagged. Might go take a power nap. Again, thank you so much for letting me stay here.” he smiled and shook Keefe’s hand, before returning to the couch and falling asleep almost immediately.