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I love everything about you that hurts
Must there be romance, for you to love someone?
Keefe looked at the marks on his neck, on his collarbone, on his shoulders. Marks left by the gentle touch of lips on skin. That’s love. That’s a type of love.
There are different types of love, aren’t there? Different ways to love someone?
Because Keefe loved Fitz. Loved the way he looked and the way he smiled and the way his eyes glittered in the sun and the way his hair got messy whenever he did anything even remotely athletic. Loved the way his chest felt pressed up against Keefe’s own, loved the way his hands curled through Keefe’s hair, loved the way he whispered sweet nothings under his breath in their darkest nights together.
But he didn’t love Fitz in the way people expected him to.
And he wished he did.
So let me see your moves, let me see your moves
It hurts. Loving someone who can’t love you the same way in return.
Fitz stared at the photos of him and Keefe on the ceiling, reaching for them, as though by holding them between his long fingers he’d be able to summon his lover here by force of will.
He wondered why. Why couldn’t Keefe love him? Was it that he didn’t want to? Was it that he wasn’t able to? Was it that Fitz was as unlovable as his family seemed to act like he was?
Surely he was the one at fault here. Fitz was. The golden boy. The one who was supposed to settle down and have a kid or maybe two with a nice girl with a good ability. Like Sophie.
But he wasn’t even lovable to other queer people. To other ‘rejects’.
If he wasn’t lovable to the unlovable, as deemed by society, then how could he be lovable to anyone at all?
Lips pressed close to mine
True blue
He shouldn’t feel guilty for not loving Fitz in the way that Fitz loved him.
He shouldn’t.
But he did.
And he didn’t know why.
Was it not enough for Fitz, for the world, for himself, that he did love Fitz? It shouldn’t matter the way he went about it. The way he showed it, the way he felt it.
And yet.
And yet, and yet, and yet it did.
It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. And yet it does.
And as he cried himself to sleep
he wondered
why.
Why can’t he love Fitz?
Why can’t he love Fitz in the only way that seemed to matter to anyone?
But the prince of any failing empire knows
Fitz locked eyes with himself in the mirror. Teal, like sea glass, like seaweed bobbing just under the clear surface of water, like the sky through the tightly-pressed leaves on trees. Teal eyes his father said any girl would fall for just after he wondered why he hadn’t settled down with a nice girl yet.
You’re eighteen, Fitz.
Every boy your age has a girlfriend, now.
Why don’t you?
Why?
Fitz, why?
Why are you failing me like this, Fitz?
You know I only want the best for you.
And still
you disappoint me
as though my love is worth nothing
nothing
nothing.
His father’s love was worth everything, everything to Fitz. So why couldn’t he just settle down with a nice girlfriend?
Because he was an idiot.
An idiot who kept chasing after the one person who couldn’t love him back.
That everybody wants, everybody wants
God, Keefe was so tired.
So tired of the world looking at him and Fitz and thinking of romance. So tired of looking at him, alone, and wondering why he didn’t have a girlfriend — or even a boyfriend, they were that fucking desperate to ignore who he was — hanging off his arm.
Maybe he couldn’t love anyone.
Was that such a bad thing?
Was that really such a horrible thing, that the world couldn’t imagine anything but?
It couldn’t be.
Keefe wasn’t broken. Wasn’t a monster.
So why?
Why did he feel like one?
To drive on through the night
If it’s the drive back home
Home. Fitz hated that word.
Home, to most, was a fixed place. A house, with a family and a pet and a partner who loved you. Home wasn’t a person, home wasn’t a feeling, home was a house that was forever in the same place. Unchanged. Unfeeling.
No one seemed to consider the fact that home is where your heart is. The place you love the most.
He had thought Everglen was his home, because it had his sister and his mother in it. He had thought school was his home, because he was good at it and it had friends in it, sometimes.
Maybe Keefe was the closest thing he’d ever had to a home.
Home is where your heart is. And Fitz’s heart was with Keefe.
But not every heart beats the same way.
And clearly, Fitz and Keefe’s hearts were beating out of time with each other.
Things aren’t the same anymore
Gone were the carefree days that Keefe used to adore.
Gone were the forts of sticks and of pillows and of whatever was lying in the room at the time.
Gone were the Mario Kart games as they sat a little closer together than what was strictly necessary.
Gone were the goodnight kisses and the holding hands under desks in class and the late-night cuddling after one of them woke up screaming from nightmares, from memories.
Keefe wanted those back. Those moments. Before Fitz said I love you and Keefe couldn’t say it back in the way he wanted to hear. Before the kisses went sour because only one of them was trying, was feeling.
He couldn’t have those back. He couldn’t. He wanted them, but he was never going to get them.
Some nights it gets so bad
I almost pick up the phone
Fitz stared at the Imparter. He didn’t know what he wanted to see. The concerned brown eyes of his best friend? The teal eyes framed by the long lashes of his sister? The flash of ice blue of the person he loved the most in the whole world?
Not his own, certainly, staring back at him blankly.
Not Keefe’s either, really. It’d only make him hurt. Make him wonder.
There was a small chance it would help. Barely, but it was there enough to consider it.
Fitz didn’t want to take that risk, though. Too much pain with not enough gain.
Fitz had had enough pain to last a thousand lifetimes. He didn’t want to add any more on top of that.
Especially not from Keefe. Because from Keefe, it would only hurt worse.
Trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns
I sleep in your old shirts
The top three things Keefe expected to see when he opened his door in the middle of the night:
1) His father, or maybe his mother, crawling back to beg him for forgiveness. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the last.
2) A salesperson, or maybe a kid selling chocolates for school. Very common. He probably would have bought chocolate, too. He was in the mood for it.
3) Jesus. Keefe was so surprised by Fitzroy fucking Vacker (not his actual middle name) standing on his welcome mat in the pouring rain that he expected literal Jesus Christ, Christian demigod and famously dead guy, to be there. Keefe was literally Jewish. That was how shocked he was.
It probably didn’t help that he was wearing Fitz’s too-big shirt. Merch from a band Keefe hadn’t listened to. Twenty-one something.
He didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. Not for a while.
And then Keefe said why don’t you come in? and they walked together in silence.
And walk through this house in your shoes
Fitz’s fingers brushed against the walls of Keefe’s house. He knew every crack, every bump in the paint, every pencil line. He felt as if he was intruding. Intruding in his second home.
Second home. First home. Only home. Not home anymore.
He stared at Keefe’s back, where the bleached ends of his hair reached his shoulders. There were streaks within the waves that reminded Fitz of rust settling in on steel. Had his hair been like that for long? Was Fitz just that ignorant?
Why are you here?
Why are you here, Fitz?
Fitz?
Fitz?
Fitz?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
He didn’t know.
I don’t know.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
The crushing weight of unspoken words on shoulders.
silence.
They sat there
for a long time
unspeaking.
It’s a strange way of saying
That I know I’m supposed to love you
Silence.
It can be the loudest thing.
With simply a glance, you can speak, you can scream, all the words that never leave your lips.
Why don’t you love me?
Why can’t you love me?
Is it me?
Did I do something?
But, it seems, with simply a glance, you cannot convey what you want to say. You cannot convey how you feel.
How annoying.
It’s not you.
It was never you.
And Fitz didn’t seem to hear him.
I’m supposed to love you
Sometimes, he said, as slowly as he could manage. Maybe if he eased Keefe into the pain, it would hurt less. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t love you.
Sometimes, Keefe replied, I wish I did.
I’ve already given up on myself twice
Fitz could count on one hand the number of times he’d wanted to scream so loud he lost his voice.
The first was when he’d first failed at school, on a test that meant nothing. His father didn’t want to speak to him. Fitz locked himself in his room and forced himself not to cry, to study harder until he got 100 on the next one. He’d achieved nothing except a week without sleep or enough food, and his father to look at him again.
The second was when his mother had died. He hadn’t even been able to muster up the strength to cry. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except lay on top of his covers with an empty gaze directed toward the ceiling. He hadn’t recovered in time to comfort his sister, who moved on without him. He hadn’t really recovered at all. Just worked out how to ignore it better.
The third was now.
Right now.
As Keefe said he wished he could love him.
Why fucking can’t you then?
And he let loose all the screams he’d ever held back, determined to wear down Keefe as the world had worn him down throughout his nineteen years.
Third time is the charm, third time is the charm
A knife. Pressing through his ears.
Two knives, even. One for each ear.
That was how it felt listening to Fitz scream at him.
Better add in a third knife. Right through his chest, between the fourth and fifth ribs. He was pretty sure that was where his heart was.
It hurt more because he knew he deserved it.
He’d been lying to Fitz for years. He’d avoided every question and every I love you and broken every last bit of trust either of them had held for the other.
He deserved everything Fitz could possibly throw at him.
Threw caution to the wind
But I’ve got a lousy arm
Fitz’s lungs felt empty, and he stopped his rant to breathe.
Silence again.
Silence except for the ringing in his ears.
I’m sorry for getting mad, he wanted to say. He was sorry. He was sorry he’d reacted like that.
He wasn’t sorry that he’d reacted.
But he was sorry he’d overreacted.
And he was sorry for the way Keefe wasn’t looking at him, for the way his eyes went glassy with tears, for the way every line on his face seemed to be tilted in a way that said I deserve everything you throw at me.
Fitz sat back down and didn’t look at Keefe.
So why can’t you?
Silence.
The thing he needed the most, but the thing he wanted the least. Especially right now.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
And I’ve traced your shadows on the wall
Now I kiss them
Keefe’s knuckles were white. A stark contrast against the silver of the sink.
His fingers slipped along the edges. The running of the water twisted with the white noise in his ears.
He should probably turn the sink off. But he didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything except the way the ice blue of his eyes looked darker in the shadows, looked teal, if you squinted. Except the way Fitz’s shirt hung off his body. Except the way the shadows behind him looked like Fitz, as his eyes faded in and out of focus.
He gripped the sink tighter, waiting for his head to stop spinning and his knees to stop shaking and his stomach to settle down and the shadows behind him to stop looking like Fitz.
The water continued flowing from the sink. His hair fell about his shoulders. His lips went dry.
The shadows remained.
Whenever I’m down, whenever I’m down
Fitz looked at the photos on the floor in front of him. Still intact, despite every cell of his body screaming for him to destroy them.
Photos of hugs and of kisses and of friends and of each of them, always together, always touching or looking at each other.
He wanted to tear them all apart.
But he couldn’t bring himself to.
His eyes flicked from the red roots to the pale lips to the ice-blue eyes to the fingers entwined with his own. In almost every image.
His hands curled into fists, and then relaxed.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Figured on not figuring myself out
Keefe didn’t like thinking about himself.
When he did, he could only think about who had sculpted him in this way — his parents, his teachers, his peers. Fitz, even, a little bit.
He didn’t like thinking about himself, so he didn’t.
He didn’t like thinking about himself, so he didn’t try to work out what it was that was wrong with him. What about him was different. What about him was broken.
It hurt. It hurt him and it hurt everyone around him.
He wished it didn’t.
He wished he could just… work it out. Explain.
But it hurt him more to do that.
And the selfish part of him was willing to let his mind keep its secrets at the cost of Fitz — of everyone — hurting.
It’s better this way.
It is.
I promise.
Things aren’t the same anymore
Biana nudged Fitz’s knee with her own.
You’ll be alright.
People fall out of love all the time.
It’s fine.
It wasn’t fine.
It wasn’t.
I didn’t think we would.
He’d never thought it.
Never.
In every future he’d pictured, Keefe was always there.
Hugging him.
Kissing him.
Holding hands with him.
He was always, always there.
Nobody ever does.
But this time was different.
I don’t think he ever loved me at all.
Biana didn’t have anything to say to that.
Some nights it gets so bad
I almost pick up the phone
Keefe paced his bedroom, glancing at the door every time he turned around.
He wasn’t sure why.
He wasn’t expecting anyone.
Maybe he was just hoping.
Hoping for someone to drag him out of his thoughts. To pull his head out of his ass.
To help him.
He glanced at the Imparter on his shelf.
The only way to fix this was to talk to Fitz.
He didn’t want to.
He wished it was any way other than this.
He wished it was easy.
But nothing ever was.
Trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns
The weight of arms on shoulders. The weight of her chin on the top of his head. The weight of his heart in his chest.
Sophie cradled him as if he was dying, and he cried as if he wanted to.
It’s alright. It’ll be alright.
I promise.
She should know, she should know not to make promises she couldn’t keep.
Fitz didn’t say anything, he just gripped her shirt tighter and pulled her closer.
It’s okay.
It’s okay.
It'll be okay.
It wouldn’t be.
It wouldn’t.
There was a knock on the door.
Sophie let go of Fitz and stood to answer it.
Keefe stepped in before either of them had reached it.
I sleep in your old shirts
Keefe stared at Sophie so he didn’t have to look at Fitz.
I’ll leave.
Fitz grabbed her wrist. Stay.
She shook her head. Edaline wants me to help with dinner anyway. She pulled Fitz in for a quick hug before pulling her jacket on. Love you.
Keefe tensed.
Fitz watched her go.
She didn’t mean it romantically.
Keefe’s fists didn’t unclench. I know.
They stood facing each other for several minutes. Fitz made no move to let him in. Keefe made no move to ask.
I’m sorry.
And walk through this house in your shoes
The darkness of the outside cast a shadow across Keefe’s face that didn’t quite conceal his puffy eyes. The light glaring into his own would have broadcasted the fact he’d been crying to anyone who bothered to look.
Keefe bothered.
Are you alright?
Instinct stepped in for both of them, and Keefe’s hands cupped Fitz’s chin and wiped away the remaining tear tracks on his cheeks. Fitz’s hands made their way to Keefe’s hips, pulling him closer.
Then they both realised.
Then they both stepped away.
Sorry.
The word spoken in perfect harmony, the guilt clear on both their faces.
Keefe wanted to talk.
It was obvious.
Fitz moved aside to let him in.
I know it’s strange
Stop apologising.
Keefe fell silent. In the absence of the apologies, the tension grew between them.
He wanted to hate Fitz. It would be easier.
God, how he wished he could just cast Fitz aside and move on.
But he couldn’t.
Their lives were completely entwined.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Fitz frowned.
Nothing’s wrong with you.
Keefe let out a laugh. He wanted to cry.
If there’s nothing wrong with me, why don’t I love you?
Fitz stared at him, expression blank.
People fall out of love all the time. It’s fine.
It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t.
It’s not fine. It’s not fine, and you know it.
He did know it.
They both knew it.
It hurts. A little.
Keefe looked at the ceiling so Fitz wouldn’t see him cry.
It hurts me too.
It’s a strange way of saying
That I know I’m supposed to love you
Fitz gripped at the edge of his seat to keep him from hurting either of them.
How? How can it possibly hurt you?
Keefe looked down. A jolt went through Fitz’s heart when he saw tears glistening in the ice blue of his eyes.
I’m watching the person I love the most in the world — the person I wish I loved — hurt because of me. It’s my fault. That would hurt you, if you were in my position.
He was right.
It would.
Why can’t you love me, then, if you want to so badly?
Keefe wiped his eyes with a sad smile.
If I knew, I’d tell you.
I’m supposed to love you
Fitz wrung his hands together. Keefe watched them move, his mind in a thousand different places.
Why did you tense up so much when Sophie said she loved me? She didn’t mean it romantically.
Keefe let his eyes refocus. Fitz’s eyes had that wideness to them, the tell he was curious about something.
Because she can say it with such ease, because she can say it and mean it, but whenever I tried to tell it to you back, I felt sick to my stomach. It goes against my entire self, I think. I couldn’t do it.
Maybe if you tried —
I did try. I did. And I… I love you in other ways, as well. I showed that. I just don’t love you in the way you want me to.
I was born under a bad sign
I just don’t love you in the way you want me to.
Fitz curled his knees to his chest.
No one ever seemed to.
Would we be better off if we… broke up? Forgot about each other?
Keefe bit his lip.
For you, I’d do anything. But… it wouldn’t be better. Not for me.
But you saved my life
That night on the roof of your hotel
Keefe didn’t want to live in a world where he and Fitz didn’t know each other.
Especially not in a world where they once had.
It hurts to love you. It does. But I don’t want to stop.
Fitz looked at him, his teal eyes clouded over with thought.
I don’t want you to stop either.
Cross my heart and hope to die
Keefe stood, and Fitz moved over on the couch so he could fit. They sat next to each other — not touching, not looking at each other, but close enough they could see the rise and fall of each other’s chests.
I want to hug you, Keefe said slowly, but I’m afraid if I did, I wouldn’t be able to let go.
Fitz thought of the pain they’d both been feeling, and of the love that swelled in his chest, and of the way if he let their bodies touch, it would hurt like he was being set on fire.
Who said anything about letting go?
Splinter of the headboard in my eye
Keefe stroked Fitz’s hair as he slept, staring at the dead plant in the corner of the room. It was hot, in the bed. His arms were covered in sweat.
Maybe he was just nervous.
He didn’t want to screw things up again.
He got out of Fitz’s bed and pulled on a shirt. He knocked something on the floor as he did — a small piece of paper.
A photograph.
A photograph of the two of them.
They were younger. Much, much younger. Back in their early Foxfire days, where their days together were limited. Fitz was smiling and leaning his head back onto Keefe’s shoulder. Keefe was holding a controller and sticking his tongue out at the camera. It was in the days before Keefe had started dyeing his hair. Sometime just after his bar mitzvah.
He missed those days.
Photo-proofed kisses I remember so well
Fitz sat down next to Keefe.
It’s us.
Keefe laughed softly.
No shit.
Fitz picked up another photo — taken by Sophie, who was sitting right on the edge of the couch with a disgruntled look as he and Keefe made out behind her.
The good ol’ days. Keefe tipped an imaginary hat.
Fitz grinned. Before everything imploded on us. He sighed, and placed the photo back in the mess on the floor. As much as I miss those days, is it weird that I don’t want them back?
Keefe shook his head. Not weird at all. They were wonderful, but what we’ve gone through has changed us both. He wiggled his eyebrows. Besides, the sex is better now.
Fitz nudged him, giggling.
Trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns
In all seriousness, Keefe said, I wouldn’t want to change anything. Not even all the shit we went through.
Fitz nodded slowly. I get that. I wouldn’t trade this away to save the world.
I sleep in your old shirts
Keefe pressed his lips to Fitz’s temple and stood up. I’ll see you tomorrow?
You better, Fitz said teasingly from the floor. You’re wearing one of my good shirts.
Keefe looked down. It was one of Fitz’s newer band shirts. It didn’t look that good.
If it’s so good, why’s it on your floor?
Fitz held out a hand for Keefe to pull him up. Because that’s where you threw it.
Excuses. Keefe kissed Fitz again, before bowing slightly and leaving.
And walk through this house in your shoes
Fitz closed the door behind Keefe and stared at it for a while.
I know it’s strange
Keefe waited until Fitz closed the door before he turned back around and stared at it.
It’s a strange way of saying that I know I’m supposed to love you
There were different types of love in the world. Different ways to show love, different ways to feel love. And just because you felt it different to other people didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
There was love in the way a parent hugged their child, or in the carefree banter between friends, or in the way you’d stay up until three a.m. to help someone you’d never met with something they had to have done by the next day.
I’m supposed to love you
Keefe loved Fitz.
Fitz loved Keefe.
It didn’t matter how. It didn’t matter how, to either of them. It didn’t matter to those who cared about them. It just mattered that they did.
And they were alright with not knowing.
They had each other.
And nothing mattered except them.