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It's three in the morning when Keefe's Imparter begins to buzz. Once, twice, thrice, over and over until Keefe groans himself awake and his arm hits the wood of his dresser, fumbling blindly to turn the noise off. His fingers close around cool metal and he pulls himself up, blearily accepting the call without checking who in the world could be calling him at this time.
Then Fitz's voice is filling his ears and Keefe thinks, ah, of course Fitz would be awake at this time. Probably studying, or something similar.
"Keefe. Hey, Keefe. Keefe, Keefe—"
Fitz is slurred, words running together as they tumble from his mouth. There's a strange, giddy edge to him as he repeats Keefe's name.
"What? Fitz, you okay?"
Feverish giggles are the only response. All the sleep has left Keefe's system. He swings his legs over the bed and stands, and then realizes he has nowhere to go. Unhappy, he sits back down.
Between laughs, Fitz manages to say, "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay! I just—Do you know something?"
"You're drunk?" Keefe asks sharply. He recognizes this voice now. He's heard it only a few times, always when Fitz has had one too many glasses of wine. "Oh my God. Do you need me to get you?" He stands up again and starts for the door.
"No! No, don't worry about it!" Fitz laughs a little. "I'm fine, just wanted to tell you something!"
Keefe pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "Why are you getting drunk? And—without me?"
He kicks himself immediately, cursing at the pitiful note to his voice. Keefe shouldn't have asked. It wasn't like he and Fitz did much together as it was, not since Keefe had fled to the Forbidden Cities. Fitz had hardly spoken to him since he returned, something dark flashing in his eyes every time they saw each other. Keefe realizes this is the longest conversation they've had since, which feels like being body slammed.
"Keefe. Keefe. I want to tell you something," Fitz insists. The way he says Keefe's name is lyrical, his smooth accent intensified by the alcohol. "Keefe."
"What?" Keefe pauses, then asks again, "Are you okay?"
"Yes?" Fitz says, laughing again like Keefe was ridiculous. "Sit down."
Keefe rolls his eyes to the ceiling but obliges, returning to the edge of his bed. His leg is tapping with nervous energy again and he can't stop it. "Just tell me. Or I'm coming to find you."
"Okay! So, a few weeks ago, I did some confessional thing with Sophie. A Cognate Insqui—wait, Inqui—Insiquition—" Fitz struggles with the syllables for a moment, then gives up. "Doesn't matter! We told each other a bunch of secrets. To strengthen our bond."
Keefe loves talking about Fitz and Sophie's relationship at three in the morning. He really does.
"Right. Right, and you're telling me this because?"
"Well, see," Fitz says brightly, "I told her I wanted to kiss her! Just once, one kiss. Because we never kissed. Ever. And now—"
What the fuck. Keefe would hang up right there if he cared about Fitz even a slip less.
Fitz's voice slides from giddy to morose with no warning, a pitiful kind of beg. "Oh, Keefe, I wish I didn't tell her that. I wish I knew better. Do you get it? Do you get it now?"
No.
Keefe's skin burns. This is wrong. Drunk confessionals don't end well, not ever.
"I don't want to kiss her."
He opens his mouth to tell Fitz, stop, slow down, think, but he isn't fast enough.
"I want to kiss you. My best friend. My—"
Keefe shuts the Imparter call, immediately cuts off the ramblings. But it's too late. He's glad Fitz told him to sit because suddenly he's shaking, shaking hard. He collapses back on the bed like his spine is paper.
He closes his eyes and sees Fitz staring back at him. Keefe can imagine his exact expression, scrunch of his nose, the press of his lips. The fragility in his voice as drunk ramblings slipped into confession.
It couldn't be. Maybe Fitz was feeling a little funny tonight. Maybe he'd wanted to play a prank on his best friend, just a goof. Maybe Keefe had hung up before the joke had been unveiled.
Keefe has many talents. Lying to himself may be number one after tonight.
---
Keefe is looking at Fitz's lips, and he's thinking of last night. Can't stop looking, can't stop thinking.
(those lips on him, those lips saying his name)
Fitz keeps catching him, glancing over just to see Keefe's searching stare right before Keefe flicks it away. Fitz, for his own part, seems completely normal. He doesn't even look hungover. He'd smiled casually when he'd seen Keefe approach, then turned his gaze to Dex, not a hint of last night in the way he'd looked at Keefe.
Keefe is trying to pretend it never happened, for his own sanity, but it's hard when the subject of all his thoughts is sitting right in front of him, biting into some fruit like Keefe isn't spiraling one foot away.
Sometimes, when people are drunk, they do stupid things. Say stuff they'd never believe sober. With every additional second Keefe stares at Fitz, he becomes surer that that was it. Just a silly mistake, and maybe Fitz wasn't bringing it up because he was embarrassed, so maybe Keefe should never bring it up either.
(i want to kiss you i want to kiss you i want to kiss you)
Keefe tears his eyes away from Fitz and focuses on his lunch. His gaze doesn't leave the plate until the bell rings and Fitz is safely away.
So, a day. Two, three, then a whole week, and neither of them have said a thing.
Keefe is sick with questions, craving the answers, but fear glues his mouth shut. Every time Fitz gives him a polite hello, Keefe bites his tongue to keep it all back: did you mean that? do you really want to kiss me? me?
He sneaks glances at Fitz whenever he can, checking for a slip in his smile, but Fitz reveals nothing. No one could be this unaffected.
Slowly, Keefe realizes Fitz didn't remember. He'd been so drunk, wasted to the point of forgetting everything he'd said in the early hours of morning.
So, okay. Fitz didn't remember, but Keefe absolutely did.
He hates the twist in his gut every time Fitz's gaze passes over him. He shouldn't care so much, but he does. Keefe's mind begs for Fitz to notice him, pay attention to him, but when Fitz invites him to walk to class together, he finds his mouth spilling a new excuse, suddenly scared that he'll give something away.
I remember, I remember. Don't you?
So, a week. Two, three, then a whole month. Keefe's stomach sinks as he stares at Fitz over the table. When Fitz finally looks back, he pauses. "Keefe? What is it?"
"Nothing," Keefe responds, and his gaze bolts back to his book. He is on chapter six, and he hasn't read a word.
"So, how bad do you think Telepathy's gonna be today?" Fitz asks Sophie, with his perfect grin, his perfect accent.
Sophie shrugs and laughs. "It won't be that bad. Nothing could be worse than the Inquisition."
"No." Fitz's eyes flick to Keefe for a microsecond, so quick that anyone would miss it. Unfortunately, Keefe's body had long grown attuned to sensing every time Fitz notices him. It's like an alarm, his nerves blaring with every sideways glance, every shared laugh. Fitz continues, completely casual, "No, honestly. That was the worst."
"Hey, it helped us get closer." Sophie nudges Fitz.
Oh no. Is this flirting? Are they flirting?
Keefe stands up, his seat suddenly lined with razors. He grimaces a smile at everyone, taking care not to look too long at Fitz. "Hey, you know what? I just remembered I have something to do. Um—I'm just gonna—okay."
Fitz's brow furrows, his eyes slightly narrowing, but Keefe doesn't dwell on it. He hurries out of the cafeteria, face flaming.
Fitz finds him in a classroom, hunched over his sketchbook, pen pinched between his fingers. Ink scratches against paper relentlessly, only taking a break when Keefe looks up and sees his best friend glaring down at him, absolutely furious.
"How'd you find me?" Keefe asks, and tries to smile, but he really can't pull it off.
Fitz rolls his eyes. "This is your next class. Art Workshop."
Keefe falters. "You know my schedule?"
"Don't be an asshole," Fitz tells him, and walks closer. "You're such a fucking asshole."
Fitz's eyes flicker in something like distaste, and shame sinks in Keefe's stomach. An asshole? He knows, believe him, he knows. "Because I ran away?"
"What?"
"I ran away," Keefe repeats. "Twice. And you hate me for it."
Fitz shakes his head, sharp, like he can't believe what he's hearing. "Well, yeah, you did do that. But that's not..."
Keefe has this awful feeling that he's missing something, and he can't for the life of him figure out what. He looks at Fitz, that bright teal gaze, and thinks back to that night, the words so eagerly spilling out of Fitz's mouth, and how everything had been wiped away the next morning.
"Then what is it?"
He wished it hadn't been over an Imparter Call. He wished he'd been able to look into Fitz's eyes, which would've been hooded and soft and tired, and been able to fool himself that it was real.
I wish I knew better. I want to kiss you.
Fitz takes a deep, shuddering breath. "It's been weeks. I wish I could take it all back, but I can't change what I told you. And I know you want to act like it never happened, but at least be better at pretending."
Keefe realizes with a start that it's tears, Fitz's eyes are bright with tears. Dreadful certainty crashes down on him.
"You didn't forget," he whispers. "You didn't forget calling me. Or what you said."
Fitz's eyes widen, incredulous. "How could I forget?"
"But... you were so drunk."
"Did you think I forgot? Holy shit." Fitz drags his fingers through his hair, and Keefe has to avert his eyes before he begins to think things he shouldn't. "I didn't forget, Keefe."
Keefe remembers searching for a knowing glance, being met with Fitz's bland smile, the crushing disappointment that had followed. "You sure acted like it! The next day, you wouldn't talk about it. You pretended everything was normal."
"You hung up on me!" Fitz yells. "I told you my worst secret, and you hung up!"
Keefe wants to throw up. The shame doubles, triples. "I..."
"I knew you were an asshole, but that was—God, why'd you do that?"
"I didn't believe you! What if you'd say something you regretted? Fitz, you were so drunk, I thought—"
"Well, it was the truth." Fitz sets his jaw, his expression stone. "I definitely regret it now, but I was telling the truth. I just happened to be a little drunk."
Keefe stares, his world spinning around its focal point, which just happened to be Fitz. "I didn't know."
He tries to say more, he really does. But he doesn't know how to verbalize the ache in his chest, the way he's always unconsciously leaning Fitz's way, the thoughts he has at night when there's no one to hide from. It all sticks in his throat, too large for words.
"Okay, Keefe. Point made. I get it."
"Wait."
Fitz does. He lets Keefe's mouth open, then shut, then twist in regret. And then he sighs, heavy but unsurprised. "Don't tell anyone else about this. Please."
He turns away and Keefe scrambles to his feet, terrified of Fitz walking away. His arm shoots out, fingers pressing into Fitz's skin in desperation. "Wait."
"What is it?" Fitz whirls back, flaring with frustration. "I can't wait for you forever!"
"I'm in love with you!"
Fitz's lips press together. Not a sound escapes.
Keefe tightens his grip on Fitz's arm, pulls him closer. "I'm so terrified. All the time. Because I'm in love with you, and my entire life, there has only been one night where I wondered if you felt remotely the same."
Fitz shakes his head, but he doesn't draw away. If anything, he shifts a little closer. "You hung up on me."
"Shut up," Keefe says, a smile breaking through. "I didn't want to hear something you'd take back later. I told you, I was terrified."
"You're still an asshole," Fitz whispers, just before he pushes Keefe against the desk and kisses him like it's his last chance at living.
Keefe welcomes it, grabbing Fitz's waist and pressing them flush together, kissing Fitz back even as the desk digs into his skin, because he can't feel anything, nothing but Fitz's lips on his, Fitz's breath heavy against his mouth. He has thought too much and too long about this exact moment, and it lives up to all those dreams, all those quiet prayers in the dark.
When they part, Keefe is too dazed to say a word. He looks at Fitz, cheeks blazing.
"I changed my mind. I'm actually glad you hung up," Fitz tells him, and his voice has become unbearably fond. "The next thing I'd have said would've been that I was in love with you, and that would've been terrible."
Keefe's heart drops. "Oh."
"I'd rather tell you that in person. And not drunk out of my mind."
"Oh."
Before Keefe can react further, Fitz kisses him again, slow and lingering. He whispers, against Keefe's lips, "I love you," and Keefe says it back, soft and sure.
I love you, over and over, until they're both delirious and flushed pink with possibilities.