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Fitz Vacker has never been unlucky on Valentine's.
He's great at picking out flowers and chocolates, even better at charming the date he has lined up. After dinner, they want to walk around, maybe get ice cream. They ask if he'll drop them by their house. They bite their lips and subtly hint at a good night kiss that he always delivers on. Then he walks back to his car, leaves them blushing behind their front doors.
It's a sweet, romantic evening. It leaves behind pleasant memories and a hint of perfume and a promise of a second date that doesn't come.
Because Valentine's always goes great, but anything after—well, it won't work out. Fitz knows this, so he doesn't bother with the rest of the story, just learns to perfect the first chapter. He's gotten good at it over the years. No one ever complains, no one—
"This isn't working."
"What?" Fitz looks up from his plate. "Do you not like your salmon?"
"No, I mean—" His date, Marella, gestures towards him. "This."
"What?" he repeats. He notices her pointed finger and feels vaguely offended. "Did I do something?"
"Yes? No? I don't know. Maybe." She takes a sip of her cocktail, which is pink and sparkly and a Valentine's Day Special. Fitz thinks of Keefe, who loves every specialty cocktail that has ever been created. "I just don't think you're that interested in this date. Or me."
Fitz has never been told this before. He doesn't know how to react. "I like you," he says dumbly.
"Do you?"
He studies her. Looks, really looks, for the first time all evening, which is shameful to realize. Her hair is blonde and artfully wavy, her eyes bright and pale. "Yes, I do. You're very pretty."
"Thank you." She smiles warmly.
He relaxes, thinking he's passed this new challenge.
"But," she continues, and his heart drops, "you really don't seem that... into me. Like, you keep zoning out. I'm asking all the questions. Stuff like that, you know?"
"I'm sorry," Fitz says, making sure to look her in the eyes. "I've been completely distracted. Can we try again?"
"Of course."
They try again. Fitz asks her about her family, her job, her hobbies. He laughs at her jokes. He tells her again how pretty she is. But her frown edges its way back, uncontrollable.
"This still isn't working, is it?" he asks eventually, feeling defeated.
Marella nods, brow furrowed. "It's not your fault."
He sighs. "Right."
She cocks her head. He forces himself to make eye-contact again. "Have you recently broken up with someone?"
"No," Fitz says honestly. He knows, now, that it would be too honest to tell her that he's never had a real relationship. He's in his mid-twenties and stuck at that first date, unable to move past. But people don't like hearing that.
"There's someone else though, isn't there?"
"What?" he blurts, too loud, too panicky. She keeps looking at him. Fitz smooths his face back out. "What do you mean?"
Fitz's world is completely off-script. He hates it.
"Oh, there is." Her face glimmers with excitement, so he directs some of that hatred towards her. Maybe that's a little unfair. "Who is it?"
"No one."
Marella pauses, and he prepares himself for the crushing honesty she'll deliver next. With salmon thoughtfully speared on her fork, she says, "You're a really nice guy, Fitz, but this date's already kind of a bust. So maybe—"
"He's my best friend."
Marella blinks at Fitz. Fitz blinks at Marella .
He can't believe he just said that. Can't believe how easily his worst secret fell from his mouth. Can't believe how his heart is already pounding, stomach aflutter in a way someone like Marella could never do to him, no matter how long or hard she tried.
"Okay," she says slowly. "Your best friend."
He examines her face for a trace of judgement, but finds none. Carefully, he adds, "Since I was eleven."
"Wow. I don't even talk to my high school friends."
Fitz nods, very hard, though he's not sure to what. He presses his lips together, but now the stream is overflowing, words bubbling out after spending so long stored inside. "I think I'm in love with him."
"Wow," Marella says again, quieter.
"Is this the worst date you've ever been on?" Fitz asks her, feeling guilty.
Her mouth quirks up, and it looks exactly like Keefe's wry grin, sends lightning up Fitz's spine. "Hell no. This is actually one of the better ones."
He promises himself he'll get her something nice later. A repayment. "But I'm telling you all about how I'm in love with someone else."
"I think this is better than a date, honestly."
Fitz relaxes. "Really?"
"Why don't you tell him?"
He tenses right back up. "I can't."
"Why?"
"He's my best friend." Marella raises her eyebrows, and Fitz knows she won't understand. He shrugs, helpless. "I can't ruin us."
He doesn't want to forget the scent of Keefe's cologne. Doesn't know what he'd do with all the Skittles he keeps stashed in his car. Doesn't know how long it would take to delete every photo, every secret, every memory.
"You'll just go on bad dates for the rest of your life?"
"No one else has ever called them bad," he protests.
Marella scoffs. "Not to your face."
Fitz doesn't need to think about that, so he says instead, "I just... hope I'll move on. One day."
"How long has it been?"
He winces. "A decade or so."
She whistles, long and low. "Damn."
"I know."
"Listen to me right now." Marella grabs his hand across the table, squeezes it tight. "You need to tell him. As soon as possible. Tonight."
"Tonight?" he echoes.
"Before you chicken out and convince yourself it's worth enduring this anymore."
"I can't."
She smiles and it gleams, wicked. "I'll help you."
They rush through the rest of the dinner, then stop by the nearest grocery store. Marella picks out the perfect bouquet, red roses peppered with these tiny, ice-blue flowers. Fitz gets a heart-shaped box of Skittles. He drops her back at her place, mumbling thank you over and over.
She waves it all away and hugs him fiercely. "Tell me how it goes."
"Oh—Okay."
"I'm rooting for you both."
"Really?"
Marella punches his shoulder and leaves. He gets back in his car and inputs Keefe's address, which is basically pointless because Fitz has memorized every route to his place. He's deathly still the entire drive over, terrified that a stray movement will send him running back home, mouth glued shut forever.
And then he's standing in front of Keefe's apartment door, and his hands are shaking, and he wants to die, but it's too late. The doorbell has been rung.
The door swings open. Keefe stands, slouchy, with a perpetual bedhead that means he hadn't bothered to go out all day. "Fitz?"
Fitz chokes on every word he'd rehearsed with Marella. He says, bravely, "Um," and nothing else.
Keefe's gaze travels to the flowers. To the candy. "Fitz?" he repeats, eyes widening.
"I—"
Fitz can't get the words past his throat. He gapes at Keefe, stupidly helpless, his face hotter than a fire. He thinks about Keefe closing the door before him and regrets every decision he's ever made.
But then Keefe smiles, and it's soft and beautiful and perfect. "Are those for me?"
"Obviously," Fitz rasps out.
When Keefe's hands find his waist, the flowers fall to the ground, then the candy follows. Fitz doesn't want to hold anything but Keefe's hair between his fingers, the fabric of his stupid pajamas under his touch. "You got me Skittles," Keefe whispers.
"You have an addiction," Fitz scoffs, and then kisses Keefe so hard he can't think.