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"How'd you find me?"
Dex rolls his eyes, locking his car and walking over to Keefe's. "You share your location with me, dumbass."
"Oh."
Dex slides into the passenger seat and joins Keefe in emptily staring out at the sky. You can't see stars, but the silhouettes of mountains stand proud behind the glowing lights of advertisements. It's pretty, but there are prettier things to look at tonight.
He sneaks a glance at Keefe, whose mouth seems eternally twisted downwards, bags sitting heavy under his eyes. "You look like shit."
Keefe doesn't reply.
Dex decides to just get to the point. "I brought some weed."
That perks Keefe right up. "Really?"
They smoke quietly for a while. Keefe doesn't seem to care about his car smelling like weed, doesn't seem to care about anything but getting high as fast as possible. Dex leans his head against the window, lays his palm flat and watches the glass fog up. He thinks of tracing a heart but decides not to, the way gloom is smothering the air.
When Keefe speaks again, his voice is floaty and sad. "I hate Valentine's Day."
"Many do."
"He texted me all morning. Do these flowers look good? Are these chocolates expensive enough? Should I write anything else on the card? All morning, and then nothing. So I guess all my advice helped." Bitterness edges his words. Keefe takes another drag, which does nothing to soften his gaze, headlights turning towards Dex. "I don't want to be like this anymore."
"Like what?"
"You know."
"Say it." Dex is the biggest masochist alive. He doesn't know why he puts himself through this.
Keefe flicks ash out the cracked window. Smoke curls out of his mouth when he sighs. "In love with him."
It's an admission he never makes sober. Dex has heard it often, though he isn't sure how many times Keefe remembers. "Right."
"He took her shopping. Had a nice dinner planned. The reservation was at seven. And now it's..."
"Eleven."
"I can't stop wondering what they've been doing since." Keefe laughs, and Dex can tell he's already high as hell, his voice lilting dreamily. "It's so pathetic. But I think about it all the time. He tells me about every date before it happens, and then I spend the next few hours obsessing. What are they talking about? Is she smiling into his shoulder? Does he tell her how much he loves her?"
"Keefe... They've been dating for two years."
"I know. I—Of course I know. I'm not... expecting anything."
"Then what?"
Keefe shrugs, avoids the question. "The worst part is, Sophie's so great. Sometimes I want to shake him, want to say we'd be better together, I'd be better. But that'd just be a lie. They're both such nerds, they have the same sense of humor, they fucking buddy-read. Can you believe it?"
Dex can absolutely believe it, because Keefe has brought it up so many times before. He wishes for his own sake that Fitz had kept that part of his relationship to himself. Though to be fair, no one could've predicted that Keefe would view buddy-reading as the highest form of intimacy and forever fixate on it.
"Wow," he says. "No, I can't believe it."
"I love him so bad it makes me stupid," Keefe says. Even when he's honest, it sounds like a joke, one Dex could understand down to his core. He coughs, fanning the air. "God. Can we get out of here? I can't breathe."
Dex is quick to say yes, stepping out of the car and taking a deep breath of fresh air before putting the joint to his lips again. They stand in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of the car.
Everything is soft and light and kind. Keefe's curls, his lips. Dex learned long ago not to stare, but he allows himself a moment now. His excuse is that it's Valentine's Day, that Keefe never noticed anyway.
"It's the worst thing in the world," Keefe mutters softly.
"What is?"
"Being in love with your best friend."
Dex finds himself unable to reply. Something deep inside him whispers darkly, I know.
Keefe leans back and sighs. His face is illuminated by streetlights, glowing white. "Whatever. How's your Valentine's going, Dex?"
"Pretty similar, I'd say."
"Shit, really?" Keefe starts laughing, sarcastic, jagged puffs of breath.
"Yeah."
"How?"
Dex knows when to keep quiet, when to avoid questions, but his eyes have never learned to lie. He makes the mistake of looking at Keefe, and Keefe's smile drops away, his eyes widen.
The silence is like spun sugar, sweet and fragile. The longer it lasts, the sicker Dex feels. He wonders if he can rewind this conversation a little bit. The weed is really hitting now. His thoughts are hazy and slow, unbothered, but his heart pounds as if the world was ending.
"Come here," Keefe says.
So Dex does. Steps forward, feels hands circle his waist, and then Keefe is kissing him. He tastes overwhelmingly of weed. He's everything Dex will never have. He's perfect.
When he pulls away, Dex feels light as air, the ever-present ache in his chest somewhat soothed. He's going to float into the sky, drawn like a moth to dazzling streetlights. "You didn't have to do that."
Keefe grins. "One of us should have a good Valentine's Day, right?"