Work Text:
When he sees Fitz stalking towards him, Keefe thinks, ridiculously, that Fitz is about to kiss him.
Instead, knuckles smash into Keefe's face. He folds like a paper doll. His mouth is suddenly tinged with the taste of copper, gravel digging into his knees. Keefe knows he deserves it all.
"I'm sorry." Blood drips down, stains his hands. "I'm so sorry."
Fitz's arms cross above him. "Why'd you even come back?"
"I don't know."
Fitz shakes his head. "Don't lie to me. Don't say that."
It hurts to speak. Keefe's cheek throbs. "I'm so sorry," he repeats.
"That's not enough!"
Keefe's head is spinning too hard to get up. He focuses very hard on the dirt and thinks of looking Fitz in the eyes again, facing the wounds he's been trying to escape. It feels like he'll never stop running.
And Keefe's so sick of running.
He lifts his head. "Why are you so upset?"
Fitz's eyes widen, incredulous. "You fucking ran away, Keefe."
"Is that it?"
"Again. Did the first time not mean anything? I mean, fuck!"
"I came back a week ago," Keefe says, quiet.
A muscle in Fitz's jaw twitches. "I know."
"If you cared so much, why were you not there when I returned? Everyone else was. Biana was. Why didn't you come?"
"I had other things to do. You can't leave and—and expect me to drop everything else the moment you come back."
"I know." Keefe presses, "But what made you so busy the entire rest of the week? Why are you here now?"
"Get up," Fitz demands. "I'm not speaking to you on the floor."
Keefe starts laughing. "I think I'm a little concussed."
"Get up." Fitz strides towards him, and Keefe extends his arms, lets his best friend pull him to his feet the way they've done a thousand times before. He feels like they're kids again, for a snap moment, until he sees how dark Fitz's gaze is. "Fuck you, Keefe."
"You know," Keefe says, staring somewhere beyond Fitz. "I wanted to see you when I came back. I asked Biana where you were. Wondered if I could talk to you. Did she tell you that?"
"Maybe you shouldn't have left in the first place! Maybe I'd have talked to you then!"
"That's not true."
"What do you mean—"
"You never wanna fucking talk to me!" Keefe says, screams really. His whole body aches. It feels incredible.
"What the fuck?" Fitz says, looking dumbstruck even though he has no right. "Seriously, what the fuck?"
"Stop acting like me running away is, like, the worst thing that ever happened to you. You don't even care that much! You just wanna be mad. You wanna feel superior. Because you always stay, you never mess up, you're the—"
"If you say Golden Boy—"
"Well, you fucking are!"
"Oh my God," Fitz says, laughing. "Are you serious? You sound like... like some jealous little kid. God, Keefe, I'm sorry that I want you to own up to something for once in your fucking life."
"I've spent the past week making amends to everyone!" cries Keefe. "I'll spend the rest of my life doing it. Really, I will. But you don't wanna be around for any of this, so how the fuck are you gonna judge me?"
"I was around the last time you left, and then you came back, and you promised you'd never pull this shit again. And guess what?"
"I didn't betray you this time! I just left. And isn't that what you fucking want?"
"Why would I ever want that?"
Keefe feels hysteria bubbling under his skin. "Because you hate me!"
"So what if I do?" Fitz points his finger, an ugly jab into Keefe's chest. "You keep leaving me!"
"No," Keefe says, defiant. "You hated me even before this."
"What are you talking about?"
"You can't ever be alone with me! We never talk, never hang out. You tell Sophie I'm irresponsible and reckless and—"
"I don't talk to her about you!"
Irrationally, that makes Keefe's blood boil hotter. "You can't even talk about me?"
"What?" Fitz's brows furrow. "What do you want from me, then? Do you want me to tell her all those things?"
It's ridiculous. Absurd. And still, Keefe can't help the crack in his voice when he says, "I want you to miss me!"
"I have fucking missed you! I'm here right now, aren't I?"
"But why weren't you here before?"
"Okay, fine!" Fitz throws his hands up. "This one time, I wasn't there for you. But you haven't been there for me, not for ages. Because you always fucking leave me!"
"Don't get a big head," Keefe snorts. "I'm not leaving just because of you."
"But you're still gone! Fucking listen to me, you're still gone!"
"And does it matter so much? You still have your parents, Biana, Sophie. You have it all."
"No, I fucking don't." Fitz shakes his head, slow. "I really don't. I need you, too."
Keefe couldn't roll his eyes harder. "Don't act like I'm leaving some gaping hole in your life. Don't lie and say we're still best friends."
"Maybe we aren't twelve and spending all our time together, but—"
"Fitz, you didn't even tell me that you and Sophie were together."
"Is that really what this is about?" Fitz says, his voice cutting. "Because don't worry. Sophie broke up with me."
Keefe blinks hard. "What?"
"Are you happy now? Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
"Fitz—"
"Are you gonna go to her when I leave, tell her how you'll treat her so much better, how I was never good enough—"
"I'm not—"
"Because you talk and talk and fucking talk about how we're just not that close anymore, but you know what, that's your fault! The moment you realized Sophie liked me, you began making all those little jabs. And honestly? It was embarrassing! Everyone could tell you were so fucking jealous—"
"Fuck you!" Keefe spits. "Seriously, Fitz, fuck you."
"Am I wrong? Tell me I'm wrong." Fitz steps closer, breathing hard. "Tell me you haven't resented me for Sophie. Tell me you didn't distance yourself because you couldn't handle our relationship."
Keefe turns his head, trying to get away from the overpowering heat of Fitz's body. "It's not like that."
"Then what?"
"I don't fucking want her. Okay? I don't." Keefe backs away, rubbing his arms. "So, whatever, I'm not gonna steal your fucking girlfriend. If that's what you're so concerned about, rest easy."
Fitz stares at him. Then says, "I kinda wish I hit you harder."
"What the fuck," Keefe groans. He spreads his arms out. "Fine. Go at me again. Look, I'm waiting."
"No, shit, I don't want that." Fitz kicks the ground. "I just want—"
"Should I say sorry? Want me to start begging for forgiveness? Because I can grovel for years, but you still won't be happy. You still won't like me again."
"Do you even like me?"
"I fucking hate you," Keefe tells him, so truthful it hurts. "I resent you all the time."
Fitz's lips press together, deathly thin. "Because of Sophie?"
"No. I told you, I don't... I don't like her that way."
"Then why?"
"Because. Because you're so perfect, because everyone trusts you, because you're so much better at hiding how fucked up you are." Keefe hates how his voice breaks.
"Stop calling me perfect."
"I also called you fucked up."
Fitz is quiet for a long moment. His voice is soft as he says, "When we were kids, you promised you'd never hate me."
Keefe looks away. "I guess I was a liar back then too."
"Stop it," Fitz says, and his eyes are all anguish. "There's something else. Tell me."
"I can't." Maybe Keefe will be buried with some secrets. "What about you? Why do you hate me?"
"I don't hate you."
"You didn't deny it before."
"So what?"
"Why didn't you deny it?"
"Because!" Fitz screams, cheeks suddenly scarlet, "I should hate you! I want to hate you, like, all the time, and I can't! You're still my best friend!"
"What?"
"And you fucking hate me, but I'll never hate you. Because I keep my promises and I don't leave when it gets hard and you're my fucking best friend!"
And then Fitz storms up, and again, Keefe imagines lips and hands and heated breaths. His whole body surges with want, but he really never learns. The next thing he knows, he's getting pushed backwards, the air knocked out of his lungs, stumbling over his feet.
Fitz is heaving before him, arms outstretched. Forever a barrier Keefe can't cross. "Fuck you," he repeats.
Everything thrums red for a beautiful, blinding moment. Then—
Keefe lunges forward, knees colliding with shins, elbows slamming into Fitz's sides. They're grappling on the ground and it feels so real, so good. An ache in Keefe's arm joins the existing one on his cheekbone, Fitz swearing under him, kicking out stubbornly.
Every time they'd wrestled before, Fitz would win, but not this time. Keefe won't let Fitz have this one.
"Fuck me?" Keefe yells, pinning Fitz's arm down before it smashes into his nose. "You can't say shit like that! Not when you never ever do anything to show it!"
"I'm sorry, should I have made friendship bracelets?" Fitz tries to twist away, but Keefe only pushes harder down, his wrist twinging with a deserved pain.
"Shut the fuck up. When was the last time you asked me to hang out? Do you know what classes I'm taking right now? Have you seen any of my recent drawings?" Fitz opens his mouth, body suddenly slack, but Keefe suddenly can't stand him anymore. He begins shaking Fitz's shoulders, begging him to understand. "Do you know anything about me, or do you just wanna call me your best friend to feel better about yourself? Like, God, he's so messed up, but I'll be friends with him anyway."
"Do you really think I'm friends with you out of pity?" Fitz asks, eyes wide. "Do you think that little of me?"
"Then why the fuck else? I always abandon you, I apparently wanna steal your girlfriend, why the fuck else would you want me in your life?"
"You're—You're my best friend."
"You must really want to seem like a good person, because no one else would bother. Fucking Golden Boy."
"I just—" Fitz says, and his eyes are glassy. "You really hate me that much?"
"Yes. No. No, I—"
"Then what?"
"I hate myself!" Keefe screams, voice shattering into the air.
He can't help it. Rage curls his fingers, hand rearing back. Fitz flinches from under him, turning his head to prepare for the hit. But Keefe's fist slams down into the ground, pounding into bits of gravel and grass. Once, twice, more.
"FUCK!" Keefe shouts, and the tears are dripping too fast to swipe them away. "I fucking hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself so much, all the time, I hate myself—"
He's practically pummeling the ground. Fitz is begging, "Stop it, stop it, Keefe, stop—"
"I hate myself! I hate myself, and I hate you a little too, okay, fine? Is that fine, Fitz? And do you really wanna know why?"
Fitz just barely nods, mute with horror. Keefe thinks his tears are falling on Fitz's face. Then he realizes Fitz is crying too.
"Okay," he says, and finally lets his hands fall. The knuckles are spotted red, a bright, angry red, and he swipes them against his pants as he finally gets to his feet. He's shaky, looking down at Fitz, who's frozen in place. "I hate you, because you're so perfect in every possible way. So good that I could never, never deserve it."
"What?" breathes Fitz.
"Don't you get it?" screams Keefe, exhausted. "I'm fucking in love with you!"
Fitz's lips part, face pale. He says nothing.
Keefe turns away. "But it doesn't matter, because we aren't best friends anymore." It hurts, when Fitz still says nothing, even though Keefe shouldn't care anymore. He has no right to hurt. "And for all your promises, you should definitely hate me now."
"I'll never hate you," Fitz finally says, voice wavering. He props himself up. "Even when you run away. Even when you lie. Even when you blame me. Never."
"Oh, well," Keefe says, voice thick, "Lucky me."
Fitz takes a long time deciding what to say, every word coming out slowly as he gets to his feet. "I'm sorry I couldn't see you when you came back. I just... It was too hard."
"It's not a big deal."
"But you obviously cared."
"I just—" Keefe starts, then stops. He swallows. "I looked for you. The whole room was filled. Our friends, parents, the Councillors, the Black Swan, Elwin. Everyone was there, you know? They had so many questions. And I just kept asking for you."
"I was outside the building. I was gonna go in. Then I threw up. I couldn't do it."
"Why?"
Fitz throws his arms in the air, tears still streaking his cheeks. He looks at Keefe so intensely that it becomes sickening. "Because I fucking love you too, I guess."
The world freezes. Icy cold.
Automatic, Keefe says, "No."
"What the fuck?"
"You don't love me. You don't. You can't."
"What the fuck, Keefe?" Fitz says, voice like acid, before he grabs Keefe's shoulders and yanks them flush together. He kisses Keefe so hard it aches, every fantasy all at once. His fingers knot into Keefe's curls, his thumb wiping the tears from Keefe's cheeks, tender over where it will soon bruise.
It's painful. It's stunning. It's everything Keefe can't bear.
Just when he's about to yank away, run once more, so far he'll never again be found, Fitz pulls back. His grip is still steady on Keefe's hair, his arms.
"I love you. Please don't leave me again. Ever."
"I'm not worth it." Keefe's throat is blocked up.
"Of course you are."
"I hate—"
"Stop saying that," Fitz begs.
Keefe's mouth slams shut. They look at each other. Keefe's gaze is blurry with tears, but Fitz has always been so clear to him.
"I didn't leave because of you," Keefe says, desperate. "You have to know. I hate being away from you. I left to keep everyone safe. And I failed."
"Tell me, then," Fitz says, and his eyes are dark and beautiful. "Why'd you come back?"
Everything falls into place for a perfect moment. Keefe lets himself sag into Fitz's arms.
"For you."