Work Text:
one thing you can't see
Fitz is lining up a shot. He's leaned over the pool table, brows furrowed in concentration as everyone else chats and laughs around him, like the world has disappeared outside of this singular task. He has a habit of biting his lip when he thinks, and Keefe notices a dark pink hue blooming under his teeth now.
He's strangely fixated on the sight.
Someone jostles him on his right. Keefe ignores it, unable to pull his gaze from how Fitz's sleeves have ridden up his arms. He wonders when Fitz's intense workout routine began to pay off, wonders why it took till now to notice it.
Then comes a full-on elbow to the side. This one, he can't simply brush off.
"Ow!" Keefe hisses, finally looking away to find Marella next to him. "What the fuck, Mare?"
She glares up at him, crossing her arms. "Don't call me that."
"Oh my God," he groans. "What the fuck, Marella?"
"Stop staring."
"What?"
"You're being too obvious. You were frozen for, like, a whole minute looking at him."
"What?"
Keefe is so taken aback that he almost misses Fitz finally taking the shot, the satisfying plunk of a striped ball falling into the pocket of the table, the way Fitz grins in triumph, all golden and gleaming. Almost.
"Hello?" Marella reaches up, snaps her fingers in front of Keefe's face. "You're doing it again."
Keefe runs through his options and lands on denial. "I'm not doing anything, dude. I just wanted to see the shot." He adds, belatedly, "Drat, he got it in."
Marella looks at him open-mouthed for a moment. "For your own sake, become a better liar."
"I'm not lying!"
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You literally are."
"Are what?" Fitz asks, suddenly appearing, his hand clapping over Keefe's shoulder. Keefe widens his eyes at Marella, a clear message of shut the fuck up. "Dude, did you see that shot I just made? I can't believe it went in."
"Yeah, wow, that was crazy," says Keefe, laughing. It sounds a little frantic. He doesn't know where to look now that Marella called him out, and she's currently casting a death glare of judgement upon them both, and it's all getting to be a little much. "Um, I'm gonna get a soda."
He flees, then. As he grabs a Sprite, condensation seeping over his fingers with a bracing cold, he can feel Fitz and Marella's joint stares burning into his back. It's pretty shameful.
one thing you can't hear
Keefe just needs to give Fitz back his charger. That's his excuse if anyone stops him in the hallways.
He could probably charge his laptop at home, but then he wouldn't have an excuse to leave class and find Fitz, to linger by his desk and crack jokes until the teacher begins glaring at him. He'll happily face the skipping class allegations to see Fitz in between his mundane day.
Today, he leaves during silent reading and makes his way to the science wing, where he knows Fitz is in Physics. He waits by the door and doesn't hear a lecture, so he decides it's safe to interrupt.
Strolling in, he catches the attention of many bored students. None of them matter but Fitz, who rolls his eyes and smiles seeing him.
"Can I help you?" asks Mr. Faxon, who Keefe had once accidentally thrown a paper airplane at in an attempt to catch Marella's attention.
"Um, yeah," says Keefe. "I have Fitz's charger."
"Right," says Mr. Faxon. He watches Keefe drop the charger on Fitz's desk, watches Keefe leave the classroom as quickly as he'd entered.
Keefe waits down the hallway, leaning against the wall and wondering how much of his homework he could put off tonight. He hears a door open, then close.
Fitz walks quickly to catch up to him. "Hey," he says, his voice beautiful and accented. "Thank God you came."
"Sometimes, I feel like I corrupted you," says Keefe. "Freshman year Fitz would never skip class."
"I'm just taking a break," says Fitz. "Anyway, we weren't doing anything in there. I finished the lab."
"Of course you did." Keefe, for his own part, had only got through beginner Physics because Linh had kindly sacrificed herself to be his lab partner.
"It wasn't so bad," says Fitz. "I like Physics."
"Oh, I can leave." Keefe teasingly turns away.
"No, it's fine," laughs Fitz, grabbing Keefe's arm and tugging him back. "Let's go to the courtyard."
They take their favorite table, the one they always eat lunch at with the rest of their friends. Fitz's legs sprawl over the bench. Keefe likes to watch the golden sun glancing off his hair, honey slitting his eyes.
Keefe is usually the talker. It's a fact of his life that he simply can't shut up, even in the worst of situations. But when it's just the two of them, he's content to listen, letting Fitz talk about their classmates, college apps, his sister's antics. His accent is smooth, getting more noticeable as he goes on.
"Should we go back?" Fitz asks, eventually. "The bell rings in seven."
Keefe nods, getting up. They take the shortcut through the main hallway, but then Keefe freezes.
"What is it?" Fitz says.
"Mr. Matson's coming down the stairs."
Exactly two days ago, Keefe had been called into Mr. Matson's office. He'd spent thirty minutes being shown footage of him "wandering the hallways", a compilation so extensive that he really began wondering how bored the front office got sometimes.
"Don't let me catch you out of class again," Mr. Matson had warned, and Keefe had nodded honorably.
Now, Fitz sighs, having heard this story four times already.
They were lucky the staircase winded around another wall, and that Mr. Matson was a chronically slow walker, but Keefe has about ten seconds before he emerges from the other side and sees them. Keefe's going to be nailed to a cross right above the school doors, he can already envision it.
Fitz watches him panic for a moment, then heads towards the stairs. Keefe runs after him, ready to start furiously whispering, but Fitz slams his palm over Keefe's mouth and drags him under the stairwell.
Just in time, Keefe hears Mr. Matson's footsteps on the stairs right above them. He's on his phone.
"Yes, Jessica, but we need the shipment delivered earlier. The dissection unit starts exactly on February 14th. Yes, I know that's morbid—"
Keefe holds back a groan, realizing Mr. Matson had stopped right at the end of the stairs. He was patiently explaining something over the call, but there was no way he was distracted enough to not notice Fitz and Keefe scurrying by him.
"The bell rings in four minutes," Fitz whispers. "We need to get back to class."
"This is so—" Keefe's not a good whisperer. Fitz jabs him in the side, and he takes his cue to shut up.
"Just stay here. Don't talk," says Fitz. His voice is soft, brushing Keefe's ears. Keefe tries not to shiver, thinking that'd probably be an inappropriate response. He wants to turn his head a few degrees, wonders how far apart their lips would be then, but practices self-restraint.
Fitz steps away. He goes out of Keefe's view, to the front of the stairs.
"Fitz," says Mr. Matson, surprised. "What are you doing there?"
"I was just taking a call," says Fitz.
"Phones during class—"
"I know, I'm sorry, it was just urgent. Mr. Faxon let me leave class for a couple minutes for privacy." Even when he lies, his words are warm, so crisp. Apple fucking pie. "I'm heading back now."
"Wait," says Mr. Matson. Keefe freezes further, if that were possible. "Are you wearing your ID?"
"Of course," says Fitz.
Keefe checks, and yep. He's not wearing his.
"Alright. Hurry to class."
"Oh, also, I heard Ms. Vexa telling Mr. Faxon she needed new beakers."
"It's always the science hallway," mutters Mr. Matson.
Fitz laughs good-naturedly, and then Keefe hears two pairs of footsteps back up the stairs. When the sound fades, he sighs in relief, and runs down the hall back to English.
"Does returning a charger really take so long?"
one thing you can't smell
Keefe is watching a video on his phone titled "Five BIGGEST Surfing Fails (#1 is Diabolical!)". He's overall pretty entertained for a guy who has only gotten up once in the past few hours, and has no plans of changing activities, until he gets a call from Fitz. He picks up instantly, of course.
"Hey, I'm pulling up in around thirty seconds, but you can't ask any questions."
Keefe immediately asks, "What?"
"Okay, I see your house now."
Keefe runs to his window. "Where are you?"
"Here."
A motorcycle roars to a stop just before Keefe's driveway. The rider is wearing a helmet, but Keefe recognizes Fitz's favorite T-shirt, his familiar posture.
"Holy shit," he says into the phone.
Fitz waves vaguely towards the house. "What are you waiting for? Come out."
Keefe very literally sprints out his room, down the stairs, through his front yard. He laughs, almost giddy, when he gets to the motorcycle, running his fingers over the shiny chrome. "Where'd you get this?"
"My uncle."
"He's letting you drive it?"
Fitz smiles. "No."
Keefe looks at him and feels absolutely breathless. "You have an extra helmet?"
They're cruising down an empty road. Keefe's hair is totally smushed under his helmet, but he doesn't care, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.
Fitz has more or less figured out how to drive the motorcycle, but some of his movements remain rough. Every time he travels over a slight bump, Keefe's entire spine bounces like a slinky. In fairness to Fitz's driving, this is also likely due to how Keefe is sitting so far back in his seat that he's millimeters from slipping off, but he's scared to move to a safer spot. Fitz is already too close to him, their legs pressed tight together, heat gathering in all the wrong places.
They stop at a traffic light, and Fitz turns back to Keefe. His hair flips up from under his helmet in a way that Keefe can't help but focus on.
"Wanna go on the highway?"
Keefe grins. "Yes."
"Okay, but you have to hold on. Scoot closer."
Even as his mind fills with a buzzing panic, Keefe obeys, letting himself press closer to Fitz. His ass is now firmly situated on the seat, no longer on the brink of death.
"Good," Fitz breathes, and his voice is low and weirdly hot, and goddamn. Keefe's entire body jolts with lightning, his white-panic grip on the edges of the seat loosening just as the light turns green and Fitz revs forward.
Everything lurches for a horrible moment. Keefe flails, weightless, terrified. He sees himself, then: head smashed on pavement, bloody blond curls, Fitz getting arrested beside his body for charges of theft, unlicensed driving, and manslaughter.
Then Keefe's arm catches around Fitz's midsection, which to no surprise, is impressively sturdy. He holds on for dear life as Fitz yells, "What the fuck?"
"Stop! Please stop!" screams Keefe.
Fitz veers the motorcycle to the side of the entrance ramp. They stop. They take a moment to catch their breaths and calm down, though Fitz repeats, "Fuck," so many times that Keefe is doubting his calmness.
"I almost died," Keefe marvels.
"What the hell, Keefe? Fuck! I told you to hold on! What happened?"
"Sorry! Sorry, I'll hold on now."
"Put your arms around me," Fitz instructs. Keefe blinks, brushing away thoughts about how authoritative his voice sounds, determined to not make a pattern of nearly dying. "Seriously, stay close, hold on tight. I don't care if you're leaning on me."
Well, okay.
Keefe decides not to protest this. He follows Fitz's directions as precisely as he can. The soft cotton of Fitz's shirt curls under his fingers. He will not fall. He will not die.
When Fitz sets off again, he doesn't pull any punches. Keefe laughs loud and delighted as the wind whips at them again, stinging his face, so alive. Fitz's hair is thoroughly ruffled, the ends tickling Keefe's nose, devastatingly soft.
"You good?" Fitz yells.
"Yeah!"
They rip up the highway, weaving between cars in a way that should feel dangerous, but Keefe wasn't scared. Fitz had always been a good driver, all his risks calculated. Keefe finds himself pressing even closer. Fitz doesn't seem to mind. His chest is flat against Fitz's back, his cheek resting on Fitz's broad shoulder. When Keefe inhales, he feels dizzy and aching, a lost little kid.
Fitz smells like warm cinnamon, like home, like something Keefe has been searching for his entire life and can't dare to lose now.
one thing you cant touch
For a girl that hates most of her classmates, Marella Redek undeniably throws the best parties of the grade.
Keefe knows she likes being present at the source of the newest scandal, but he also suspects she does it because the silence of her house gets to be exhausting after a while. She never admitted it to him, but her fierce glare is confirmation enough. He understands how she feels more than she'd expect.
Keefe and Fitz usually go to parties with their friends piled together in the car, and Fitz always takes up the role of designated driver without complaint. This time, Fitz pulls Keefe aside as the rest of them enter the house.
"What is it?" asks Keefe.
"Can you drive tonight?"
"You're drinking?" He tries to hide his surprise, and fails. He's seen Fitz have a cup, sipping here or there, but never too much that he can't sober back up within an hour. In general, Fitz hates losing control, is terrified to look stupid.
"It's just—" Fitz breaks off. Something twists across his face. "Never mind. I'll be the DD, don't worry."
Keefe wants to protest, but Fitz turns, hurrying up the steps into Marella's house. Within seconds, he's disappeared between the bodies, and Keefe's left with his mouth open, uncertainty and confusion plain on his face.
He decides not to chase after. It's a little bit later when, still trying to puzzle out what had been going through Fitz's mind, Keefe glances at his phone again. This time, the date catches his eye. March 4th.
It was Alvar's birthday. Alvar, who had disappeared around eight months ago from the Vacker household, leaving no note and an empty safe. And, as Keefe had viscerally witnessed in the weeks that followed, a heartbroken younger brother.
Keefe finds Fitz taking pictures with a group of girls in another room. He watches Fitz smile, perfect and white, the red flash of the camera illuminating his skin. He knows this isn't Fitz's real smile, and maybe he shouldn't be so smug with the privilege of that information, but he is.
Fitz spots him and his mouth curls, but it's awkward. He steps away from the girls. "Hey."
"Here." Keefe holds out a cup.
"What is this?"
"Dr Pepper and vodka."
"I'm not—"
"If anyone deserves to get drunk tonight, it's you."
Fitz goes silent, and from the way his eyes go between the cup and Keefe, it's clear he's realizing Keefe figured it out. He sags a little bit. "I don't know if I wanna get drunk here." Fitz glances at their rowdy classmates, uncertain, and Keefe remembers how much he prizes perfection, the Golden Boy of it all.
"I'll stay with you. Won't let you do anything stupid, promise."
Fitz takes the cup. Their fingers brush, warm. He drinks the whole cup in a go, and Keefe laughs.
"I poured a lot of vodka in that, you know."
"Good," Fitz says, and begins heading back to the kitchen. Keefe follows.
True to his word, Keefe stuck by Fitz's side as Fitz got completely and thoroughly wasted. He didn't have to do as much chasing after as he'd expected. The drunker Fitz got, the more he clung to Keefe, fingers tight around Keefe's arm as they sat on a stained couch.
Their friends were talking. More accurately, Sophie and Tam were loudly arguing about a movie no one else had watched, and the rest of them were watching and carrying out side conversations. Keefe realized he'd never been so sober to these things. He doesn't mind, but everything did seem a little more ridiculous without the haze of alcohol smoothing it over.
He keeps glancing at Fitz, wondering if that high, proud mask will break. Maybe Fitz is waiting till midnight, unwilling to sour his brother's birthday with tears. Or maybe the vodka is doing its job and numbing everything out, and then he hopes that's what Fitz really wanted.
"Tell me when you wanna go," Keefe whispers.
Fitz shakes his head, then slumps to the side, gaze unfocused.
"Okay, let's go," Keefe decides. "Anyone need a ride with us?"
No one accepts the offer, which Keefe is secretly happy about. He likes when it's just him and Fitz in the car, engine revving, their easy conversations.
"I don't—" Fitz protests, as Keefe drags him to his feet, but he can't even stand on his own. "I'm fine."
"Of course," says Keefe. He arranges Fitz against him, coaxing him into taking steps forward.
They pass Marella on the way to the door, who eyes Fitz, then gives Keefe a lethal smirk. Keefe ignores that. He remembers the flash of pool balls, the warning Marella had given.
Keefe wakes up the next morning in a bedroom more familiar to him than his own. He's used to crashing at Fitz's place, and hadn't had an option last night, considering he'd been driving with Fitz's car. Fitz, who was—
Half on top of him, curled into his body. Dead asleep.
Keefe's vision turns white, then explodes into panic. He searches his memories of last night, praying, and is relieved when he can't find anything damning. He doesn't know what he'd do if—if anything had happened.
With that assured, he lays absolutely still, feeling the rise and fall of Fitz's chest against him. He remembers how Fitz had been the first few days after Alvar leaving, body heaving, sweaty skin, unable to sleep for ages.
Vodka wasn't the solution to grief, but maybe it had helped last night, because Fitz is warm and still this morning. Keefe can see a part of his profile, and it's relaxed, forehead smooth. Fitz looks achingly young, and it takes everything in Keefe not to hold him closer.
Instead, he runs his fingers through brown curls and tries not to die.
one thing you can't taste
They're lounging in Fitz's room, a silent, quiet peace that is interrupted only when Fitz gasps, sharp and loud.
"What happened?" Keefe asks. Fitz doesn't reply. Keefe scoots closer, squinting at his phone. "What's that?"
"I got an email. From," says Fitz, his wide eyes turning to Keefe, "Harvard admissions."
"What?" Keefe immediately shoves him. "Are you serious?"
"Shit."
"Check it. Dude. Check it now." Keefe scrambles off the bed, grabbing Fitz's laptop from his backpack. He pushes it towards Fitz. "Come on."
Fitz doesn't move. His hands are shaking, holding his phone. "You think they took me off the waitlist?"
"Obviously."
"But," says Fitz. He keeps looking at Keefe. "I don't even—I already committed. With you."
"Who cares?" says Keefe. He thinks about how they were supposed to be roommates, thinks about all the plans they'd made, the classes they wanted to take together, but he doesn't let it show on his face. "It's fucking Harvard."
Fitz nods, slowly. He reaches for the laptop, slowly navigates to the admissions portal. Keefe watches every click with bated breath.
When the confetti appears, a proud Congratulations!, Keefe screams first, loud and piercing.
Fitz is absolutely frozen, until Keefe tackles him against the bed, shaking his shoulders. "Holy shit. Holy shit!"
"Shit," repeats Fitz. He looks up at Keefe, mouth open in shock. Keefe's fingers are grazing his neck. They're close enough that Fitz's breath flutters on his cheek. "I need to—I should tell my parents."
Keefe hurriedly rolls away, sitting on the other edge of the bed and nodding. "Yes. Yeah."
Fitz steps into the hallway. Keefe can hear him murmuring words on the phone. He stares at the laptop screen, still open: Congratulations!
He takes out his phone and searches, distance between berkeley and harvard. The results say 2752 miles.
For their entire lives, they've never lived more than two miles apart. Keefe often felt that he spent more time with Fitz than he did alone. They were inseparable, that's how they liked it. It's why when they got their twin Berkeley acceptances, they hadn't bothered considering anything else.
But Harvard. It was meant for Fitz. Polished, perfect, accomplished Fitz Vacker. Fitz tried to act at peace after being waitlisted, but Keefe could feel the disappointment like it was his own. And now—
Fitz comes into the room, face pale. When Keefe looks at him, he just says, softly, "I'm going to Harvard."
Keefe nods. "Congrats, dude."
"We're... We're not gonna be roommates."
"I'll find someone," says Keefe, shrugging. "Maybe that'd be better."
"Better?"
"Branching out, right?"
"Right," says Fitz. He sits back on the edge of his bed, beside Keefe. "I just—I always thought it'd be the two of us, even in college?"
"Yeah."
They look at each other. Fitz worries his lip like he wants to say more, dark pink under the bite of his teeth.
"I'll miss you," Keefe blurts. He can't help it. He's too selfish to keep it to himself. "I'll really fucking—"
Fitz leans forward and kisses him, his hand on Keefe's jaw, his hair brushing Keefe's cheek. It's all so light, so uncertain. Keefe hasn't processed any of it before Fitz pulls back away, eyes wide.
"Fuck," he says. "I—Sorry—"
Keefe leans forward and kisses him even harder, and Fitz grabs him close, and they're not hesitating anymore. Fitz's leg knocks his laptop closed as they roll against the bed, body over body, hands over arms, lips over skin.
Fitz tastes like everything Keefe could ever want.
He's memorizing how it feels, so it lingers even as Fitz draws away again, pushing an arm's length between them. "Fuck."
A chill brushes over Keefe's cheeks, red splotches. "That good?"
Fitz doesn't laugh, doesn't look at him. His cheeks are flushed too, his hair a mess, strands falling wayward before his face. He says, like an echo, "We're graduating in five days."
"I know."
"So," says Fitz, "This is—" He gestures between them.
"What?"
"Fuck," Fitz breathes. He draws his knees to his chest, shoves his face into his hands. "Fuck."
"Fitz—" begins Keefe, but before his fingers can brush Fitz's shoulder, Fitz flinches away.
"It's too late. We'll be—We're not gonna be together anymore—"
"Wait." The more detached part of Keefe's mind thinks about what his luck is, to finally bare himself raw, just for the cut to place deeper. "This doesn't mean—"
"Shit," Fitz says, panicked, speaking into himself. "I just—I wasn't thinking—"
The silence is morbid. Keefe feels helpless. "I—Fitz—"
"We can't. Shit." His voice evens out, scarily sure. "It's just—It's easier to not. Smarter."
"Please, I just wanted—"
You.
Keefe doesn't say it aloud, but they both still hear it, an admission that has Fitz's head snapping up. They stare at each other. Keefe wonders how two people can have such different reactions to something they'd both wanted.
"Just give me some time," says Fitz, finally. "Please."
The taste lingers, even as Keefe leaves.
everything you can't have
"As we move forward, let's look back fondly on these past four years. The people we've met, the lessons we've learned, and the memories we've made. Thank you all so, so much."
Keefe is pretty sure he's a robot. He'd written this speech in a state of nostalgia, weeks ago. He smiles back at the crowd of his soon-to-be-former classmates, nods his head to their applause.
When it dies down, he takes the mic again. "Now, to introduce our Valedictorian..."
This is where he smiles at the audience, holding the suspense even though everyone has known who'd take this title since freshman year. But instead of keeping his gaze forward, he makes the fatal mistake of turning around and looking at Fitz.
Fitz, who had been staring at him, and had obviously not expected to be caught in the act.
They look at each other for a second that lasts eternities.
"Fitz Vacker," Keefe whispers, finishing his introduction. The mic doesn't catch it, of course. He draws in a breath and turns back to the audience, row upon row of his classmates, a stadium filled with proud parents. "Fitz Vacker, everyone!"
He gathers the papers of his speech up, and goes to sit back down behind the podium. He passes Fitz, and they determinedly don't look at each other.
"Hello, everyone," Fitz says, beginning his speech, accent so crisp and familiar that it's almost painful.
Keefe allows himself to stare now, the way Fitz had with him. The graduation gown didn't flatter anyone, but it looked regal on Fitz, all the well-earned cords and medals slung around his neck. His hair was combed smooth for the occasion, squashed under the cap, but Keefe remembers how it feels ruffled under his fingers.
Keefe knows Fitz had dreamed of this day since childhood. He remembers comforting Fitz after Fitz spectacularly failed his first Biology test and cried in the bathroom, convinced he'd never be up at that podium.
Well, look at them now.
They'd proofread each other's speeches a couple weeks ago. Fitz's speech had mentioned him by name: so proud to have my best friend, Keefe, up here with me. Keefe pays close attention now, but he already knows that part has been struck out.
He is trying very, very hard not to be bitter.
Fitz says his final thanks. He stands, glowing in the applause of the stadium. When he turns back, there's a stray curl on his forehead, shining gold in these lights. He sits beside Keefe, and Keefe whispers, "Good speech." Two words, and his heart is violently pounding.
Fitz meets his gaze. "You too."
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Crossing the stage, shaking hands, throwing hats and scrambling to pick them back up. Before he knows it, all the graduates are streaming out the back doors, scrambling to find their families.
Keefe knows his parents have come. Even they aren't cold enough to miss their only son's graduation ceremony. He just isn't sure where to find them and doesn't have his phone handy. He scans the surging crowd for heads of icy blond, and bites back a swear when he sees his father talking to the Vackers. Fitz isn't there, luckily.
Slowly, he heads over. His mother sees him first, lips curving. "Congratulations," she tells him, and he's drawn into an impossibly rare hug. His father's hand rests on his shoulder, a weight so familiar.
Someone thrusts a bouquet in his hands. He looks down, bringing the pale blue and white flowers to his nose. "Thank you," he says, and Biana smiles. "You didn't have to."
"You're basically my brother," she tells him. He's finding it hard to breathe, worse so when she crushes him in a hug.
"Congrats, Keefe," says Della now, and she's hugging him next, and then Alden, and that crisp Vacker accent is filling his ears with praise until he hears—
"Was my speech good?" asks Fitz, and Keefe doesn't even have to look to know he's flushed and excited and nervous, watching his father for approval that he will surely receive.
"You were great," says Alden.
The Vackers swarm Fitz with hugs now, giving him a matching bouquet to Keefe. Gisela and Cassius offer their spare congratulations to Fitz, standing on the other side of the whole affair. Keefe gazes at them, thinking about how there are really only a few feet separating him from his parents, but a whole other world lies between. A world none of them can enter, too frigid to survive the warmth.
He wishes it were different. All of it, different. Him, different.
The Vackers chorus for a family picture, and then force Keefe to join it. Again, Biana repeats, "Basically my brother!" and Keefe almost laughs from how false that is. But he's weak, so he comes forward anyway, and he stands with Fitz, surrounded by smiles and blue blooms.
Then Della says, "Just you two now!" and everyone disappears. It's just Keefe and Fitz, their smiles increasingly fake, holding their diplomas in their hands to mark an end of an era.
Biana takes a long time adjusting her camera settings between shots. The closeness is unbearable. Keefe can sense every part of Fitz, has had it all memorized for as long as he could remember. He dips his head, closes his eyes and braces himself, before looking back up to smile for yet another picture.
"Okay, I think that's good," Biana says finally, flipping through the many, many photos she'd taken.
Fitz doesn't move, from beside Keefe. It's like he's coming to the same realization: They may never take a photo like this again, just the two of them. Keefe remembers the forever they'd promised each other, and he's convinced it's only a fantasy now.
but you got it anyway
Fitz grabs his hand, laces their fingers together. Keefe looks at him, startled. "What the fuck?"
Those eyes are wide and dark, shinier than normal, beautiful as ever. He looks desperate and undone.
"I'll miss you," Fitz breathes.
Keefe remembers, with a doomed sense of deja vu, saying those exact words himself. He forces his face to stay still. "I know."
And then, unexpected: "We can make this work."
Words stick in Keefe's throat. Even if he knew what to say, he doesn't think they'd come out comprehensible. Instead, he lets his eyes drop to Fitz's lips, lets his head tilt in a question.
Fitz nods, after a long, slow second.
Keefe steps closer, hands surging up, and kisses his best friend so hard they both stumble back, Fitz's arms winding around him, curls in his hands.
Distantly, Keefe hears the snap of Biana's camera. He already knows how he looks in that photo: dazed, impossibly happy.