#so hopefully it turned out alright | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bookwyrminspiration · 2 years

Note

“how did you even get sick? you look ugly. come here.”

+ keefitz (platonic or romantic, your choice)

oh what a delightful idea! I love them very much you're honor and have decided to go for an ambiguous relationship, so I hope you enjoy :)

our corner of the world <- ao3 link

-warnings: illness (as expected of the prompt), self-doubt, anxiety

-word count: 6k

It’d been…longer than Keefe wanted to admit since he’d been to Everglen. Without the gate, its shine, the sprawling grounds were missing something, an emptiness echoing and whispering through the grasses as he made his way to the front door.

He wasn’t anxious. He wasn’t. His fingers were tapping against themselves because that was a normal thing he usually did. His hair stuck up in all manner of different directions because he liked to run his fingers through it to fluff it out. No matter that both of those things were dead giveaway nervous tells.

Stopping before the door, he raised his hand partway, fingertip resting on the doorbell. Was anyone home? He hadn’t hailed ahead to check, had leapt over in impatience and fried nerves because--

No. Everything was fine. It was good. Never better, even.

Chimes rang through the whispering, gossiping air as he hugged his arms close to himself, and his foot had begun to tap against the paved pathway when the door swung open.

“Hell--oh, Keefe? I wasn’t expecting you here. Is everything alright?” Della’s head tilted to the side, strands of hair falling from whatever messy-but-somehow-still-flawless style she’d thrown it into.

His mind blanked. Completely unprepared to actually talk to another real person, he floundered about for a moment before his instincts kicked in and he flashed a faux, easy smile.

“Oh, yeah. Just was, uh, looking for Fitz. Sorry. I’m not trying to intrude--” Della waved him off. “Oh, nonsense. Our home is always open to you, you know that. Here, come inside. I haven’t seen Fitz yet today--he’s probably off doing his own thing, but even so, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like and find him.”

Off doing his own thing?

But…today? When they were supposed to…

“Right. Perfect, thanks,” he said, as though his mind wasn’t crumbling his heart into pieces. “I guess I’ll do that.”

Della gave a sweet smile, stepping aside so he could enter, the cavernous halls threatening to swallow each and every fragment of him. Walls loomed towards vaulted ceilings, doorways gaping and empty, the scuff of his feet against the gleaming crystal floors echoing back at him, overlapping itself again and again.

He shivered, and yet the place had, for so long, been the closest thing to a home he’d ever had.

Maybe that wasn’t because of the building though, but rather…

He cleared his throat, feeling Della’s eyes on his back. “Thanks, I promise I won’t break anything too important.”

She laughed, and the success of the interaction softened the tension in his muscles. See? He was making people laugh; he was fine.

Twisting labyrinths of halls and rooms turned the mansion into a trap if you didn’t know where you were going--it’d been years and Foster still struggled to find her way around whenever they got together, playing Base Quest as though the world was still normal. As if it had ever been normal.

His feet moved of their own accord as his mind spun, following the ever familiar path he’d memorized before he’d learned anything else. A right, then another right, a left.

Off doing his own thing.

Past the window in the hall overlooking the expanse of the grounds, trees bordering around the edges where that blaring golden light had made it near-painful to look at. Not anymore.

His own thing.

He stopped outside the door to Fitz’s room, a shimmering golden F inlaid at about eye-level, curling with all the flattery and accessory of a Vacker. There was a fleck of neon green in one of the grooves set with jewels; Keefe had painted it that color when they were kids as a prank, but Fitz had left it until some well-meaning gnome had washed it away, unaware Fitz had left it on purpose.

Some part of himself liked that more than he’d ever admit.

But now it was like it’d never been there.

Rhythmic, frantic pounding was all he could hear, heartbeat drowning out all other noises as he stared stared stared at the letter, at the door, perfectly fine.

He was fine.

Everything was fine.

Fingers running through his hair, he knocked on Fitz’s door.

He didn’t answer.

Keefe knocked a second time, slightly louder, other hand falling from his hair and tapping against his lip.

Fitz still didn’t answer.

Maybe he wasn’t here, maybe Keefe was standing outside an empty room listening to his heart distort and strangle itself and there was no one else in the world to see it. To care.

Della was probably right, and he was off doing his own thing.

Off doing his own thing even though they’d said, they’d agreed--

Keefe stumbled forward, desperate to get out of his own head, pushing down on the perfect golden handle and shoving the door open all at once, blinking frantically as he tried to adjust his sight to the shadows of the room.

All of the curtains were drawn, casting a heavy damper over the light that usually poured through; the brightest beam came from behind him, spilling past his body as he looked around.

Taking a step forward, more confused than anything in that moment at how un-Fitz-like the place looked--clothes on the floor, papers out of order on the desk, discarded vials and dirty dishes beside them.

He let go of the handle.

It rocketed back into place with a startling click, the spring mechanisms clattering against each other loud enough he jerked away.

A sharp intake of breath caught his attention, rustling accompanying movement on the bed as what Keefe had thought was a pile of blankets shifted, a hand and then a head emerging as Fitz blearily rubbed at his eyes, wincing at the light from the hall as he averted his gaze.

“Oh,” Keefe whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Hmm?” Fitz hummed, but not in a pleasant way. In a croaking I can’t remember words right now kind of way.

The anxiety Keefe had been denying drained from his body, every vein and artery and passage in his body easing as relief clawed its way through him for a blissful moment, a new worry taking its place.

Puffy eyes, bags heavy under them like bruises, skin flushed and clammy, fingers trembling as he peeled a sweat-soaked shirt off his skin, tattered human clothes matching the mournful state of his hair, which tangled and stuck to his forehead.

“You look awful,” he blurted, then regretted, but it was true.

Fitz’s eyelids drifted closed, then shot back open as he asked, “Keefe?” He squinted through the light, clearly trying to process something, his brain failing him.

Keefe swallowed, pushing the door closed behind him so Fitz wouldn’t have to strain. “Uh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He hadn’t known he was sleeping.

Fitz didn’t seem to notice the apology, and if he did he ignored it.

“Why are you…” what little color could drain from his face, did. He scrambled for his imparter, shaking hands somehow finding it in the mound of blankets drowning him, Mr. Snuggles tumbling to the side. He winced as the light washed over him from its screen, scrolling through all the notifications he’d missed.

Keefe knew they were there; they were all from him.

Message after message, attempted hail after attempted hail, each of them unanswered until he’d given up and rushed here.

“The lake,” he mumbled to himself. His panicked adrenaline rush gave him the clarity to say, “I’m really sorry, Keefe. I didn’t--I didn’t mean to miss it. Honest.”

Keefe shook his head, tempted to laugh, ignoring the echo of the twinge in his heart. He was fine. “Nah, now that I see you, I’m surprised you’re still alive. You okay?” he frowned, watching Fitz slump back against his headrest, moment of terror passed and the sudden rush with it.

“It’s almost half-way through the afternoon and I slept through the whole day.” His voice rasped with the words, and he looked towards his bedside table, leaning forward slightly.

Keefe took the opportunity and stepped forward, grabbing the half-drunk bottle of Youth and handing it to him, lowering himself down on the edge of the bed. It was large enough there was still a considerable distance between them as their fingers brushed.

Keefe tensed as a wave of broiling nausea and clammy heat passed through him at the touch.

“Sorry,” Fitz got out, grimacing as he took the smallest sip of Youth he could, letting the bottle fall to his lap. He frowned at the clothes on the floor, the untidy papers. “I’m a mess.”

“Sorry, Avery, but between the two of us, there’s only room for one mess and that’s me.” His grin was half a wince as Fitz’s brows scrunched up, eyes lagging as they found his face, looking through him. “But if you’re worried about the chaos, you’re good. My room is way worse, I don’t mind.”

Fitz fanned out his clingy shirt as he shrugged. “I guess. You’re right. I just hate it. Makes me feel worse to see it.”

Keefe scanned the room with new eyes, the echo of that exhausted nausea casting it all in a new light, imagining he were as neat as Fitz, which was hard. Suddenly, the normalcy of clothes on the floor became reminders of lost energy, the papers evidence of things he wasn’t getting done.

He was an empath--among other, less positive things--so feelings were his specialty, and he was not about to sit around and let his…let Fitz feel ickier and ickier because his room was a mess. Not if he could do something about it--and he could.

“I don’t like that look,” Fitz said, managing another minuscule sip as he watched Keefe.

“You look worse,” Keefe promised him. “So we’re fixing that.”

“Huh?”

Keefe stood, spinning around and assessing the room. “Whatever illness has claimed you is no match for the powers of the Keefester and his incredible good looks--I have to have enough for the both of us right now, you know--so if you hate this, we’ll fix it.”

He pointed at Fitz, then at the door to his bathroom. “You need a shower. Don’t even try to deny it; I can smell your funk from here,” he added when Fitz opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he flushed an unhealthy, sweaty red.

“It’s so far,” Fitz mumbled, looking across the dim room to the bathroom door as though a marathon stood between them. “I’ll never make it.”

“You survived being impaled in the chest by a giant bug. I think you can walk to the bathroom and take a shower.”

Fitz made a face at him. “The bug wasn’t fun. It nearly killed me.”

Keefe’s heart stumbled at the word, killed killed killed playing on repeat in his head. But he refused to let the cracks show as he rolled his eyes in a big show of exasperation. “Semantics, Fitzy! Do you need me to carry you? Because one way or another this is happening. You can get that refreshing bath you clearly need--hopefully with lots of soap--and I’ll…do something about all this.”

He gestured wildly around the room, not exactly sure what he was planning to do, but determined to do it.

Fitz assessed him, concluded that he was serious for once, and gingerly started moving the covers off of his body, lips pressing together as his body shivered under the rush of cold, a fresh wave of sweat breaking out on his brow.

“Fine. Have your way, Mr…Mr. You,” he said, voice weakening as he stood, which must’ve been the same reason he didn’t bother looking embarrassed he’d fallen short of the teasing remarks they loved to trade.

All it inspired in Keefe was more worry, more concern as he questioned whether Fitz should really be listening to him at all. If he looked so unstable, should he really be standing? Should he be awake at all and talking? Should Keefe have just left him to rest the moment he’d awoken him on accident with that pesky door handle?

Fitz made it to the door without incident, pausing to lean against it as he looked at Keefe, then the room. He offered a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Keefe didn’t have a chance to say anything before the door softly clicked shut behind him, leaving him in the dank, stuffy, dim room Fitz had been sleeping in all day.

Water started rushing, spurring him into motion.

How did cleaning work?

He’d spent so much of his life purposefully messing up his father’s perfectly curated spaces, he’d forgotten how to maintain them. He knew how to leave old clothes on the floor, to crumple all his blankets into a pile impossible to smooth out, how to leave old dishes in the strangest places, fingerprints of charcoal all over the place from his messier drawings.

How were you supposed to undo that?

His nose wrinkled. The sickly smell of sweat and unease saturated the air now that he wasn’t distracted looking at Fitz. Of all his jokes, the funk hadn’t been one of them.

Keefe threw the curtains open, and this time he was the one blinking through the light as warm afternoon flowed through the shutters, unlatching the windows and opening them as far as they’d go.

He’d only have so long before he’d have to close them again, so he should do more now, right? Was that how it worked?

Peering down at the grounds visible from Fitz’s window, he took a breath of the clear air blowing in, free of the weight of the room.

That solved one problem.

He frowned at the clothes scattered on the floor and across the bed, so unlike his…

He was not folding all that, and wasn’t entirely sure how to fold it. Keefe’s eyes drifted from the fabric mess to the closet. Perfect.

Grabbing everything he could off the floor, he shoved it into the closet like it was a black hole that could eat it alive, shirts and pants and cloaks all in a wrinkled pile on the floor as he closed the door with a grunt, shutting it away. Problem solved. You couldn’t even see the mess anymore.

He poked at a corner of a garment sticking out under the door that’d refused to cooperate, shoving it back out of sight.

See? He was super good at this cleaning thing.

Floor significantly clearer, he surveyed the two other problems: the desk and the bed.

He tackled the first, thinking it would be quicker, satisfied when he was right. Pens and pencils back into the cup at the edge of the desk, dishes all combined into one pile to be taken to the kitchen later beside empty vials, all the assortments of papers and assignments in one neat stack in the middle. If they were supposed to go certain places, he definitely didn’t know, so Fitz would just have to deal with this.

After all, Keefe was being super nice and helpful in the first place.

Nevermind that he had offered to do it. Nevermind that he would do anything for Fitz.

Water continued to run in the bathroom as he turned the bed. His final task. The centerpiece of the room.

The blankets were all tangled around where Fitz had been cocooned in the middle, suffocated beneath without even his head sticking out, the innermost layers damp from his sick, clammy body. Mr. Snuggles had been spared the worst of it, so he set him off to the side as he tackled the rest.

He nearly worked up his own sweat rearranging and smoothing everything out to the best of his ability, taking all the blankets off and dumping them on the floor in the hallway to replace the sheets--he’d stayed over enough as a kid to know where the Vackers kept the spare linen and blankets.

Standing back near the breeze of the window to cool himself off, he was fanning out his shirt when the water turned off in the bathroom. Pulse traitorously picking up speed, he scrambled to close the shutters allowing that blaring afternoon light into the room, turning it instead into a muted glow--brighter than before, but hopeful not as painful.

“Um…Keefe?” Fitz’s thick voice called, muffled beyond the door.

“Yes?”

“Slight problem. All my clothes are in my room, and I am not.” Keefe had been so intent on getting him to freshen up that he’d forgotten to check whether or not he’d grabbed a change of clothes. He hadn’t.

Keefe stared at the door like it would keep talking, then flushed and said, “Right! Clothes. One second.”

Rushing to the closet, he cursed himself as the pile of garments started to spill out when he wrenched the door open. He kicked them back into the pile as he searched through the clean clothes hanging above the mess he’d made, grabbing the most comfortable thing he could find in a minute before he shoved the door closed again, that pesky little bit of fabric sticking out under the door in protest.

“I’m going to open the door and pass you an absolutely stunning outfit with my eyes closed, that good?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“You act like you don’t trust me.”

Keefe put his fingers on the handle to the bathroom, screwing his eyes shut so tight colors danced across the back of his eyelids.

Pushing the door open a crack, he shoved the clothes through, banging his hand against the door frame since he couldn’t actually see where the opening he’d created was.

Fitz took the clothes, fingers once more brushing against Keefe’s.

He shuddered at the warm stuffiness that washed through him, but brightened with satisfaction as he realized it wasn’t as bad as before. Still woozy, still icky, but more alert. Fitz felt less like he was slowly dying in bed and more like he was…less slowly dying on his feet.

His mind recoiled from the word, death, but it was too late to unthink it.

“You really don’t need to punch my house, but thank you,” Fitz told him, and Keefe opened his eyes when he heard the door click shut, wet footsteps retreating away.

Keefe put a hand to his heart, taking a step back in offense. “I’m going to get you back for that one.”

“Am I not suffering enough already?!” Fitz managed between sniffles.

Keefe’s heart stuttered, lips pressing together. Suffering. Was that what he brought, was that what he did to Fitz? Did he make him suffer?

He shook himself off, refusing to let any of his stupid, unimportant thoughts show as Fitz opened the door, warmth from the steam of the shower drifting out behind him as he braced himself on the doorway, finding his path blocked by one awkward blond boy with too many troubles to ever make him worth the effort.

Keefe looked Fitz up and down, taking stock of their new situation--a much cleaner and less gross situation. A loose grey t-shirt with an embroidered boobrie emblem in the center of the chest was slightly tucked into the waistband of darker grey lounge pants, as though it’d gotten caught in the rush to put them on. The fabric still clung to his skin slightly, but in an “I just showered” way, no longer an “I’m sweating all my skin off” way.

“Better?” Fitz asked when Keefe didn’t move, only kept looking and looking and looking.

Keefe opened his mouth to answer, but Fitz started coughing into his elbow, cutting him off.

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. This was his life. “This is ridiculous. How did you even get sick? You look ugly. Come here.”

Fitz’s eyebrows shot up as Keefe grabbed him by the arm, ignoring the rush of feelings surging at the contact, pulling back towards the very-neatly made bed, climbing back onto it as Fitz followed, sagging at the first touch of the mattress and collapsing face first into it.

“I’m willing to forgive you for that one since you’ve made the…are those gulons?” he interrupted himself--which Keefe thought was incredibly rude, since he’d been in the middle of giving him a compliment.

Keefe proudly fluffed up the pillow Fitz was squinting at, which was completely covered in little cartoon gulons like Elwin always wore. If he’d pull back the blankets atop the bed, he’d find more of them on the sheets underneath.

“Well the other sheets were really gross--sorry, but how on earth do you sweat that much? It can’t be healthy. So I checked your linen, and it turns out you still have these. Don’t know why you don’t use them, because they’re clearly the coolest sheets you own.”

Fitz looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Can’t be healthy? Obviously not. Does anything about me look healthy right now? You probably shouldn’t even be here.”

He mumbled the words, letting himself sink into the blankets, eyes closed, wet hair leaving a mark he knew would be cold to the touch. He mumbled the words like they didn’t matter.

And yet they slipped a tiny pin-prick into his heart, touching on that throbbing, anxious wound he’d shoved from his mind the moment he’d seen how unwell his…how unwell Fitz was.

“Trying to get rid of me, Fitzy?” He forced a laugh, but it came out breathy, hurt, too-high pitched to be okay.

“Never,” Fitz responded, cracking his eyes open as he frowned up at him. He tried to school his expression into that careful, carefree neutrality, but it must not have worked because that worry-crease between his brows had appeared, and he pushed himself off his stomach and onto his elbows. “I just meant that I don’t want you to catch whatever this--” he justed to his puffy, red face ”--is.”

Keefe nodded. “Right. Yeah. Smart.”

He averted his gaze, glancing at the papers piled on the desk, the pictures on shelves lining the walls, the unlit lamps, anywhere but the piercing teal he knew studied him.

“Hey.” Fitz’s fingers bumped against his leg, trying to get his attention. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Lethargy that didn’t belong to him swept through his system as Fitz bumped him again, this time brushing against his hand.

“You’re what’s wrong,” Keefe joked, forcing the mirth from his lips. “I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious you’re all sorts of fucked up right now. Can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”

Fitz shook his head, wet hair falling in front of his flushed face. “No. Stop it. Don’t brush this away--what’s going on?”

Keefe couldn’t stop his traitorous eyes from slipping to the imparter on the edge of the bedside table, screen dark.

Fitz followed his line of sight, twisting over his shoulder to look as he rubbed at his temple.

“Is this about our…? I really am sorry I missed all your messages, Keefe.” He pushed himself from his elbows to a sitting position, the two of them across from each other, knees almost touching in a way that had his breath catching in his throat. “I didn’t mean to. I can’t…I can’t promise it won’t happen again, because I can’t promise I won’t ever get sick and sleep through everything again, but you know it doesn’t mean anything, right?”

“Right,” Keefe repeated, staring down at their hands, each in their own laps, finding it safer than meeting those teal eyes that always saw too much of him.

He watched Fitz’s hand reach towards him but stop half-way, unsure of itself. “Keefe, please. Don’t do this. Talk to me--it’s me.”

Yeah. That was the problem.

It was him. Fitz Vacker . Wonderboy, Golden Boy, oh so far out of Keefe’s world. A prince with a voice and a resolve and a kindness he could never match. A confidence and an ease that commanded a room. Everyone loved to look to him, to look at him, to gape.

Why would he ever look back?

Especially to Keefe.

Keefe Sencen, who everyone only knew as trouble, the one who could never take anything seriously even when his life depended on it, who didn’t even know how to fold his own fucking clothes.

A cough interrupted his thoughts as Fitz turned away, covering his mouth with his arm, other hand braced on his chest. Wet and grating, he grimaced as he readjusted himself and turned back to Keefe.

Keefe, who had been wallowing in self-pity while Fitz was ill. He had no business complaining.

“Still--still waiting for an answer,” Fitz choked out, reaching back for the bottle of Youth on the bedside table as he cleared his throat.

“I thought you’d…” Keefe mumbled, then straightened, eyes widening. That wasn’t what he’d meant to start saying. He was supposed to come up with something witty, something to deflect. Not this.

“I’d what?”

Fitz looked at him so gently, all his attention--even foggy as it was--focused on Keefe, that worry crease more endearing than it had any right to be, pushing his hair out of his face as he leaned closer, unaware of the movement as his lips twisted in concentration.

Pounding pounding pounding away, Keefe worried his heart would bruise his ribs, further destroy his already battered self as his eyes started to burn.

“You didn’t show,” Keefe said, staring at his hands, his fingers through the burn, picking at the skin of his cuticles, anything to give him something to do that wasn’t look at that stupidly lovable concerned face.

Fitz took a deep breath, rubbing at the bags under his eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“For being sick? You haven’t done anything. Just me being a mess, like always.”

It was like he could hear Fitz’s jaw working as he took another breath. “Wow, there’s a lot to unpack there. Okay. Keefe?” He waved in his line of sight, and refused to continue until Keefe looked at him. “Hey. We agreed you’d start being nicer to yourself, remember? Like I said I’d wait, and I’d do my best not to push you. And that I’d try to keep my anger under control when it gets bad, and that we’d both try to communicate better. Remember?”

“Photographic memory. I can’t forget,” Keefe said, tapping listless against his temple.

He’d never forget.

Keefe had been lamenting about how he’d never get all the sand out of his hair, how Fitz had doomed him to shed the tiny granules wherever he went, refusing to admit how much he loved the feeling of the sun-soaked beach beside the crystal stillness of the lake, looking as though they were the first to find it in centuries, millenia, maybe ever.

Fitz had shut him up as he turned to him, his hesitation so strong it drifted through the air and killed the words in his throat.

He’d kept looking at Keefe as he spoke, something hesitant about how he’d never told anyone about this place before, a quiet corner of the world he’d discovered on one of his morning runs, the ones he used to take in various places around the globe before Grizel had confined him to Everglen.

He’d had nothing to say, watching the water drip down Fitz’s flushed cheeks from the wet strands still soaked with lake water.

And they’d promised each other things would be different now. That they’d try. That they’d be better. For each other.

And they’d agreed to meet back there every few weeks. Just the two of them in their silent lake, brush and flora crowding the edges with color and unbothered life, warm sand sticking to wet skin, cool waters reflecting the patterns of clouds crossing overhead.

They were supposed to meet there today.

“You weren’t there,” he whispered, breath shaking as he tried to blink away the burn in his eyes. “I waited and you weren’t there.”

Fitz said nothing, wet hair from his shower falling in front of his flushed cheeks, and Keefe could practically picture the beach around them, that day.

It was that image, that reminder, of how earnest, how genuine he’d been when they’d promised they’d try. Fitz couldn’t do all the work trying to hold their broken pieces together. He had to contribute, too.

“I thought you’d finally had enough of me.” The words fell from his mouth as though they didn’t belong to him, didn’t believe he could ever put voice to something that heavy.

“Never.” Fitz reached out again, paused again. Waited for Keefe to lean forward and meet him half-way. He’d back as far away as Keefe wanted without hesitation.

But that wasn’t what Keefe wanted. Not even close.

Their knees bumped together as he closed the gap between them; Fitz’s warm palms cupped his face, thumbs brushing stray tears from his cheeks as he searched his eyes. “I will never have enough of you, okay? That lake, you with me…I love it. I like being with you and spending time with you--even now, when I feel like shit. You showed up and all of the sudden it’s way less miserable being sick. It’s funny, now. The gulons, the boobrie shirt. It’s not perfect, because I still can’t breathe through both nostrils, but it’s better. Because of you.”

Keefe’s eyes closed as he listened, resting his hands atop Fitz’s and holding his breath as the concern, the earnest, the care, the love washed over him. Golden and glowing, feelings that didn’t belong to him but were for him lit his body from the inside out, washing out all the decrepit, icky things lurking in his mind.

That churning, frantic anxiety he’d held so close to his chest, away from Della’s eyes, away from his own, mellowed under the light and melted away, his shoulders sagging from the relief of a burden he hadn’t known how to set down on his own.

“Are we good?” Fitz asked, teal eyes better than the blue of their lake.

The corner of Keefe’s lips curled up as a wet laugh choked out of him. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.” He almost said sorry, but knew he wasn’t supposed to, so instead he went with, “Thanks.”

Fitz hummed in satisfaction, leaning closer so their foreheads touched as he held Keefe, the two of them breathing in tandem as Keefe regained his composure, strengthened by the reminder that whatever the two of them had, it wasn’t going anywhere.

Foreheads pressed together, he frowned. “You’re burning up.”

He pulled back, freeing one of his hands to press the back against Fitz’s forehead, teal eyes falling closed as he did so, like they couldn’t stand to fight against the pull anymore.

His other hand still on Fitz’s, the intense wave of overwhelming love was shadowed by a thrumming, deep seated ache of exhaustion.

“What a surprise,” Fitz mumbled, half the syllables near unintelligible. “Only been burning up the whole entire day.”

“Have you taken anything for it? Should we call Elwin?”

Fitz shook his head, slow, lagging motions. “Nuh-uh. I don’t wanna talk to anyone else. Besides. We’ve got basic elixirs here--I took one…” he trailed off, thinking. “What time is it?”

“About three.”

“Then it’s been long enough. I can take another dose. For the everything,” he gestured halfheartedly at himself, still leaning into Keefe’s hand, still holding his face.

Keefe scrunched his brow. “Okay, where’s that?”

“Bathroom counter. Purple.” His words had started to blend together, more of more of his weight leaning forward, muscles retiring for the day.

“Perfect,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure what that meant. “I’ll get it for you. You should lay down. I’m usually all for breaking the rules, but you really look like you could use some rest like you’re supposed to.”

Fitz only hummed again in response, offering no resistance as Keefe guided him to lay back on the covers, his legs curling in a little on instinct, hugging Mr. Snuggles tightly to his chest as Keefe placed him in his arms.

Quickly, he crawled over the bed, crossing to the bathroom, stuffy, damp air hitting him as he opened the door and scanned the counter.

A handful of glass vials had been haphazardly piled next to the sink, as though someone had rifled through them without bothering to clean up after them.

A particular handful were bright purple in color in the same shaped glass as the ones left on the desk, so he grabbed one and returned to Fitz, who’d already started to succumb to the throes of sleep, all his energy spent in that quick burst of affection.

“Hey. Fitzter. Don’t fall asleep on me just yet--I got your feel better elixir.”

Fitz grumbled something he couldn’t understand, but after another attempt, his eyes cracked open, brows softening as he saw it was Keefe, taking the vial he offered and propping himself up long enough to gingerly swallow the contents.

Despite the sweet aroma, he grimaced. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, I can feel that.” Keefe took the empty vial from him, setting it on the bedside table besides the Youth.

“Is that…what is that?” Fitz looked towards the closet, squinting at the bottom, that dastardly corner of fabric that had refused to cooperate with the rest continuing to stick out from under the edge of the door.

Keefe smiled. “I cleaned for you, Avery. You’re welcome by the way, doesn’t it look so nice in here now?”

“You just shoved everything in the closet, didn’t you?”

“Like I said, I cleaned for you.”

Fitz laughed, a soft, gentle thing, rubbing at his eyes. “Wow. Well, thanks, Keefe. I’ll fix it later, I guess. Too tired to even think about that right now.” He shook his head, sighing.

“Then stop thinking--that’s always when I do my best work.”

“Oh yeah, we can tell.” His eyelids started to fall shut, body wobbling as his muscles tried to give up. “I don’t think my brain can take anymore,” he admitted.

Keefe straightened. “Right. I, um, I’m sorry I interrupted your nap. But also you look better now, less like a disgruntled rat. So you’re welcome for that part, but I’ll just…” he cut off before he could ramble himself into any more of a corner, getting up, running his fingers through his hair as he looked to the door.

He’d only taken a step before Fitz said, “Wait.”

Turning back, Fitz had dropped his hands into his lap, looking at Keefe, something inscrutable in his gaze.

He held out his hand. “Stay? Please. If you…if you want to.”

Body refusing to cooperate as his mind caught up, he stood there mouth falling open for a few moments. Words failed him, so he stopped trying to find them.

Instead, he took Fitz’s hand, exhaustion and annoyance and comfort and soft sunsets and warm wind passing over hills and love flooding through the touch as he let himself be pulled into the bed, stopping only long enough to kick off his shoes.

Fitz grabbed Mr. Snuggles again--he’d set him aside to uncork the elixir--his fluffy body held close in one hand, the other holding Keefe’s.

Keefe said nothing, refusing to interrupt this peaceful bliss, as still and clear and breathtaking as the view at their lake.

Almost immediately, Fitz’s breathing evened out, grip loosening in his as sleep claimed him once more, his battered, worn body in need of a break. But he could’ve sworn the flush of his cheeks had dimmed, the heat radiating from his skin softened.

Taking a deep breath, he squeezed his fingers in reassurance, a smile curving the ends of his lips as he lay in the dim light, just the two of them in their little corner of the world. They’d have to emerge from it eventually, to brave the rest of their lives.

But Fitz hadn’t had enough of him yet, and he’d be there by his side.

He let the thought warm him like golden light as he breathed, heart content in his chest, hoping Fitz could feel the love through their fingertips.

His Fitz.

#kotlc #kotlc fanfic #keefitz #quil's quill #quil's queries #gay-otlc #i know you're less of a touchy person so I tried to go for less touch. and more permission for touch. though there is one touch that keefe #doesn't ask about. but fitz didn't mind so hopefully thats alright #this one also turned out longer than I expected but I think it's exactly the amount of time they needed :)#i am holding them gently in my hands #i would shake them violently around in ecstasy but fitz is unwell #so I will be gentle with him

40 notes · View notes