a lesson in running away (the art of returning)

a lesson in change, and stopping it before it goes too far

Keefe kisses like he's trying to kill him. And he might succeed, fingers tracing his jaw and cheekbones, pinkies grazing his throat. His heart speeds, skips beats like an inexperienced drummer playing a bad rhythm. His leg aches as he takes a step even closer, echoes lunging through his body. Fitz's heart burns in his chest like it's ready to explode. It wouldn't be the worst way to die.

No worse than driving a dagger through a throat and feeling blood spray across your face.

"Hey—hey," Keefe murmurs against his lips, pulling away and searching his eyes. He's blurry, and Fitz realizes with a start that warm tears trickle down his cheeks and drip off his chin.

"Sorry," he mumbles, wiping his eyes, but that only reminds him of how he wiped his hands on Alvar's tunic after killing him, and a bit of the stone comes back against his will, calming down the echoes in his heart. It's not really fair, because Fitz has only lived with this realization (of love, that is) for a few minutes and his brother shouldn't be ruining everything again. Shouldn't still be ruining him, because he's supposed to be fixed. Killing him was supposed to make everything better.

"Fitz," Keefe says, like he's invoking some sort of god. His face fractures and reforms as he blinks and his eyes well up again.

"I killed Alvar," he says, and Keefe sucks in a breath. But he doesn't let him go. "I— today. Before you came over. I killed him and I wiped the blood on his tunic and I washed the knife in the bathroom sink and wiped it off with toilet paper. I cleaned my brother's blood up with toilet paper, Keefe."

Keefe removes Fitz's hands from his neck where they rest and holds them in front of him. They're scrubbed clean, except for crusts of dried blood under his nails. "You missed a spot," he says quietly, and Fitz feels his face crumble at the mistake. "Why did you do it?"

"He was going to kill Tam," Fitz answers immediately. "I did it to— to save Tam."

"Why would he want to kill Tam?" Keefe asks, before the pieces click and he breathes, "Oh. You told him about Ruy."

"If you want to ask me why I did it, I don't know." Fitz imagines that he is the statue of a prince, raised high above the masses of morality and reasoning. But the tears keep falling and his voice keeps breaking. Princes molded from gold aren't supposed to cry, and they aren't supposed to lie. "I just—I think—I wanted to—"

"What did you want?" Keefe traces Fitz's palms with his thumbs and a shiver goes down his spine. He can't tell if there's disapproval or understanding hidden in his eyes.

He should be the one to understand, the only one who possibly could. Maybe Sophie wouldn't, or Biana, or Linh, but Keefe is supposed to get it. He's supposed to be numb too.

"I wanted... I wanted to protect Tam. And my family. Protect everyone." He's a shield thrown in the way of the truly important people, like he'd been in Exile when that arthropleura had stabbed him in his stomach. He'd doubled over and felt the venom sing through his veins and known that Sophie was safe from everyone else's mistake.

"Liar." Keefe clings to his hands like a lifeline.

Or like he's reading his emotions.

How far does the numbness reach? How strong are his walls?

"Liar," Alvar had said. "Why are you killing me?"

Fitz closes his eyes so tightly it hurts and watches his life flash by.

"I wanted to hurt him," he says softly. Set him on fire like he'd watched Dex and Sophie and Kenric burn, poison him like he'd allowed the gnomes to wither, slash him open like he'd done when he set those newborn trolls free to wreak havoc. Alvar killed Calla. Alvar killed Umber. Alvar gave Biana her scars, kidnapped Wylie, Tam, Sophie, and Dex, took Keefe away from him. "I wanted him to feel what he did to me."