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Fitz looks at his life, and one thing seems to stand out to him: there is something inherently lacking in him.
Maybe he’s being a bit dramatic, but the facts don’t lie. First, he meets this amazing girl. He thinks she likes him. And then they start dating (and almost kiss (!!!)) and then she’s cheating on him (emotionally? literally?) with his best fucking friend, (fuck you, Keefe Sencen. You were supposed to be there for me) because apparently Fitz isn’t good enough to stick around for. Oh, and his brother’s standing with the group that is LITERALLY the definition of evil, and when said brother attacked Fitz’s closest friends and gets trapped in a freakish pod and all Fitz does is stop pressing buttons, everyone treats him like he’s the embodiment of the human devil, because surprise, surprise, nothing he does is good enough.
Worst of all, Fitz is being forgotten. Everything he’s done in the past apparently isn’t good enough anymore, because everyone only associates him Sophie, and even then, they don’t trust his advice. She burns down a Neverseen hideout, effectively declaring war without telling anyone, and when he’s understandably upset, everyone acts like he has fucking anger issues. But then again, perhaps he deserves all of it. His gilded pedestal wasn’t real: it was built on sand and covered in copper, and now everything's collapsing; his image tarnishing.
In a hundred year’s time, the elves will look at him and ask “Is that the Vacker boy? Wasn’t he supposed to be great, the next big thing? Well, look at him now. Goes to show not to pin your hopes on someone.” Then, they’ll laugh. Fitz can hear the laugh already. They’ll glance over at him, huddle closer together, and laugh, something high-pitched that cuts through the air, interspersed with names and fuck-ups, except now he’ll be on the list, and he can feel his chest collapsing in on itself (like his leg did and the bones were crushed and his heart was poisone).
That is all to say, he’s down a girlfriend, best friend, brother, and reputation. Which, he can’t help but mock, are all easy things to come by and replace. Perhaps he’ll just pop down to the store? Pick up some watch that’ll let him undo seven years, when Keefe was still his one and only, his best friend? Or go back fifteen years, when Alvar still loved him and was still the best big brother someone could ask for? Or maybe even go back three years, before he met Sophie, and he was oblivious to everything wrong in his life? To everything wrong with him?
It seems that for how advanced that the elves are, they still haven’t invented time travel. Some things still go against the natural laws of the universe, even though they’ve managed to break down everything else. At least some things are still sacred.
Or, maybe, he’s just being a big fucking baby and he needs to man up. He knows what this wallowing leads to. He’ll become bitchy and snappy and mean, and then everyone will think that he has issues and the whole goddamn cycle repeats. Fitz hates it when the cycle repeats, because he gets it, okay? He gets it. He’s not loveable, not perfect enough. He doesn’t need it rubbed in his face constantly.
There’s something indulgent though, about spiraling. That’s it, he’s decided. He’ll stay in this bathtub, drinking straight from the bottle of fizzleberry wine until he falls asleep underneath the warm water. Fitz’s quite content like this, with his arm hanging out, loosely holding the neck of the bottle, lightly dozing and bitching about his issues.
Of course, he’s interrupted. He’s always fucking interrupting when a good things going for him, because even the universe thinks he’s not deserving of the little bits of happiness (is it even happiness?) that he’s able to carve out for himself. It’s his imparter that’s ringing from the room over, which means that he has to dry off. Pooh. He just won’t wear anything to answer, except the towel that he’s wrapped himself in. Take that, world! Take that, whoever’s calling!
It’s Dex. Dex is calling him, and now Fitz regrets his decision to get drunk and get in the bath and answer the call in just a towel. He can feel heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears to his chest, and he really doesn’t want to think about how much he’s blushing. At least that’s one thing he’s got going for him, though. Fitz is pretty. That much is undeniable; he knows that a flush makes him look more enchanting. Hopefully. Once again, he mourns the decision to drink.
Dex appears to be equally embarrassed to catch Fitz like this. He’s blushing as well, a splotchy pink unfurling across his face. It compliments his curls, Fitz muses, the pink bringing out the red of his strawberry-blonde hair.
There’s a long pause, and Fitz realises that they’ve just been staring at each other in silence for a good few minutes. It seems that they both realise at the same time, because suddenly they’re both babbling.
“Are you—”
“Did you—”
Fitz takes a breath in, then another. He needs to calm down. His heart is beating altogether too fast; it’s probably due to the change in environment, from laying down to standing.
In the time that he takes to collect himself, Dex manages to beat him to the punch.
“Are you busy right now?” he asks, looking away from the screen.
“No,” Fitz says. The question is simply so fucking funny that he can’t help but laugh. “No, I’m not busy.”
There’s another long pause, and Fitz wants them to talk again, or at least have the space filled with thought. An echo pangs through his heart and it hurts, it truly does, because this is the first good conversation he’s had with someone who’s supposed to be his friend, even if he’s not sure if he can count Dex as one of those.
“Do you—” his voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “Do you want to come over? We can,” what did he used to do with Keefe? “We can play tackle bramble. I have spare jerseys.”
Dex nods, and then he finally, finally looks at Fitz. He smiles at that and it seems that Dex does too, dimples mirrored on the imparter.
“I’ll be over soon,” he says. “I think I have a pathfinder to Everglen.”
“Ok. Good,” Fitz replies, still grinning dumbly. “Let me know when you get here so I can let you in from the gates.”
Dex laughs at that. “Ok, good. Bye, Fitz. See you soon.”
“See you soon, Dex.”
The imparter’s screen shuts off, the light fading out and leaving the surface dull.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Fitz berates himself. Ok, Good? Who says that? He laughed. He must think I’m dumb. Fuck! I need to pull it together. Thank the heavens that he managed to remember to snag a hangover elixir from his parents’ cabinet. He knocks it back, and damn, does it hurt. He can feel all the kavalerian leaving his system at once, which isn’t exactly… pleasant.
His head hurts, he’s still only in a towel, and Dex is coming over soon. Shit, he panics, Dex is coming over soon.
He runs to his closet, popping his ankle and hip as he goes. They’re playing tackle bramble, so he’ll just wear a jersey and some shorts. Simple, right? Simple. Except he has a good fifteen jerseys, all in different colours, and someone needs to go back and time and tell him to be a simpler man, because that’s too many decisions for him. Fitz finally decides on a muted orange. He remembers Keefe saying something about it bringing the teal out of his eyes, and it seems to go well with his tan. Then black shorts, and he’s good to go. See? Simple.
He’s fixing up his hair in the mirror when Dex finally calls him back, and he runs down to the front and out the door. He opens the gate with shaking hands. Dex is there. He’s really there.
“Come in,” Fitz says, almost stuttering. “Uh,” he stammers, scrambling for words. “Do you want anything to drink? To eat?”
Dex lets out a little snort at that. “No, I’m good.”
“Ok. Good,” he replies, and berates himself again. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“So. Um,” Dex pauses, turning a little rosy. It is hot, Fitz notes. “Where are we going to play?”
“Oh!” Fitz straightens, and begins walking further away from the house. Thankfully, Dex follows him. “The boundaries are the four puripura trees. Like, a square. Y’know?”
Dex grins at him, dimples showing once more, and Fitz’s compelled to reciprocate. “Yes, I do know the shape. I happen to design things. That happen to contain the shape called ‘square’.”
Fitz stammers at that, his face flushing up again.
“I’m messing with you,” Dex laughs, clear and full bodied. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Ok,” Fitz manages to huff out, a soft pleasure filling his chest despite his embarrassment. He managed to make Dex laugh. He managed to make Dex laugh.
“Oh, um,” he continues, handing a teal jersey over. “I didn’t know if you had one, so here’s a bramble jersey. For the game.”
“Thanks,” Dex easily responds, and begins taking his tunic off.
Fitz knows that he should look away. For privacy. But as Dex pulls the jersey on, he can’t help but admire the freckles that dot his chest and back. Since when did Dex put on muscle? Last that he can remember, he was rather thin. Maybe all the tinkering bulked him up.
Dex’s eyes meet his, and Fitz quickly looks away, the tips of his ears warm.
“No abilities?” he asks, still looking away, picking up his pace.
He hears Dex grunt in agreement.
Fitz needs to get out of there, to run. “I’ll go first. Give me five minutes; winner gets a favour?”
He feels Dex nod from behind him. “Five minutes.”
He doesn’t need any more invitation than that, sprinting as fast and as far away as his legs will take him. He needs to win. He needs to get away. He needs something that he isn’t sure he can put into words, something that is trying to claw its way out of his chest and out of his mouth. It’s something sick. It’s something wondrous. It’s something that doesn’t, cannot exist. He cannot, will not, think of it. I shan’t heave my heart into my mouth, he thinks, panicked laughter bubbling out.
He laughs, and runs.
Fitz runs until he reaches his favourite tree on the property. It isn’t the tallest, nor the prettiest, but it is the oldest. It’s older than his father, and yet, it stands. “I am still here,” the knarls of wood exclaim. “I am still here and that is good enough!”
(There isn’t any particular reason that it’s his favorite).
He sits at the base, and takes in deep, shuddering breaths, trying to get his heart rate under control. He used to be so athletic, but it seems that his own body has failed him too. Shame.
Fitz can feel his leg cramping up, and he stands to stretch it out. If he doesn’t, he knows the bone will feel pinched for days, wrong in a way that shouldn’t scientifically be the case.
He closes his eyes and extends the limb. And promptly opens his eyes, his body meeting the ground at startling speed, Dex’s arms wrapped around his waist, tackling him to the ground. But barely any time has passed? He wonders, but it’s already too late.
“I win!” crows Dex, his body weight pinning Fitz to the earth, legs pressing against legs. “I win!” he says again, a smile splitting his face. “What’s my favour, prettyboy?”
“Wha—” Fitz tries again, the words sticking in his throat. “Whatever you want. That’s the point of favour,” he shakily says, trying for a cocky smile; he knows that it looks hesitant instead.
Dex laughs. “Whatever I want?” he asks, panting, more a statement than a question.
Fitz nods, meeting Dex’s eyes.
Dex slides his hands slightly under his jersey, skin meeting skin, and leans in until his face is inches from Fitz’s face.
“Well then,” he says, voice strained and hoarse, “you won’t mind if I do this?”
He closes the distance and kisses him; it’s warm, and wet, and Fitz can’t help the slight moan that he makes. Dex only takes it as a further invitation and deepens the kiss, still pinning Fitz down.
Heat builds in Fitz’s navel, and he understands the nameless thing that he was running from. Ah, he realises, the others will have reason to shun me, I suppose. In his distraction, he slightly opens his mouth, and he feels Dex’s tongue against his. It’s odd, to taste someone else, but not unpleasant, and he grips Dex’s jersey tightly in his hands.
Dex begins to lick his neck, sucking little bites into the tender flesh and kissing them away, gaspy pants and small moans escaping him; the vibrations move through Fitz, and he is hot, too hot, with want, with need, with shame.
This is wrong. This is right. He is a deviation from the norm. He is the perfect exception. He doesn’t know. Fitz doesn’t know.
He pushes Dex away and sits up quickly, breath still tremulous.
“I think you need to go,” he says, looking away. “I just remembered. I’m busy. I have something to do.”
“Ok,” Dex whispers, “I’ll see myself out.”
Fitz isn’t looking. He isn’t, but from the corner of his eye, he can see Dex walking away, and he wants to cry out, to stop him, to curl up and sob. He wishes to rend his heart from his chest.
History moves in such vicious cycles, and he’s doomed to commit his hamartia, over and over again. He stands, sniffling.
It’s time to get drunk again.