Chapter Text
It’s the most shameful, entertaining omission of orders, the most blatant disregard for everything that’s supposed to matter. Because how can any of it matter, how can it make the remotest semblance of sense, when Keefe Sencen is right here?
Keefe has a way about him; he’s something of a red-horned magician disguised in blond hair and a devilish smile. He’s reminiscent of every admonitory order Fitz has been told to take heed to, every caution-taped warning he’s been told to avoid, and Fitz is running toward it with no regrets. Between that lethal smirk and the rhythm in the low, resounding nature of his voice, Fitz is left no choice but to fucking fall for Keefe.
Fitz is breaking every rule that hasn't been made for him, and he’s fine, because it’s landed him where he is now, half-naked and half-drunk, undressing between giggles of ‘are you sure?’ and ‘more than ever’, in his stupid, creaky, stupid dressing room trailer. Keefe Sencen is nimble; he doesn’t waste any time in ripping the stupid fucking buttons off of Fitz’s shirt and flinging it to the ground, waiting for Fitz to do the same. Fitz isn’t half as quick, half as time-efficient —he stumbles, hands struggling to grasp and pull off Keefe’s Batman T-shirt that’s loosely hanging off his shoulders. When he does, it’s inside out and he only manages to shoot it a few metres to his right, watching as it pathetically lands on the dresser.
Keefe must not take notice, because he ignores that lousy throw and instead moves toward Fitz, quickly and smoothly. Keefe sends one last lingering, pensive stare —one final chance for Fitz to back out. But the two know how this ends, how it’s always ended before, and likely always will—so Fitz says fuck all to all his duties and kisses Keefe Sencen, pressing his mouth against Keefe’s, and the two are suddenly, but not surprisingly, deep into something that lies in between wrong and so, so good . Somewhere along the way, Keefe’s hand manages to snake its way up to Fitz’s neck, to his face and traces his jaw, and the iciness of Keefe’s fingers is like electricity in water. Fitz touts the same bravado when he extends his hand over to Keefe’s chest, feather light, and leaves it there. Keefe is built like a Greek God, a sentiment echoed and exploited by many, but only truly appreciated by Fitz. He likes to indulge himself like this often—being the one, the only person to know Keefe like this.
Keefe’s eyes are closed, pressed shut, and he drops his hand from Fitz’s chest down to his— fuck, Keefe’s hands are around Fitz’s pants. Keefe’s hand grasps the hem, and he’s wearing that grin again; the grin of a mischief-maker, a con-man—the grin of someone Fitz is utterly and hopelessly in love with.
One last gentle pull of Fitz’s pants and— Beep. Beep. Beep . The two look up, smiles wiped off their faces, and glance at the phone—Fitz’s phone. Fitz eyes Keefe apologically, mouthing a soft I’m sorry as he checks who it is and—thank fuck, it’s only Biana calling him on audio.
“I should take this,” Fitz sighs.
Keefe nods, the wicked grin now gone and replaced with something softer, and yet much much more evident : longing. It’s clear in the flecks of pale blue in his icy blue eyes; Keefe has always been an open book. It’s an emotion he’s seen only a few times on Keefe, but when it’s there, God it feels like the world is falling apart.
Taking several deep breaths, Fitz picks up. “Biana? What’s up?”
“ Your interview is up,” Biana hisses on the other side of the phone, but Fitz regards this as a quality of her voice.
“Uh…yeah, the interview.”
“Fitz!” Biana’s voice rises an octave. “It’s in fifteen minutes, and you were supposed to be ready ten minutes ago.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, you are so not giving me that attitude,” Biana huffs, and Fitz can feel her narrowing her eyes on the other side of the screen. They were telepathic like that.
“I’ll be there,” Fitz promises, with a touch more sincerity than before.
“Oh wait!” Biana’s voice cuts through the speakers just as he’s about to hang up. “You wouldn’t know where Keefe is, would you?”
“Uh,” Fitz glances over at Keefe, who’s fucking smouldering at him. What in the Flynn Rider— “No clue. He’s always somewhere though, you know how he is.”
“By somewhere you mean some fangirl’s pants, right?” Biana snorts, and it takes Fitz the sheer will of god to keep himself from laughing and crying at the same time. “I don’t know how he manages to pull it off, but every fucking time I see him, he looks like he’s been—”
“Nope, nope, nooope . Still my best friend we’re talking about,” Fitz interrupts her to keep himself from throwing up amid giggles. He glances over at Keefe and—the fucker is enjoying this.
“Right, sorry. But anyways, if you see him, chew him out for me, will you?” There’s some shuffling from Biana’s end. “Or, better yet, send him my way.”
“I’m glad you’re on my side.”
“Might change if I don’t see you in…thirty seconds,” Biana says lightly. “Bye!” And the line cuts.
Fitz drops the phone on the bed, permitting himself a moment of relief. Then he squares his shoulders, hands on his hips, and glares at Keefe, who’s sitting all pretty and perfect just a few feet from him. “You know, if you’re going to insist on seeing me before every interview and performance, you might have to do a better job at… disguising it.”
“‘Disguising it’? Never ,” Keefe crawls closer to Fitz, so now the blond is latched onto Fitz’s arm. “Besides, that rugged charm is all part of the Keefe-Sencen-appeal.”
“ Rugged charm ,” Fitz snorts. “Whatever weed you’ve been smoking, pass it over.”
Keefe just flashes him a lazy grin and rolls off the bed. He dusts off his frankly immaculate pants and rests his hands on his hips. “Well, then, you heard what Biana said—”
“‘Every time I fucking see him—’”
“—about the interview ,” Keefe shoots Fitz a look and it’s Fitz’s turn to offer nothing but a smile. “We better get going.”
Fitz pouts at Keefe, getting up and off the bed. He sifts through a clothes rack of outfits that Marella has oh-so-kindly bedazzled, as she puts it, and settles on a white button down shirt with green detailing, and a pair of multi-coloured statement pants. Fitz shoos away Keefe as he slips it on, and when he turns back to the blond, all Keefe can do is laugh.
“You’re—you’re trying to convince people you’re straight and you’re wearing that ?” Keefe says in between giggles. Fitz glares at him, but it’s half-hearted.
“We’re singers . A part of a band . People expect us to dress up a little! You don’t see, like, Harry Styles in a dude-bro tee-shirt and jeans.”
If Keefe has a comeback, he keeps it to himself, resorting to simply zipping his lips with his fingers theatrically. Fitz scoffs but it’s insincere, turning around so Keefe can change into something just as fruity for their shared interview. When Fitz turns around again, Keefe’s wearing a satin blue jumpsuit that shines more than a disco ball. Fitz looks him up and down.
“ Talk about fruity,” Fitz smiles side-ways, and he’s not-so-subtly checking out the blond.
Keefe places a hand over his mouth, feigning offence. “There’s no dress code for being gay, Fitz . It’s 2025, catch up.”
Fitz laughs raucously, hands on his stomach. “My bad. I’ll lock myself up before Twitter can find me.” Fitz opens the door to his trailer, allowing Keefe to exit before shutting it behind him.
By some miracle, they’re only two minutes late to the interview, and the two of them, along with the rest of the group, arrive at the venue to a jittery host who’s makeup is on point and coffee is in one hand.
“Three, two, one and… we’re rolling!” A camera crew shouts.
“Welcome to the Little John show! Today I have with me some very special guests: Keefe Sencen, Fitz Vacker, Marella Redek and Tam Song from the globally beloved band, VEX’D. So, my first question is about your upcoming performance at the CRAZED festival…”
——
When Fitz walks out, he’s physically fine but emotionally exhausted. Interviews are like this, he knows—the polite poking and prodding, the aggravation and questions and—ugh. He always walks out a little more exposed than he’d liked to be.
“That went well, all things considered,” Biana wraps her arm around his shoulders and gives him a knowing look. Biana feels the same way about the interviews, he knows—that’s why she had opted for a manager role when they were forming the band.
“ All things considered is right,” Marella huffs, reaching for a can of beer from the mini fridge in their common area. “They keep fucking asking me about Jensi. It’s just Jensi this, Jensi that, is that Jensi’s shirt you’re wearing there and it’s like, no I’m not! I’m part of a music group that he’s involved in managing; sue me for wearing the merch!” she takes a swig of the drink and sighs. “And they keep railing Keefe on and on about girlfriends —a fan-girlfriend at that! Could you imagine! The media is fucking crazy . How’re you dealing with that, by the way?”
Keefe shrugs and he’s so easy-going in the way he does it, so natural, that it takes an expert—which Fitz considers himself to be—to deduce just how practiced it is. “It's a pain in the ass, like you so eloquently summarised. And the fangirl thing is fuckin’ weird. Like, I know they love to think of me as some sleazy dream boat but I would never take advantage of a fan like that.”
Fitz can tell, under the cool demeanor, the practiced social cues, Keefe is angry, determined to be anything but what the media paints him as.
“God I hate the boxes they shove us in,” Fitz mutters, and from behind a cup of ramen, Tam nods vigorously.
“Same. Can’t fucking smile in an interview anymore without them pointing out that it’s out of character or some shit like that,” Tam tugs on his bangs. “Guess that’s the price of having a cool hairstyle.”
“The only thing cool about your hair is the melted fucking metal on it,” Keefe grins at Tam, seemingly back to his normal self. “Dude, how does your hair not clump together? That’s metal!”
“It’s a secret,” Tam says mockingly. “One you’ll have to die without.”
——
“I’m going on a date with Dex later,” Biana says, and she’s smiling softly. If there’s just one reason that Fitz likes Dex, it’s this—his ability to make Biana happy. “There's a park nearby, he tells me. Beautiful at sunset.”
“Sounds lovely,” Fitz smiles wide. “He’s a great guy, Bia.”
“Makes me feel so grateful,” Biana murmurs. “I remember when I was a teen, I was worried at every fucking moment that no one would want me, that no one would see me that way. It was just exhausting, you know? And then I met Dex, and—God, he just makes it all better.”
Fitz loves seeing Biana this way, just happy —especially when it comes to Dex. But, behind his joy for Biana, something lurks, something aches. It eats at him as Biana speaks, and he knows what it is, deep down, but he’s too afraid, too much of a coward to say it.
“I think I’m going to marry him,” Biana inhales sharply. “One day, I mean, when we both aren’t twenty two and VEX’D isn’t on tours every so often. Could you imagine, Fitz? A backyard wedding, with flowers and a white dress.” She's lost in a world of pretty bouquets and Dex, and for that Fitz is happy.
“You’re definitely going to marry him,” Fitz grins. “I can tell.”
They’re silent after that, alone in the tour bus. That feeling comes again and this time it’s louder, more powerful, and unlike before, this time, it has a voice. You’ll never have that happy ending. All you’ll ever have is sneaking around and secrets, for someone who bolts at the thought of commitment. Fitz chugs a bottle of water in a pathetic attempt to distract himself.