I have written a LOT of Keefitz, but this was basically the only ship that fit with the idea so-

I thought of this randomly this morning, and had to write it. Kind of proud of it actually.

Hope you like it!

TW: angst, death, grief, verbal/emotional abuse, parents, hating parents, tell me if I should add more!

Why did they only speak good about the dead?

All of them, every one of them; they spoke of Alden's accomplishments, his caring, the joy he took in his work.

There was no mention of any faults.

As if the slate was wiped clean after death, and those he left behind were only allowed to recall his daring and smiles and love.

They only spoke well of him, of his charming grins and authoritative orders.

It was unfortunate, because for all of his good parts (although they were a little hard to remember in the wake of shock and the slight, shameful tinge of relief) he was bad, and for all of his smiles there were frowns, and for all his daring, he was a coward.

He was a coward, and it was only after death that it was realized.

Not by the people who mattered; not by the people who exalted him and praised him, the people who believed he was one to be upheld.

The only person who knew that he was really and truly a coward at heart was the one who had been one of them, once.

The one who had believed his father to be the best of the best. Until he was gone, and the truth of the years was laid bare.

But the living only spoke well of the dead, so that one person who knew the truth couldn't speak it, lest he be scolded for daring to tarnish the memory of the great dead man.

The great, kind, caring, hardworking, stern, ignorant, bigoted coward of a man.

But Fitz could only stay silent, because one mustn't speak ill of the dead.

...

Keefe found him next to the river.

He spared the empath a single glance before continuing to stare into the river. He held a single red rose, and was plucking petals from the blossom and throwing them into the rushing water.

The flower was almost bare.

Keefe wondered how long he'd been here, alone.

He sat down next to Fitz slowly, tilting his head to the side as he studied the boy slowly shredding apart a rose, the red petals sinking into the sparkling river before flowing away with the current.

A painting flashed into his mind, and he tucked it away carefully for later.

Fitz ignored him, and Keefe was content to sit there and say nothing. Soon enough, however, Fitz's head turned to him, and Keefe met his eyes.

Angry eyes, saddened and grieving and regretful. But angry, mostly.

Keefe wondered what he was angry about.

He hoped it wasn't his presence. 

"Why are you here," Fitz whispered, his voice cutting through the sound of the rushing river.

Keefe had an answer prepared. "For you," he answered softly. "Because I thought you might have more to say."

Fitz snorted, reaching up to tear another petal from the rose. Keefe watched it flutter into the water, a drop of blood sailing into the deep.

He added more detail to the painting in his mind.

Perhaps he'd call it "Bleeding Roses" or something like it.

"I don't need you here," Fitz told him.

"But do you want me here?" Keefe studied the telepath, watching the way his fists clenched over the stem of the rose, the rough flick of his fingers as he tossed another petal to drown in the river.

He was silent, then- "You don't have to-"

"I do," Keefe interrupted, leaning back on his elbows. "Now," he added, eyes skating over Fitz's tense face, "Why don't you tell me what you really wanted to say about him?"

Fitz's gaze shot to him, but not in surprise. They knew each other too well, and Fitz's fake eulogy had been full of lies.

"I wrote out what I really wanted to say," Fitz muttered. "My mom didn't approve."

"I figured," Keefe responded. Fitz went to tear another petal from the rose, but he found that it was stripped clean. He clenched his fist around the stem, and it snapped.

He flung the whole thing into the river, standing up to pace the bank of the river. Keefe tilted his head to observe his tense movements.

"My father," Fitz began, "was beloved. By his family, his friends, the people he lorded over with the belief that he was better than they were."

Keefe's eyes narrowed in agreement as Fitz paused, continuing to pace back and forth. 

"He was hardworking," the telepath conceded. "He cared about his work and did it well. But he loved his work more than his family, and did it well at the expense of his love for us.

"He was selfish, bigoted, and often cruel."

Fitz let out a breath, and Keefe tracked the tear sliding down his cheek as it dropped off his chin. As much as he wanted to wipe it away, Fitz needed to do this.

"He hid his nature from his children until we were old enough to understand that his family was an obligation, expected of him but not something he truly wanted. He covered up his uncaring actions with fake love and pride, parading us in front of his friends until we had no more use and were sent back to our rooms.

"Maybe that was simply how he was. Or maybe it was a fault of us, that we weren't good enough for him. Because he never let us feel like we were enough, and I will never forgive him for that."

Quick inhale, then another breath out. As if Fitz was forcing himself to breathe. As if he wished he didn't have to.

A tear landed on the ground, and Keefe ground his fingers into the grass to keep from reaching for his friend.

"He cared about his status more than his family, and he bothered to care about us only when it suited him. He destroyed my childhood, caused my brother to run away and become a murderer, and crippled my sister's self-worth so horribly that she cannot stand the color green because he told her once that it clashes with her eyes.

"My father was a horrible, rotten person, and I am ashamed to be called his son."

Keefe waited for Fitz to continue, but he didn't, instead folding onto his knees as if he couldn't hold up his weight any longer. Keefe rushed to catch him, and then the telepath was in his arms as they rocked back and forth on the riverbank.

"I hated him, Keefe," Fitz whispered as Keefe's fingers rubbed his back gently in an attempt to soothe him. "I hate him."

Keefe felt tears welling in his own eyes, and he quickly blinked them away as Fitz pulled back to look him in the eyes.

"I hate him," he repeated. "So why do I feel so terrible now that he's gone?"

The previous painting flashed into Keefe's mind, and he saw the roses bleeding into the waves, saw Fitz's tears flowing into the water, saw the vibrant green of the stem contrasting Fitz's dark skin.

The Grieving Prince, he might call it. Bleeding Roses and Broken Hearts.

"I don't know, Fitz," Keefe said quietly, gently brushing a strand of Fitz's hair out of his eyes. "But you'll get through this. I know you will. Because no matter what he thought... you're strong enough."

"I was never enough for him," he confessed, tracing a finger along Keefe's palm. "I tried so hard, and..."

"I don't care what he thought," Keefe said fiercely, pressing his forehead to Fitz's until their breath mingled in the air between them. "You're more than enough for me."

...

Maybe Della and Biana hated Alden as much as he did.

But they never said it out loud, so he didn't either.

After all, one must never speak wrong of the dead.

Perhaps they viewed it as disrespecting his memory. Tarnishing his reputation, something he would never, ever have allowed while he lived.

Perhaps it was just another way he controlled them still.

But either way, Fitz was perfectly aware of the unspoken rule that everyone always obeyed.

One must never speak badly of the dead, not even the slightest insult.

As if the offense they had caused could be wiped from a mind as easily as remarking on how kind someone had been.

The strangers who patted his cheeks and handed him flowers told him that he should be proud to have such a kind, charming, successful father.

Alden was kind. But only when it suited him.

He did smile, but only when it was necessary.

He hugged his family and friends, and he laughed and laid compliments at the feet of strangers, but he also turned away and frowned and insulted those close to him, and Fitz never knew when his mood would change.

His father terrified and angered him even as Fitz sought his approval, and he hated himself for it.

He hated Alden more.

But he could speak of this to no one but Keefe, because one must always avoid speaking ill of the dead.

Proofread and everything. Look at all that effort.

If you couldn't tell, I hate Alden. He sucks.

Poor Fitz but also I love angst

btw this was partly influenced by Puck's reaction to his dad dying in Sisters Grimm which I cannot believe I just used for inspiration-

People who are waiting for me to complete requests, I promise they are being worked on! I just thought of this and it was too good an idea to pass up-