Chapter Text
“I think we should break up.”
For a moment, Fabian’s sure he’s misheard. Eillana doesn’t look angry, or disappointed, or closed off in any way. Instead, she’s smiling. Sure, it’s a soft, bittersweet kind of smile, not all that different from the kind he and his friends always wear when they’re parting again for Cassandra-knows-how-long, full of be-safes and I-believe-in-yous and soons, but surely if she’d actually said that– if she was–
“I… did I do something?” Surely if he had, if he’d forgotten her birthday or something (he hadn’t, he knows it’s February 23rd, three weeks before their anniversary, and he heard enough jokes from Kristen about learning from her mistakes and not combining presents to be sure) or if he’d upset her, she’d look angry. She’d look sad, instead of just kind of rueful. It’s not often these days that Fabian feels like he’s missed a step in a dance – he’s still Fallinel’s Oracool for a reason, all these years later – but he feels it now when she shakes her head.
“It’s me, really.” It’s a sign of how cool Eillana is, how much Fabian likes her, that even ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ doesn’t feel trite, but it doesn’t tell him anything either. She sighs and pulls her glass of water closer, and he can only stare as she starts idly playing with the condensation on the outside of it, eyes firmly on it instead of him. It’s something she only does when she’s buying time, trying to figure out how to word something.
It strikes him, then, that this might actually be happening. “Lana,” he pleads, and hopes she’s kind enough to ignore the way his voice cracks a little on the syllables. “C’mon. You gotta give me more than that. Please.”
Her finger pauses on the bead of water. “You know how Rona got engaged last month?”
“Yes,” he says, a little slowly, because, what? As far as he knew, Eillana has been nothing but excited about it. She’d spent hours after her sister had called, rambling to Fabian about what kinds of wedding traditions the two girls would weave into the ceremony, about the crazy relatives he’d meet and the ones they’d make a game out of avoiding, about all the shenanigans they’d witness together with him as her inevitable plus-one. It hadn’t even been a question that he’d be there. Now it’s… something she’s breaking up with him over?
She looks up at him again, bottom lip disappearing between her teeth for a minute. Then she sighs, and says, “She keeps talking about all these plans she and Nym have for their future, and it just… hit me, that I don’t– we– I don’t think we’re headed anywhere like that. Where we start building a life together. And once I realized that, I couldn’t stop realizing it.”
The words sound a little sad, wistful, like it’s something she wishes weren’t true, and Fabian almost feels lightheaded with relief. A misunderstanding, then. Easy. “Eillana, what? Of course we are. We’ve been dating for almost two years. I’m crazy about you. Do you really think I don’t want a future with you?”
Her smile turns a little wry, and there’s a look on her face he knows so well. It’s the one she gets when she’s got a lead, when there’s a story she knows exactly how to put into words. “So if I told you I wanted you to move in with me, what would your answer be?”
It’s immediate and visceral, the way he recoils against the idea. Eillana is great. She’s so fucking smart, and kind, and witty, and gorgeous, and he loves her. But the idea of leaving his house? It’d taken months of wearing Riz down, of pleading and pointing out all the ways that they’d outgrown the little townhouse they’d shared for the three years after Riz had returned from Bastion City and Fabian had decided he’d had enough of rambling around the continent and bouncing between dance studios and the futon he’d insisted on buying Riz for his shitty college apartment and Gorgug’s van and Seacaster Manor and Kristen’s Goddesses-on-Tour-shtick caravan. The two of them have only been living there for a little over a year now, and he loves it, loves the blue shutters and the porch and the little garden area that’s completely devoid of plants but serves perfectly to spar and dance in, with plenty of room to drag out all their chairs when their friends come by and spend the night chatting under the stars. He loves the couch that’s deep enough for him to sink in and takes Riz ages to crawl out of, so movie nights almost always end up with Riz mostly-curled up against him instead of against the cushions for more leverage, allowing Fabian to feel every grumble and snort and scoff and laugh. He loves the kitchen and how it spills into an open nook, how it can fill with noise and feel so cozy and alive when any party members come to town and they do their best to cook an actual meal like the grownups they only sometimes are starting to feel like they are. The thought of leaving, of not waking up and stumbling out to start a pot of coffee for Riz to come blearily fetch when the smell rouses him to consciousness, of not being there to feel the sharp relief when Riz finally comes back after disappearing for too many days on some mission for the LPRTF that he says he can’t talk about but always ends up letting Fabian in on, of stretching out and whirling Fandrangor around and dancing and breathing and trying to feel right in his body in a way that doesn't feel as easy as it does in the home he lives in now, of trying to find a new space that fits him the way that this does, after so many years of feeling like he’d never quite fit anywhere? It’s… he loves her, but he can’t. He won’t. And by the look on her face, she knew that far, far before she asked. “Lana,” he says, weakly, and can’t figure out what he could possibly add to soften the ‘no’ they both hear in the silent beat that follows.
“So. No, I don’t think we’re working towards a future like that.” She looks guilty, of all things, like she’s the one who had a minor aneurysm and hadn’t said a word for far, far too many agonizing seconds as she tried to put into words how wrong the idea of them moving in together felt. “It’s– well, it’s my fault, really. I– you know my parents are poly, and like, I know I feel compersion, and I figured I really was okay with how things are, especially given the whole,” she waves her hand, as if that makes any of what she’s saying make any more sense, “quasiplatonic aspect of it. And I am! It’s not jealousy, exactly, but it’s just– I don’t think I’m as okay with it as I thought I was. Not in the long term. Not in a way that I can see working for me. For both of us. …All of us, I guess.”
Now Fabian’s really, really lost. It’s hard not to see her point of them not being ready for that kind of future now, but he doesn’t know how they got from that to her babbling about jealousy and her parents being poly. “You don’t think you're okay with what?”
Eillana visibly swallows, and the awful, sad-guilty smile wobbles a little. “Being in love with someone who’s in love with someone else, too.”
Yeah, no, forget a step: there’s, like, a whole routine he’s missing. “I– you– I– what?” He can’t even begin to think where she got the idea that he’d cheat on her from, much less that he’d want her to be okay with it. “I am not in love with anyone else.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else, stops, and looks at him, visibly taken aback for the first time since they sat down for dinner. He can’t imagine what she could possibly see besides the denial and confusion that must be written all over his face, but then her mouth drops, the smile finally gone as she splutters a bit. “Fabian. You– I always just thought it was just. A thing we don’t talk about since he doesn’t do– but it– Fabian. You have to know. Surely you know. You– there’s no way you don’t actually know that you’re in love with Riz.”
It’s not the first time a partner has accused him of this, but from Eillana, it feels so much worse. Probably because it’s not being thrown at him as an accusation or an ultimatum or anything: she’s making it seem like it’s obvious, like it’s something they’ve both known all along, like it’s okay, like she doesn’t want him to feel guilty about it. It’s a far cry from how it’s gone down before, and maybe that’s why it feels like so much more of a gut punch. “I’m not,” he says, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. This was always so much easier when they were mad, when he was mad right back at how not okay it was that his best friend was being used as something to throw in his face. “It’s not… it’s not like that.”
There’s a long moment where Eillana keeps looking at him, searching his face for something, until she sighs again. “I– Mazey didn’t prepare me for this part,” she says, and if Fabian thought his brain couldn’t short-circuit more, turns out he was dead fucking wrong.
“Mazey?” he repeats, shrilly enough that the table behind Eillana turns to peer at them, interest keen in their expressions. He feels his face flush as he waves his hand in an annoyed little shooing motion until they turn back around. He doesn’t need more people witnessing this breakdown. Breakup. Both. Whichever of the two ends up being more apt. “Like my ex, Mazey?” He knows they’re friendly, that they’d had several classes together when they went to the same college, but there’s friends who keep in touch on Crystalbook and then there’s whatever relationship there is that includes conversations his ex-girlfriend and apparently-soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend had about him and his feelings about his best friend. “Mazey thinks I’m in love with Riz?” Yeah, there had been some comments back in high school, especially when they’d first got together, but it wasn’t like she’d actually thought anything was going on between them. He and Mazey had dated for over two years! They’d been serious enough to even keep it up long-distance when she’d gone to school! She knew him. She knew Riz. She knew him and Riz and how there was no ‘him and Riz’. There’s no way she–
“Not that long after you and I went social media-official, we were catching up, and you and me dating came up. We talked about… a lot of things, but yeah, she…” Eillana winces, probably at the thunderous expression Fabian knows is on his face now, because what the fuck. “It wasn’t a cruel or petty thing, Fabian, I promise. She still cares about you a lot. I know it was an amicable thing with you guys. It wasn’t gossip, just… wanting the best for you, and worrying about you and me. And Riz, really.”
It’s– just. What the fuck. Girls he’d only gone out with a handful of times accusing him of secretly fucking his roommate were one thing. Guys he tried to upgrade from fuckbuddies to something more smirking at him and making callous comments about being substitutes were one thing. They didn’t know, didn’t know him or Riz or their friendship. They just made assumptions on the same kind of thing that Riz had gone on more than one tipsy rant about, people automatically equating closeness with romance. It wasn’t personal. The two longest, serious, real relationships he’d ever had acting like it’s a well-known fact that he’s in love with Riz feels like another thing entirely, and it’s bizarre, how much it feels like he’s been hit by a truck when he knows better. He loves Riz, obviously, but he’s not– it’s not– “I– no. No. There’s– it’s–”
Eillana reaches out towards his hand, and he flinches. The guilt is back, even starker on her face now as she slowly withdraws her hand like she feels any sudden movement might startle him. Maybe it will, with how insane he feels right now. “Shit, Fabian, I’m sorry. I would’ve been, like, way gentler about that if I’d thought…”
“It’s. You’re breaking up with me because you think I’m in love with Riz? Because if you are, I’m not, so– so, it’s fine, we can just figure it out– I mean, I still don’t know that I–”
She actually does reach out and grab his hand now, and the words die in his mouth. He almost wishes she hadn’t, that his mouth would keep going, because now he just feels worse. “I’m breaking up with you,” she says, so, so gently, “because I don’t think your future is with me, or mine with you. Whatever it is you feel for Riz, that’s… besides the point.” She hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, “I don’t know that the labels are what really matters.”
He can’t find any words, can’t think of a single thing to say, high charisma be damned.
“If I’m wrong about you and me, if there’s– if you really think there’s a way forward, long-term. Maybe we could try. But I don’t… Fabian, I really don’t think there is.”
For all that in a lot of ways this still feels like it came out of nowhere, he can’t, in good conscience, disagree. If he can’t even see a way to move in with her, if the idea is so entirely off-putting to even pretend to consider, how can he ask her to entertain the idea that they may find a way for even more beyond that? “No,” he says, a little hoarsely. “I thought… but I– you’re right. I don’t think there is, at least right now. I’m… fuck. I’m really sorry, Eillana.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Her other hand comes up to rest on top of their joined hands, and her eyes go a little shiny in the stupid fluorescent lighting of the café as she says, “You’re a good man, Fabian. I know it’s a lot to ask for right now, but I really do hope that one day we can be friends. And I… I hope you find happiness, whatever that looks like for you.”
This is actually, really happening. It doesn’t quite feel real, even when she delicately untangles her hands, stands up, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek as she murmurs a teary goodbye and passes behind him.
It’s… fucked up, he realizes, sitting alone at the table for a few minutes until he just can’t anymore, that he doesn’t feel heartbreak the way that he should, after a year and a half of dating. Maybe that’ll come later, once he works through this confused, numb daze, but he just wants to go home and figure out a way to untangle his thoughts. They keep snagging on something, on how bizarre this all is.
The Hangman is unusually subdued as they ride home, save for one gruff, things will be okay, Sire, as they pull into the garage.
“Thanks, Hangman,” Fabian murmurs, and feels the first sting of guilt and regret, himself. He’ll miss her, he knows, but deep down, he already knows that the Hangman is right. He’ll be okay. Moving on will be just a little backwards, just a little too steady, just a little too smooth: Eillana was right, and he hadn’t quite realized it until now, how little space he’d been carving out for her in his present and his future. She deserves better.
Maybe they both do.
His key glides smoothly in the lock, but he fumbles a little as he enters the side door and feels along the wall for the light switch. When it comes on, he hears a startled hiss, and his lips twitch up almost despite himself.
Riz’s eyes are slitted against the sudden brightness, and the container of leftovers he was scarfing down presumably only by the light of the oven hood tumbles to the counter as he raises an arm as if to shield him from the onslaught of the kitchen lights. He’s a mess, curls just a bit longer than he usually keeps it after too many weeks too busy working himself half to death to worry about a trim, waistcoat flapping open and sliding off his shoulder, and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the faint lines of old tattoos and curves of lean muscles earned through years of field work instead of a gym.
The normal flood of warmth Fabian feels when seeing him suddenly feels like an avalanche instead, sharp and intense and threatening to bury him alive, and he absolutely cannot let himself dwell on that for a single second right now when he feels so raw and messy. “We have things called lights, The Ball,” he says, and hopes his voice doesn’t sound as odd and strangled to Riz’s ears as it does to his own. “And utensils, you heathen.”
Riz scowls, blinking as he lowers his arm to get a better look at Fabian, mouth open to spit some undoubtedly witty retort. Once his eyes land on Fabian, the glare disappears entirely, replaced with steely concern in a single blink. “What’s wrong?”
Fabian’s smile feels brittle, and there’s no way it convinces Riz, whose passive perception alone could almost always beat even Fabian’s most believable lies. Still, he tries. “Hey, you stole my question. Did you sleep in those clothes? I know you have pajamas; I’ve definitely bought you some.”
“Fabian.” Riz isn’t amused.
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, turning to deliberately peel his coat off and hang it on the rack on the wall so he doesn’t have to look Riz in the face as he says, “Eillana and I broke up.”
He hears Riz’s sharp breath in. “Fuck, Fabian. What– I’m sorry.”
Thank Cass he didn’t actually ask what happened. Fabian’s not sure he could lie right now, especially not with Eillana’s shocked ‘surely you know’ ringing in his head as he turns around. There’s no way you don’t know. His eye flits from the particularly long lock of hair curling against Riz’s forehead to the flecks of gold in Riz’s concerned eyes brought out by the warm kitchen light to chapped, downturned lips to the delicate sliver of collarbone revealed in the gap left by the undone top two buttons of Riz’s crumpled dress shirt to long, elegant fingers bare of magical rings in the haven of their home to the much, much safer floorboards. “It’s fine,” he croaks. This must be what going insane feels like. “I mean. I’ll be fine. I’m just– I’m going– yeah. Good night.” It’s barely past seven o’clock, but he doesn’t care, and flees to his room, ignoring whatever it is Riz says after him.
What the fuck.
Fabian doesn’t sleep. He can’t, can’t stop thinking and carefully not thinking and uncarefully having a mental breakdown over how strangers had known better, about how Eillana had known the entire time they’d been dating and he’d never even suspected. By the time the night crawls away and the sun comes up, smearing the sky with pastels, he doesn’t know what he can do, but he knows he can’t lie here any longer.
He dresses, doing his best to avoid looking at his bloodshot eye in the mirror, and is halfway through the familiar motions of making a pot of coffee when it hits him all over again, and his hands shake so badly he scatters the grounds across the counter. Fuck. How much of his life has been this, behaviors unconsciously shaped around love he didn’t even know was there?
That’s not fair, he realizes a moment later, and takes a long, even breath, trying to calm himself. Even if there’s a romantic aspect to it that he’d never allowed himself to grapple with consciously, Riz is still his best friend. Making coffee every morning, bringing home takeout when he knows Riz has spent too long distracted by a case to feed himself, dragging Riz out to get some sunshine when his skin gets a little too sallow and his eyes a little too hollow, happily being a sounding board when Riz needs an audience to process his thoughts… yeah, they’re acts of love, but it’s not fair to either of them to pinpoint it all on one kind of love. Not when other kinds of love have always been a willing, known constant.
He keeps going in circles, and when the smell of coffee fills up every space of the room, he knows he needs to leave. If he sees Riz emerge, squinty-eyed and sleep-rumpled and gloriously morning-grumpy, Fabian doesn’t know what will be on his face or come out of his mouth, but he knows he’s not ready for it.
Sire? the Hangman greets him when he opens the garage, worry obvious in the voice in Fabian’s head. Are you alright? If someone has harmed you–
“I’m okay,” he says, and it only somewhat feels like a lie. “I just… let’s go.”
The thrum of the Hangman’s engine feels reassuring, the easy agreement vibrating through Fabian’s bones, and they peel off into the morning.
The cool autumn air feels like the best kind of slap to the face, stealing some of the exhaustion from his bones as they just drive, winding through the streets of Elmville, far too loud for a Sunday morning. He knows he should care, that he has neighbors now whose opinion of him matters, at least in terms of not wanting it to affect their lives, but he can’t bring himself to. He doesn’t know what he needs right now, but it feels like the Hangman does, keeping up a steady, soothing roar beneath him.
Fabian hadn’t had a particular destination in mind, but somehow it’s not a surprise to see the familiar monstrosity of Mordred Manor’s haphazard silhouette growing larger and larger. His friends don’t live there anymore, at least most of the time, but it’s still a place of comfort, of, ironic enough given its physical form, stability. For a moment he can picture it so clearly, walking through the front door to see Adaine at the kitchen table, lazily using Mage Hand to turn the pages of her book as her real hands cup a chipped mug of tea and she rolls her eyes and tries to hide a smile at the cacophony. He sees Fig sprawled out across the window seat, strumming her bass or grinning and cooing at her crystal over something Ayda’s sent her. He hears Kristen laughing loud and unapologetic, filling up space with her bright smile and tie-dye shirts and hard-won confidence. He aches with it, how much he misses his family.
When Sandra Lynn opens the door, eyebrows raised, there’s nothing behind her but quiet, but it’s still a familiar, beloved enough sight that Fabian feels himself smile, shoulder drooping in some small relief.
“Fabian?” she asks, and it’s only when he hears the note of concern in her voice that he realizes how stupid this was, showing up at their front door this early in the morning when he hadn’t been by in months, not since the last time Kristen was in Elmville. “Are you– is everyone okay?”
“Sh- sorry. Everyone’s fine,” he reassures her. “Sorry, I don’t… know why I came. There wasn’t really a plan.”
He doesn’t know what she sees as she peers at him, but it’s enough for the frown to quirk upwards into a small smile, and she takes a small step to the side, clearing the doorway. “You’re always welcome here, you know that.”
Walking into the kitchen, he feels a little like a teenager again, even if none of his party is here alongside him. He really doesn’t know why he’s here, but luckily Sandra Lynn doesn’t ask. She just fixes him with a long look, then grabs her bag, fully dressed and geared and… heading out, Fabian realizes, feeling stupider by the moment. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to get going if I’m going to get to Mount Shieldgaze by the time I promised, but Jawbone’s up in his office, and I know he’d love some company.” She’s good, he’ll give her that: she makes it sound almost like Fabian would be doing her partner a favor instead of what she clearly figured out even before Fabian did, that of course this was why he’d come.
“Be safe,” he says, almost reflexively.
When she grins at him, for a moment, all he can see is Fig. “Where’s the fun in that?” She leans over to give him a kiss on the forehead, almost absentmindedly in her mothering, and squeezes his shoulder before grabbing her bow. “Tell Riz I said I miss you both, and that you don’t need one of my kids to be in town to come over for dinner.” It’s pointed enough that he almost manages not to flush at the gentle scolding, at how easily it was directed at him-and-Riz, and Cassandra, there’s so much he doesn’t know how to begin unpacking.
“Yes ma’am.”
He knows Mordred Manor is large enough that there’s no way Jawbone would’ve heard Fabian come in from his office on the third floor, but either Sandra Lynn was lightning-quick with a text message or Jawbone’s a little psychic, as he doesn’t look surprised at all to see Fabian hovering at his doorway. (Frankly, Fabian isn’t ruling out either option.)
“Fabian! Well ain’t this a nice surprise,” he crows, beaming as he lounges in his ratty robe in an even rattier office chair. “Good to see you, kiddo. What’s going on?”
It’s so strange, this mix of relief and guilt that rushes from him in a whoosh as he sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “I haven’t seen my therapist in years,” he starts, almost as an apology, “and I know you told us that we should really find someone not you to talk to, I’m sorry-”
“Whoa, whoa, hey, hey, hey,” Jawbone interrupts, holding out both his giant furry hands. “Easy. It’s okay. Take a breath for me?”
Fabian just swallows, feeling weirdly close to tears. Stupid, that this is the closest he’s come to it since Lana broke up with him last night, but the sleeplessness and anxiety and guilt feel visceral now, threatening to choke him. He nods, and the breath he takes in time with Jawbone’s gesture comes out shaky, but no tears fall.
Jawbone just softens, hands slowly coming down. “Fabian, when I told y’all that, I only meant if you were going to seek therapy as a long-term thing, it should be with someone who wasn’t so intertwined with your guys’ lives. Someone you could talk to who could be more objective, rather than someone who’s a father figure to half of your party. I never meant to make you feel like you couldn’t come to me if you needed to talk through something, and I’m sure sorry if I did.”
“I just. Don’t know who else I can talk this through with,” he says, only really realizing it as the words come out. It’s true. Riz is the person he talks through things with most of the time, and he’s out, for obvious reasons. Gorgug or Fig have traditionally been the people he goes to about relationships: Gorgug when he wants to work through some different perspectives and cut through to the heart of whatever’s going on, Fig when he wants to vent or gush or revel in whatever emotions he’s feeling in the moment. But this isn’t some random guy or girl he’s trying to figure out. This is Riz, their rogue, their family. Their party is scattered across Spyre more often than it’s not these days, but they’re still them. Fucking things up with Riz would have ramifications so, so much bigger than just for the two of them. So party members are out. There’s so few other people he trusts to work through this. Ragh, maybe, but as much as Fabian loves the guy he can’t imagine a world where the two of them work through whatever mess is in Fabian’s head in any meaningful way.
It’s awkward as fuck looking at Jawbone’s creased eyebrows and frown, but there’s something in Fabian that’s already settling, knowing he can at least try to put into words some of what’s going on.
“Talk to me, kiddo.”
Where to even start, except: “My girlfriend broke up with me. And while this wasn’t exactly the reason she broke up with me, it was… adjacent? But it turns out that the entire time we’d been dating she’d been working under the assumption that we were in some pseudo-poly thing where I was also in love with– someone else and she was okay with it until she wasn’t.”
One of Jawbone’s eyebrows twitches up, and he lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like it wasn’t an assumption you were aware of.”
“No,” Fabian says, a little too loud and a little too wild. “No, it was not. I didn’t even have a clue of what or who she was talking about until she started… elaborating. And apparently it’s not just her who thought this. Other people, too. Not just strangers, but people who know me.” Saying Mazey’s name might be a giveaway: there’s less overlap than there probably should be, the people Fabian spent a lot of time with now and in high school. Hell, there’s a good chance Jawbone’s guessed anyway, but for some reason, Fabian feels safer, more comfortable not saying Riz’s name. “She said it like it was a given, like both of us knew. It was very much not a given,” he says, waving his hand, and his laugh feels a little unhinged. It’s been a wild twelve or so hours, so sue him. “I didn’t– people have said it before, but I didn’t– I never stopped to think– and now I can’t stop thinking. And I don’t know when it started, but now that I see it, I can’t stop seeing it. It’s. I can’t be in love.” Miserably, unhappily, he adds, “I need to know how to stop.”
“Love’s not usually something you can just force away,” Jawbone says, the ghost of a smile appearing at his lips. It’s sympathetic, at least, but it’s very much not what Fabian wants to see or hear. “Even for someone as, uh, persistent as you. Is it so bad, knowing?”
No. Yes. He doesn’t know.
Jawbone continues, like Fabian had actually answered aloud. “You’ve been in love with this person for a while, it sounds like, yeah? Has it felt like there’s been something missing, like you need more? Now that you know, do you need things to change?”
That, at least, is an easy answer. “No.” It’s… wild, and strange to think about, because he’s never not done anything. He’s miles away from the overeager, idiotic teenager he was when he first went to Aguefort, burning with the need to prove himself worthy of walking in his father’s daunting footsteps, but through everything, through all the growth and transformation and unlearning and relearning again, he’s still always been a man of action. Even the settling in that he’s done the past few years, it’s been something he’s actively chosen, strived for. He chose to stay full time in Elmville. He badgered Riz into agreeing to live together. He found them their house. He made a point of decorating it, of making it his (their) own, and even the teasing comments about nesting had been a point of pride. Any time he’s ever been attracted enough to someone for the feeling to last, he’s done something about it. He’s flirted, and asked people out on dates, and made moves. He’s never been good at moping in inaction. It’s never been good enough, just sitting in the what-if.
But it… what he has now with Riz is not just good enough, it’s good. More than. It’s the best part of his life, the part of it that he gets to share with his best friend. He loves it, the domesticity and the bickering and the way they can talk endlessly without running out of things to say and the way they can sit in contented silence because there’s nothing else they need to say. Maybe it’ll change a little, now that he has another name for the way he’s always been pulled back to Riz like following a compass. …But maybe it won’t. It’s always led back to Riz, even before. Even when he was in relationships of varying seriousness, he’s never let it come between their friendship. He doesn’t know how that could be any more the case now, even with the way his heart clenches at the knowing of it all. What was it Lana had said, that the labels aren’t what really mattered? Does it really matter, if it’s love or love that leads his heart back to the same place?
But there’s one huge, insurmountable problem. “But I can’t lie to him.” He won’t, wouldn’t, but can’t is truly the operative word here when it comes to their resident detective. Riz still doesn’t have the best understanding of attraction and romance, and maybe if it was someone else other than Fabian, that’d be enough of a blind spot. But he knows Fabian, better than anyone else on this or any other plane. Fabian doesn’t believe in his own ability to pretend nothing’s changed well enough to hope to fool Riz, at least for long. He’ll end up looking a little too long, or saying something a little too revealing, or acting a little too strange, and it’ll all come tumbling out in one great, big mess.
“As much as I’m an advocate for bein’ upfront about this kinda thing, feelings like this aren’t something you’re obligated to share,” Jawbone says, but there’s something reluctant about even the way he says it, like he knows that’s not the right answer.
“I– even if he wouldn’t figure it out, which he absolutely will, it’s… it’d feel like lying.” The idea of saying it upfront, of going in front of Riz and going, ‘hey, I know you’re not into romance at all so I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable that the person you share most of your life with is apparently desperately, stupidly in love with you and probably has been the whole time he was bullying you into sharing it with him in the first place’ makes him want to strangle himself with his battle sheet. But the idea of not saying it, of choking it back and pretending nothing’s changed as he wrestles Riz to the ground when they spar and cuddles with Riz on the couch and letting his touches innocently linger the way they always do, makes him feel sick. It’d feel too much like a betrayal, letting himself be as open and free with his affections now that he knows there’s an aspect of it that Riz hasn’t asked for and hasn’t consented to. And it’d feel too much like punishing Riz, restraining himself, changing parts of their friendship for reasons Fabian doesn’t want to share. If nothing else, he has to trust and respect Riz enough to let him decide what he’s comfortable with for himself. “I have to tell him,” he realizes, and the sick feeling only intensifies.
The expression on Jawbone’s face is sympathetic, but unsurprised, as if he’d come to the same conclusion even with only a fraction of the pieces. “You never know. These feelings surprised you: maybe you’re not the only one who just hadn’t thought about it long enough to realize it was something you wanted.”
Then again, maybe Jawbone hasn’t figured it out. The noise that’s scraped out of Fabian can barely be called a laugh with how unhappy and hollow it feels. “No, that much I know. It’s… he’s not interested. In any of that, least of all with me.”
“Aromanticism is a wide spectrum, kiddo. Might not be that cut and dry.”
Or Jawbone had figured it out after all. It feels a little like a betrayal, how casually he’s toeing past the line of plausible deniability, for all that they’d never actually agreed on keeping to that line. “I never said anything about– it’s not– who–” Fabian splutters.
Jawbone’s mouth twitches, but at least he isn’t so cruel as to actually laugh. “Call it a stab in the dark. Maybe I’m stabbin’ at the wrong thing. Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time. There was this one time in the Dune Fort back when I was barely eighteen– man, we were all fucked up on dusk moss, hoo boy, was that a–”
“I just. It’s not fair,” Fabian says, ignoring how whatever tale Jawbone was about to launch into cuts itself off. “I like how we are now. I don’t want this to fuck it up, and I don’t see how it doesn’t.”
His former guidance counselor sighs and scrubs at his unruly beard with his clawed hand. “It’ll probably change some things,” he admits, which is the absolute last thing Fabian wants to hear right now. “But change can be good, too. Neither of you are the same people you were when you met, and everything that’s changed, good and bad, since then has done you both a world’a good. I don’t think it’ll fuck it all up, Fabian. Not permanently anyhow. You’ve been through so much together: you really think some feelings are what’s gonna tear you apart?”
Feelings are probably the only thing that could, he thinks, but he wants so desperately to cling onto the surety in Jawbone’s words. “What if it does?”
“What if it doesn’t?” Jawbone challenges, but his smile softens. “Aw, hell. I meant it when I said you’re persistent, kid. Same goes for, uh, the person you’re in love with.” It’s so stupid, how obvious it is that they both know who they’re talking about, but it brings out a reluctantly amused, fond snort from Fabian nonetheless that Jawbone got the hint about not wanting to say it aloud and is playing along. “The both of you, you’re stubborn as hell. Do you think either of you are gonna let your friendship crumble over this?”
That, at least, makes Fabian smile, because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that neither he nor Riz goes down easy. “No,” he says. “Not without one hell of a fight, anyway.”
It’s not a guarantee. But it's a start.