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“Four days,” is all Fabian can say. Riz is alive, and unhurt as far as Fabian can see – which, admittedly, isn’t saying much with how shaky his hands were as they tugged Riz into a rough hug and then started flurrying over him, taking stock of any injuries, and how blurry his vision has been through the relieved, furious tears that have started pricking at the corner of his eye. Riz is alive, and Fabian can feel the way it’s like all his strings are cut, the adrenaline of terror and grief he’s been living with for days evaporating in an instant, leaving him weak through the knee-buckling relief of it all. But now all the anger that he hasn’t let himself feel for four days cuts through, sharp and dangerous.
“I know.” It’s the first words Riz has said after the repeated murmurs of ‘I’m okay, it’s okay’ as Fabian heaved a few ragged sobs into his neck. He sounds exhausted, and even in the dim light of the entryway illuminated with what little of the dying evening sun remains, he looks grey and pallid.
“Four days, Riz.” Fabian can’t remember the last time he felt this frantic and wild with rage. “You texted me that you were hit with some unknown curse, that the Task Force was benching you until they could figure it out, and then you went radio silent for four fucking days.”
“I know, okay? I’m sorry. I was in Carceri, and my crystal wouldn’t have worked there even if it had been charged.”
“I thought you were dead.” His voice is flat, and he keeps it quiet, if only because he knows, deep down, that if he lets it get any louder, he’ll shatter. He’ll explode in fury and fear and start screaming himself hoarse, or worse, and he doesn’t know what will be left of him in the aftermath. He doesn’t want to find out. He’s not– he doesn’t want to be like his father. Not in this. “You get that, right? I thought you died and I was never going to know what happened and I was going to have to find some fucking way to move on from that.”
Riz brings a shaking hand to his face. It’s been years since Fabian’s seen him this brittle, this exhausted, and it makes the tremor of antsiness, the way he holds himself like he can’t relax even more evident. Later, Fabian knows, he’ll be worried, once he can look at his best friend and not have to fight the urge to scream or shake him until some sense rattles free of that incredible, infuriating brain. Right now there’s no room for it. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“You’re sorry,” Fabian repeats, stunned. That’s it? That’s all he gets? Nearly sixteen years as friends, seven years as roommates, two and a half years as partners, and all he gets for the worst four days of his life is an ‘I’m sorry, okay?’ “Right.”
“Fabian–”
His jaw clenches so hard he’s almost surprised he doesn’t hear a tooth cracking. “Charge your crystal,” he says hollowly. “I’m sure Sklonda isn’t going to want to take my word for it when I tell her you’re okay.”
Riz winces. “I– can you–”
Whatever he was going to ask, it dies on his lips when Fabian fixes him with an incredulous look.
“Right.”
It’s almost like the anger is making it hard to see straight, clouding his vision and making everything pulse in time with his too-loud, too-fast heartbeat, but he still watches as Riz shuffles his way out of the hall and towards the kitchen. He’s moving too stiffly, carrying himself differently, like his body can’t decide if it’s too exhausted to hold himself up or too wired to slump. Fabian hadn’t found any evidence of any grave physical injuries, but that doesn’t mean shit: it wouldn’t be the first time Riz had hidden something like that. It’s almost the better option, no matter how frustrating, because otherwise it might be whatever curse he’d texted about hasn’t gone away.
The worry feels just as thick and hard to swallow around as the fury. Neither one makes the other any smaller.
When Riz is out of sight, Fabian pulls the crystal from his pocket with hands that are still shaking. There’s a part of him that’s tempted to open the group text with all of them in it, if only so once Riz charges his crystal he’s confronted with the evidence of how worried he made everyone, but he pushes down the urge and taps instead on the most recent thread, made without Riz on day two in case his crystal had been compromised. Compromised, Fabian thinks, and doesn’t manage to stop the derisive snort. If only.
He’s home. Went interplanar so ‘his crystal wouldn’t have worked even if it’d been charged’
Predictably, his crystal starts blowing up with notifications, buzzing and chiming as all the rest of the Bad Kids weigh in on that. With a wince, he quickly puts the crystal back in do not disturb mode, where it’s lived for basically his entire life up until the past few days. He doesn’t have the energy to read all the messages that pop up in the chain, but he gets the gist, very, very quickly. Relief, indignation, worry, disbelief. They’re all in the same fucking club, that’s for sure.
i’ll let you have first dibs but if you don’t strangle him i might pops up on the screen from Adaine, and suddenly, far stronger than the rage is just exhaustion. He feels drained, hollowed, like the terror and worry and anguish have been carving him out for days and now all that’s left is a shell. He just wants to go to bed and wake up to find none of this has happened.
No matter how angry he still is, how little he thinks he can stand to look at Riz right now, he still makes himself walk into the kitchen. Riz is only technically standing, leaning against the counter so heavily he looks moments from sliding down it.
“The Ball.” The first syllable is barely past his lips before Riz is shooting upright, ramrod still. Is it from some survival instinct, something from the last few days that’s put him so on edge he hasn’t come down from that heightened awareness yet, or something deliberate, not wanting to look weak in front of Fabian? Both options are awful, and it takes Fabian a too-long moment to breathe around the thought. “You don’t look okay.”
Just like that, Riz’s shoulders slump and the tension sags from his frame. “I’m–” he winces and cuts himself off with a long sigh. Thank Ankarna, because if the word ‘fine’ had come out of his mouth, Fabian’s not sure what he’d have done, but he knows it wouldn’t have been pretty. “I’ll be okay. I just– I need to rest, I guess.”
It’s far from the first time they’ll be sleeping on an argument, leaving it to pick up the next day, but it doesn’t mean it’s any easier, pushing the pause button. “Yeah,” Fabian says hoarsely, and heaves a sharp sigh of his own. “Yeah. Let’s just– I’m going to bed. We can… deal with this in the morning.”
He almost misses it with the way he’s rubbing at the space between his brows, trying to will the throbbing headache away, but Riz hesitates. He licks his lips like he’s nervous and his eyes dart to the ground. They stay there when he too-carefully says, “Should… if– I can sleep in the guest room tonight.”
It feels like a punch, the way Fabian’s chest caves in. They’ve slept separately plenty of times since becoming partners, obviously. When one or both of them has been out of town or at one of their friends’. When Riz’s tossing and turning drives Fabian nuts enough that calling a tactical retreat is the only option with an impending too-early alarm. When Fabian’s been sick and snotty and gross and whiny and he’s far enough into the illness that Riz’s sympathy has worn thin but not so far yet that Fabian’s crossed the other side into endearingly pathetic enough to win it back. When Riz’s sleep schedule has been so fucked that he’s awake for the entire time Fabian’s asleep and vice versa. When Riz has fallen asleep on the couch downstairs or in his office and Fabian doesn’t find him until the morning. Never a deliberate, flat thing, never from an argument, never from one of them deciding things are so strained they can’t stand to even be in in the same bed.
He thinks maybe this should make him angrier. All it does is make it so much more obvious that all the anger he’s already feeling is borne from hurt more than anything else. His jaw clenches, and he inhales long and deep, trying to bite back the bile long enough to stop himself from saying anything he’ll regret. He mostly succeeds. “Do whatever the hell you want, Riz.” It doesn’t even sound all that angry to his ears. It just sounds bitter and tired and disappointed and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “You always do.”
He doesn’t know if he’s glad or not that Riz doesn’t even react, doesn’t try to argue or apologize or anything. He just watches as Fabian blinks too rapidly and too unevenly and then huffs a breath and turns around to head for the stairs.
There’s no sound of footsteps behind him.
Maybe it should take longer than it does, falling asleep alone with the lonely-furious-hurt-worried-scared thing blossoming out from where it’d spent days laying down roots in his chest, but Fabian barely remembers more than a few minutes of staring determinedly at the opposite wall, ears pricked for the sound of a door creaking open behind him that never came. The next thing he knows, he’s blinking into a room that’s much darker than it was the last time he closed his eyes. Blearily, he reaches out towards the other side of the bed, unconsciously trying to figure out why it’s colder than– and then memory catches up with him and his hand freezes. Right.
The anger is still there, still real and tangible and awful, but right now in the dead of night alone in bed, it’s at a simmer instead of a boil. It only takes a few moments of staring at the unused pillow for him to come to some kind of decision, and he’s upright and letting his feet sink into carpet before he realizes what he’s doing. He doesn’t even bother grabbing his robe or wearing slippers, no matter how cool it is in the house at night, the thermostat set low the way it always is, because Riz swears he can’t sleep when it’s too warm, but he’s a filthy liar who burrows his way closer and more greedily steals Fabian’s body warmth the colder it gets, and Fabian makes a point of swearing up and down that he doesn’t love freezing goblin feet no matter how much he loves the goblin they’re attached to, but he’s also a liar who will happily use the excuse to turn down the temperature and–
He’s at the door to the guest room in what feels like a second, but his hand hesitates on the knob. This is stupid. He shouldn’t– Riz is the one who fucked up here. Riz is the one who offered to sleep separately. If he felt like he had to relegate himself to the spare room as some kind of punishment or because he didn’t want to deal with Fabian’s anger, that’s on him. Fabian shouldn’t be the one reaching out first, not when it was Riz who–
The door only makes a tiny whoosh of a noise when he cracks it open, and he peers around the frame. There’s a glimmer that’s gone in a flash, and Fabian almost manages to convince himself it was a trick of the light, but he knows better. Riz’s eyes had been open, reflecting the tiny bit of light coming in from the curtains that aren’t room-darkening like the ones they got for their room just a few months ago, and now they’re firmly squeezed shut. Fabian’s known him for far too long and far too well to believe the too-even, too-deep breaths that have his chest rising and falling where he’s laying completely still on his back are real and not feigned. In any other situation, it might’ve made Fabian smile, or roll his eye fondly as he called his partner on his shit. Right now, it just stings.
Right. Well. He can take a hint. His hand tightens on the doorknob as he tries to ground himself against the surge of something a bit too close to loneliness, and he hears the tiny exhale of breath he’s not quick enough to stop.
The click of the latch behind him as he closes the door again feels far too loud and final.
The sheets don’t feel any less cold or empty or lonely as he crawls back into them, no matter the swelling sense of determination he has to fall back asleep on his own like it’d count as him winning some kind of battle. It’s stupid. He doesn’t want to be scoring points. He doesn’t want to be fighting. He doesn’t want to feel like he has to fight, like he has to make a point of throwing it in Riz’s face, how much the people in his life care about him and how little he sometimes takes that into consideration, to be listened to.
It takes a second to register over the sound of his heartbeat, too loud in Fabian’s ears, when there’s a small noise across the room. He sits up just enough to see a familiar shape in the doorway, Riz’s silhouette only barely visible against the darker stretch of the hallway. He’s frozen, one hand on the door frame, the other with a few fingers still hovering, barely touching the doorknob. Fabian’s Darkvision has never quite been the same after losing his eye, but even still it’s obvious, the hesitation and the sorrow and the awkwardness painted in shades of grey across Riz’s face. There’s a moment when everything surges up raw and violent in Fabian’s throat, and he knows it’d be far too easy to open his mouth and let it out, resume the argument that he’d planned on letting keep until morning.
He sighs and reaches over to grab the far side of the blankets instead, flipping the corner up in a silent invitation, and lies back down, turning towards the wall. He can’t bring himself to watch, to look and see what crosses Riz’s face at that, to see if Riz hesitates or turns around and slinks back down the hallway to the guest room or–
The tiny dip of the mattress as Riz takes the invitation and crawls in bed next to him is more of a comfort than it probably ought to be. Fabian blinks back the prickle in his eye for a second before he lets himself turn back over. Riz looks lost and uncertain and guarded, but he’s here, and for a moment even the frustration takes a backseat to the lightning strike of relief and gratitude Fabian feels that he still gets this, that Riz is alive and home and safe to be furious at, that he’s dealing with complicated anger and hurt instead of the all-encompassing grief and fear of the nights prior to this. “I’m still so fucking mad at you,” he whispers hoarsely as he reaches out to tug Riz closer, to tuck himself up against him.
There’s a little helpless noise and a huge shudder of breath as some of the tension leaves Riz’s body and he doesn’t hesitate, burrowing himself into Fabian’s chest. “That’s fair,” he mumbles into Fabian’s silk pajama shirt.
“I love you.”
Riz’s sharp breath is ragged and far too close to a sob for Fabian’s liking as he clings, claws digging in just enough to sting. Fabian doesn’t say a word, reveling in it. “I love you. Fabian, I’m–”
“Tomorrow.” Even if it’s an apology, even if Riz somehow found a magical combination of words to make all of this better, they’re not doing it here and now. Right now Fabian just wants to hold his partner, to find some kind of peace in that amidst all the rest, and get some sleep, because he’s barely had any of that in days, and he’d be willing to bet damn good money Riz has had even less.
There’s a little movement against his chest that could be a nod as easily as it could be Riz just trying to move even closer. Either way, Fabian takes it as agreement, and lets himself close his eye again.
When Fabian wakes up again, one of the curtains has been drawn back enough to let some natural light into the room, and it’s undeniably morning. He knows even before he opens his eye that he’s alone, but there’s only a brief moment of panic before he remembers that Riz is home, that he’s safe and alive and here to be infuriated at for another day.
As much as it chafes, waking up alone again, it’s probably for the best. He doesn’t know for sure which of the two it’d be, but if he’d woken up to Riz still in his arms, he knows he either wouldn’t have been able to bite his tongue this time, starting a fight here in their bed, or he would’ve let it all go, let the fury die in the face of how grateful he is that Riz is okay. Neither one would be helpful, ultimately.
It’s a surprise, finding a note on the nightstand next to his fully-charged crystal. Or, well, maybe it isn’t: Riz is maddeningly oblivious at times, and tends to make the same mistakes over and over again more often than either of them would like, but he’s not stupid. at Gorgug’s is all it reads, but Fabian sees it for what it is: an olive branch, an acknowledgement that the lack of communication is a huge part of the problem here.
He only briefly wonders whose idea it was, if it was Gorgug that summoned him there or if Riz powered up his crystal to see that Fabian and Sklonda weren’t the only ones out of their mind with worry and headed there to apologize. Maybe there should be a part of him that’s frustrated, annoyed that he doesn’t get to be the one to hammer it into Riz’s thick skull just how much he fucked up. Maybe he should be grateful, that he gets the chance to breathe and collect himself in the light of day, that Riz may get a dressing-down from someone who was always better at being level-headed about disagreements (and scarily good at the I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed vibe). Either way, Fabian feels more numb than anything else.
The first thing that cuts through the numbness is surprise when he walks downstairs. The house has been a wreck, papers and books strewn everywhere once they’d been discarded for not having the information he needed, spell ingredients littered on any available counter space, boxes and wrappers from the quickest, easiest meals he could force down his throat piling up once the trash can had filled and he hadn’t bothered taking the time to empty it, dirty clothes thrown in a heap in the corner. None of it was worth spending energy on, not when Riz had been missing. He’d slowly been driving himself crazy, trying to find things to do to help but not wanting to leave for too long in case he missed something, in case Riz somehow had some emergency teleport programmed for home and showed up bleeding and broken and in need of immediate assistance, in case somehow someone at the Task Force knew to send some kind of communication to where Riz lived, in case, in case, in case–
It’s all clean now. It’s far from sparkling, but everything’s been swept up off the floor and couch and table and placed in tidy, neat stacks on the counter. All the trash is gone. There’s even a lingering sweet smell that suggests Riz burned one of Fabian’s scented candles that he hates so much in an effort to clear out whatever odor there was from several days’ worth of accumulated garbage. It… doesn’t necessarily bode well for Riz having got a decent amount of sleep, but it feels like it might be another olive branch.
(And as uncharitable as it is, Fabian’s not exactly upset that Riz had to be confronted with just some of the visual evidence of how very not okay Fabian had been the last several days.)
It does mean, though, that he has even less idea with what to do with himself now. The idea of getting his crystal out, of having to see more of whatever their friends had had to say about things is the least appealing possibility, but the thought of doing anything else, of acting like things are normal when he feels so unmoored and hollow still, feels insane. For far too many long moments, he just stands there. Not knowing what comes next is not an uncommon feeling for him. Not knowing where to even begin throwing himself towards is one he’s never grown any more familiar or comfortable with.
He spots Riz’s briefcase out of the corner of his eye, sitting propped up against the side of the couch, and the breath he lets out is shaky when it hits like another blow, the realization that some part of him had fully expected to never see that again. It dawns on him, suddenly, what he should do, what he probably should’ve done days ago but hadn’t had the bandwidth to even begin considering, especially with how much it still feels too much like admitting defeat. (Yes, objectively, he knows it’s not. Unobjectively…?) One hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of his nose and he lets out a deep, frustrated noise before he takes his crystal out of his pocket, scrolls to a contact he hasn’t used in far too many months, and starts tapping out a text to his therapist.
Annoyingly, even the twenty minutes via crystal his therapist could make enough time for do help. (It never stops feeling personal, that for all the growing and learning Fabian’s done, there’s still things that professionals cut to the quick to in minutes what he could’ve easily spent days or weeks or longer going in circles over. Ugh.) He still doesn’t feel good by any means, but there’s less numbness, less hollowness, and he feels a little less scattered as he goes through the motions of caring for Fandrangor. His sword is magical enough he doesn’t have to care for it as regularly as he does, but years of having it drilled into his brain by his Papa that maintaning his weapons could be the difference between life of death, and the comfort of routine, have had him keep to it in all but the most haphazard times of his life. It’s more soothing than it probably should be now, brushing the guard and the pommel, applying a thin sheen of oil to the blade, checking the grip to see if it needs another coat of wax. It gives him something to do with his hands, even if his brain is still no closer to figuring out what the hell he wants to say when Riz gets home, much less how to say it.
When Riz comes slinking in the doorway, he doesn’t look any less exhausted or brittle: if anything, it’s exacerbated now by the way his shoulders droop, the apology scrawled all over his face when he sees Fabian at the kitchen counter. He stops in the middle of the room, wringing his hands, and neither of them say a word for a too-long moment. Fabian isn’t sure what Riz could possibly be seeing in his face, but it’s enough to make him inhale, determination chasing away the weariness as he straightens up. “Gorgug’s going to help me figure out some kind of device. He’s pretty sure we can find a way to send at least a signal between planes. Something where even if we can’t talk, I can send a sign that I’m okay.”
The mixture of relief and disappointment is strange and weak, and Fabian just sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay.”
There is some comfort, though, in how the lukewarm response doesn’t deter Riz at all. There’s not even a hint of surprise or anything on his face as he takes a few steps closer. “And I’m going to make it clear to the Task Force that I need to have a consistent way to communicate with the material plane, even on assignment. Even if it’s just a way to check in.”
“Okay.” It’s all the right words, all the things Fabian knows he should be grateful to hear, a sign that Riz acknowledges how fucking scared he made everyone and wants to make sure this doesn’t happen again, but it doesn’t do much to make him feel better.
Riz takes a few more steps, close enough that he can reach out and touch the barstool next to where Fabian’s sitting. He takes another long inhale and adds, “And I– I’m going to take a step back from the Task Force.”
Maybe, selfishly, Fabian should be glad to hear it. The idea of not being in the position again where he doesn’t know what plane Riz is on or if he’s alive or dead and knowing Fabian has no way of contacting Bytopia, nothing except desperate pleas he couldn’t even know for sure were being listened to, should perhaps be a comfort. It isn’t. He isn’t glad, especially because the heart of the issue isn’t the job, and he… doesn’t know how to even begin saying that. “The Ball, I’m not asking–”
“I know,” Riz interrupts, and he takes a beat to clamber up onto the barstool next to him. “It’s– I’m not saying I’m quitting entirely. But I’ve been saying for years now that maybe I should take a step back.”
He has, but his actions have said something else. If anything, especially once he fully stopped the unofficial work with the Council of the Chosen, the amount of work he was doing with the Task Force increased. It’s been with a strange mix of resignation and happiness that Fabian has watched it: it’s been undeniable, how much more satisfied Riz is with the increased pace, with the amount of work he feels like he can more consistently contribute compared to the stagnating amount he’d been plodding along at before, how it helps keep away the restlessness for longer, and that, Fabian is always glad to see. But it’s come with its own stressors too, with how much more often Riz will head off on a mission and go far too quiet for days, with how many more times Fabian’s had to see him come home in clothes that are bloodied even if the wounds have long since been magically healed, with the all-or-nothing attitude Riz has always had that leaves him pushing through exhaustion even while actively promising to be better. It might be less distressing if it was the kind of adventuring that Fabian could accompany him on: being side-by-side, back-to-back in whatever they were facing made the rest of it, the risk and the strain and the sacrifices, so much more manageable compared to being alone with only his imagination to keep him company.
But that’s not– Fabian will ask him to be better about sleeping and eating. He’ll ask him to be better about communicating. He’ll ask him to be better about accepting help when he needs it. Even with how unbearable the last several days were, he still won’t ask Riz to stop, and the idea that Riz might think this is a compromise Fabian would ask of him doesn’t feel good, at all. “Riz. I’m– this isn’t about the Task Force. You get that, right?”
Part of him doesn’t think that Riz does, and that, he thinks, is probably why there’s not really any satisfaction in any of what Riz is offering.
Riz’s mouth slants downwards. “I– yeah. Yeah. But I– it’ll help.” He makes a little noise of frustration and turns enough to plant one elbow on the counter, tilting his head into it and rubbing under where the pads of his glasses sit on his nose. “It’s… it’s felt good. Being able to do more. But it’s– most of the stuff I’ve been doing, they don’t need me for. I’ve been pushing it, and since I’m officially an agent and there’s been enough overlap with planes other than the Material, there’s enough grey area that there hasn’t been any pushback about non-interference. But it’s…” He sighs, and shrugs, a lopsided, haphazard movement that feels at odds with the sudden determined look on his face. “It’ll keep. I don’t have to rush it.” He laughs, and, like it’s a joke he’s inviting Fabian in on, adds, “I’ll have plenty of work to do when I do kick it, so might as well not tempt fate into getting there sooner, right?”
It wouldn’t even be funny in normal circumstances, but after four days fearing that Riz had ‘kicked it’, Fabian feels the anger rush through him in a nauseating wave. “Not the fucking time for that joke,” he bites out, words clipped with the effort to keep from saying something harsher.
The lackluster attempt at humor disappears immediately from Riz’s expression as his eyes dart across Fabian’s face. Sometimes Fabian enjoys it, watching as the gears whir behind Riz’s eyes, happy to see his partner take in whatever open affection or joy is on his face and tuck it away as evidence of how much Fabian loves him. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, too many years of hiding his emotions and thoughts behind a mask taking the reins no matter how much he trusts Riz with the truth of whatever’s going on beneath the surface. Right now, he doesn’t know which of the two it is. Both, probably: he hates this, how twisted and gnarled things feel in his chest, but he also needs Riz to see it, because if he–
Fabian has done a lot of things for Riz, and will happily continue to do so many more. He doesn’t know if he’s capable of it, begging Riz to care about him enough to not do something like this again.
He doesn’t know what Riz sees, but it’s enough for him to duck his head, cut his eyes to the ground. “You went to my dad’s grave?”
It sounds like a question, but there’s enough surety in there that Fabian knows he knows the answer. Maybe it should be reassuring, finding out that Pok had heard the distraught babbling he’d done at the man’s gravestone, the way he’d begged and pleaded to be given any kind of sign of what was happening or what to do. It just feels humiliating instead, especially with how resigned Riz’s words had felt upon coming home last night, like he could barely stand to get whatever disagreement they were going to have out of the way. “Did you think I was exaggerating, when I said I thought you were dead?” he asks flatly. Yes, he’d gone to Pok’s grave. He’d tried everything he could think of.
Riz winces. Good. “I’ve gone no contact for longer before while on a mission.” It doesn’t sound like an excuse, exactly, but it doesn’t make it any less infuriating to hear.
The laugh that escapes from Fabian’s mouth is harsh and sharp. “Not after texting that you were hit with a curse. That whatever it was was bad enough that the Task Force was benching you because even they didn’t know what was going on.”
“I know.” He looks a little better in the light of day than he had last night, but the grey pallor is more evident the more he wilts. “Dad pointed that out to me when I got back to Bytopia. I was– I didn’t think,” he admits.
And it’s that, more than the radio silence, more than the dangerous missions, more than anything except maybe the dismissive reply he’d given Fabian last night, that hurts the most. “We’re partners.” The words come out rough, and Fabian looks away, not sure he can bear whatever he might see in Riz’s face. “I– hell. I don’t expect you to make every decision with that in mind, but– god, Riz, it– you went four days and didn’t spare a single thought about the fact that I might be worried about you. Do you–” He doesn’t know if he wants to put it into words, the fact that he can’t decide what’s worse, the potential that Riz thought Fabian wouldn’t care, wouldn’t worry, or the potential that Fabian hadn’t even been on his radar, that the only reason he’d got a text at all was because Riz was annoyed enough at being benched that Fabian had just been a convenient place to vent.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way Riz slumps. “I– it’s not like that. It’s not that I don’t care. I just get so tunnel-visioned. Compartmentalize or whatever.”
It’s only the fact that it still doesn’t sound like an excuse, just an explanation, that makes Fabian just snort instead of saying something harsher. “Yeah.” Even with how pissed he still is, how much he still feels like an exposed wound, he can hear the fondness mixed in with the resignation when he says, “Learned that a long time ago, The Ball.” He gets the courage to look over, and there’s a tentative look on Riz’s face, something hopeful and terrified to the way his eyes are wide and pleading. Fabian almost, almost wants to just lean into that, to let the rest of it go for now. He might have done so, if not for the conversation he had earlier, if not for the memory he has pinging around his brain of Riz looking at him, serious and concerned, and saying that sometimes it’s like he forgets he can ask for things.
He sucks in a breath, like he’s steeling himself when he says. “I’m not going to ask you to take a step back from the Task Force. It– don’t get me wrong, it’s not fun when you disappear for days and I don’t know what’s going on, but I can deal with it normally. It’s your job, and you love it. But I’m certainly not going to complain if Gorgug thinks he can help with the communication.” There’s something about the set of Riz’s jaw, though, that makes him think that the Task Force is an issue they’re going to have to revisit. It’s not easy, but he makes himself look Riz dead in the eye when he says, “I am going to ask one thing, though.”
“Anything,” Riz says, and the desperate relief on his face says he means it.
Fabian swallows, trying to put into words how it’d cut like a knife, last night. “Don’t– I told you I spent days terrified you were dead, and all you gave me was a, yeah yeah, I know, I’m sorry.”
Some of the exhaustion disappears from Riz’s face when he blinks, something horrified growing instead at how Fabian echoes the dismissive, flat way Riz had brushed him off last night.
Fabian blinks and looks away. “I can deal with feeling like I want more from my mother than she’s capable of giving me,” he says, shrugging and pitching his voice light like it’s a joke despite how much they both know it’s not, despite how hard it is to even vocalize that years after coming to terms with it. “I don’t– not with you. Please.”
“I’m sorry,” Riz says, miserable and desperate and so unlike the way he’d said it last night in the doorway. “I– fuck, Fabian– I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I’m sorry. For putting you through that and for making you feel like I didn’t care.”
It sucks, watching how tentative and unsure he is when he just reaches out for Fabian’s hand, like he thinks even that might be rebuffed. It’s not usually like this when they argue: usually it’s both of them pissy and making smart comments until they run out of steam and finally, even if sullenly, talk about it. When it’s something where one of them is clearly in the wrong, there’s usually some element of sheepishness about it when they come to the making up part of it, like they recognize how they fucked up but know it’ll be okay. Something about the way Riz is acting is brittle, scared, like he’s afraid this might not be okay. It might hurt if it wasn’t so oddly scary.
Well. Whatever it is, Fabian can be sure enough for the both of them. He lets his hand cross the rest of the distance between their two barstools. The moment their fingers intertwine, he stands and pulls Riz to him in a hug. There’s a short intake of breath, almost like a noise of pain, but before he has the chance to pull away, Riz clings back even tighter. His breath is just as jagged and unsteady as it was last night and Fabian can feel the way tiny tremors are racking his body.
He almost doesn’t want to ask, especially when there’s something more hopeful and less terrified in Riz’s eyes when he eases back and swipes at them with the hand that’s not still in Fabian’s. “Are–” Riz cuts himself off, but he tries again. “Are we okay?”
“Depends,” Fabian says, mostly as a lead-in to his next question than anything else, but when he can feel the way Riz flinches, he tries again. “Yes, The Ball. Yeah, we’re okay. It– we’re.” He swallows. “I mean, I might not stop Adaine from strangling you if you pull this shit again, but we’re– I don’t think we’re ever going to be so not okay that we wouldn’t be okay, eventually, okay?” Not the most eloquent way he could put it, but Riz lets out a large enough breath of relief that he doesn’t give a damn. It’s so tempting to leave it like that, but Fabian knows his partner well enough to know that there’s still– “But I don’t– what’s going on, Riz?”
He can see it, the way Riz withdraws, the flash of indecision when he so clearly tries to weigh his options, when there’s a part of him that’s tempted to play dumb or lie even now. But a moment later, he sags, and thank god, thank god, because Fabian knows that means he’s decided to be honest. “This curse still hasn’t worn off,” he admits, looking down at their hands instead of to Fabian’s face. Probably for the best: Fabian doesn’t know how well Riz would take the surely visible relief and gratitude that he’d been honest. “It’s– just a lot. It’s like. Every sensation is turned up to a hundred, both the good and the bad. I–” He winces. “It’s not comfortable.”
It explains a lot: how gingerly he’s held himself, the way he’s flinched both away from and into touch, the exhaustion still sitting on his frame. ‘Not comfortable’ probably means something far closer to excruciating, knowing Riz, and Fabian’s frown goes grim. “How not comfortable?”
Riz finally looks up, and of all things, smiles at the look on his face. It’s the first smile Fabian’s seen in days, and annoyingly it does temper some of the dread and unhappiness. “It’s getting better, I swear,” he says, and even though history wouldn’t necessarily be on his side in terms of being honest about this kind of thing, Fabian believes him. He swallows, and the smile flickers, the guilt shining through it again. “I’m sorry. Even with– I still should’ve apologized better. I should’ve seen how that–” He winces. “I’m sorry.”
It still stings, and Fabian knows it’s going to be a while before the memory doesn’t ache as much, but it does help, knowing it was likely some kind of painful overstimulation making Riz short more than being annoyed with Fabian’s concern and frustration. Even so, ‘I forgive you’ won’t quite make it to his tongue, and he settles for a small smile as he says, “Thank you.” Before he’s thought it through, he’s brought their hands up to place a soft kiss to Riz’s knuckles the way he’s done so many times over the past few years. For the first time in years, Riz visibly reacts, jolts, and Fabian blanches. “Shit, sorry. Was that–”
“No,” Riz interrupts, and though there’s something shaky to the smile he gives Fabian, it doesn’t look like he’s hiding pain, and his fingers tighten around Fabian’s like he’s preemptively putting a stop to the thought that holding his hand might be causing enough discomfort that he should pull away. “It’s– you’re fine. That didn’t hurt or anything.”
There’s the barest hint of a flush to his cheeks, and Fabian has to bite back something that has equal chance of becoming a grimace or a smile when he realizes that ‘every sensation’ might mean that the unthinking gesture of affection may have felt even more intimate than normal. Well. At least they can try to make the most of this until it fades. “Okay, The Ball. Let’s figure out what good sensations we can try to focus on while you’re cursed, yeah?” Already, he’s going through the contents of their house in his mind, making a mental list of the softest blankets and plushest pillows.
Riz watches him, lips slowly turning more upwards the longer they search Fabian’s face, and it’s more than welcome, the realization that there’s no part of Fabian that wants to flinch away from it in this moment. Riz gently tugs on their still-intertwined hands, scooting himself forward to perch on just the edge of the barstool so he can wrap himself around Fabian in a hug that Fabian has to very consciously not let get too tight, no matter how much he’s still so aware of the relief and the not-quite-dissipated grief that makes him want to cling. “Let’s just start with this,” Riz says, muffling the words into the crook of Fabian’s neck.
And, well. That’s more than fine with him.