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Riz doesn’t know what the hell is going on with Fabian, but it’s been several weeks that he’s been… off. Irritable, shifty, sulky. The only thing that’s kept him from fully spiraling about it has been that it comes and goes: when things are quiet and they’re having what Fabian joked about a month ago about being their ‘on purpose’ time together, the time they’ve been both making an effort to find even when they’re busy to just cuddle and talk and soak up each other’s presence, Fabian’s fine. The affection and devotion that he hasn’t let himself hide ever since they started sidling their way into a partnership has still been there, open and plain and reassuring. There’s nothing stilted or forced when he leans down to kiss Riz on the top of his head or the forehead or the cheek or the hand. He seems just as thrilled to have this as he has been from the start. Nothing in his expression says he’s having second thoughts or regrets or anything like that.
It just makes the times when he is acting off all the more evident.
Riz has never been good at biting his tongue for too long, and when he comes home Friday night to a Fabian who’s hunched over the sink, scrubbing at it with the pissiest expression he’s had on his face in a while, Riz finally gives up. “Okay, what is going on? You had the whole afternoon off. You said you were going to bask in it. This is… so not basking.” He doesn’t know what the hell it is, but it can’t be good. Fabian only tends to get like this, silently and angrily cleaning, when he’s really worked up. It’s a vicious cycle, really, because he’s still not always good at it, too used to having grown up with a maid, and then he tends to get annoyed and even more worked up at how lackluster of a job it is in comparison to how easy Cathilda always made it look.
It’s visible, the tic in his jaw and the way his knuckles blanch around the scrubber brush. It’s also visible, a flash of something that crosses his face. Guilt, or shame, or something, Riz doesn’t quite know – it’s gone too fast to really read, hidden behind the kind of mask that Fabian so rarely feels the need to try to put on in front of him these days. He tosses the brush down and swipes the back of his hand against his forehead. “It’s nothing, The Ball,” he says, and flashes him a dazzling smile as he turns the water on to wash his hands. “Spring cleaning. I’ve all but conquered the sink, and the oven’s time is nigh. Appliances hardly stand a chance against Fabian Aramais Seacaster.”
The pompous, affected tone rankles in ways it never does when it’s borne of silliness, and Riz is pretty sure he’d be annoyed if he wasn’t suddenly so worried. “Were you always this shitty of a liar?” he says, and his tone comes out a little flatter than he’d have preferred, but he doesn’t add anything to soften it, just drops his briefcase, rolls his sleeves up, and crosses his arms over his chest.
For whatever reason, Fabian blinks and turns away, the tips of his ears turning pink. He lets out this frustrated noise as he turns off the tap and plants his hands on either side of the counter, muscles visibly straining where he pushes his weight into it. “With you? Yeah, probably.” He sounds tense, but there’s a clear note of affection in it, too, which… frankly, is just confusing. His body language seems upset, angry even, but it sure doesn’t feel like it’s aimed at Riz.
“Fabian.” It’s not flat this time. Riz can hear it in his own voice, the concern that laces every word. “What’s going on?”
Fabian doesn’t move, but lets his head hang. When he looks back up, there’s something almost resigned in his eye, and he moves, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “It’s– I’m fine,” he says, and he almost sounds more believable. “I’m just. Restless, I think. Pent up.” His voice cracks, just the tiniest bit, on the last word, and the pink now spreads from his ears to his cheeks.
It… makes sense, Riz guesses. He’s seen it before, when Fabian’s been cooped up for too long, when he works too hard on something to really let loose and get all his excess energy out. It’s been ages since they sparred, come to think of it: maybe that’s part of the problem. When they’ve both had time free, they’ve been more likely to just lie on the couch together, or in bed, or somewhere else where they can cuddle. It’s been something Riz thinks neither of them had expected, just how much they’d enjoy the chaste physical contact that’s somehow felt different and even more fulfilling now than it had been when it was unambiguously purely platonic. It’s not necessarily a surprise, with how touchy Fabian has always been with his friends, but it’s been something he’s adored, too, more than he could’ve ever expected, just feeling warm and safe and loved and close even when they’re talking about the stupidest and most inane shit. But maybe this is as good a sign as any that they should pick it back up. “It’s still light enough out. We should spar,” he offers, “help you burn off some of that energy.”
The noise that comes from Fabian is alarming, a strangled, anguished groan. “Absolutely not,” he says, words clipped.
Riz just blinks, so wrong-footed by the response that he suddenly doesn’t feel all that confident that whatever’s going on doesn’t have anything to do with him. “Okay,” he says, and to his utter annoyance, it comes out small. Fuck that. And really, fuck this. If Fabian wants to sulk and withdraw and get pissy, fine. Hypocritical as shit, given how many times in the past six or so months he’s cajoled and coaxed Riz into talking about whatever’s eating at him since they started this partnership, but whatever. If he wants to be a brat because he’s feeling restless or whatever the fuck is actually bothering him, Riz can just give him the space to get over it. He’s– there’s plenty of things he can do, rather than stand here and have his best friend lie to his face and act weird and cagey. “Fine.”
Clearly, Fabian picks up on the irritation, because the fake smile drops. “Riz–”
“It’s fine, Fabian,” he says, and reaches down to grab his briefcase again, well and truly over this conversation. “Go forth and conquer the oven or whatever. When you’re done with whatever snit this is and want to stop pretending–”
“Ihaven’tbeenabletojerkoff,” Fabian blurts out in one mortifying breath.
Very, very slowly, Riz puts his briefcase back down.
Fabian looks miserable, shoulders up near his ears, face fully red, eye darting around to look everywhere but at Riz.
“Like… physically? Medically?”
The noise that comes from Fabian’s mouth sounds like something’s dying a particularly painful death. “No! Not like that!”
Riz blinks. It. Well. At least that explains ‘pent up’, he thinks, and then puts the pieces together as to why Fabian so vehemently opposed the idea of sparring, and now he can feel his cheeks flushing, too. “How, uh– how long has it–”
“Hey, The Ball, do me a favor? I’m begging you. Grab your arquebus and just–”
“I’m not shooting you,” Riz says with a snort. “Drama queen.”
Fabian buries his face in both of his hands. “I mean. Not like. Every time– but uh. Overall it’s. Since when– when Lana and I broke up,” he says in response to Riz’s unfinished question, and. Well. It– Riz really doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about that, because he knows there’s no way the timing is coincidental.
“…On purpose?” he asks hesitantly. Again, he doesn’t know what to feel. He doesn’t know if it’s better, if the answer is yes, or if it’s no. It… they haven’t talked about sex. At all. They haven’t even talked around it. He hadn’t thought that they needed to: with how careful and considerate Fabian had been even bringing up the idea of things as innocuous as labels and kisses, with how much they’d discussed so much else, it– there hasn’t been any misunderstanding, about sex and the role (or lack thereof) it’s going to play in their partnership. He thought, anyway, but now there’s a slowly-growing knot in his stomach, because is… is this something they should’ve been talking about? Had Fabian thought that he, like… shouldn’t even jerk off as like. A show of solidarity or commitment or something incredibly insane? Riz’s libido is usually pretty low, thank god, but he’d never expect Fabian to change his own, uh, habits to match Riz’s.
“No.” Fabian’s red face is still buried in his hands, which, like, yeah, Riz gets the impulse. He so gets the impulse with how strong the urge is to say ‘actually never mind let’s go back to never ever talking about this ever again thanks’ and run off to do literally anything else. But this is… something they probably need to talk about, if there’s something going on, if it’s starting to affect Fabian as much as it clearly is, to where Riz has been noticing for weeks.
Riz moves over to crawl up on one of the stools, so slowly, like moving too quickly will startle Fabian into fleeing like a skittish animal. “Is… I–” For all that he feels so, so far away from the sixteen year old version of him, for all that he’s had so much growing and has learned so much about himself, there’s a part of him that’s instantly thrown back to the memory of awkwardly cringing around the words ‘sex’ and ‘hooking up’ when talking with his dad. At least he’s not profusely sweating. For now, anyway. “I don’t know how to ask this without it being awkward as fuck–”
“–Too late for that,” Fabian says, still into his hands, and the sight of it is so ridiculous that Riz snorts again, feeling some of the discomfort starting to melt away. They can get through this. It might even be funny, once the mortification has had time to dissipate.
“At the risk of sounding self-centered, I’m guessing part of… the issue has to do with me?”
Now, Fabian’s hands come down, and he looks distraught. “The Ball, no– this isn’t– I swear, I’d never expect– I know you have no interest in–”
“Whoa, whoa, Fabian,” Riz hurries to say, holding his hands out in front of him. Part of him wants to go over there and just. Hug him or hold his hand or something, because Fabian’s always seemed more grounded and able to get through difficult conversations with some kind of physical contact, but it’s– maybe not if this is the subject matter, as ridiculous and immature as that probably is. “I know, okay? Pretty sure we’re having two separate conversations here.” Once again, Riz has a brief, intense moment of relief that they hadn’t ever thought of the idea of trying a kind of relationship as teenagers, because he… fuck. He’s ashamed to even think it, but he doesn’t know that he could say it with the same kind of certainty that he can now, that the Riz of then wouldn’t have spiraled about if he should try pushing through the awkwardness and general lack of interest he has in sex for Fabian’s benefit. He still can’t picture the Fabian of then asking for it, but… he also has a feeling that if he told Fabian right now that they should try having sex, he would have much more questions and reservations and unease over the suggestion than the Fabian of then might have had. “I just mean. The timeframe.”
The horror on Fabian’s face thankfully starts to melt away as he seemingly realizes that Riz wasn’t thinking that he was in any way complaining about a lack of sex, but it does mean that the discomfort shines through bright and clear again. “I–” He cuts himself off and groans. “I cannot believe we have to talk about this.”
For the first time this whole conversation, Riz smiles and lets out a tiny, insane laugh. “This is your fault, dude,” he jokes, figuring humor is going to be the easiest way through this. “If I’d have known when you sat me down and told me you were in love with me that it’d mean having to have a serious discussion about your masturbatory habits a few months later, I might’ve kept my mouth shut.” He’s so irrationally pleased with how he doesn’t even stutter or flush further over the word masturbatory that it takes a second to realize that Fabian isn’t laughing.
Riz sees him blink a few times and then smile, but it’s an awful, horrible blank smile that doesn’t reach his eye at all. Riz might have called it one of the ones Fabian usually hid behind, but he’s not even doing a good job of hiding with how gutted he looks. “Right. Can’t say I’d blame you there,” he says, rough and forcefully light with a laugh that sounds painful with how strained it is, and Riz is actually the stupidest person alive.
“Fabian– shit. I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes to say, and scrambles to try to climb off the stool. “I– it was a stupid, bad joke.”
Fabian laughs again, but it still doesn’t sound good, at all. “Right.”
When Riz darts around the island, Fabian flinches, and Riz’s stomach drops out entirely. “Fabian,” he says helplessly.
Fabian wipes a hand down his face, and some of the hurt disappears to leave something even and tired, but Riz doesn’t trust that a single bit. “It’s fine. I– really. We really don’t need to talk about this.”
“We absolutely need to talk about this.” That had already been true, but now that Riz has wholly stuck his foot in his mouth and choked on it, it’s even more so. “I want to talk about this.”
At least at that, the corner of Fabian’s mouth twitches. “Liar. No one wants to talk about this.”
Riz takes a chance and reaches out for Fabian’s hand. He’s always thought it’s such a stupid cliché when narration in books say something like ‘they let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding’, but the way the air leaves his lungs in sheer relief when Fabian doesn’t flinch and doesn’t pull out of the touch does almost take him by surprise. “Okay, I’m not like, dying to talk about this,” he admits, “but I– that’s part of the deal, okay? The partner deal and the best friend deal. I want to know what’s going on with you, man.” Fabian still looks miserable, and worse, guilty. It’s far too reminiscent of the first week or two after he’d confessed his feelings, where any sign of discomfort or unsurety from Riz had been enough to get that same hangdog look on Fabian’s face. And, yeah, as much as this is so not the topic of conversation Riz would prefer, it’s becoming excruciatingly clear that they really need to talk about this. If anyone’s worth pushing through the discomfort of this for, it’s Fabian. “So. Spill.” Immediately, he regrets the word choice and shuts his eyes for a moment, as if that could take it back.
It’s worth it, though, for the bark of laughter it gets from Fabian when he sees whatever must have shown on Riz’s face. Gently, he pulls his hand out of Riz’s, but it doesn’t feel like a rejection this time. “I– it was fine at first. There was way too much going on to even worry about– but then I.” He sucks in a sharp breath, still beet-red when he adds, “I keep getting too in my head about it.” He looks away again, and honestly? Probably for the best. They have to have this conversation, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be awkward as fuck.
“About… doing it at all?”
He makes another strangled noise and leans down, propping his elbows up on the countertop and burying his face in his hands again. It’s… almost funny, the way that he’s being even more awkward about this than Riz is. Not that Riz can really blame him, but still. “You’re sure putting me out of my misery and shooting is me still off the table?”
Riz snorts again. “Yes.”
Fabian groans, loud and dramatic and long. When it’s done, he quietly admits, “About what to think about.”
What to– oh. Oh. The flush that had mostly gone away by this point comes back with a vengeance. “Oh.”
The face that Fabian makes when he dares to peek up says it all. He looks more mortified than Riz can ever remember seeing, including in the aftermath of the incident with Chungledown Bim that they both really, really wish they could forget. “I don’t– I know you don’t– so thinking about– it feels wrong,” he says unhappily. “And I mostly get too guilty to. Well. But I– thinking of anyone else–”
“I wouldn’t care,” Riz says hurriedly, and then winces at how it comes out. “Not like– I just mean. I wouldn’t be offended. Or, like, hurt.” …Probably? It’s weird: he doesn’t know that he necessarily likes the idea of being fantasized about in a sexual way. He hasn’t ever given that idea any thought, especially in any real, non-hypothetical way, but the initial, knee-jerk reaction to it as it comes out of his mouth is definitely not an immediate ‘yes I’m 100% thrilled and have no hangups with the idea of you thinking of me while you’re touching yourself’. On paper maybe he should absolutely prefer Fabian think of someone else. But now that he hears it, thinks of it, it sits strangely in his stomach, too, thinking of Fabian actively fantasizing about being with someone else in the bed they share. It’s not– they’re not– it’s not like that for them. It’s not sexual. No matter how much Riz has questioned a lot of boundaries, trying to figure out which ones he’s okay with poking at until he comes to a more real conclusion than the one he’d only ever been able to come to when framed as a hypothetical, that’s one that hasn’t been yet brought up even in the privacy of his own head. It’s probably unfair, to be uncomfortable with the thought of Fabian and anyone else, even as just a fantasy. Hell, months ago, when they’d taken the first uncertain steps towards this, there might’ve been a part of him tempted to actively encourage the idea of Fabian fantasizing about someone else. He’d wholeheartedly meant it, when he told Aelwyn back in October that he didn’t want Fabian to deprive himself, and this was… absolutely not the same thing, but a similar enough sentiment. But it’s… things have changed. He would care now, if Fabian decided he wanted to date someone else. He would care, if Fabian decided he wanted to have sex with someone else. It’s probably selfish of him, considering he’s not, like, offering a good alternative here, particularly on that latter part. But Fabian’s said, over and over, that he’s not sacrificing anything, that he doesn’t want anything that Riz doesn’t want, that he doesn’t want anyone else.
No matter how much Riz believes that, trusts that, though, it doesn’t seem fair, to expect that to carry over to things that happen only in Fabian’s head, especially when fantasies don’t at all mean that he’d want those things for real. “I mean. I don’t… I don’t think I’d like hearing about it,” he admits, and the smile he tries to force to the surface comes out feeling way more like a grimace.
For the first time tonight, Fabian doesn’t even try to hide his face or his unhappy expression. “Riz. I don’t want to think of anyone else. That’s– I mean. Not just because of how you might feel about it. But I don’t want to. It feels like– I don’t know.” Like cheating, he doesn’t say but Riz absolutely hears. It’s sweet, even if a little silly. Maybe a lot silly: he doesn’t exactly trust himself to know what’s a typical boundary for people in typical relationships when it comes to this kind of thing, let alone their less typical one.
“I don’t know if this will help,” Riz says, trying his best not to cringe through it. He’s only, like, halfway successful. “But uh. If it does, consider this, like. Blanket permission from me either way to… think about whatever you gotta to. Y’know. Do what you have to do, guilt-free. Genuinely.” He really doesn’t know what would be less uncomfortable, but he does know that it… really isn’t about him, in the end. And really not what matters most: that’d be getting Fabian out of his head and back to his normal self, whatever that entails. “I just. Think I would probably rather not hear about it either way.”
Fabian buries a laugh into his hands again. “The Ball.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you. So much,” he says, the words muffled by skin. “Let’s please never talk about this again.”
Riz laughs, relief and embarrassment and affection making him feel almost light-headed with the release in tension. It’s weird, though, how glad he is at the same time, that they can get through a mortifying conversation when they need to. They made it through one about something sexual, even, and maybe it’s silly to be proud of himself for that, but, well. It’s not nothing. “As long as you figure out a way through it, fine by me.”
Fabian drags one hand down his face, then makes a clumsy, silly little saluting motion, like even verbally acknowledging it is too much for him to handle.
“And… Fabian?” It’s not like this is comfortable, or easy, but Riz keeps pushing past the urge to flee. He’s a grown adult in a grown relationship: he can communicate like one. Probably. “I– if you aren’t– if there’s,” he says clunkily, then takes in a deep breath and tries again. “This goes both ways, yeah? I talk about the stuff that I’m weird and uncertain about, and you do, too. Even if it’s stuff like this.”
The mortification is still there all over Fabian’s face, but more than at any other point in this conversation, the way he looks at Riz is filled with something serious and understanding. “It could get so much more weird and uncertain. You sure you want to agree to that?” he not-quite-jokes.
Riz doesn’t think the answer would come quite as easy with anyone else, but it’s not bravado or self-sacrifice or anything but pure, simple conviction when he reaches out and takes Fabian’s hand again. “Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t let himself make any awkward jokes to soften any of the edges. He smiles. “Yeah, I am.”
Two days later, there’s a spring to Fabian’s step, an absence of a tension that’s far more conspicuous now for the lack of it, that… could be something innocuous, something unrelated, but Riz has the sneaking suspicion that at least one problem has worked itself out. He can’t help the way his eyebrow arches, nor the smirk that creeps its way onto his face, especially when Fabian clocks it and his face flushes a pretty pink. It’s… kind of fun, actually, not being the more awkward one about something vaguely sexual, for once in his goddamn life, even if he knows his own cheeks aren’t entirely their normal hue, either. “We good to spar again?” he asks innocently.
The pink immediately turns to a red, and Fabian groans dramatically in a futile attempt to cover it. “I hate you so much.”
Riz just beams. “No, you don’t.”
There’s a bark of laughter and Fabian shakes his head. “No,” he agrees, gaze warm and so affectionate even through the embarrassment. “No, I suppose I don’t.”