Chapter Text
“I really think you’d like them,” Dorian says, using the tortilla chip in his hand to point at Orym for emphasis. “They look strong as hell. Like, could bench press me without even trying strong. And they’re kind of an asshole but in, sort of, an endearing way.”
“Why do you think I would like an asshole?” Orym asks, brow furrowed. The tortilla chips definitely aren’t keto, but he grabs one anyways and starts nibbling on it just to have something to do with his hands. Dorian is his best friend and an excellent roommate, but he’s also recently decided to become Orym’s one-man dating service. Orym appreciates the effort, but every time Dorian starts talking about setting him up with someone, he starts to feel unreasonably awkward.
“I know what your type is,” Dorian says with a wink. “You like a challenge.”
“I do not—”
They are interrupted by the buzz of the doorbell. Orym raises an eyebrow. “Did you order takeout?”
“No,” Dorian says, glancing towards the hall that leads to the front door but not getting up. “Maybe a package?”
“Now? It’s almost ten,” Orym says. He reaches for the remote to pause the movie they’ve been half-watching when the doorbell buzzes again, insistently, three times in a row.
The two of them share a look of slight concern, and then Dorian shrugs, and they both head for the door. Orym keeps the remote in his hand. It’s not much of a weapon, but he can probably chuck it at someone’s head as a distraction if he has to.
The neighbourhood they live in isn’t anything fancy, but it’s not as sketchy as some of the places that Orym has lived, so if anything this is probably some kid pulling a prank on them, or maybe someone at the wrong door. They live in a small townhouse sandwiched between a dozen other nearly-identical townhouses. It’s happened before.
It’s neither of those things, though. Dorian throws open the front door and standing on the other side, wide-eyed and smiling, is Fearne Calloway.
Her hair is as wild as ever, and is dyed a shade of green that looks like it might once have been vibrant but has now faded to a pale seafoam, with her blonde-brown roots starting to grow out. Her clothes are multi-coloured and flowing, her cheeks flushed a healthy pink even in the unflattering orange porchlight, and the big backpack slung over her shoulder is the same one that Orym has seen in most of her sporadic Instagram updates ever since she left for her latest multi-year European backpacking trip.
She also has a toddler balanced on her hip.
“Hi guys!” she says, her voice as delighted and sing-songy as ever. “Did you miss me?”
“Oh my… Fearne!” Dorian says, recovering from his shock just a bit more quickly than Orym. “Why are you… when did you get here?”
“Oh, I just flew in,” Fearne says breezily. The toddler on her hip makes some cooing noises and reaches one pudgy hand out, trying to grab at the flowing strands of Dorian’s hair. Fearne looks down at the kid as if she only just noticed it was there, and then her airy smile gets even cheerier as she says, “Say hi to your uncles, Little Mister!”
She gently takes the kid’s wrist in her hand and helps him wave at Dorian and Orym. “Hi!” he says, and then babbles something that sounds vaguely like uncles.
“Uh, uh, hi, Little… Mister?” Dorian says, waving back at the baby.
“Hey, kid,” Orym says, waving as well, but his gaze is firmly on Fearne’s face. “Oh, Fearnie,” he says. “What did you do?”
Fearne just grins brightly, and then hoists her bag more firmly on her shoulder. “Can I come in?”
“Oh! Oh, of course,” Dorian says, stepping aside so she can enter. Between her towering height and her giant backpack and her general ability to fill every corner of a room with her presence, she makes their little entry hall seem tiny.
She dumps her backpack on the ground, apparently not caring where or how it lands, and twirls the toddler around the little hall. “Look, Little Mister!” she says, pausing to point at a framed photograph in the entryway. “That’s your mommy when she first met your uncles!”
“Mommy?” Dorian chokes out, and although Orym suspected it, it’s still a surprise to hear.
Fearne turns to Dorian with a blinding grin and holds out the toddler, her hands under his armpits. “Yup!” she says. “This is my baby. Isn’t he great?”
He is pretty cute. Pudgy, with red-brown hair that sticks up in cowlicked curls. He seems happy, too, entirely unphased by Fearne’s incessant movement. He blows a wet raspberry at his uncles, and Dorian manages to only half-flinch at the rain of spittle. Fearne laughs.
“Please tell me you didn’t steal this baby, Fearne,” Orym says, only half-kidding.
Fearne’s tinkling laughter fades as she seems to realize that Orym actually wants an answer. She pulls the kid close against her, hugging him almost protectively.
“No!” she says. “He’s my baby. For real, Orym. I just didn’t tell you guys about him because… well…” She trails off, her gaze going a bit vacant as she seems to be considering exactly why this is the first time Orym and Dorian are hearing about this kid who looks like he’s at least a year old. “I guess I forgot,” she eventually says with a shrug.
If this were anyone else, Orym would absolutely not believe that explanation. But this is Fearne, and Orym has known Fearne long enough that she might honestly, genuinely have forgotten to mention the birth of her child to her best friends. After all, it’s been almost four years since Orym last saw Fearne in person, last time she stopped in Jrusar for quick visit before jetting off again to continue traveling the world. They’ve stayed in touch while she’s been away, mostly via text but sometimes over social media or video chats or the occasional hand-written postcard. Fearne is as hard to pin down as the wind, though, and even when they do talk, it’s never easy to get a beat on what Fearne has actually been up to.
Honestly, half the time, Orym prefers not to know. He knows Fearne generally sticks to petty theft, but if she ever gets involved in some larger-scale crime, Orym would really like to be able to plead ignorance.
They stand there for a moment, in almost uncomfortable silence, and then Fearne huffs and says, “What? I don’t get a hello hug?”
And then Dorian is throwing his arms around her and her mysterious new baby, and Orym wraps his arms as far around all of them as he can, mostly hugging their legs because he barely reaches their waists, and Fearne is laughing in delight and Dorian is laughing with a sound halfway between joy and panic, and Orym thinks he should be more surprised about this turn of events than he is.
They get settled in the living room. Luckily, Fearne has diapers and baby food in that giant backpack of hers, although, “He’s halfway potty trained and he can pretty much eat grown up food already, I swear,” Fearne says. They don’t have a crib or a playmat or anything like that, but they spread a cushy blanket on the floor and Little Mister conks out almost immediately, lying flat on his stomach.
“Is his… uh… There’s no way his name is really Little Mister, is it?” Dorian asks. He’s holding a glass of wine, because Fearne immediately demanded drinks! as soon as the kid was settled, but he hasn’t touched it. He’s staring at the toddler like he doesn’t quite understand what it is.
Fearne laughs. “No! That’s just what I call him. It suits him, though, doesn’t it?”
“What’s his real name?” Orym asks, his focus more on Fearne than on the baby. He still can’t quite believe that she’s here.
Fearne doesn’t answer for a moment, just sips at her wine and nibbles at the tortilla chips.
“Fearnie?” Orym presses.
A little furrow appears between her eyebrows, a look that says she might start crying and it would surprise her more than anyone if it happened. Orym knows that look well—he might not have seen his friend in years, but he still knows her almost as well as he knows himself.
“He’s named after his dad,” Fearne says after a moment. “But I don’t want to hear that name anymore.”
Dorian and Orym share a look over Fearne’s head. They could push her. They could ask her who the father is. Why she’s here, suddenly, unannounced. If she’s okay. But they both know her—they both know that asking questions isn’t really the best way to get information out of Fearne Calloway.
She’ll tell them when she’s ready. For now, their best friend is here, and she looks mostly happy, and she has a little kid in tow.
“Hey. It’s good to see you, Fearne,” Orym says, reaching over to put a hand on her knee.
She looks over at him, and for half a second her bottom lip wobbles. And then her face breaks out into a brilliant grin again, and she leans down and wraps Orym in a crushing hug. She frees one arm to grab blindly at Dorian and pull him down, too.
“Ohh, I missed my boys so much,” she says. She smacks a kiss onto the top of Orym’s head. “I am never leaving you guys again. Never, ever,” she says.
“Missed you, too, Fearnie,” Orym says. “Love you.”
“Love you,” Fearne says, as Dorian says, “Love, love.” And even though this has been the strangest night that Orym’s had in a while, he feels oddly at peace.