Chapter Text
Friday, June 3
Fabian’s day goes like this.
He wakes up at six each and every morning, no matter the prospects of his day. During school, it’s an impeccably calibrated system that allows him a forty-minute workout, a hot shower, a full breakfast, and a leisurely twenty-minute window to make it to school before the 7:55 start time. On the weekends he goes for a run regardless of the weather. Fabian has spent years honing the art of scheduling in order to build a daily routine that works like a perfectly crafted watch. Life is unpredictable, of course, and sometimes things happen, but that’s alright. He has time built in to accommodate unpredictability.
But Fabian’s day goes like this: at six his alarm clock goes off, a gentle kalimba melody that he’s woken up to since eighth grade. He gets up, drinks a glass of water (as advised by sleep experts), and gets ready for the day. It’s a big one, a milestone of teenagehood, that’s what everyone is telling him. But the morning is the morning and it will function just as it always does.
Cathilda makes him whole wheat toast with avocado and a poached egg, runny. She gets a little heavy-handed with the finishing salt, but he can forgive that.
“Your father will be out today,” she says as she slices up a watermelon. With summer always comes fresh fruit and garden parties, evening soirees that Fabian are invited to but not necessarily welcome at. He doesn’t particularly like being trotted out like a trick pony, to be asked the same questions about his grades and his swordfighting and the past bloodrush season. “But not to worry, master Fabian, anything you need I’ll be right here.”
“Thank you, Cathilda.”
She pushes him the newspaper, which he never reads, but she does every day regardless. “It’ll be sunny and warm, so you might want to pack a hat or sunglasses-”
“Yes, Cathilda, thank you.” And, message received, she scurries off somewhere into the bowels of the house, leaving Fabian to eat alone.
He mindlessly skims the front page of the newspaper: unemployment rates are up, school testing scores are down. Nothing new. There’s the first paragraph of an article warning parents of the rise in teen alcohol poisoning that comes annually with prom and graduation, but Fabian doesn’t pay that one much mind.
At 7:30 on the dot he shoulders his backpack and leaves, giving himself twenty minutes to travel to school and five minutes to make it to his classroom before the bell rings. Usually it ends up being five minutes to talk with whatever bloodrush player he sees on his way to class, but Fabian doesn’t mind. Teachers never punish him for tardiness anyway.
There’s a new housing development going up near the high school. Fabian knows this because he passes it every day, having marked its slow construction over the spring months. Now, as they near the end of the school year, it’s mostly finished: identical blue suburbans with green front yards and plastic over the windows. Maybe people will start moving in by the time graduation rolls around.
And there, where the street sign will soon be, is the big billboard of a clean-cut human man, his willowy elven wife, and their smiling, gap-toothed toddler. Behind them is a blue house and overlaid on top of their shoulders are the scalloped words, “EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED.”
It’s junior year and every morning Fabian bikes past it on his way to school. He used to drive, back when the houses were all still made of plywood, until he wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Now he’s been relegated to the shameful world of bicycle riders until he can get it back from the shop.
He almost gets run over at the intersection between Highland and Main; he’s barely more than halfway across the street (with a walk sign, he’ll note) when a big white SUV goes barreling past him, missing his back tire by an inch. He’s pretty sure it’s Lawrence, one of the seniors on the swim team.
And maybe his papa might have chased him down and demanded satisfaction, but it’s been a long spring. Fabian barely has the energy to go to class, much less enact vengeance on another student.
It’s a Friday, so his first class of the day is applied battle techniques. It’s a fun class, but it’s sort of a double-edged sword; it’s nice to get his blood pumping in the morning, but it also means he has to go to early solesian lit all sweaty and tired.
The halls of Aguefort have been plastered with posters upon posters for the end of the year. Months-old signs reminding seniors to order their graduation robes and yearbooks, flyers for the spring musical, and the endless wallpapering of prom posters. Buy-tickets-now posters, vote-me-for-prom-queen posters, don’t-drink-and-drive posters. It would be obscene if it weren’t so quaint.
Battle tech is alright. Not amazing, not one of his best days, but not a terrible showing. He holds his own and he even manages to sneak in some of the stratagems from the textbook, which will win him points with the teacher.
In solesian lit there’s the familiar moment of the heartbreak that comes with remembering as he walks into the classroom and realizes that Aelwyn isn’t there, she hasn’t been for a week, and he’ll be sitting alone until the school year ends. That’s the ever-infuriating thing about dating a senior. They all finished up last Friday, but Fabian and the rest of the underclassmen plebeians will still be trudging along for another week and a half. It’s a shame, too; Aelwyn actually did all the readings. It’s not like Fabian’s some know-nothing meathead, but sometimes it’s hard to truly drum up any excitement about doing homework when he could be gouging the organs out of a practice dummy.
So he slips into his usual seat and tries not to feel bummed about the fact that the desk next to him is jovially empty. It’s a beautiful day outside, the kind of day that any kid from kindergarten to college loathes to spend in a classroom.
Before Mr. Glenynn makes it to the board, the kid in front of Fabian turns around with a chagrined look on his face and asks, “can I borrow a pencil?”
Fabian doesn’t know if this kid has ever talked to him before. He’s pretty short, a goblin, and Fabian has frequently mused about how unlucky it was that one of the smallest kids in class chose to sit right in front of him, giving Mr. Glenynn a perfect view of whenever Fabian wants to doodle during lectures. Fabian wordlessly fishes around his bag. He’s only got a pen, but he hands it over anyway. “Thanks,” the kid says, and turns back around.
Class is boring as hell. Fabian didn’t finish the chapters they were assigned, so there’s not really much for him to do other than stare out the window and hope a good daydream comes to him. It’s fine, he always does well on his essays anyway.
He has his intermediate Sylvan elective before lunch, which is mind-numbing but at least gives him an opportunity to raise his hand every once in a while. He’s got an ear for languages, that’s what his mother always says.
At lunch he sits in the center of the cafeteria with the other Owlbears and their girlfriends. Usually his girlfriend would be there, but she’s most likely being hand-fed grapes while she gets her hair done.
The cafeteria lunch today is pizza, which fills the whole of the school with the smell of cooking oil, and Fabian has never been so grateful that Cathilda packs his lunch every day. It’s some kind of sandwich, hummus and carrots to dip, an apple, and two of Cathilda’s famous pumpkin cookies. It’s nothing special, but a solid looking lunch and nothing to complain about.
Everyone’s talking about prom, it seems. Fabian drifts in and out of conversations. The girlfriends talk over their boyfriends’ shoulders to discuss hair and makeup, how much support their high heels have, everything that Fabian would rather tear off his own ears than listen to. Ragh, the idiotic super-senior who somehow managed to land a date with a girl on the softball team, keeps making inane comments about wanting to get laid.
“With a teacher, maybe,” Thad, one of the linebackers, says. “Aren’t you, like, twenty?”
Fabian has study hall after lunch, which he spends in the perpetually empty staircase behind the library ignoring his homework and trying to get a sharpened pencil to stick in the perforated corkboard ceiling.
His final class of the day is swordsmanship, and then it’s back home. On a normal Friday he would have bloodrush practice until dinnertime, but coach Daybreak gave them the day off for various prom festivities. Normally he’s not that lenient, but Fabian has a hunch that he wants the night open to drink beer and enjoy an evening free of teenagers.
Fabian bikes home and jumps immediately into his second shower of the day, just to get off the stink of sweat and lunch lady Doreen’s cooking. When he returns to his room, his suit is pressed and hung up on the back of his closet door.
It’s around 3:30 and prom doesn’t start until 8. Most of the Owlbears are taking their girlfriends out for dinner, but Aelwyn didn’t seem to want to and Fabian didn’t ask, so he has nothing to do for a while.
Luckily for him, he had planned for that. Until four he glances at his homework, reads a chapter from his Sylvan textbook; Mary and Aithanrael are going to the movies. Cathilda’s going to serve him dinner at six, and until then he puts on a record and lies on his bed, trying to focus only on the music and not on prom and school and his girlfriend.
At around six thirty he starts getting ready. He has a small dinner of a chicken and vegetable wrap, then goes about the tremendous hurdle of prom attire.
The suit is easy. Fabian may not be the brightest in his class, but he knows how to put on pants and a shirt. But then there’s the question of what to do with his hair, and whether he should trim his fingernails that have gotten a little long, and what color socks match the best with blue.
He goes with black, in the end, because his shoes are black, and tries not to worry too much about all the other things. He’s not often had to try and be presentable before. Pirate parties have a… particular dress code.
He’s picking up Aelwyn at her house, so he swings by at seven fifty and rings the doorbell like Cathilda told him a gentleman should.
The door is answered by Aelwyn’s sister, who he’s only met once before, and who looks none too pleased to see him. She’s clearly dressed for a night in, though they’re in the same grade, in pajama shorts and a sweatshirt and her hair in a messy braid. So no one must have invited her to the dance.
It’s fine, she has another year. After all, not every junior has a senior to go with. Aelwyn’s sister- whose name he’s pretty sure also starts with an A, all their names sound so similar- hollers up the stairs, “Aelwyn! Your boytoy’s here!”
Well, perhaps the coming year won’t be too kind to her in the boyfriend department either.
Aelwyn comes down the stairs, practically floating, and her sister makes herself scarce as soon as she appears.
She’s wearing a blue gown, the color of a twilight sky to match Fabian’s suit, although hers is ever so slightly speckled with shimmering gems all about the hem like the first stars of the evening. The fabric may as well be tissue, given how delicately it drapes over her frame. It’s sleeveless and low-cut and perfectly complements her tall, slender stature. Her hair is long and sleek and as blonde as he’s ever seen it.
She’s a picture of allure and elegance, and just a little intimidating. Just like always.
They drive in Fabian’s father’s car, though Aelwyn makes him put the top of the convertible up so as not to ruin her hair.
The gym has been completely transformed by the party planning committee. Streamers and balloons crowd the rafters, with sparkly sheets of flowing plastic covering the scoreboard and old championship banners. A hazy purple glow smooths any other imperfections, like the lines of the basketball court still beneath their feet. Aelwyn stands at his side with her hands folded demurely in front of her, looking around grimly.
The music is terrible, even Fabian knows that much. There’s a live band who are alright, but they clearly don’t have much taste. Nonetheless, plenty of Fabian’s peers seem perfectly fine to ignore this in favor of thrashing and grinding in a way that is, quite frankly, offensive to the eye.
“Come on,” Aelwyn says, inclining her head towards the drink table. “I hear the punch bowl’s spiked.”
He follows her incredulously. “We’ve been here for thirty seconds, Wynnie. How could you have heard that?”
She shoots him a dirty look. “You know I don’t like it when you call me that. And besides, I know because I’m the one who’s going to do it.”
“Aelwyn…”
Across the hall, a fight sounds to have broken out. Fabian’s inclined to ignore it and continue trailing after his girlfriend and her mischief, but he recognizes those voices. Moreover, he recognizes the argument.
“Yeah, because you’re too busy spending all your time with her!” A gruff voice rings out. Ragh.
The voice that can only be Dayne retorts, “I’m not a freak for wanting to spend time with my girlfriend, dude. You know, some of us actually like to hang out with girls.”
Fabian turns just in time to see the punch land. Dayne goes wheeling back, clutching his face, as every Owlbear in the gym goes pushing through the crowd to pull Ragh back. “Dick!” Dayne spits, before another teammate comes and drags him away.
Aelwyn comes up behind him with two plastic cups of sickeningly red punch. “I should go see what’s happening,” Fabian says, weakly.
“Oh no, you’re not.” Aelwyn presses a cup in his hand and drains her own. “We’re dancing.”
Fabian knocks back his punch- which goes down as nauseatingly as cough medicine- and lets himself be led out into the throng. Aelwyn’s not a bad dancer, obviously, but Fabian feels buffeted on all sides by his classmates’ arms and shoulders.
Aelwyn looks gorgeous in her dress. The drink and exertion has brought a light flush to her face, and her usually perfect hair has ever-so-slightly frizzed from the humidity of hundreds of students breathing. Her dance is languid and smooth, bringing her long, lily-white arms up above her head and slowly, almost imperceptibly, twisting her thin, delicate hips.
Fabian reaches out to touch her waist. Aelwyn lets him.
Time passes strangely. All of the songs blend into one, a three-hour symphony of songs that came out when they were kids. Or perhaps it’s been half an hour. There are so many people around, Fabian feels lightheaded and overwhelmed. Someone knocks into his back, hard, and Fabian turns to see two students in a passionate embrace, completely attached at the lips. His stomach turns a little.
For a moment he considers asking Aelwyn for a breather, to step outside for some fresh air and try to calm the ill, sinking feeling that her cocktail has caused, but he quickly shoves the impulse aside. This is prom, he’s supposed to stay and drink illegally and dance with his girlfriend. God knows any other boy would jump at the chance to swoop in and dance with her as soon as he was gone.
In a few minutes, they’re supposed to announce prom king and queen. Fabian doesn’t really care about that, he already knows it’s going to be Dayne and Penelope. He voted for them, he had to.
The band puts on a slower song, not quite slow-dance material, but something a little sultrier. Aelwyn moves in towards him and he takes the opportunity to press his lips to her jaw, tasting the slight chalkiness of makeup as his mouth moves against her skin.
“Come on, Fabian,” she says, sounding slightly exasperated. And, when he moves down to her neck, “Fabian, you don’t have to kiss me.”
He pulls away. Around them, everyone’s still dancing. “Let’s just dance,” she says, coldly, and he complies as always.
He’s done something wrong, he knows, but he’s not sure what. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to kiss her here, around all their peers, despite the fact that it’s what everyone else seems to be doing.
He must look put out by the turn of events, because Aelwyn sighs and says, “it’s fine. Later, alright?”
There’s the strange queasiness again, and he has to take a deep breath to alleviate the feeling of being sick. He has to ask her what the hell she put in that punch.
The song ends and vice-principal Goldenrod, or whatever his name is, takes the stage. “It is my honor,” he announces, microphone squealing with feedback, making everyone leap to cover their ears, “to reveal your prom king and queen. This is the first vote for prom royalty we’ve had in many years, and I’m thrilled to be able to usher in a new generation of this beloved tradition-”
Fabian stops paying attention after that. Goldenrod keeps blabbering on, but Fabian’s more concerned with Aelwyn, who’s checking her lipstick in a compact he hadn’t known she had on her. So he hadn’t done something wrong with kissing her, he figures. She just wants to wait for later.
Later, when they presumably will have sex.
It feels crass to even think it. He regrets the thought immediately, although he knows it’s true. That’s the implication of all of it, all the prom bullshit and the primping and the preening and the posturing. He’s been putting it off for a while, he realizes, and a brief wave of relief washes over him when he thinks that it’ll be nice to just get it over with. Then, after the first time, everything will be easy and they’ll be able to hook up every goddamn night if they want.
There’s an uproar of applause as Dayne and Penelope mount the stage. They won, it seems. Fabian politely claps along.
“I’m going to go get some air,” Aelwyn murmurs into the crook of his jaw, and slips off into the crowd.
And maybe this is a test; maybe this is when it’s supposed to happen, so he elbows through everyone to try and follow her.
It’s for this reason that he doesn’t notice anything going on until everyone starts screaming.
All of the sudden everyone starts pushing and yelling, and Fabian almost gets thrown to the ground in the stampede. He manages to keep his ground, though, and looks up to see the biggest fucking dragon he’s ever seen in his life in the middle of his high school gymnasium.
For a moment he just stands there, brain completely gone, looking up at the enormous red dragon that’s just crushed the drink table beneath its massive foot.
Then his adventuring instincts kick in and he begins to move towards it, looking for something that could serve as a weapon, when someone grabs him from behind and hauls him toward the exit doors.
Fabian fights against his assailant, but their grip is too strong. “We’ve got to leave, man!” Ragh’s undeniable voice yells right into his ear.
“No, I have to help!”
It’s a useless struggle, as Ragh is twice as strong and three times as big as Fabian, but he feels the need to at least try anyway. They slowly move toward the doors, kicking and thrashing, as Fabian watches someone dart forward and hide behind a speaker. It’s a kid, someone small, maybe even an underclassman.
As the dragon moves into the center of the gym-turned-dance-hall, the kid rushes out from behind, holding a fucking gun and poised to shoot.
He fires off a shot at the dragon’s upper thigh, which makes it wheel around to face the poor kid. Fabian flails against Ragh’s grapple.
But he can’t get free in time to do anything, and he watches as the dragon reaches down a clawed hand and scoops the kid up, and as he rises Fabian realizes it’s the kid from his solesian lit class, the one that had asked him for a pencil this morning. The dragon regards the kid like one would look at an annoying bug, and without regret closes his hand and squeezes.
Fabian swears he can hear the crack of the kid’s spine above all the screaming and chaos, and he’s finally pulled out the exit doors just as the kid’s limp body falls to the floor with a thud, and
..
Fabian’s day goes like this.