Work Text:
Fabian sits over his father in the crowded holding cell. There's a kind of anger in his throat that he's never acknowledged before; the kind his father had, that bubbled like acid in his throat and itched in his hands.
Bill Seacaster's face will bruise in the shape of Fabian's fist. Sick satisfaction spills from the cracks in his chest.
He hurts, inside and out. His father has struck him to the ground, his father has torn him apart, his father, his father, his father—
Fabian's jaw hurts from how tight he's wound. His party watches in a circle around him, unwilling to interfere. Adaine has grabbed Kristen's hand. They would fight their fathers, wouldn't they? Would Gorgug? Would Fig? Chest heaving, he stares down at his father's stupid fucking laughing face. Fig's dads loved her. Gorgug's dad loved him.
He hits Bill Seacaster again. A few teeth skitter across the concrete.
"This is not love, what you give me," he spits, knuckles white fists in Bill's lapels, "You don't love me. You love keeping your own fucking name around.
"Am I your son?" He draws his arms up and shoves Bill back down, a dark, angry part of him revelling in the thunk. He hopes his father hurts like he does, inside and out. "Or am I just a fucking tool for you to use?"
His eyes sting. He swallows thickly, refusing to let the possibility of tears show on his face. He will not cry. Fabian Aramais Seacaster does not cry.
He swings again.