Chapter Text
There’s something weird about childhood — the blurriness between fantasy and truth. There’s a stupid naivety Fabian had when he was younger, before the clouds parted and he started seeing clearer. But, as a start, here is a truth:
Even as a child, Fabian Seacaster remembered loving the cold.
His mother said it was because he was born in the onset of winter; his father said it was a sign of a man ready for the harshness of the bitter oceans.
Fabian laughed at both — they lived in California, for one, where even in the winters, you might overheat with a hoodie on, and for another, Fabian can’t ever remember even having a brief affinity for the ocean. Once, when he was seven, his father and him had gone out on his sailing yacht, and Fabian had slipped on the wet deck while running around. They hadn’t actually undocked, so maybe when Fabian fell overboard, his father only laughed because he thought the water wasn’t deep enough for Fabian to get hurt. But as he tumbled down, he had hit the water hard, slicing his head against the rudder. Still, Fabian couldn’t swim yet, so he was left to try to break towards the surface as the water turned red around him.
Later, after the doctors had done their tests, his father hadn't been laughing anymore as they explained that the laceration of the rudder had cut right across his eye and he’d lose his vision almost completely on his right side. At the very least, they had the money for the therapy, the surgeries, and the ocularist. A month and a half later, he got his prosthetic eye fitted, and Fabian had put everything into learning how to swim perfectly.
Around eight years old, Fabian was brought to the ice rink with his mother for the first time. According to Cathilda, eight-year-old Fabian needed a positive outlet; the therapy was slow-going and he had become despondent both at school and at his afternoon dance classes, while his new inclination for swimming seemed more related to a sudden and worrying anger. Fabian can’t be certain, but he thinks that this was also before his mother’s eyes were perpetually misty, before her perfume became equivalent with the smell of wine.
While his mother had gone back into the storage rooms to try to find the instructor, Fabian had walked curiously and unsteadily onto the ice with his sneakers. The chill had bitten at his cheeks, and he had to hold onto the inside railing so as to not fall, but slowly, he encircled the ice. It was steady, his movement, propelled less by his own force, and more by the sleekness of the ice itself. Mesmerized, he had come to a stop against the railing, and then used his arms to push off from the wall, sliding out into the middle of the rink, his arms instinctively raised up to balance himself. His stomach had swooped at the ease at which his body had moved across the ice, but he was surprised at the lack of fear he actually felt. Instead, there was a wonder buzzing in his chest, even as his legs suddenly slid out in opposite directions and his body pitched forward and he hit the ice chest-first. His mother and the instructor had found him a moment later, his laughter bouncing around the room, as a wonderful thought crossed his mind, that this — this — was home.
He spent his first two lessons with his private instructor getting a feel for the ice, motivated by his mother’s cheers from the bleachers. It was frustrating at first, wanting to push himself and go faster, but the beginning was a lot of learning about how to balance on two blades, learning how to fall safely, learning how to get momentum and then stop. Hazily, he thinks he remembers fights between his mother and father about it, something about his potential being wasted — he’s already going to dance lessons once a week and surely, if a sport were to be taken up, we could have him play football?
But then he had his first real lesson, where he started warming up by racing around the rink. His instructor had actually just directed him to glide around slowly, but truly Fabian couldn’t help himself. And it was exhilarating, feeling the chill sweep his cheeks. He had skated around on the edge of his blades, listening to the sharp scrape of the metal on ice. There was something about the cold that made his body tighten up in the best way; he felt clearer on the ice, like his mind had only been working at half speed and he had just breathed in new air for the first time. He spun around the ice, ducking and weaving and imagining other skaters around him, going so fast that his heart had beat into his ears like a song.
He went home that night feeling reborn. Before that day, Fabian couldn’t remember being truly passionate about anything, but at dinner, he interrupted his father’s work conversation and told him all about the skating rink. His father smiled, didn’t even scold Fabian for interrupting him, even said maybe he’d come around next time Fabian had ice skating lessons. Truth. Fabian continued his lessons, excelled, and started to become one with the ice around him.
But his father is the best at finding treasure. Truth. So his father pushed him to do hockey a few months in. It’s essentially the same thing, Son; They use the same ice skates and everything. False, actually, although Fabian would never know if the lie was accidental ignorance or purposeful manipulation on his father’s part.
But despite the boating accident, Fabian still had an implicit trust of his father, so he traded out ice skating for hockey, and dropped his dancing classes to put in extra practice for the school hockey team.
And after that, it was simple: his mother lived on drinks, his father lived out on the sea, and Fabian lived out on the ice. Quickly, though, the ice stopped being home, not when the rink was shared by eleven other people, not when almost all of his focus had to be on constantly looking around so he wasn't missing movement on his right side, not when Fabian felt less like he was on solid ground and more like he was floating.
When he told his father this at thirteen years old, his father grinned. His teeth were as sharp as a shark’s. Truth. Even at seventeen years old, Fabian still knows that for certain.
“Son, let’s go out on my ship tomorrow. Just you and me.”
Truth: Fabian nodded. He did not remind his father that he had almost drowned at seven. He did not remind his father that he loved the ice, except not anymore, except maybe never again. He did not remind him that although the water was his father’s home, he did not think that the deed had been inherited. Still, Fabian will try to make it his home. It will not be. He will lie and say it is anyway.
So he contorts these falsehoods and believes them to be truths instead: Fabian loves the ocean. Fabian loves ships. Fabian loves his father.
Even still, the last one in particular always trips him up. He wonders, some nights, if he’ll ever believe in that lie for certain.
-
“Hey, are you listening to me?”
Fabian blinks back into the classroom, shifting his body right towards the sound. A girl is staring at him, slightly smudged glasses slipping down her nose, light brown hair in a high ponytail. Her school sweater is a size too big, and the school logo stitched on the right of her chest is coming apart.
One of the scholarship students.
She waves her hand impatiently then gestures to the blank worksheets in front of them. “Did you hear the professor? We’re paired up.”
“Oh. Sure.” Fabian glances over the sheet, a list of math proofs staring back at him, a mixture of numbers, letters, and weird italicized symbols that Fabian doesn’t remember reading about in the last chapter. Fuck. Calculus.
The girl rolls her eyes as she realizes that Fabian must be out of his depth. To be fair, Fabian is sure that he could figure it out. If he cared.
“You have no idea what we’re working on, do you?” Her eyes blink accusingly at him, and then turn hard with anger. Fabian wonders what he must look like to her — one of the rich athletes that has every problem brushed under the rug, every issue ironed out or paid off, money that will last him a lifetime as long as he helps win the high school hockey championship, and then rinse and repeat through college. For a second, he guesses what her day consists of. Maybe an alarm clock ringing before the sun rises, helping her siblings or parents pack for their days, a long commute, ten different high level courses that she studies her ass off for, a part-time job after school.
But the curiosity fizzles out into a hum of boredom, and Fabian merely shrugs at her in response. He probably shouldn’t mention that he doesn’t even know her name. “Nope.”
The girl scoffs. “Whatever.” She turns back to her desk, taking her paper with her, and opens her textbook to work on the problems herself.
Fabian knows he should probably feel some shame about his indifference. But he doesn’t know why he should try. If the girl was actually thinking that he was just another rich daddy’s boy, it’d only be fair to say that she was right. So he lets the minutes tick by.
Five minutes before the bell rings, he knocks the shoulder of a nearby classmate who he recognizes from the hockey team — Dean maybe? Whatever the boy’s name, when he notices his blank worksheet, Fabian just laughs and shakes his head mischievously — as if to say, who actually thinks any of this bullshit matters?
Dean lets him take a screenshot of his work, then bumps fists with him, and leaves with a, “See you at practice!” As Fabian copies down the answers, he hears shuffling from his right, and glances up to see the girl he was paired with as she stands to bring her sheet to the front. At the top of her paper — Lily Linley — scrawled in a messy cursive. Huh. The name buzzes in his head, a faint familiarity.
They went to elementary school together.
Lily stops, drawn to his gaze, and Fabian is struck by the determined expression across her face, like she’s been working herself up to say something. Her eyes flicker from his face down to his untucked shirt, then to his silver watch, then lastly, to his phone with the screenshot open. And suddenly, the angry set of her jaw softens, and whatever she might have wanted to say burns away. Instead, she mutters, “You know. I feel quite sorry for you.”
She walks away. And still, Fabian feels nothing.
-
In the afternoons and on the weekends, Fabian lives in the hockey rink. Here, he is wild, all instinct — he whizzes past his opponents, swipes hockey pucks into the back of nets, and lives on the shoulders of his school community. This year, his performance is at a personal best, and while he might hold a resentment for the sport, he’s still proud that he’s getting better year by year at compensating for his poor depth perception and lack of vision on the right side of the rink. By the end of his junior year, he’s five goals away from breaking the school record for most points scored in one season, and once again, they win the state championship, second year in a row. They end the season with one last celebratory practice, where Fabian is awarded one of the alternate captain's bands for his upcoming senior year.
Throughout the season, his father was certain he’d hear back from scouts. Junior year is the year for recruiting for college after all, but as the season ends, and coaches start leaving his calls unanswered or responding to his emails with soft dismissals, Fabian starts feeling more certain that maybe he won’t actually get any offers, even from Leviathan. His father refuses to hear his thoughts on the matter — “I won’t be stressed about it until the end of summer, so you shouldn’t be either.” — and Fabian doesn’t mention it again.
With the junior year hockey season crossed off though, Fabian spends the rest of his free time with his father, on boats or in office buildings, learning the way of the company he’s sure to inherit. He speaks the right words, he smiles in his charming way, and hears the words, “my perfect boy,” out of his father’s mouth more than the word “love” in any context.
And when he can, he sneaks out. He walks up to the hills nearby, where the houses of those even richer than him sit. There, Fabian drinks until his body is warm enough that he can’t fathom what it feels like to be in the rink, and ends the night kissing whoever is willing. In all honesty, Fabian knows it’s not really sneaking out — his father knows exactly where he is and couldn’t care less as long as Fabian doesn’t show up to school drunk. High school is for fun like that, Son. I should know; I was the exact same.
It feels like no matter what time of year, his body is perpetually feverish, either freezing in the hockey rinks or burning up next to bodies, lit up from the inside with alcohol. Sometimes, he’ll be sitting in class, and his stomach cramps up because people nearby are giggling over their college plans, and he’s overcome by a nausea that sticks with him for the rest of the day. At least once a week, he wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating from a nightmare he can’t recall, and spends the next dazed half-awake minute swallowing down bile.
It’s like his days have been overlaid with television static, like every moment of his life is a rerun of something that has already aired. Fabian is stuck in a constant drifting nothingness. He gets that from his mother he’s sure, who he hasn’t had a proper conversation with in years. It’s quite hard when her mouth is often stuck on the rim of a wine glass or the fact that she’s asleep when he walks out the door most mornings. Fabian doesn’t like talking to her much anyway, especially when their last conversation involved him walking into the kitchen looking for a sip of water, half dizzy, after a long night out. His mother had been cooking, at three in the morning, and the kitchen had been filled with something acrid. Fabian only had a moment to wonder if the terrible smell was coming from the food she was making or the cigarette she was taking drags of before his mother got spooked by his sudden entrance and the cigarette had fumbled in her fingers slightly, hitting a rack of napkins. The fire had caught at once, and the rest of the night was a mixture of the blare of their fire alarm and her crying. The crazed, silent look on his half-awake father’s face from that night crept up in his nightmares for two weeks straight after.
It doesn’t matter anyway if Fabian drifts or not. His days never change, his fair-weather friends don’t ask questions, his parents write out the remainder of his life. Existence becomes second-nature to him — he makes a joke and the people around him laugh, he flashes his cash and they smile, he mentions his father or last name and they freeze. It’s all quite simple.
It’s the summer before senior year, as the prospect of college starts becoming real, when he realizes he’s become afraid of living. Or maybe he’s not living at all. The days are all blended together, his future is all laid out in front of him. Fabian is in stellar condition, a human being in perfect form, breathing in tandem with the world’s turns, and yet he doesn’t feel special at all.
-
And then amidst the drifting, Fabian finds shore in one Alistair Ash.
Fabian meets him one Monday morning near the beginning of summer, when the air becomes consistently humid. It’s high school intern week, where a few new summer interns, bright and shiny, from neighboring high schools, walk into Celestine Industries from their neighboring high schools expecting to become something great.
It’s really not all it’s promoted to be, Fabian knows. All they really do is sit in on meetings, speak once or twice throughout their week, get a sneak peak behind the scenes. If Fabian is honest, nothing about nautical engineering or business is all that interesting, but slander like that would have his father’s eyes slitted and the threat of a backhand across the cheek, so he keeps those opinions to himself. And anyway, he only has to be here for the first day anyway.
Something about Alistair is familiar, hazel eyes hidden by shaggy brown hair, and brown skin hidden behind a suit. His father tasks him to supervise him for the day with a wink, which Fabian thinks is weird considering he doesn’t even fully work here. Actually, he’s the same age as almost all of the students here.
But then his father whispers, “Aye, be good to ol’ Alistair here, okay? Seeing that you’re old friends, it shouldn’t be too hard.” And oh, it sets in — the reasoning behind Fabian’s deja vu about Alistair. They’re childhood friends, and had spent some school afternoons together in Fabian’s backyard. Fabian can remember a woman’s face calling out for Alistair at the edge of the Seacaster fence, but anything more than her long black braid is too hazy to make out clearly. Alistair’s mother perhaps? Back then, Alistair had always been happy, in love with the world, a little too naive, hair always in his face. But other than these few faint memories, Alistair fades out of his childhood memories after eight years old.
Now, as Fabian turns back to Alistair to introduce himself, he’s truly caught in how much Alistair has grown. He’s looking around, starry eyes and in awe, with a toothy grin plastered on his face. Still happy, Fabian presumes, which is good. But he’s matured, too. His hair remains curled around his eyes, but the sides are cropped short. He’s tall too — not as tall as Fabian — but maybe bordering on 6’0. Fabian’s eyes sweep over Alistair’s frame; his ears are filled with holes missing earrings and the indents on his fingers mark hidden rings. The rules on formal wear at the company are pretty strict, but Alistair’s slightly messy tie and obviously used dress shoes make Fabian somehow endeared to him.
Weird.
“Um, are we starting now or-”
Fabian almost jumps, but keeps his composure. Alistair’s brown eyes watch Fabian surely, but his kind smile doesn’t betray whether he noticed Fabian’s lookover. There’s a slight accent to his voice too, maybe British or Australian.
“Right. Let’s take a tour.” Fabian starts walking without even waiting for Alistair. Something about this guy puts Fabian’s nerves on the fray, so the faster they can get their day over with, the better.
The first day passes without fanfare. After the tour, where Alistair asks one too many questions — Is that where your father’s office? What is it like working with the Bill Seacaster? I know I’ve met him before, but I hardly remember, you see, and also I guess he’s your father and oh- What’s it like having him as a father? — Fabian passes Alistair along to one of the higher-ups, who takes all of the interns over to sit in a meeting.
Fabian completely forgets about Alistair until Friday when his father asks him to come in for an early lunch. Afterwards, Fabian is leaving the building to head home, headphones blasting. If he turns the music up enough, the drums almost drown out the conversation he just finished having with his father. God, if Fabian has to have another talk about Leviathan, his father’s alma mater, he might actually jump off the roof of the Celestine to spite him. The thought makes Fabian’s mouth tug into an ironic smile. Morbidly funny, kind of.
He opens the front door out to the building's steps, and as he skips down the first few stairs, the bottom of his foot hits something hard and uneven, and suddenly, his legs are falling out from underneath him. His heart skips from the sudden shock. Before his mind can process what’s happening, his chest hits something sturdy, and two hands grab haphazardly at his shoulders to keep him upright.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!” The person — Alistair, panic written clear across his face — lessens his hold on Fabian, and for a moment, his palms drift and settle against Fabian’s chest as they both help each other rebalance against the railing. “That was my fault. I left my backpack laid across the stairs. Are you okay?”
“Um.” Fabian looks behind him, and ah, a black backpack with the Celestine logo stitched onto its front pocket sits across a step, the print of Fabian’s loafer across the top. He picks it up and dusts off the footprint as best as possible, and hands it back to Alistair.
Alistair winces as he surveys the damage, and as he tries to wipe out the smudge across the bag, Fabian eyes his watch. What is Alistair doing out here midday? “Aren’t you supposed to be inside?”
Alistair blinks up from the backpack, and then he looks away, jaw ticking. “It’s our lunch break.”
Fabian shoots him a smile, going for joking. “What, did you forget your lunch box at home? Classic intern mistake.”
Alistair doesn’t laugh. He fiddles with his backpack instead, setting it down against the railing gently, then sits down on one of the steps. “No, uh, I was supposed to eat out.” He pauses. “With the other interns.”
“Oh.” Fabian peers around, but it’s just them two outside on the stairs. “Are they late?”
“That’s what I thought, too.” Alistair laughs, but it comes out hard and bitter. Fabian feels a little unnerved — he didn’t know that Alistair could do something other than smile. “But they’re posting pictures of their food all over social media, so I think they just forgot I exist.”
“Oh.” Fabian thumbs the power button of his headphones, pushing them down around his neck. He takes a seat right next to Alistair, the heat of the concrete stair emanating nicely through him. “It probably wasn’t purposeful.”
Alistair rolls his eyes. “No, it probably was. They all got into this intern week through their parents, and shocker, they don’t really like the broke, orphaned boy.” He lets out a tired breath. “Fucking rich kids.”
Fabian’s eyebrows twitch upward and a moment passes as the surprise settles in his stomach. Before he can save the moment with a joke, Alistair blinks over at him with shocked eyes, hands flying out in a panic. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that, Fabian. Well, kind of, but-” He drags his hands down his face in embarrassment. “Believe me, I have loved this whole week and I’m super thankful for the opportunity from your father-”
Fabian laughs, and Alistair gives him a wounded look from between his fingers. Cute, is the first thing Fabian thinks, his chest going warm. Grabbing Alistair’s backpack, he stands and holds out his hand. “Alistair, I promise you it’s fine.” Fabian nods towards the street. “Come on, let this rich kid buy you lunch.”
Alistair’s frown twitches upwards slightly, and then, maybe realizing that Fabian isn’t screwing with him, his smile settles into something more sure. He stands, pulling a cotton blazer down from the railing that Fabian has only now noticed and drapes it across his shoulder. The light catches across his arm as he stretches into a standing position, and Fabian’s gaze catches against Alistair’s right bicep, where the lines of swirling black ink peak from under his dress shirt.
Suddenlt, Fabian is frozen for a moment on the stairs as he watches Alistair skip down the steps and turn back towards him, his expression a mixture of wonder and trust. Just a minute ago, this boy was spiteful, but his anger had easily dissolved, a candle snuffed out, simply because Fabian had offered him the bare minimum of kindness.
He’s breathless for a second; Fabian didn’t know he could have that effect on someone. Or maybe it’s the other way around — only two meetings in one week, and Alistair has gotten Fabian to genuinely want to socialize. Damnit. He’s going soft.
“Are you coming? Don’t back down now just ‘cause you’re paying.” Alistair winks, and Fabian’s heart skips a half beat. “I know you’re good for it.”
Fabian grins without even meaning to. He knows trouble, has been trouble all his life, and yet in this moment, as the sun beats down on them, Fabian knows he’s walking off the deep end into something he’s never experienced before.
-
Their relationship is built in the shade of patio umbrellas at the Boardwalk, in the blistering heat during concerts of Alistair’s favorite bands, in stolen moments in empty houses, on the sandy beaches of Butterfly Beach, in the car rides on the way to restaurants, parks, and plazas.
It’s nice, at first. They reminisce about their childhoods, and how they came to know each other in the first place: Fabian’s mother was university friends and roommates with Alistair’s mother in England, who started dating Alistair’s father in their junior year after a study abroad in Australia. After they all graduated, Fabian’s parents met in grad school, and Fabian’s father offered Alistair’s father a job at the Celestine. The four had stayed close even after Alistair was born and his parents traveled back and forth between Australia and the States. They had just bought a house for a permanent stay in California when everything fell apart. Alistair doesn’t go into detail, just alludes to a car crash, mentions the orphanage briefly, and then switches topics to his local public school. His smile is dimmer after they talk. Fabian doesn’t have him bring his childhood up again.
Mostly, though, their conversations are quite nice. Fabian’s a natural at them, after all. He knows exactly what the hockey team’s talks revolve around: sports, girls, how they flunked their latest test. When it comes to his classmates, he knows they love to hear about the latest Seacaster trip to the newest tropical beach everyone’s dying to go to, and Fabian has his parents’ friends’ advice on how to invest money so that you can triple it in the first year memorized. Fabian has learned exactly when to nod his head, chime in with a quick joke, what he should like and dislike about the world’s affairs to gain favor.
But Alistair doesn’t want to talk about any of that. Instead, he digs and pries into what Fabian genuinely loves and hates, his genuine beliefs, not the ones society favors. Fabian finds that he ends their conversations learning just as much about himself as he does Alistair.
Today, they’re sitting on a blanket Alistair brought, two boxes they each filled with a variety of their favorite snacks, deserts and bottled drinks open next to them. Music plays around them coming from Fabian’s speaker, a playlist of his favorite songs. Fabian doesn’t know exactly how this conversation started, somewhere between Fabian scrunching his nose when Alistair took out the very red — like it simply can’t be natural — corn chips and when Fabian opened a bottle of a protein shake Cathilda made.
Alistair, who oscillates between laying down and then springing up into a sitting position when he gets animated about their conversation, is currently sat cross-legged, eyeing the protein drink in distrust. “This simply can’t be your favorite drink in the world.”
“It’s really good!” Fabian’s smiling, always is around Alistair these days, which is making it hard for him to actually sound disgruntled. “Cathilda makes it for me every day.”
Alistair gives him a look of disbelief before taking a small sip, his face immediately souring. “That tastes like wet grass. Absolutely not. You drink that every day?”
“Proudly.”
Alistair blankly stares at him. “Right,” he says as he grabs a slice of apple from one of the plastic containers. “I shouldn’t expect much from someone who doesn’t have a favorite food.”
Fabian makes an affronted noise, even though they’ve run this bit multiple times. “Kippers is absolutely a real food! And besides, I told you sushi is basically my second favorite.”
“I think it’s weird that you like fish so much.”
“A-hah, so you admit you know what kippers is!”
But Alistair has already moved on, waving his hand in disinterest. He’s midway to putting one of those chips covered in horrendous red powder to his lips as the next song starts playing. It’s one of Alistair’s favorites, from a singer they saw in concert a few weeks ago that Fabian had looped for days afterward. Alistair jumps up immediately, chip forgotten on the grass, exclaiming, “I love this one!” He looks down at Fabian, his legs already twitching in excitement, and reaches his hands out. “Come on, dance!”
Fabian looks down at Alistair’s hands, fingers coated in red from the chips. The condescending, rational part of him thinks that Alistair is being unhygienic, but Fabian can’t really hear the thought over his stomach flipping in anticipation. He grabs Alistair’s hands almost instantaneously, and his heart jumps as Alistair pulls Fabian into a standing position with enough force that Fabian half-spins and then has to hop once to regain his footing. Alistair just keeps laughing, loud and bright, like this moment right here is the best thing he’s ever experienced, and starts singing along to the song. It’s rough and off-pitch as Alistair runs out of less and less breath, but he continues singing proudly, brazenly.
Fabian doesn’t sing along, too self-conscious as he sees a few people nearby look over, but he lets himself close his eyes and dance around Alistair, like a moon orbiting its planet. The sun beats down on them, and Fabian lets his happiness circulate his entire body, warmth flooding through his chest.
And here is the first moment Fabian realizes that maybe his life can be something other than riches and business, and that that life might be worth living after all.