Work Text:
“Hey, do you want to order?”
The barista – Rose, according to the name tag – shoots Fabian a bright smile.
It wakes him from his frozen stance in front of the counter, staring idiotically. Not that it is Fabian's fault. It was just… the moment he entered, he felt it. Low and slow. A pulse crawling up from under his ribs.
That tattoo. The one that had faded to a faint trace.
Of course.
Like a curse. The damn thing remembered. Even when the place now smells like coffee, sugar and something faintly burnt. Bar no more.
With a sigh Fabian looks at the nail right next to Rose’s head. It acts like a tiny plaque, a remnant for the neon-sign that once was. And it connects Fabian with memories of youth, despair and–
"SECOND SERVE”. That is what it is now.
He squares his shoulders and orders a coffee.
“Sorry, I’m revisiting precious old memories.”
“For the repair café? Unfortunately it’s only open on Saturdays, but Ryan's actually in the back–“
Rose keeps on saying things, her perfect pink lips move with words that Fabian’s brain hears none of. It has clocked him out at the name.
Ryan. The Ryan?
Stupid. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be.
He takes a nervous sip from the cup, the moment Rose hands it over the counter. Which is a weird thing to do. Fabian is aware. Fabian is never weird. Not unless he is in company of–
“Oh, there he is. Ryan!”
Fabian doesn’t need to see the tall man. The flash of images after the first sip confirms it. This isn’t regular coffee. This is Ryan-coffee. It bares his signature.
Fabian still looks. Ryan's eyes are wide as a child’s from where he takes Fabian in. Glued to the doorframe to a backroom he's approached from. He is a statue of disbelief and good looks.
“He said he had a precious memory to repair,” Rose explains. And though she’s misunderstood Fabian she isn't wrong.
Ryan’s wavering gaze turns stare. And though Fabian iss too old to blush, his body does him the favor anyway. All the way up his spine.
It is Ryan Price.
The heavy oak chair cradled him in the warmth of decades. The sun was molten gold letting him drown in it. Grapes swelled, bloating and bursting, their insides slithering down his fingers like thin trails of blood. Sticky. A hand yanked his hair back. Sweet perfume. Suffocating. Cutting his lungs, thick in his throat. Somewhere a man roared as his botched coffee slammed into the hot pavement. The pickle shivered, trapped in its own brine, entombed in frost.
And finally–
Nothing.
Fabian gasped. His lungs seized, he clawed at the counter, frantic, searching for something real. His fingers poked wet. A sharp citrus scent sliced through the scene. A garden in Italy. Warm wind playing with emerald leaves, filtered sunlight. Soft. Golden.
He exhaled shackily, the garden scene fading into the background, blurring back into the reality of pulsating red and purple lights.
His eyes found the culprit, the empty glass in front of him on the bar. The last few drops of cursed liquid mocking him.
“I call that ‘The Journey’.”
The bartender’s voice rivaled the bass slamming into Fabian’s ribs. Thud-thud-thud.
“No thoughts, just vibes, yes? You’re welcome.” The neon sign behind the man curved in hot pink, bathing his devilish grin in a romantic glow. The name it proudly spelled out: “YES, DADDY"
“You should call that one ‘My resignment’.” Fabian rubbed his wrist, smudged with red lipstick. Somewhere along his desperate attempts of grounding he must've made a mess of himself. He cursed the bartender. Just today, when Fabian had looked immaculate. He should’ve known better than to try memory magic cocktails at a gay club-bar named “YES, DADDY”.
Or he should’ve at least waited for–
“My daddy owns place, so I’m kinda un-sackable.”
Unskilled. Unendurable. Unashamed. Unstoppable.
Fabian felt like Ilya was plenty things.
“God, I hope he disowns you.”
As expected, Ilya just laughed, ignoring his grim expression. “You’re just upset I’m not Ryan.”
The name alone made Fabian sit up straighter. His fingers found the rim of his glass, playing with it, his voice carefully casual. “Where’s he by the way? I thought this was his shift.”
Ilya shrugged, shaking another drink. Fabian didn’t care who his next victim was so long as it was not him. “Not telling you, kid. Just because you wear feelings on stomach, doesn’t mean is… help me with word? When other person feels the same?”
Heat shot into Fabian’s cheeks, some of it anger. He placed a hand over his bare middle, protectively, suddenly too aware of the deepening colors. Just from sitting and waiting for him
"Reciprocal."
“That one,” Ilya agreed.
Goddamn, Ryan. And Fabian's fucking feelings. And his fucking body. Just wanting to get f–
“Cover up, if you don’t want people knowing.”
“Who says the tattoo is about Ryan?”
Ilya winked at the guy with the freckles he’d just handed a drink to, turning back to Fabian with a tilt of his head. But his answer was cut off.
“Stop teasing him already, Rozanov.”
Fabian froze.
Ryan’s voice rumbled through him. Had he ever stood this close? Fabian couldn't remember a single time close enough that Fabian could smell just Ryan. Nothing else mixing with him. There’d always been the bar between them.
“But is so fun,” Ilya defended.
‘Thanks for cooking me dinner… in my own apartment,’ Fabian says with a lopsided grin. ‘You know that I’m no longer dependent on frozen pizzas?’
'I overdid, didn’t I?’
They both look at the kitchen counter, where his entire stash of plastic containers forms “the towers of leftovers”. ‘A little maybe.’
He’d be able to survive for a week or two on what Ryan made for him. It swells his heart a little in that dangerous way. The one that Fabian is not allowed to think about or else he'll assign meaning.
Fabian’s contribution has been distracting the cook with questions, making up for seven years of bottled-up curiosity. He tried to dose them carefully over their meetings. But today they slip. Like a waterfall they poured from his mouth. But Ryan just smiled. And then he patiently answered them all.
Ryan slowly saved Fabian’s evenings with his presence and a line of drinks. Even when it was way too loud on club night to talk. So they did their best outscream the music.
“You look better today.”
Fabian sighed, rubbing his face. “Since I started studying psychology, I’ve had a different DSM-V diagnosis every week.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow, pouring Fabian another drink. “Well I hope this week it’s not addiction.”
“Right now it’s more like depression but I could work my way there.” Fabian grinned crookedly. “Today was terrible.”
The admission was too quiet for Ryan to have possibly heard, but maybe he read it from Fabian’s face.
“Another day of saying cliché bullshit to people who know better than to fall for it.” Fabian sighed. “This is all meaningless. I’m not helpful at all. I just annoy people who don’t need more grievances.”
Ryan's expression softened. Fabian wasn't sure how much of what he was telling him Ryan even caught. But he got some impressive lip reading skills on him. And Fabian's self-pity always got him.
“It’s going to be fine. Have you tried going for a walk?”
Fabian snorted. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“This internship at the trauma ward is really getting to you.”
“Maybe I should just quit. Like the entire thing. I’ll make a shit therapist anyways.”
Ryan huffed. “Because you’re a spoiled handpicked grape. You’ve not seen shit.”
Fabian leaned closer.
“Share your wisdom with me then?”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Are you… seriously still flirting with me?”
“Is it working? Am I wearing you down yet?” Fabian braced both hands on the countertop and leaned on them. He told himself to ignore the many wet sensations that went off on the underside of his arms.
It was about time this thing worked out. Fabian had come to this bar almost every single day. And certainly not because he had a problem. Or for the drinks. But for the man who made them.
“Fabian, I could be your father. A young father, the kind that gets stared at but…”
“And I’d let you open a bar for me to fuck around,” he gestured towards Ilya, “but since that’s not the case…”
“Fabian.“
“Ryan.“
Fabian was tipsy enough to scale the bar. His body dipped in all kinds of liquids. Not that it mattered with his face so close to Ryan's. Red faced Ryan. Whose eyes wavered at him.
Oh he was considering. He was definitely considering.
“What if I have daddy issues?”
“You should sleep this off.”
“Or I could sleep with you.”
Ryan called him a taxi.
‘So this is a café now.’
Fabian glances around, taking in the warm lighting. The soft conversation. The faint scent of vanilla and espresso. All polar opposites to the bar. No more mystery liquids to wash off later tonight.
Ryan nods.
‘And you’re a baker. Who repairs broken objects with broken memories.’
Ryan smirks, tilting his head. ‘Yes.’
‘What happened to Ilya?’ He asks, seriously intrigued. He couldn't picture the man 7 years older. Something was so timelessly cheeky and boyish about him.
Ryan leans back in his chair like he is getting ready to enjoy Fabian’s reaction. ‘He got married.’
‘To a person?”
Ryan actually laughs. A sound so beautiful Fabian wishes he could bottle it up for him.
‘Somewhen settling down, he started caring more about cakes than cocktails.’
‘So his father just turned the bar into a café for him?’
Ryan snorts. ‘Oh, right. You never learnt the truth.’
‘The truth?’ Fabian echoes.
‘Ilya was dating the bar owner Shane. They got married a few years ago. That it's his father's bar was a joke. But that he almost named this place “DADDY’S AFTERGLOW” is one hundred percent true.’
Fabian leans back and lets that sink in. Ilya that cheeky bastard. A grin spreads over Fabian's face unwillingly. He missed that horrible guy.
‘He’s lucky to have you.’ And not just because Ryan prevented him from naming a cafe, a thing that no old lady would like to invite her friends to tea to. Although maybe it could've pulled a fun crowd. And then it would've gone bankrupt.
Ryan grins. ‘The man loves weddings now, he's obsessed. His own unlocked something in him. Thankfully, he rehired me just in time.’
‘They fired you?’
Ryan grimaces. ‘It’s not like I could’ve worked at the bar anymore.’
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Lip-reading is just not good enough. I quit to spare us all the sorrow.’
Fabian feels sick to his stomach. Like he’s turned a vase filled with molten guilt. Just thinking about how that must’ve felt. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s awful that I wasn't here.’
Ryan shakes his head. ‘You were living your life. Your career abroad. I was so proud. How did that go? Well, I assume?’
‘Would I have missed a chance to complain to my favorite bartender if it didn’t?’
Ryan smirks a small, almost reverent twist of his lips. ‘So?’
The lines on Fabian's stomach retrace. It is close to embarrassing. Here he is. Years later. And Ryan still does that. Still does it to him. In one brief moment, Fabian feels like he’s travelled time. And the goddamn tattoo has come back stronger than it ever was. Ripping at his skin like it wants to tear free and throw itself at the man sitting idly across from him. Smiling, unknowing what that simple expression does to Fabian’s chest.
‘I’m an IFS therapist.’ He signs slower, feeling a sudden burst of shyness. ‘I mainly work with deaf clients.’
Ryan just blinks at him. He looks adorable for a man in his 40s. And apparently is too stunned to sign a response. Fabian can’t fault him. To Ryan Fabian was just this young man who hit on him years ago. Who reluctantly, gradually accepted Ryan's friendship. To Fabian Ryan has been simply everything. All this time.
“You don’t like me, Fabian.”
Fabian turned around, surprised. Ryan was still wearing his coat. Like he was a guest in his own home.
That did not sound like a conversation Fabian wanted to be having. Whatever was going on with him, he was afraid it was far beyond liking. He tried one of his fool-proof methods and started up a conversation that he’d rather be having by holding up a book. “You’re a psychology dropout as well?”
It huffed behind him. “No.”
That was all Ryan said. Simple, one-word answer.
“And neither are you.”
“Semantics. I’m practically unsubsribed.” Fabian ran his fingers through his hair, messy from the all-nighter. He was aware that he smelled like cigarettes, that he looked like shit and that he was wearing mismatching socks. But at some point he'd decided that could not be the reason he withstood calling the one person he needed to see to at least… feel better than he was.
“Is that why you called me?”
“What’s this?”
“For someone trying to quit psychology, you’re awfully interested.”
It was hard to ignore that Ryan had a whole bookshelf stuffed with therapy books. They seemed to be organized by theme and there were many. Fabian was sure he’d read less books on his own major than Ryan had just on this shelf.
He raised an eyebrow in Ryan's direction. “What did you get these for?”
Ryan had started unbuttoning his coat. He was wearing a shirt underneath that looked all crumpled up like he'd slept in it. It was a bit short too, the hem not quite meeting the waistband of his joggers. Fabian gulped. This by far was not on theme for “dressed to seduce” but it was working on him like it regardless.
Ryan let out a small sigh and hung his coat. The muscles in his back stretched and flexed. Fabian tried not to stare too bad. They were in the man's home. He didn't want to seem intrusive.
“Social Anxiety,” Ryan said calmly. “That's how it started at least.”
Social Anxiety? But– Fabian gulped remembering how he'd first chatted with Ryan. Remembered that he'd been flushing here and there. Fabian had taken that for flirting. His cute little hiccups when speaking at times. The fact that it didn't seem to come naturally to Ryan to raise his voice over music and noise of the bar. Oh shit. And the things Fabian had said! Was he– was he Ryan Price’s biggest social anxiety nightmare?
“Then bad relationships.” Ryan's lips twitched, almost a smile. “I was just a dumb kid, who took far too long to realize the common denominator in all of them was me and my fears.”
Despite hanging the coat he was still glued to the opposite side of his living-room, by the door. As if the floor between them was made of lava. It wasn’t. Fabian toes wiggled in fluffy carpet. He'd had no problem getting past the entrance, brushing off his shoes and intruding all up into Ryan's space.
He pinked. Not sure what he should say or do next. Fabian knew what he wanted to. But…
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. “And some pretty bad savior complexes. Thought I was doing better, but you might just prove me wrong.”
Fabian grinned to himself at the joke and crouched down to look for something to tease Ryan about. “Well. You could always save me, Ryan Price. I’m ready to be your “I can fix him” anytime.”
To Fabian's surprise Ryan stepped toward him.
For a split second, he was delusional enough to believe that this – out of all the things he’d tried – was finally going to work.
But Ryan just handed him a book.
“IFS therapy?”
“They probably won’t teach it at uni. But you might like it, for your trauma ward patients.”
Fabian turned it over. “Internal Family Systems.”
“Theory is that we’re all multiples. Made up of many parts, like subpersonalities. Exiles, managers, firefighters –it’s a community within ourselves. Some parts like each other. Some hate each other.”
“Sounds complicated…,” he narrowed his eyes. “And a little… I don’t want to say… crazy?”
Ryan huffed a laugh. “Good instincts, future therapist. You shouldn’t.”
Fabian tilted his head. “So that’s your secret? There’s more of you?”
He couldn’t resist it. “Sounds like good news to me.”
Ryan rolled his pretty eyes.
“Then some Ryans must like me.”
“You can borrow the book.”
Before Fabian could do something ridiculous, like poke him with a finger, just to ensure he was not still trapped in Thatch’s nightmare concoction, Ryan swung himself over the counter.
“Your perfume smells nice.”
Ryan's glare verged on bemused. “That’s Mr. Clear with Citrus.”
He looked like he wanted to add more, but his eyes landed on the drink Ilya had mixed. “Don’t tell me you let him mix you a drink.”
“Would you feel sorry for me if I did?”
Apparently Ryan really did. Fabian got a new drink before he could blink twice.
This one lingered delightfully – beaches, golden sunlight glowing over waves, laugther. Fabian skin prickled with the sensation of salt drying against his arms. A welcome reprieve after the nasty pickle juice. Relief washed through him with the journey, finally something to wash down the empty aftertaste of Ilya’s poor magic.
“Thanks for taking care of me.” Fabian swirled his glass. “You really know how to gift a guy a good time, huh?”
Ryan ignored him.
“Anything would be good after Ilya’s drink.” Ryan sighed. “I’ve had the pleasure of tasting one or two before.”
Fabian perched forward on his stool, dangerously close to the edge. Moreso lying on the counter than sitting in his seat.
“I was a spoiled handpicked grape.” He pointed at himself. “And then I felt myself get smashed under hairy feet. Just to realize that I was left to sour – and not even for wine! Just… fucking pickle juice for a sad cucumber.”
Ryan shot him a long, unimpressed look. “Yeah. I see Ilya’s been experimenting with pickle juice again.”
“How the hell is he not fired?”
Ryan smiled. “He's fucking with you. He can mix a tolerable drink.”
Fabian groaned, pressing his head to the counter. Condensation rings. A crowd of drink in various states of being finished.
“Please don’t tell me he’s getting laid. Otherwise, my life stops making sense entirely.”
Ryan snorted.
“This bar is specifically for fucking around in peace.”
A safe space for idiots then. “Certainly makes the name more–”
“It was either this or ‘Twink & Tonic’,” Ilya chimed in. “But I wanted daddy to have the bragging rights so…”
He was remarkably unbothered by their looks.
“Here.” Fabian barely gave Ryan time to react, pressing the carved wooden object into his palm, that had cost him a whole night’s sleep.
Ryan blinked at it. “It’s a–“
“It’s not a dick, it’s a pickle.”
Ryan's eyebrows lifted. “I can tell the difference, but thanks for the clarification."
Then, to Fabian's surprise there spread a genuine smile over his face.
“You whittled me a pickle.” He sounded a bit incredulous.
“One of my finest works.”
Ryan turned it over in his hand. Fabian could tell. He liked it.
With the small talk burned through, they rest next to each other and let silence creep in. They sit on Fabian's couch. View out on the wild overgrown patio.
‘This place is very you. I like it.’
‘Thanks.’
He’s already given Ryan the tour. Which isn’t spectacular. The tiny kitchenette corner that opens to the narrow living room strip with a patio. And a bedroom. Now they just sit together, close enough their fingertips are seated on the cushions between them. Close enough to brush at the slightest movement. Ryan is taking up part of Fabian's cushion on his cramped two seater. They look at the nature outside as if they’re both content with Fabian's decision to place the couch towards the garden instead of a tv. The small patch that belongs to him and that he decided not to weed. He likes that the cement wall is barely visible in small grey patches between green and flowers. He likes how unruly and alive it feels. Like when Fabian sits here in the evening with a glass of wine and breathes, the patio breathes back. Like they are each staring and each keeping the other company.
Their silence is the kind Fabian hasn’t shared with anyone in a long time. It is the kind that comes with sitting in presence of Ryan Price. Fabian is drawing each breath like a person who isn’t aware they were dying for seven years.
‘What are those?’ He signs quietly. He has been eyeing the scribbles on Ryan's forearm ever since he rolled up his sleeves to prep the vegetables.
They look like a child drew them in a fleeting moment, but they sunk into Ryan's skin and stayed. Like the memory refused to leave. A bonding tattoo. The arm is a good place to carry family.
It causes a quiet ache to think about it. Ryan and kids. Ryan settling down.
With someone that isn’t him.
Fabian isn’t childish about it anymore. But that pull hasn’t left him. His expanding tattoo confirms what he felt around Ryan. And what he feels, still. Again. What he felt for the man he’d met seven years ago and what feels for the one he met again four months ago in a memory repair café. It feels like with him, Fabian's memories repaired too. All without Ryan having to try.
‘From my goddaughter,’ Ryan explains. ‘She drew them on my arm one day and they stayed.’
Fabian remembers. Not only has Ilya married, he's fathered children. Fabian hopes he never makes them smoothies or food.
‘And this one's from my other godson.’ Ryan points at a scribble hidden away by the elbow, it blooms alive at his voice and fades again. A new and forming bond. Ryan told Fabian how he volunteers as an attachment figure for children with mentally ill parents. Not only him, Ilya and his husband do as well.
It reminds him. How dangerous Ryan was; the more Fabian learns about him, the harder it is not to fall.
‘I count myself lucky he wasn’t old enough for the obligatory dick scribbles.’
Fabian laughs into the quiet between them. ‘If someone can pull off dick wrists it’s certainly you, Ryan.’
Ryan.
The sign for Ryan's name still is new. Feels… intimate.
It’s close to the sign for “home”, but with a soft, teasing twist.
Jokingly, Ryan's friends also call him “Spouseless Husband”. Fabian loves the nickname so much. Was relieved to hear, all these years Ryan was surrounded by many kind people who served as good friends. Just like he deserves.
When Fabian guessed, he often settled on the sign for “warmth” for Ryan. He practiced it and hoped that one day he'd get to show him how he'd call Ryan if he was allowed to.
His heart stutters for a second, when Ryan signs back his name.
‘Fabian.’ His fingers open and close in front of his chest, like a spark. ‘That name tracks, by the way.’
Fabian has shown him his name as a normal spark sign. It was Ryan's choice to add this. The placement in front of the chest. Like the spark comes from the heart itself.
Ryan made the cake.
And he said Fabian's name.
Like aloud.
As if his lips just remember how to shape that word.
He returns with a tray of more coffee.
Fabian can already imagine how good it will be. One sip and he knew it was Ryan. No one he ever met had mastered edible magic like Ryan has. Something about the way Ryan incorporates it feels so genuine, the memories so clear and real. One could imagine touching the citrus fruit and diving in the cornfields from a single spoon of cake.
Ryan sits down across from him and pulls out his phone. He is starting to tap at it when Fabian interrupts him. ‘It’s so good to see you. How are you?’
Ryan freezes with his fingers against the screen. Mid-motion. His hands hold the phone but his eyes hold Fabian's hands. Staring like they are incomprehensible.
The signs still flimmer between them. Lingering longer than spoken words could. Clear and correct. Not that Fabian has any doubt. He signs to earn a living.
‘Are you okay? Here. Have my water.’ Fabian gently passes him the glass and Ryan empties it like a shot. It makes Fabian snort.
‘I’m good.’ Ryan finally signs. ‘Happy to see you. You look great. Accomplished.’
‘Thanks.’
There is this awkward moment of still hands. Before they both move at the same time.
‘I’m sorry.’ ‘You sign fluently?’
They grin.
‘Why?’ ‘I learnt.’
They grin again.
Fabian gestures. ‘Please, you go first.’
‘You sign? And so fluently?’
Fabian swallows.
‘I… When I heard about your–’ His fingers hesitate, not following his directions. ‘I wanted to be able to talk to you. If we ever met again.’
He swallows again. Hard. Remembering that time. How it cost him everything. That Ryan wasn't... That he didn't want Fabian to. The faded organic ink on his chest moves, back from the dead with Fabian's silent admission.
Ryan studies him carefully. He looks good. Really good. Perhaps better than years ago. There is this softness about him that is no longer understated. As if Ryan embraced it. He looks peaceful. Fabian gulps down the thought that he wants to roll himself up in these soft eyes, in the firm embrace of Ryan's body. It is the same huge frame as it has been years ago, just less bulky.
‘You mean… You learned because of me?’
Fabian nods. Nervous.
‘I’m so immensely sorry,…’ He wants to call Ryan by his name. But he doesn’t know how to sign it. Swallowing the painful realization, he continues. ‘Ignoring you… especially when you went through that…’
For a moment he has to close his eyes, allowing himself to avert his gaze in admission of the pain he felt hearing of Ryan's accident.
Ryan's lips curve into a small smile. ‘I understand why you did it.’
And Fabian supposes he doesn't mean learning to sign for Ryan, but cutting off all contact after the crash.
Ryan hesitates, then quickly, as if he is embarrassed to ask again. ‘You really learned because of me?’
Fabian nods. ‘Following you always pushes me in the right direction.’
Ryan grins. ‘Apart from the times you tried my hobbies to impress me.’
Fabian snorts. ‘That’s nicely put. I wanted to undress you with them.’
Ryan huffs a laugh. A loud one. One he can likely not hear. But Fabian can. Like Ryan can't help himself. Fabian can hear it. Wants to pluck the sound from the air and store it in the nearest object. His fork, or the coffee mug. Because it is so delightful to hear.
‘I still suck at baking.’
‘I could teach you.’ An instant answer. Ryan's face catches up to his sudden eagerness too, highlighting it in a reddish glow. ‘If you’d want to.’
'Absolutely.'
Ryan sat down on the couch.
“So.” He sounded so much like a dad when he started their conversations this way. “Why did you call?”
Fabian followed, not in the mood for a serious conversation. Certainly not the one Ryan had started. Instead he leaned in.
Ryan didn’t move away. Didn’t comment.
So Fabian slid over, climbing onto his lap, straddling him.
A deep sigh left Ryan's lips like Fabian's weight had knocked the air out of him. It seemed impossible comparing their frames. Ryan's hands came to rest on his legs. So naturally. The fingertips sat close to Fabian's hip crease, stretching over half of Fabian's upper leg or more. Fabian wanted them everywhere. Wanted them pressed into his skin instead of this gentle, polite contact.
“What are you doing?”
“Why else would you invite me over?”
“Fabian, it’s 7 AM. You called me sounding upset. I came to pick you up.”
Fabian swallowed.
“Why not?” he asked. Knowing that it made him sound like a kid. “Because you’re older?”
Fabian was 23. He was not a child. And just because Ryan was 17 years older…
“Because you’re in a vulnerable position.”
“I’m in your lap,” he retorted stoically. Because Ryan was right. He was vulnerable. He was in a bad place and he knew it. But he also wanted Ryan. Wanted to be kissed. Wanted to be held. And he wanted to be fucked. Right here on Ryan's couch. Because Fabian was convinced it would help him and not make things worse.
“You’ve never struggled in your life. Suddenly you feel like everything is pointless. Sounds like a crisis to me.” Ryan's voice was gentle. His thumbs brushed over the fabric, smoothing it down Fabian's legs in careful little strokes where they could reach without him moving his hands.
Fabian held still. Didn't move. Didn’t argue. “So you think I can’t make a simple decision?”
“Simple?” Ryan exhaled on a sigh. Suddenly sounding tired. “I think you’re in limerence.”
That angered Fabian. He yanked his sweater over his head so Ryan would have to see how wrong he was. “Look at me Ryan.”
Ryan groaned. It sounded pained. But he did. His eyes slowly moved upwards from Fabian's hips, over his belly. Slowly. Scanning. Taking in every inch of exposed skin. Then travelled up to his chest.
Drawing a small breath. But looking way too composed for Fabian's liking. Too calm for someone with his hands on Fabian's hips. He watched Ryan's eyes trace his tattoo. Smoke over the stomach, stretching upwards over the ribs and meeting the other half of the tattoo that arched down from Fabian’s collarbone. That same smoke. Both slowly forming hands. Reaching for each other but never touching.
Ryan glanced up at him. “I thought you said it wasn’t about me.”
Fabian took Ryan's hand. Not to press it against his chest, though he wanted to. It hovered before his skin. So Ryan could see.
The lines over his ribs hesitated.
But then, as if they were stupid enough to believe they could lift off of Fabian's body… The drawn fingers reached for Ryan. For his hand. Like they were despairing without him. Like they were drowning and he was the lifesaving line. Pleasing with Ryan to touch them and relieve them of this pain. This painful want. The pull in Fabian's chest and the tug at his heartstrings whenever Ryan's soft voice spoke to him directly. Worst when he said his name.
“Fabian,” Ryan said. Rest of the sentence swallowed in a heavy gulp.
He stared back at Ryan with intent. “Obviously, I lied.”
Ryan's face showed no reaction, but he didn’t look away either.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like what you see.”
Ryan exhaled. “Fabian–”
“Because you can’t, right?”
Ryan remained quiet. It looked like he was sorting out his words carefully. Fabian wanted to stop him. He wanted to make him react. Now. Immediate and not well thought-out. “Because I can see that you want.”
It was a lie. Fabian saw nothing in Ryan's face. The only thing he had to grasp onto his heavy gulps.
“I’ve had the privilege of seeing many beautiful men.”
“What, so I’m not special?” Fabian smirked. As if he cared about Ryan's past lovers. “Not the prettiest?”
“Exactly.” Ryan smiled. “Shouldn’t you be, Fabian?”
I’m not that superficial. The answer dried on Fabian's tongue, as he leaned in. He wanted to spit it out. He didn't care.
His mouth hovered above Ryan's, close enough that the warmth of breaths ghosted between them.
“Don’t do this, Fabian.” Ryan voice was different, his eyes on Fabian's lips.
Fabian pulse hammered. Shit. Was it happening?
“Why not?”
Ryan jaw tightened. “Because…”
His throat bobbed. Fabian's lips brushed his.
“I would hate asking you to leave.”
This time it was Fabian who gulped. He straightened. Color rushing to his cheeks in hot embarrassment.
Ryan finally met his gaze. Steady, collected. The last of Fabian's hopes crumbled under it.
Of course, not.
Ryan wasn’t holding back, secretly wanting to.
That was all his wishful thinking.
‘I’m so happy you’re here.’
Fabian swallows the obvious answer.. That this is his apartment. His couch.
Instead he goes with, ‘I should say so. Thanks for inviting me back into your life.’
Because even though they are in Fabian’s apartment, it is Ryan that allows himself to be here. Who trusts Fabian again.
It always felt selfish to Fabian. How he once squeezed his way into Ryan's life, accidentally found a great friend, and then left. When Ryan needed him, too.
‘I didn’t get it back then, but I do now.’ Fabian fiddles with the edge of his sleeve. ‘If I didn’t cut you off… I’d never have let go of the idea of you.’
Ryan swallows.
His hands move slow and careful. ‘I know. You did the right thing. A friendship serves no purpose, if it hurts more than it mends.’
He looks at Fabian like he is searching. Then he glances away. And then he does something that has Fabian glad Ryan can't hear him. Because Fabian gasps. Because Ryan takes off his shirt. Slowly it peels from his stomach.
It takes Fabian a moment to process what he is looking at. What he is shown. Because it sits on Ryan's stomach.
A simple circle.
Unfaded. Like it has always been there.
Always.
Fabian tries to suppress a gulp.
Ryan shoves the fabric higher, it parts ways with his chest, the muscles in Ryan's arms flexing as he gathers the hem behind his neck, exposing his broad, bare chest.
Fabian blinks at the line threading from the circle on his stomach to an identical circle over his ribs.
The thread winds along skin, organically, shaped by time.
Ryan holds out his arm next, showing him a third circle in the crook of it. Another thread attaches to it, winding up the muscles on his skin, disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt and supposedly is the same thread that curls back to the circle on Ryan's chest.
He gulps, this time unable to stop, almost scared to ask.
He signs carefully. Soft. ‘Is that… for me?’
Ryan nods, his eyes never leaving Fabian's.
‘Why… you never said a thing.’
Ryan just smiles.
‘Three circles… that’s what symbolizes me to you?’ Fabian throws him a sceptical look. ‘Not sure I’m honored, given that’s also the shape of a snowman.’
Ryan laughs. Another real and out loud sound. His gaze doesn’t waver or back down though.
He knows that Fabian knows what those mean.
Circle on the arm. Friendship.
Circle on the stomach. Lust.
Circle over the heart…
And they all thread together.
All belong to him. To Fabian.
Fascinated, he reaches out. If they are his, they are his to touch. His fingers stretch and connect with the thread that winds up Ryan's arm. He remembers the elbow circle from way back, when Ryan poured him drinks at the bar.
As his fingers brushed over it, the line knotts.
Knots.
Fabian pulls back like it burned him.
Knots mean mutuality.
He thought it to be nothing but a rumor.
Ryan doesn’t seem to notice.
‘They started as separate circles,’ Ryan signs calmly. ‘First on the arm, then… I didn’t make the connection. Until the thread had woven them together.’
Fabian just stares back. Feeling retroactively dumb.
‘Of course it was difficult for me too, Fabian.’ Ryan continues to sign.
Fabian isn’t sure if he is ready to see him say it.
‘Because I wanted to. I wanted… you.’
He doesn’t catch if Ryan means wanted, past tense, or want, present. Too dizzy to focus.
The memory of that morning unfolds again. The images reshape in front of his eyes.
Fabian in Ryan's lap. Ryan's pained little groan before he’d given in. Ryan's hands on Fabian's hips. His eyes on Fabian's lips. Seeing Fabian's tattoo. The gulps. The tension. “Don’t do this, Fabian.”
Restraint.
Ryan had wanted to say something to console Fabian, not because he’d pitied him. It had been painful for both of them.
“Fabian–“
Fabian grabbed his shirt. Cleared his throat. Not looking at Ryan. Ryan calling his name so softly. Worried sounding.
He felt like a kid reacting to his first rejection. Because, technically, it was. “I should really go.”
Ryan nodded. Quiet. Looking like he wanted to say something.
That only made it worse.
“You can always come back another day.”
“Good morning, Ryan.”
“Good morning, Fabian.”
When Ryan gets up to leave, he lingers in the doorway. ‘See you soon?’
‘Very soon.’
‘How soon?’ He tilts his head with a small smile. ‘Someone should help you eat my emergency rations.’
Then Ryan holds up his keys with a smile. From the chain dangles a small wooden pickle. ‘And I like being your heroic helper,’ he adds.
Fabian smiles. ‘Goodnight, Ryan.’
‘Goodnight, Fabian.’