deeply self indulgent senior year fabuddy durdawn buddy character study outsider pov drabble under the cut what’s up
Fabian watches Buddy down a—is that real beer? Yeah, it must be, it’s sticky golden-amber mead dripping down his chin on either side of where the cup meets his lips—
The cleric tosses the drained cup to the side, steadying himself in a fighter’s stance as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. If Fabian were paying close enough attention—and he isn’t, shut up, Kristen—he’d be able to see the burning coals in Buddy’s hazy eyes, the slight uptick on the side of his mouth as he scans the crowd. “Hey, Durden!” he yells suddenly, and with an almost cartoonish efficiency, the crowd parts to reveal the poor kid in the middle of a massive fantasy bong rip. Fabian’s eyes flick back to Buddy, and for a second, he thinks he sees a true, genuine grin of mirth—but he must imagine it, because before he can blink, his pretty pink lips turn up into a sneer.
“C’mon, Durden!” Buddy’s insisting, crackles of red light circling his fingertips as he steps closer. Fabian feels his hand go to his cutlass, on him even now. “You think I’on’t know what you been sayin’ ‘bout me behind my back? You got some’in t’say, say it to my face.” But despite the threat of magic Fabian can nearly see thrumming under Buddy’s skin, it doesn’t go beyond that; his words hang in the air, crystallizing like honey.
Fabian means to keep watching, to determine if Buddy’s going to start some real shit or if it’s all posturing, but suddenly Gorgug appears from nowhere—surprisingly quiet for someone so tall—and touches his shoulder. “Adaine’s having a vision. I think it’s important.” Fabian nods, eyes still glued to Buddy as he prowls towards Max. “Fabian!”
“Okay, okay!”
Fabian finds them later in his basement, exchanging heated barbs between wet, open-mouthed kisses. Buddy’s in Max’s lap, lavender hands running up under the hem of Buddy’s soft-looking tee and squeezing, scratching, grabbing the freckled flesh beneath, and they’re both moaning—louder than appropriate, practically performing for the rest of the stoners still taking up every square inch of Fabian’s basement, but they’re both clearly too intoxicated to care.
“Alright! Party’s over!” Fabian announces, just a touch too loud to be casual. There are groans of displeasure, but most only need one warning to start their slow ascent to the rest of the manor. Buddy and Max, however, do not.
They’re not even listening. Buddy’s moved down to Max’s neck, sucking dark purple bruises that should blend but instead only bloom on his skin, and Max is going for Buddy’s jeans, and Fabian knows that if he sees any more of the cleric’s body that he’s going to actually lose his mind—
“You two! Out!”
Buddy does look up, then, blue eyes glazed over with liquor and lust. “Oh, but, Mr. Seacaster,” he drawls, vowels long and honey-thick, “we were jus’ gettin’ started.” Fabian feels an insistent pulse between his legs, and immediately knows that this can’t be allowed to stand. This is his house, and he is the master of it, and he cannot and will not let some haughty Highcourt human playacting at being a rebel ruin his reputation of Maximum Legend.
“Don’t make me drag you out myself,” he warns, and he thanks Captain Seacaster below that Buddy’s level of inebriation means he doesn’t notice the frayed edges around his words.
“Alright, alright. Goddamn, we’re goin’,” he mutters, clambering off of Max’s lap; Fabian’s momentarily surprised at his curse, before getting the distinct feeling there’s one god in particular Buddy’s trying to damn.
Durden, to his credit, looks faded to the stars, sluggish and pliant with gorgonfern without the confidence or adrenaline of bad baby milk to back it up. He just grins dopily at Fabian, giving him a two-fingered salute as Buddy drags him up the stairs and pushes him past the host. “Great party, man!” he calls behind himself.
Buddy, though, lingers. Fabian’s got a couple inches on him, and he spends his sweet time dragging his eyes up each one. “You gotta be quicker’n that next time, Mr. Seacaster, if you wanna claim your prize.” His words are slightly slurred, but the gleam in his glazed eyes and the uptick of his lips shows the challenge for exactly what it is. “Y’all have a good night, now.” And he slips past Fabian, after Max, leaving the faint scent of campfire smoke and popcorn in his wake.
Fabian doesn’t mean to. He tells himself it’s just to make sure he doesn’t find them in another dark corner of the ship fifteen minutes from now. But he watches Buddy until he leaves, smoke and butter and something metallic on his tongue, and makes a mental note to have the Hangman bar Max Durden from the next party he throws.