Summary: At Felix and Jiffie's wedding, Max has more on his mind than just his Best Man speech, Virgil knowingly tries to help, and Norman is just there for the snacks. In truth, this has been in my head at least partially for a long time - I even have a paragraph or so of an early, unfinished version of this story handwritten in a notebook stashed in an upstairs desk drawer. And yet, now that Kelly (mendeia) and her wife Sarah are finally able to get legally married (thanks, Minnesota!), it seemed as good a time as any to dust off the cobwebs, as it were, and plug away towards a finished product. I know that gift 'fics in general are a little overbloated and silly, and rest assured, we ('my' Sarah and I, of course) got actual, legitimate wedding presents for them as well. In any case, this just kinda felt like the right thing to do, and I hope that Kelly (and Sarah, though I suspect it will mostly be Kelly's thing) enjoy this as a supplement to their special day. Rest assured, we are so, so happy for you guys, and thrilled to be even a small part of your now legally (!) wedded bliss. As an additional 'gift,' the lyrics actually come from "Trial By Fire," a song by Kelly's and Sarah's band, Candles Enough. What can I say? It was destiny, Mighty One.
I'm Losing Time (One Last Chance For My Heart To Mend)
Felix and Jiffie get married some eight years after high school on the beach in Hawaii in a venue where Felix's band, which has had moderate success along the coasts (which is good, because after front-manning like eight of them since being a teenager, it's nice to see that something has at last stuck), has gotten in good with the management. The atmosphere is both decadent and laid back, the guests running a similar gamut of emotion and behavior; there are a lot of groupies in attendance who are overtly jealous that Felix became, and stayed, Jiffie's man-candy, as well as a small glut of family (mostly Jiffie's, because Felix's lot tend to be wanderers without set home addresses and/or seemingly the ability to make plans to come to one of their own's nuptials) and friends (an odd mixture of musicians, musicians' admirers, musicians' management, and old school pals, from college and well before), all of whom are milling about the beach and surrounding areas, in a yet similarly odd mixture of their Sunday best (again, mostly Jiffie's relatives) and what appear to be mostly well-loved jeans and t-shirts containing variations of 'quirky' to downright offensive slogans and logos.
It's a nice shindig, but all the same, at least one guest seems to stray even further than some of the stragglers, sitting, and then pacing lightly in a gazebo off the beaten path of the soon-to-be ceremony. This particular guest, his blond hair cropped stylishly short - over the years, it's lost some of its natural curl, though in complete honesty, cutting off some of the length may well be a concentrated effort to not appear to be twelve years old for the rest of his life - might well appear agitated to any random passerby, though of course, the hiding place he has staked out for himself, ostensibly to go over the speech he's supposedly prepared to make at the reception later that day, is not immediately visible to anyone, random or otherwise.
Except for one person, of course.
"At last! I've found you, Mighty One." Virgil hasn't changed, at least physically, although perhaps he has; perhaps there's a softness to him now that wasn't always there, a kindness to his gaze even now as he regards his charge with overt affection. It wasn't even Max's idea to invite his mentor (and Guardian), though in truth, he was the one who insisted that their invitation (given to Max to pass along to them, since "that big rock with the magical sliding doorway, Mongolia" probably wouldn't get to them proper) read simply their names, as opposed to "Chicken Dude and the Big Man" ("Virg isn't going to find that as funny as you do, trust me on this, bro"), to keep the dubious peace that had settled between the ten-thousand-year-old Lemurian fowl and Max's most shit-showy friend. And yet, here they are, and if Max is honest with himself, it's not entirely a bad thing, though it does mean he's not going to be able to get away with not copping to the biggest reason he's isolated himself from the crowd today.
Still, first, pleasantries. "You always find me," the Capbearer says lightly, though said Cap has been stored today, for safe-yet-unobtrusive-keeping, in an inside pocket sewn specifically into his tuxedo jacket for that precise purpose. The corners of Virgil's beak peak upwards, and he can tell his mentor is bemused, both at his expense and simply because, well, it's kinda true. "Where's Normy?" the Mighty One queries, and watches Virgil point with his thumb (thumb-feather?) over his shoulder.
"With any luck, managing himself with at least some moderation at the h'ors d'oeuvres table."
"Heh." The chuckle is genuine - Norman is a man of few words, but also a vast love of finger foods, as it turns out, and so damage control vis-a-vis Virgil's lectures over the years can only do so much - but Max can tell when his mentor turns to face him full-on a moment later that the time for truth-telling has come. "I think I've got my speech about hammered out," the young man proffers, and Virgil nods politely, albeit obviously not planning to allow Max to shoo him away with small-talk (also, in truth, the Mighty One has never had trouble one way or another with coming up with the right words for pretty much any situation he finds himself in, good or bad, hence the basis for Felix making him Best Man in the first place). And yet: "So, Felix and Jiffie ... not all that surprising, yeah?"
"Not anymore, at least." And how: for Felix's part, he grew up pretty much how everyone expected him to, finding an outlet for the frenetic energy in his hands in music, and the sometimes seedy lifestyle that came with it. On the other hand, Jiffie had remained a model student throughout most of high school, though hanging out with the popular girls (she'd nabbed a coveted spot on the cheerleading squad as but a freshman, one of only two girls to do so that year, and had become leader of the group by the end of her junior year) had ensured that the wild streak many people had always suspected to be lurking just beneath the surface, like a chocolate bar nestled in the carved out pages of an SAT prep book, would come out to play. Likewise, Jiffie's dominant personality had meshed well with Felix's chilled demeanor, and her years of fastidious dedication to studying and obsessive personal goal-setting had helped her to beat out the competition, as it were, to his heart. They were a good fit, though naturally, Jiffie's family largely - and loudly - disapproved of their increasingly serious union (and yet, here they were today), and so even someone without ties to a spare Chamber of Destiny just lying around incidentally in his living room could have prophesied this day.
The thoughtful, polite silence that follows is brief, and then Virgil appears to square his shoulders in preparation for a potential onslaught of dissatisfaction from Max. "And how is Bea?" the fowl asks; he foregoes querying whether Max has seen her - there's no need for that, and they both know it - and is gratified, at least insomuch as he knew it was coming (because again, Chamber of Destiny in the house - well, in his house, anyways), when Max looks chagrined.
"She seems well. Didn't show up with anyone, so, you know. I told her that her hair looked nice and she said 'thank you.'"
"Well, good. I'm glad." The saga of Max and Bea is another for the record books, though if Felix and Jiffie's eventual union is notable for its ability to surprise no one with the fact that it, well, exists, Max and Bea's current relationship as (civil, given the fallout) exes is relevant for the precise opposite reason - that is, the element of surprise. The details have long since scarred over - no one unwittingly tears up when the other's name is mentioned these days, at least - though all the same, it is rare for them to show up at the same events, and since Max and Felix have always been the closer duo within their former trio, seeing her here is yet a little jarring; not to mention, it's brought up all sorts of old memories, which, once again, would probably surprise no one.
It seems as though the conversation is over, Virgil content to simply make Max aware that, of course, he knows, but the Lemurian fowl has one more trick up his sleeve. "Your speech will be wonderful, I am sure, even if your heart is not in it completely today." Max begins to protest, but Virgil simply holds up a hand (wing tip?) and he falls respectfully silent again immediately (one of several changes to their relationship throughout the years, to be sure). "And perhaps, after tradition has had its time in the spotlight," he adds, eyes twinkling kindly in the rather wizardly way that he has to him, "there may well be time for catching up with those from your past who have since gotten away."
Max sighs knowingly at his mentor, who is now gazing at him with an expression he would deny appears mischievous, though Max would insist the exact opposite to be true. "I didn't come here to try and patch things up with Bea," he gripes, though Virgil's placidly pleased expression does not change, and it's both infuriating and heartening to see.
"Of course you didn't." The fowl's eyes are yet twinkling, however, and Max allows a small smile to upturn the corners of his mouth as well. Virgil takes his leave first, allowing the young man time to collect himself anew, and then Max eventually follows, removing the small collection of notecards from the outer breast pocket of his jacket for the umpteenth time, scanning them briefly, and then, satisfied, at last, shoves them back into place, and dusts his hands off by wiping them together a couple of times. "Well, better go get Felix hitched up," he says out loud, because that, at least, has never stopped happening, and leaves the comfort and security of the lonesome gazebo for the bustle and uncertainty - and yet, perhaps, if Virgil's future-telling abilities are worth anything at all, hope, as well - of his best friend's wedding, head held high, trademark confidence no longer wavering, and, as it happens, just in time to keep the peace between Virgil and Norman when Norman appears to shove an entire glass' worth of shrimp cocktail into his mouth at once.
The wedding ceremony goes off with few hitches (though one of Jiffie's aunts does faint, ostensibly from the heat, or perhaps because one of Felix's uncles, and one of only a handful of his relatives to bother showing up at all, albeit grizzled and with a giant Harley Davidson in tow, simply scandalize her that much), and likewise, the reception, and Max's speech, are just the right amounts of quirky, quaint, and genuinely sweet. When it's over, however, and guests begin mulling around anew, it's easy enough for the young man to lose his nerve again, even though, in truth, he's been watching Bea (a vision, particularly in the long, form-fitting, cerulean dress that has accompanied her here today) all afternoon, and knows he could make a beeline (a 'Bea-line,' he would joke, if the situation hadn't made him so dour and maudlin already) towards her at any time.
And then, she simply saves him the trouble. "Hi, Max," she says politely, the first to break the silence leading up to their being close enough to speak without shouting at one another across a busy dining hall. Bea has always tucked her sleek, dark hair behind her ear when she's nervous, and she does it now, though Max, not wanting to fluster her, doesn't mention how much even that simple gesture reminds him of everything, good and bad, in the course of their shared history.
He smiles, and then, so does she. And across the room, eyeing the pair from his strategic placement, both as a physical buffer between Norman and yet more food, and also to oversee the festivities as a whole, Virgil cocks his head in silent appreciation, both for Bea's shy body language and the fact that Max is now grinning sheepishly and rubbing the back of his head, his own oft-used nervous gesture since childhood. Perhaps he, too, is horribly predictable, however, because all of the sudden, Norman's low rumbling near the side of his face breaks into his current reverie of picturing what Bea might look like, all dolled up in white and carrying a tastefully arranged bouquet. "So did you tell the Mighty One to tell Bea the thing you told me he should tell her?" Norman asks, and the poorly-strung-together sentence may have caused Virgil's extreme ire several years back, but at this point, all he can muster is a vaguely affectionate eye-roll in the Guardian's general vicinity.
"Yes, Norman," he says, and Norman grunts his assent before ducking around Virgil strategically ("make good choices, Norman! I'm serious!") and heading back to the buffet line for thirds.