Author's Note: Well, hi. It's been ages since the last time I posted fanfiction here (almost a year, I believe), so bear with me if the coding messes up -- I'll fix it as soon as I can.
I want to mention one very important thing before the story: I know what is going to happen. Now, you're probably thinking "Duh, you're the author, you're SUPPOSED to know!", which is true, but I will explain why I said that. In a lot of fanfics, reviewers (bless 'em) tend to ask for this or that, and sometimes get upset when the plot proves their wishes wrong. I want to say now that while I will be flattered if you request things, it won't happen unless A) I get a marvellous idea from your request, or B) It was going to happen anyway. I don't mean to sound snotty, I just want to make sure everything is hunky-dory and clear before you skip the rest of what I have to say and go straight to the fic.
In case you want to ask, yes, there will be pairings in this. Later. Much, much later. I won't tell you (even if it may be glaringly obvious to some), but be prepared for slash, femmeslash, and het.
Lastly (I promise), you may have noticed something familiar about the story title and/or the title of this chapter (which, as it's currently a single-chaptered story, you'll have to go down a bit to see). They are titles of tracks from various videogame OSTs. Recognition will be given to whoever knows where one or the other is from.
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
of nothing in particular
001: The Nightmare Begins
"Happy birthday, Fayt." said Ryoko Leingod with a smile, squeezing her son's hand gently from across the white sheeted restaurant table.
Fayt returned the smile, decidedly ignoring the brittle, harsh voice that had been in his head since the beginning of their vacation, reminding him that just because they're with you now doesn't mean they won't get absorbed in work again, like last time -- come on, Fayt, you know they're important people. . .
And, though true, it hurt to distrust his parent's sincerity on his nineteenth birthday. They had surprised him with the plane tickets to Las Vegas a fortnight before, claiming they'd be away for a month, and that Sophia had already been invited. . .
Fayt looked into the wavering surface of his glass of water for a second, without breaking his smile, and looked back up to her, beaming. "Thanks for this, Mom."
She laughed at the comment and released his hand, giving it a pat before he withdrew it to his side of the table. "It wasn't all my idea, you know. Your father was very keen on the idea of getting away for a while, and, well. . . when better than for you?"
His father, Robert - who sat to the right of Fayt - looked up from his menu and nodded his agreement. "Yes. . . work's been far more stressful than normal lately, but that may just be because I'm getting so old. . . you know, Fayt, I may just be needing your assistance in the lab sooner than I thought!"
Soon? Fayt wondered, amazed at the words, even if they had been a simple joke.
"Of course, you'll have to be finishing college first!" his father continued, "We can't have an under trained man in the lab, even if he is a natural."
Ryoko giggled, and gave him a sharp tap on the arm. "Don't tease him like that, Robert, or he'll never believe you when he actually gets the job!"
Fayt smiled forcefully at them, and looked down at his own menu, mentally skimming over the list of Thai names and straining to read the small descriptions by the dim light. He already knew his favorite by heart - Pad Khing - but had already been told by Sophia that he had to get something new, something that 'appealed to him in a way he wouldn't have considered before', whatever that meant.
"I'll have the Tom Kha Gai," his mother announced with a tap to her menu, "but we shouldn't order until Sophia gets back. You know, it was so nice of her to offer to get the drinks, but you should have gone with her, Fayt. Who knows how long the line is?"
He sighed deeply at his mother's uncanny ability to make him feel guilty about something seemingly innocuous. Sophia probably felt the same way, and would definitely be giving him grief for his ungentlemanly behavior later. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to her."
An arm brushed past his shoulder and tall glass of Coke was suddenly placed before him.
"What's this about making up?" Sophia asked, taking a moment to lean on his upper back before carefully placing the glasses of water his parents had asked for on the table.
Ryoko smiled knowingly at her. "Fayt agreed that since you went to go get the drinks, he should do something in return."
Fayt stared at her in confusion. I did?
"That sounds like a good idea!" Sophia laughed, and poked his cheek with a very cold finger. "Fayt, why don't you go order dinner?" Her grin seemed to be reaching past her ears, a possible trick of the light.
"Uh. . . okay?" he murmured in confused agreement, wiping the transferred moisture from face with the underside of his sleeve.
His father grabbed a serviette and, upon finding a ball-point in his jacket pocket, scrawled down 'Tom Kha Gai' and 'Nad Na'. He then slid the two items across to Fayt, who obediently took them.
"That's what your mother and I want," Robert explained, "you and Sophia should be able to come up with your own by the time you get to the counter."
Sophia reached down and plucked the serviette from Fayt's hands. "Okay, Uncle Robert, I'll make sure Fayt gets the orders right!"
"Hey!' Fayt protested, trying to swivel around to grab her, "Give that back!"
"But I'm coming with you, silly!" She replied sweetly, and released the note in mid-air to flutter down to his lap.
But. . . why would she come if this is meant to be my 'apology'?
He didn't dwell on the thought, as the girl in question had - in what looked like a single movement - mercilessly grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and had proceeded to gently drag him towards the corner.
"So, how does it feel?' she asked when they were out of the parental hearing zone. His blank faced, silent response seemed to state an obvious "Huh?", so she endeavoured to continue. "You know. . . being nineteen. That's pretty cool, Fayt."
"Well, it's not like I really did anything, and I don't feel any different at all. But it'll probably take some getting used to when people ask my age." was that a sufficient answer? Or did she think that he'd had an overnight epiphany, and was suddenly a beacon of adult-like behaviour and grace? He had to stop himself from laughing at the idea.
Sophia frowned (so she had been expecting an epiphany) at what he'd replied. "Ohhh, Fayt. You just don't get it."
"I don't get what?"
"'It!'' she huffed, "You'd be able to get it if you knew what it was."
But how. . .? "Sophia, how am I supposed to get it if you don't tell me what it is?" he asked, hoping against hope that his attempt at reason would actually get the desired reply of, well, reason.
"Ugh. I shouldn't have to tell you, Fayt. If you don't know, then there's no point," she frowned, and turned stubbornly towards the short queue in front of them.
If I don't say anything, will she let it go? Sophia's scary when she get worked up about 'it's. . . I wonder if I can escape to the bathroom after ordering. . .
After letting his unknown faux pas slide for a few silent minutes, Sophia piped up again as the person in front of them stepped ahead to order. "It's really impolite to ignore a lady, Fayt. Especially one you've just semi-insulted. You could at least apologize, geez!"
Apologize? For what, not being able to read her mind when she's cranky?
"Well. . .' he mumbled to himself, trying to think of something that would sate her. "How about that book my dad gave me last month? You know, the psychology one you've always loved?"
She nodded, "Yeah, what about it?"
"You can have it? If you, uh, want to?" he offered weakly, hoping she'd accept the peace offering at face value.
With a roll of her eyes, she pushed Fayt forward, barely missing the person walking away. "Whatever, it's obvious you're just doing this to be a suck-up."
"What else am I supposed to-- oh, sorry," he had noticed, mid-sentence, the woman behind the cash register frowning at him, "we're at table 14 and we want the-" a quick glance down at the serviette "-Tom Kha Gai, Nad Na, Pad Khing and. . .?"
"And the Pad Thai." Sophia finished, still looking up at the blackboard menu as if she were about to suddenly change her mind.
The woman carefully wrote each one down and put the table number at the bottom of the small notepad page. "Thanks." She murmured busily, and Fayt got the hint that they should go back to their table.
He would have, if not for the coin game he spotted nearby, gleaming with what he could only call a 'true calling', fluorescent lights and other more logical explanations be damned.
"No, Fayt. You know that those things just suck the money right out of you until you're handing in twenty dollar bills for small change!' Sophia snapped, grabbing his wrist roughly. "Come on, don't you want to keep your money?"
At the mention of what happened every time he played coin games, he blanched (slightly) at the idea of willing to do it again. But. . . this time, he was actually going to win. . . he could feel it, like a bee caught in his spine, slowly and carefully making its way up to his brain where he'd get the ultimate, perfect strategy, and an incredible mountain of wealth. Though, knowing Sophia, she'd still call him on the ridiculousness of it, no matter how rich he could become in a mere matter of minutes.
"Come on, Sophia. . . how about just for a few minutes? We can have a few turns each."
She stared at the machine for a few moments, obviously in some sort of moral battle over the evils of 'gambling'. "Oh. . . all right, Fayt, but only for a few minutes, and I won't be the one explaining to your mom and dad why you're broke tomorrow."
He nodded, not at all surprised she'd caved so quickly. "Of course! I'm old enough to take responsibility for my own choices, aren't I?"
"'Responsibility', huh?" Sophia laughed, "You mean like how responsible you were this morning when Aunt Ryoko asked who'd eaten all the pillow mints?"
But that wasn't me! He fought back the urge to say, but common sense prevailed; if they got into an argument, then he'd never get to try the game.
As he lay in bed that night, Fayt couldn't help but dwelling on the fact that he'd lost a good amount of money - at least twenty dollars - and hadn't gained a cent.
Sophia was right, wasn't she? the little voice in his head (the one that had, irritatingly enough, not decided to act as conscience when he'd first chosen to play) said softly, in a voice not unlike that of a tragic amnesiac from a soap opera.
At least his parents hadn't been too angry. They'd agreed with his previous 'old enough to take responsibility' reasoning: a train of thought that he'd recently lost faith in, and had all but told him that if he wanted more money for the rest of the holiday, he'd have to earn it. He would've objected, but the food had arrived, and who was he to stall his own birthday dinner?
Other than that 'minor' incident, however, the entire night had gone great. In a move unexpected of them - but how was he supposed to know what they were like out of work? - his parents had given him his birthday gifts right there in the restaurant after they ate.
A beautiful gold watch from his mother ("It used to be your grandfather's," she'd said with a sad smile), a strange book of 'definitions' from his father (no explanation had been given there), and a small assortment of things from Sophia that, while strange, had obviously been given thought to; a t-shirt with a picture of a cat and paw prints, a bottle of cologne, and a set of hand-woven gift cards ("I saved over a thousand square feet of rainforest by buying that!" she'd exclaimed after noticing his 'what on earth?' expression).
He felt bad for wondering how much thought his parents had put into their own gifts, and blamed the little voice in his head (not the reasonable one, the one that had been out all that day) for making him think in such a way. It was amazing enough that they had any time for him, given the extremely taxing work they were in. One day, he would be the same, with maybe even his own son lying in bed, wondering if 'Dad' would be able to see him in the basketball semi-finals.
"Hey, Fayt?" Sophia had called early that morning (6 AM or so, according to the microwave), "My dad just called. He says that your parents have to work an extra shift today, so they're not going to be able to make it to the game."
He'd just nodded at the phone, still half awake and half wondering if he was dreaming or not. It was still understandable - his parents (along with Sophia's father Dr. Esteed) had been working on something for the past few months, and taking time off work to see a kid's basketball game would be so unprofessional. . .
That was why he respected his father so much; he was so dedicated, hardworking. Even if he couldn't be there, Fayt knew that he'd ask about it when he called that evening, asking for every detail regardless of the sheer tiredness that would be evident in his voice.
The team hadn't actually won (one of their best players, Hedge, had strained his ankle and Wilbur had taken his place, so a loss had been inevitable), but they'd given the game their all, and the other team had congratulated them for it.
But when his father didn't call that night, he didn't mind. He'd done everything he knew that would be worth retelling, and that. . . well, work was work was work, wasn't it? It had to be tough, taking a few minutes to act in a fatherly manner, then having to resume the persona of a diligent scientist.
Fayt had never resented his father. Not then, with the apparent forgetting of an important game, and not when he'd been placed second highest academically (another unattended event), not ever.
As charming a thought this is, the little dark voice mused in its little dark corner, I doubt the ceiling cares.
Even though it annoyed him, it was right in a way. Lying awake thinking about things he'd thought of before to the point of mental exhaustion would not make for being refreshed when he had to wake tomorrow. They had places to visit, things to buy (the others did, not him), landmarks to see. . .
He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to push the darkness of sleep into his mind via his eyelids. It had never really worked for him before (counting sheep and mentally reciting tongue twisters hadn't either), but it was worth trying.
"Fayt, what did you write?" asks Mrs. Weste, leaning over his desk and looking at him curiously.
"I wrote about what I'm going to be when I grow up!" he replies cheerfully, and holds up the piece of paper for her to see, incredibly proud of himself. "I wrote a lot!"
She smiles, "You sure did, Fayt! This is very good for someone your age. . . you want to work with your dad, hmm? That's a very nice thing of you to do, offering to take over for him when he retires." having finished reading, she gives the paper one of her so shiny silver stars (her take on the common gold ones).
"I'm going to be even better than him, too!"
Mrs. Weste pats him on the head. "If you set your mind to it, you can do absolutely anything, Fayt."
you will soon
He's still in the classroom, still at his desk, but Mrs. Weste is gone and so is everyone else. He feels like he's been asleep for such a long time, but the clock hasn't changed.
it's broken
He wonders if he was just allowed to stay there and sleep while everyone went out to play. He wants to play too, he wants to go and find Sophia and show her that he got a silver star and she'll be so envious, because all her class gets is the plain gold stars.
it's gone
He grasps at the table numbly, wondering who took it, maybe Mrs. Weste has it and forgot to give it back? No, she never forgets anything ever, she always beats the class in games of Memory, and even though she's so good she gives them all chocolate for trying.
it's outside
He looks to the door but doesn't ask himself why the hallway's so dark, why everyone's gone, because it's dark outside too. And why did he sleep so long, it was nice of them to let him sleep but he can't walk home in the dark. . .
it's waiting
. . .or can he? He nervously gets up and is so relieved when the floor doesn't creak like it normally does, and he tiptoes to the open door anyway: feels somehow proud of himself for making it all the way into the main hallway when he looks back into the classroom and no, it's not a classroom anymore, what is it
it's starving
nothing, nothing, it's nothing, there's nothing there except stars, lots and lots of little silver and gold stars, pricking holes in the darkness around him, each color leading in a different direction, silver to the left, gold to the right
it's beautiful
he has to go the silver way, because he doesn't want gold, because gold. . . gold, gold is
it's better
the best, the best like the other team who deserved to win, the trophy they never got is right there on the gold path but he really, really doesn't want it, he never has
it's right
he doesn't want the trophy or the stars or the other shiny, beautiful things associated with gold, because silver's just as good, it's better. And there's the most ethereally beautiful angel he's ever seen on the path of silver stars, robed and floating, six wings supporting its frail and somehow inhuman body
it's calling
it looks as if it's about to fall, to collapse from the weight of the material it wears, and he wants to help it, damn all the gold to hell, so he runs
and he runs
and he runs, runs, runs; his legs don't hurt at all and he could keep running forever, he can even hear people cheer him on, to keep running. Sophia's standing nearby, waving and yelling his name, but-
she's not cheering, she's screaming, he realises, screaming for him to stop
it's. . . it's. . . almost. . .
he can't stop yet, though, because he has such a long way to go and he doesn't want the angel to get hurt, he'll run as far as he has to until
it's found you.
He's outside now, needlessly gasping for breath on the steps, and slumps down, realising the angel is gone and so is Sophia and the stars and the gold and the silver, and he'd only barely started in the direction he truly, truly wanted, but hadn't gone far enough so they'd make him pursue gold.
The paper he'd been so proud of drifts to lie on the ground beside him, the words the same but the handwriting different, grown-up handwriting like Mrs. Weste's, but it's nowhere hear as neat as hers and
it's mine
he realises. It's his handwriting, it's his very own grown-up handwriting because that's what he is now: a grown-up, with his very own thoughts and feelings and emotions that belong to grown-ups, but his life. . .
Why is his life so. . . so blindingly gold. . .
Fayt found himself awake moments before there was a loud knocking on the door, "Fayt, hey, Fayt! Good morning!"
Sophia's voice rang through the room, barely dulled by the thick wood it had permeated. She knocked again, and he groaned, tempted to ignore her and pretend he was dead or something equally unresponsive and be allowed his peace.
"Fayt, come on!" she yelled again, "We'll miss breakfast with your mom and dad if you don't hurry!"
Can't you just go on your own? He rolled over and found himself once again staring at the ceiling, recalling the previous night's thinking and doubting and generally just depressing himself to the point of bizarre and possibly insane dreams.
"I'll be there in a second!" he yelled back, "You don't have to wait for me!"
"Okay! See you!" and she was gone, footsteps padding away from the door, finally leaving him be.
Come on then, Fayt. Get dressed. If you're late, then karma's going to make it bacon and egg day, and won't you feel like such an idiot when you get down there and everyone else has got the really crispy bits and left the soggy ones for slackers like you?
With the most energetic movement he could muster, Fayt zombied his way out of the incredibly comfortable bed and onto the much less so comfortable floor, keeping himself steady as his left foot suddenly decided it had pins and needles.
It figures. . . he thought dully, and sat back on the bed to rub the offending foot into the Land of the Living (or at least the Land of Suitable Comfort and Feeling).
Part of him sorely wished that he could just forget he had to do anything that day, and return to bed.
But he'd always been too scared of soggy bacon.