[ When Fern realizes that Adrian's closing up their food containers, it feels to her like he's looking for any way to leave the conversation as quickly as possible, even though he's the one who started this in the first place. He regrets setting her off, doesn't he? He can't put up with her when she lets her emotions come to the forefront.
(So... won't there be a time when he tires of it completely, and finds somewhere else to be?)
All the talk of magical research into removing either one of their curses is set aside, this other question the more important one in Fern's eyes. She continues to fix her gaze on Adrian as he struggles to find an answer, but at least he does seem to be thinking about it.
Yet what he comes up with leaves her no less frustrated. This is more than Adrian usually opens up about any of this, but the fact that he thinks so poorly of himself that he believes it's preferable his parents assume him to be dead rather than take him as he is — it's astounding. ]
Adrian. [ Here, Fern stands from her seat, if only because it doesn't feel right to remain seated at this point. While Adrian has tried to shut down the conversation by saying his mind won't be swayed, she isn't going to simply let it go either.
She leans forward, bracing both hands on their rickety excuse for a dining table. ] I haven't met your parents, so perhaps I am speaking out of turn, but do you really think it best that they assume you're dead, rather than simply facing them again? What makes you so certain they'll assume you're a "failure," as you put it?
[ The curse, she knows, but he wanted that curse. He took it even as they begged him to withdraw. He did this to himself, and now he's using it as the reasoning for why he can't return home. Almost as if he never wanted to in the first place, though Fern cannot fathom why. ]
[ Adrian doesn't flinch when she says his name this time. Instead, he continues to gather the takeout containers with a tense, unhappy air about him. The matter is settled. The conversation is done. He doesn't know why he expected it to go any other way.
When she speaks about his parents, he does finally pause, jaw set tight, gaze downcast.
Because that's what I was even before all of this, and nothing has changed. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but his throat feels too tight to say them. Adrian swallows. Though he's just eaten, his stomach feels like a hollow pit.
After a moment, he collects two of the containers and starts to move toward their small fridge. ] Why are you so eager to return to Faerûn? What difference does it make if I don't join you?
[ There he goes. Fern watches Adrian's retreating back as she wonders why she can even still be thrown off-balance by him. She should know better, she shouldn't be surprised anymore, and yet— ]
What difference does it make? [ She echoes the words, incredulous in spite of herself. ] Is it not normal, to want to return home? [ She can't understand it, especially when surely Faerûn had been a more comfortable place — a place more worthy of the term "home" — for Adrian, than it had ever been for her?
But that's also not the entirety of what he's asking. ]
Isn't it obvious? Because you're—
[ My friend, she could say. Pack, she could say, even though she isn't certain he'd even understand, as much as she might hope he would.
But saying those words when it feels more and more like the sentiment isn't returned, not in a way where Adrian would care to even try and find a way back with Fern and the others (for their sake, if not his own), makes the words die in her throat.
He's already packed up all the food in his rush to get away from her. She barely ate anything. ]
Nevermind. I'm going out. [ She grabs her jacket from the chair and pulls it on one arm at a time. It's cowardly, she knows, to run from this — but he's doing the same, and she doesn't see them finding any sort of common ground right now. ]
[ As is usual for him, Adrian doesn't realize how foolish he's been until it's far too late. Not until she says isn't it obvious, even if she doesn't finish. It lingers there between them, more devastating than if she'd spoken it aloud.
Adrian would never hesitate to describe Fern as family; as like a sister, as his dearest friend... but there is ever a part of him that doesn't quite expect the sentiment to be returned, not because Fern is unkind, but because — she knows him. She's put up with too much from him. If she does find an opportunity to part with him, to return to their traveling companions or even the life she's accustomed to, why would she have any need of him then?
But he knows, deep down, that he's lying to himself. It's the same reason he would never abandon her. It's always been that, and it terrifies him. It's so much easier to imagine that she'll leave than it is to imagine what will happen if she stays, no matter what, to be dragged down with him.
He knows that he should try to stop her, but he doesn't.
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(So... won't there be a time when he tires of it completely, and finds somewhere else to be?)
All the talk of magical research into removing either one of their curses is set aside, this other question the more important one in Fern's eyes. She continues to fix her gaze on Adrian as he struggles to find an answer, but at least he does seem to be thinking about it.
Yet what he comes up with leaves her no less frustrated. This is more than Adrian usually opens up about any of this, but the fact that he thinks so poorly of himself that he believes it's preferable his parents assume him to be dead rather than take him as he is — it's astounding. ]
Adrian. [ Here, Fern stands from her seat, if only because it doesn't feel right to remain seated at this point. While Adrian has tried to shut down the conversation by saying his mind won't be swayed, she isn't going to simply let it go either.
She leans forward, bracing both hands on their rickety excuse for a dining table. ] I haven't met your parents, so perhaps I am speaking out of turn, but do you really think it best that they assume you're dead, rather than simply facing them again? What makes you so certain they'll assume you're a "failure," as you put it?
[ The curse, she knows, but he wanted that curse. He took it even as they begged him to withdraw. He did this to himself, and now he's using it as the reasoning for why he can't return home. Almost as if he never wanted to in the first place, though Fern cannot fathom why. ]
no subject
When she speaks about his parents, he does finally pause, jaw set tight, gaze downcast.
Because that's what I was even before all of this, and nothing has changed. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but his throat feels too tight to say them. Adrian swallows. Though he's just eaten, his stomach feels like a hollow pit.
After a moment, he collects two of the containers and starts to move toward their small fridge. ] Why are you so eager to return to Faerûn? What difference does it make if I don't join you?
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What difference does it make? [ She echoes the words, incredulous in spite of herself. ] Is it not normal, to want to return home? [ She can't understand it, especially when surely Faerûn had been a more comfortable place — a place more worthy of the term "home" — for Adrian, than it had ever been for her?
But that's also not the entirety of what he's asking. ]
Isn't it obvious? Because you're—
[ My friend, she could say. Pack, she could say, even though she isn't certain he'd even understand, as much as she might hope he would.
But saying those words when it feels more and more like the sentiment isn't returned, not in a way where Adrian would care to even try and find a way back with Fern and the others (for their sake, if not his own), makes the words die in her throat.
He's already packed up all the food in his rush to get away from her. She barely ate anything. ]
Nevermind. I'm going out. [ She grabs her jacket from the chair and pulls it on one arm at a time. It's cowardly, she knows, to run from this — but he's doing the same, and she doesn't see them finding any sort of common ground right now. ]
I'll be back later.
🎀
Adrian would never hesitate to describe Fern as family; as like a sister, as his dearest friend... but there is ever a part of him that doesn't quite expect the sentiment to be returned, not because Fern is unkind, but because — she knows him. She's put up with too much from him. If she does find an opportunity to part with him, to return to their traveling companions or even the life she's accustomed to, why would she have any need of him then?
But he knows, deep down, that he's lying to himself. It's the same reason he would never abandon her. It's always been that, and it terrifies him. It's so much easier to imagine that she'll leave than it is to imagine what will happen if she stays, no matter what, to be dragged down with him.
He knows that he should try to stop her, but he doesn't.
He watches her go without a word. ]