Witching Hour

༺ 25 ༻ [REVISED VERSION]

[IF YOU HAVE ALREADY READ THE OLD VERSION, I SUGGEST BEGINNING TO REREAD FROM HALF OF THE CHAPTER]

Marty says, ‘What really matters is being there.’

Even as Mr. Linton went quiet, he retained the concentration of everyone in the hall, enough that nobody noticed as I raced down the balcony stairs. They silently watched him, perhaps anticipating his reaction —or maybe they were just too shocked. Then, they burst out laughing. Slipping into the crowd, I took a station far from the balcony, but close enough to observe the stage. Fabian's father stood as still as a statue, his flute of wine in his hands and his eyes wide. The white of his suit's jacket was badly stained black and his hair was drenched.

After some seconds of stunned silence, Mr. Linton's eyes began to wander, seemingly studying the mirthful faces of his guests. At last, they settled on me and our gazes collided. Gradually but steadily, his facial expression morphed into one of rage so intense, I felt it several feet away. I instantly knew I had been caught, and was about to get into big trouble.

Almost immediately, someone grabbed my wrist and I swerved to check who. Without a word, Fabian pulled me away from his father's gaze, through the crowd, and out of the ballroom. We proceeded into other rooms, crossing many doors and climbing many stairs. When we stopped, we were on a small roof terrace. It was empty, except for a couple of white settees and glass stools. Fabian finally let go of my hand, doubled down, and laughed.  

    "Did you see the look on his face? I swear he was about to vaporize you." He slapped his knees.

As Fabian did not seem nearly as annoyed as his father, I figured I should laugh along, but it came out as a highly awkward chuckle. He wasn't paying attention to me, however, but continued to guffaw, tears forming at the side of his eyes. After what seemed like ages, he sobered up.

    "Don't do it again, though."

Looking up at Fabian, I saw that he had turned serious, signifying that he was indeed not in support of the stunt I'd performed. It dawned on me that pulling a prank on the very host of the party perhaps hadn't been the best idea. I hadn't really thought about it (thinking things through wasn't exactly my strong point). It had made sense at the time; Fabian was hurt, his father was the cause, the bowl of punch was right there. But now, I realized there had not been any clear-cut reason in mind as I emptied the bowl on Mr. Linton's head. I'd acted purely out of instinct —an instinct to defend Fabian.

    "You and your dad aren't on good terms, are you?" I already suspected the answer, but it was a question I was burning to ask.

Fabian crashed on a couch and I sat down beside him. It could have been the dim lightening, but his eyes appeared to darken.

    "My father isn't big on love displays," He began. "but he's always been there for me. He might be harsh at times, and demanding... and so goddamn tiring!" Sniggering, he ran his palm down his face. "But in the end, it's for my good. And I guess that's what really matters."

What really matters. For some reason, the phrase resonated with me, tugging at something at the back of my mind. What really mattered was being there when needed. And then I made the connection.

Jumping from the seat, I announced. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. A friend needs me."

Fabian lifted an eyebrow. "Go where? Home?"

    "No." I shook my head. "A hotel. Royalty... Loyalty..." What was it again?

    "Monarchy Hotel?" Fabian thankfully provided.

In response, I nodded vigorously. That was it. Fabian's eyebrow raised the more. "What in the world do you want to do there?" His tone was very astonished.