Regrets Way was the Brunnhold nickname for this street of the Stacks—a tidy cobblestone thoroughfare lined with various restaurants and far too many establishments that served alcohol long past lower form curfew. During the day, it was well-kept and shaded with trees, but after sunset, it was more often than not overflowing with inebriated young people, the scent of ozone from irresponsible duels in the street and the slight acidic hint of far too much discretely deposited vomit something an embarrassingly significant number of upper forms considered a regular part of their schedules.
Rhys had been a regular all fucking summer.
Frederick sipped at his foamy beer like the toffin he was in the most irritating of fashions, sighing and squinting at the crowded pub full of inebriated laughter, clumsy flirting, and too many well-washed but sweaty bodies. He'd forgotten his spectacles, if only because just a few weeks before he'd had them knocked off his face and stepped on by some ersehole his blond drinking buddy had totally pissed off over nothing in particular—well, no. It was always something with the young Valentin. He knew exactly what that something was but talking about it had only gotten him a whole lot of nowhere.
Tilting his head toward the shorter, freckled boy, said taller student sniggered, "You sure's Bash's balls 're stone don't have to stay." He leaned against the bar next to the other sixth form, two overturned, empty shot glasses behind him, a third now-empty one in his long fingers once he knocked his head back and hissed a sharp inhale. Tongue roaming over his teeth, he shrugged.
"No, Rhys. The last time you drank alone—which was last clocking week, mind you—Ashlynn and I happened to leave the Badger in time to drag your erse into a damn rickshaw to keep you from throwing shit at the Collies. I'm not doing that again. You need—"
The memory of tossing a couple of rocks at strangers in familiar green Seventen uniforms made the blond laugh—a bitter, throaty sound that lingered in his chest the way a dull ache from a bruise stuck around while it faded into that ugly yellow. He felt like that ugly yellow. His jaw clenched at the way one thought drifted from another, the lanky boy eagerly drinking himself from the shallow waters of a fun buzz into the darker depths of just plain drunk, one gulp at a time:
Damen D'Arthe himself, all the way from godsbedamned Vienda. Dark and powerful like a chroven, collected and professional like some serpent in disguise. He'd cornered Rhys in his own damn dorm, flashing around those pretty polished snaps like they were some badge of honor earned through bloodshed instead of bullshit posturing and well-bred privilege. The young Valentin seriously doubted the man had risen to Captain by virtue or genuine efforts in cleaning up the Anaxi streets, and given the way Damen talked down to Brayde County-born lower class society-sucking sorry excuses for a galdor like Rhys—his words, not the boy's—the young blond knew Charity's father wasn't in command of the Patrol Division because he had a silver tongue, either.
Stay the hell away from my daughter was just about the nicest thing off that Bastian-born stopclocker's lips, but Rhys would certainly never forget the phrases directed at him like blows of a baton to his ribs: never going to be good enough, never going to have a chance of marrying, and never should have wasted his time on such a lofty, expensive, and beautifully unattainable prize as Charity D'Arthe.
Just like that, he'd lost more than just a friend.
He'd lost everything.
"—fucking shut your head 'bout what you think I need, Freddy, my boy. I need another drink." Growled the blond teenager, shifting to turn around and making sure to jostle noisy-ersed, self-righteous, and admittedly well-meaning Frederick with one bony elbow as he did so, slamming his empty shot glass upside down on the bar and waggling two fingers at the greying wick woman behind it, "One more, please!"
Fred grunted, rolling his eyes as some of his barely-touched beer sloshed over the edges of his mug and onto his well-tailored pants, "You can't drink your way through the rest of the school year, you know."
"Thanks, mom." Snorted the inebriated taller boy, bleary blue eyes greedily watching the witch turn and fill another small cup with whatever the hell he'd asked to drink in the first place (he couldn't remember but it had been expensive in that gross upper-classed sort of way and it burned with the sweet promise of forgetfulness).
The words soured on his tongue after he said them and a wave of nausea caught him off-guard, Rhys turning the rolling of his alcohol-infused innards into a loud, unsavory belch to hide the sting of naming a parent he couldn't remember or, more truthfully, never even knew. His father had never been quiet clear on that one, but that was just how Ol'Theo was—
"I'll be fine come the first. Ready for another exciting second semester! You'll see!" He raised his shot glass in a mockery of a salute, making promises he knew he couldn't keep with a wink before swallowing one more bitter, burning gulp of liquid escapism.
Ersehole fathers.
Fuck them all.