Chapter Text
The summer before Hogwarts, Sebastian drove his miniature water salamander to twelve attempts at suicide. In the next ten years, he hasn’t much improved at taking care of those he loves.
Now, seated at a table the choice of which he and Ominis only fought over once, Sebastian drums out a mimicry of his heartbeat. For all the organ strives to leap out of his chest with a desperation equal to that of Mr Spark’s, the anxiety outpaces it; it outpaces all.
It’s dull. The predictable pattern of Sebastian’s behaviour fits him like a worn-in set of pyjamas and is just as embarrassing to wear in front of others. Wake up in the middle of the night, crawl out of bed, stumble over to the kitchen, brew a cup of tea, hyperventilate by the window. He won’t make it halfway-through the chamomile before—
“Bad night?” Ominis’ voice and arms are sticky with sleep.
Sebastian only tips his head into Ominis’ chest. He peers up and meets a set of empty eyes. They are as captivating as always, and yet the bed-creases on Ominis’ cheeks and the low kitchen light transfigure their beauty into something alien, disconcerting. No, wrong. It’s not the eyes which are foreign. It’s the way they make Sebastian feel. Or, rather, the way they don’t.
When was the last night he didn’t wake Ominis up?
“You have an early start tomorrow,” Sebastians says, after an inordinate amount of time passed and Ominis’ fingers stilled in his hair, tender shifted into tentative. “You should go back to bed.”
“Come with me?”
“I’m just going to toss and turn. I’ll keep you up.”
“I don’t mind.” Ominis squeezes his shoulder; he already decided. It’s… sweet. It irks Sebastian more than he’d like to admit.
He rarely rejects the comfort; he owes Ominis enough. He loves him enough. More than enough. Of course he does.
Tonight ought to be no different. Something — be it the soft exhaustion on Ominis’ face or the sharp agitation in Sebastian’s gut — makes it so.
“Well, I mind.”
“I’ll be more comfortable with you there, knowing you’re safe.”
Comfortable? Well, he will be. Sebastian’s so on edge his skin prickles with it. His heart beats and beats and beats and scrapes against his ribcage.
“I won’t be. Comfortable, that is. I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind.”
“All right,” Ominis says, already taking the chair opposite. He covers his yawn and cranes his neck. He smiles. “Coffee, then?”
Sebastian wavers. Ominis is always such a… Ominis . Predictable, self-sacrificing. All Sebastian wants is for him to get one solid night of sleep — why is that so unattainable? The smile is sleepy and warm; it makes Sebastian feel equally safe and trapped.
“I’d rather stay here alone.”
“Are you… mad at me?”
Sebastian doesn’t roll his eyes, Ominis’ blindness notwithstanding.
The nightmares aren’t his fault. Well, scratch that, they are, but that doesn’t mean he can stop them at a whim. He tried leaving the bed quietly. He offered silencing charms. Why do they always end up here anyway? Why is he supposed to grant reassurance when it is his stomach that clenches and his breaths that are still uneven? Why can’t he just — be? Be uncomfortable or distressed or angry or upset. Alone. Ominis isn’t shy with his own boundaries - he asserts space for himself, shuts doors, and never confides anything relevant until the relevance wears down.
Still, Sebastian has to recognise Ominis’ offer as kindness, even if it wears a hypocrisy cloak. He ought to just follow him back to bed. Ominis does enough for him, does so much for him — everyday. He won’t fall asleep if Sebastian stays out here. The least he should do is reassure. It doesn’t cost anything, even if it is the tenth time this week.
All he can manage is a tight-lipped, “Can we not do this tonight?”
He dashes for the kitchen, runs away from Ominis’ kicked-puppy expression. If Ominis offers a response, he doesn’t hear it. There’s only the soft click of the door, followed by blessed silence. For all the relief it offers, it’s spoiled with guilt.
Hours later, he’s sprawled on the couch. The dawn wipes away the night-dust, lathers the rooftops with a fresh layer of golden-pink. The afghan is heavy on his shoulders, but his heart and conscience are heavier.
He wakes up on a fluffed-up pillow and with a cup of still-steaming coffee on the table. It should make him happy. At the very least, it should make him feel loved.
It does. Of course it does.
And yet, when he looks back and tries to understand why — when he shuffles through the days and ransacks every memory — he circles back to this morning, to the washed-out grey, to the sour aftertaste, to the frayed hem of the pillowcase.
This, somehow, is it. This is where it begins to end.
Sebastian’s job is demanding, disheartening, and a real fucking pain in the arse. At times, coming back home is more so.
He toes off his shoes in a relatively good mood, despite the exhaustion and the pile of paperwork he left looming on his desk. He hangs up his coat and begins to shrug off the Auror robes as he follows the alluring smell coming from the kitchen. He enters it in a great mood because Ominis is pottering around — apron tied haphazardly around his hips, spices floating in the air — and it’s not even his turn to cook.
He steps into the bath-warm comfort. Their piano is charmed to play Bach, meat sizzles on the stove, and they have a long evening ahead. Instantly, Sebastian’s at home in his own skin — it has nothing to do with undoing the lacings or getting rid of the scratchy collar.
The cheer dies out the second Ominis turns to greet him.
“Could you put your clothes where they actually belong?”
Sebastian pauses in the middle of draping the crimson robe over the chair.
“I wanted to say hello first.”
“You can say hello on your way to the wardrobe. I tripped twice on your bloody socks this morning.”
As he folds the still-damp cape and places it on the highest shelf — to the right, not to the left, seam-first, even though it’s his damn robe and Ominis never touches it anyway — Sebastian recalls that he did leave his socks on the floor this morning. He remembered to hang up the towels and to leave the shower door ajar. He even straightened out Ominis’ toiletries for him and tucked the cutlery in the drawer, and tidied up the blankets from the couch. But forget the socks he did. He slams the wardrobe door shut with a pinch of unnecessary force.
“Sorry,” he says, back at the kitchen table. “Got up too late. I was in a hurry. Why are you cooking?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
Sebastian ignores the hard set of Ominis’ jaw in favour of an appreciation of the gesture.
“That you did. What are we having?”
The metal spoon clatters in the sink; Sebastian tries his best not to flinch.
“What we were supposed to be having was shepherd's pie. What we are having doesn’t even have a name with all the wrong spices I used and all the ingredients I just couldn’t find.”
Ominis’ shepherd’s pie is Sebastian’s favourite. The spice containers still float, albeit now somewhat menacingly, in the air.
“Couldn’t you have accioed what you wanted?”
“For the hundredth time, I’m always glued to my wand. Why is it so hard to understand I need a breather sometimes?”
It is, frankly, impossible for Sebastian to understand.
“Listen,” he says, tone laced with all the calm and empathy he can muster, “I didn’t put it all back exactly the way you like only because I didn’t expect you to be cooking. You could’ve told me yesterday that you were going to and I’d have double-checked.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“So, what, you expect me to anticipate your surprises and prepare for them, too?”
Ominis sets the containers down and wipes his hands on the apron. Sebastian loathes the undertone of disappointment prevailing in Ominis’ anger. Loathes his wry smile. Loathes the small pause – a breather to choose the right words to reprimand a child.
Sebastian disappoints him with everything — from life choices to, apparently, cupboard organisation. He’s already re-scripted today’s best work story to conceal the mild privacy breach on the suspect. It’s not that he lies to Ominis — he never would. It’s just… filtering. Filtering and filtering and constant vigilance and always rushing back home to check if he put the kettle where it’s supposed to be.
“All I ask for is the slightest bit of consideration, Sebastian.”
Their whole bloody house is the slightest bit of consideration. Each of Sebastian’s mornings is one. Every bit of his routine and the very existence of it is one.
But he can’t just say that, can he? You don’t say things like that. Besides, he hardly minds it. He doesn’t want to be thanked for it — Ominis’ blindness is never a hindrance, only a burden they carry together. It’s fine. What’s not fine is all his efforts swept under the rug with one misstep.
Sebastians slides the chair back into place. “Thank you for the dinner. I’ll have it later. Going to take a walk, it’s been a long day. Don’t stay up.”
Ominis’ face falls. He opens his mouth, winces. Backtracks, as always.
“The dinner’s still… all right, I think. You don’t have to go. I’m just — it’s frustrating. Humiliating, a bit. It’s my own kitchen. And it’s not like it takes less time to put things in the wrong places. If you just stopped to think—”
“Well, I didn’t. Or I did and thought I was going to have the kitchen for the whole week, so I put things back the way I like them. Speaking of memory, you could memorise them my way, too.”
“I would if your system made any kind of sense. Think of one that does, and I will.”
“Sure. I’ll do just that. Outside. Goodnight.”
Ominis stops him in the hall again. Sebastian focuses solely on the shoelaces. Mooncalf ears, mooncalf ears, playing by the tree, criss-crossed the tree—
“I’m sorry. Don’t go. I was—”
“It’s fine. I’m not angry. I just need some fresh air.”
“Sebastian, darling—”
“Don’t call me that.”
Ominis freezes behind him. Sebastian grits his teeth on the sand grains of instant regret. His coat is winter-soaked and unpleasant to put back on. His stomach churns. His feet ache from the patrol.
“Why do you have to be like this?”
Sebastian drops his pocket watch; his gut sinks in tandem. He’s hot now, his clothes are too tight, his fringe gets in his eyes, his left shoe —
“Like what?” he snaps. Ominis clings to the door frame, eyes downcast. Hurt . All Sebastian did was put the bloody spices on the wrong shelf. “You’re the one at my throat the second I got home. And I told you I don’t like it when you call me that, especially not when we argue. Where’s your slightest bit of consideration?”
“Well, at least I didn’t go for your feelings.”
“ You didn’t?”
“I’m not going to talk to you when you raise your voice,” Ominis says. Sebastian forces himself to take a step back.
Ominis’ apron is untied, hanging askew. The front pocket stained orange from the carrots. As he walks away, Sebastian spots the wand stuffed in his back pocket.
He really does like the shepherd's pie. Even though Ominis hasn’t baked it for months now, Sebastian can still taste the potatoes, can feel the resistance of the fork when their crispy-burnt edges peel away from the ceramic, can smell the tomatoes and the lamb. The memory is not just the meal — it’s Ominis’ palm on his neck when he leans over the table, his foot on Sebastian’s calf, the laughter wrinkling his eyes.
Then again, Sebastian hasn’t earned any of that. Not lately, and not ever at all. He stares down at his shoes, matted with mud, at the carpet curling over the threshold.
It’s snowing outside. The wind bites at his cheek, slides cold and wet underneath his collar.
Until Ominis, he had no idea it was possible to grieve a lost evening with such ferocity.
They have good days. They have more good days than bad, not that Sebastian’s counting. Sebastian’s life is good, and that’s down to Ominis in all the ways that matter.
Some nights, the high of the day’s tension keeps them awake and renders the distance of the mattress uncrossable. Others, Ominis succumbs to the melancholy he now learned to keep mostly at bay. Sebastian can always tell when his cup of self-control overfills. Of course he can — they’ve known each other close to forever. Long enough that he learned some emotions through Ominis and through their friendship turned infatuation turned relationship. The tautness of Ominis’ back when he curls up, his sighs, his leg twitching restlessly — they are all familiar. They speak louder than words and without any of their deceit.
He hates himself the most when he can sense it all so clearly and yet can offer nothing to soothe it. Can dig up no energy to even try.
Then again, the failed attempts are only marginally preferable and only because extending his hand placates the vicious guilt within. He makes it worse, sometimes, even if Ominis pretends he doesn’t. He says something, aiming for comfort, and watches it misfire as Ominis goes all silent and his eyes glisten and he swallows excessively and then says it’s all fine. Or, worse yet, he reaches out and gets no response at all, even though Ominis’ breaths are far too irregular for sleep.
Ominis has nightmares, too, but his are quiet. Even if they weren’t, Sebastian doesn’t wake up easily. When he does, Ominis still has no wish to talk about them. Sebastian tries to coax it out, but he doesn’t have Ominis’ stubbornness or his gentle hands or his aptness at drawing conclusions from the slightest hints. Ominis calms with touch easier than Sebastian can, but he doesn’t open up at it. And Sebastian isn’t one to push or to strip the boundaries the way Ominis does for him. There’s a chance Ominis wants to be pushed, but Sebastian has no idea how to go about it. For all that Ominis whines and complains, he never really cries and never offers insight into his past or present worries, at least not more than strictly necessary. And Sebastian lacks the empathy for an educated guess.
It’s an unavoidable truth that Ominis would be better off with someone else. Sebastian doesn’t say it aloud — not after one fatal night when he drank way too much wine — but he believes it. For some reason, Ominis doesn’t, and that keeps them together. Most days, it’s as thick a thread as any.
Sebastian couldn’t live without him. That’s the strongest thread of them all.
They installed street lamps on the main street last year. Ominis says they are not magic, but Sebastian doesn’t quite believe him. Their light seeps through the slit in the curtains, blood through a wound. It pours and pours, never-ending and yet incapable of filling the room up.
He shouted a lot this week. Not really at Ominis — more at the universe, but loud and long enough that all the joy was snuffed out from their days. By Tuesday they were barely on speaking terms, so he cancelled their reservations for Thursday’s evening to avoid any awkwardness. He thought it implicit until he saw Ominis doing up the cuffs of his pale blue suit. Until he saw his face.
He finds it hard to apologise. He prefers to do it through actions — a note, a breakfast, a gift. It’s easier than it is to open his mouth and find insufficient words. It’s easier than finding too many, so many of them that Ominis ends up comforting him instead.
Ominis allows it. He greets all the attempts with open arms and doesn’t hold any grudges, at least not overtly. He doesn’t ask Sebastian to explain or to prove his understanding of what he did wrong, the way Anne used to. Perhaps he doesn’t want to find out that Sebastian doesn’t know.
He does know. Most of the time.
“Not sleeping?” Ominis asks. He sounds like he was.
The mattress groans, the bedsheets whisper, and Ominis’ hand finds Sebastian’s arm. It’s the first word he spoke since Thursday evening. Sebastian looks down at the moonlight-pale fingers, stark against the dark blue sleeve.
“No. Did I wake you up?”
“Mmm, maybe. Could hear you thinking.” Ominis moves closer still. Perhaps the mattress is only ever uncrossable to Sebastian. He drops his arms so Ominis can put his head on his chest. Carding his fingers through Ominis’ hair, he marvels at the way he melts, sighs, relaxes into him like that’s all he’s been waiting for. He’s jealous of it sometimes — of the way an embrace can soothe Ominis’ anger and anxiety like a cooling charm. He still can’t quite believe it’s his touch that does it.
“Do you want to go out tomorrow?” he asks.
Most of Ominis’ smile is buried in Sebastian’s nightshirt, but it’s unmistakably there.
“Sure. Do you want to say anything to me first?”
Wind rattles the shutter. Someone walks outside, heels clink on the cobblestone. A puddle splashes. Sebastian shouldn’t be bothered by being treated like a child when he behaves like one, but he is.
He must be taking too long to answer, because Ominis says, “It’s okay. I know you’re sorry. The kitchen is spotless, and I think I smelled some cleaning charms that even I don’t know.”
Is a clean kitchen a sufficient penance for making Ominis upset enough to spend half the night on the couch, fidgeting, pretending to read? He scratches behind Ominis’ ear and brings his other arm to knead at his shoulders the way he likes most. He spends way too much time hunched over the desk. Sebastian should look into getting him a more comfortable chair.
“You could just hex me whenever I do shit like this.” He shuffles down the bed to bring his face closer to Ominis’.
“I could spray your nose with water if you’d like. But only if I can do it in front of other people too.”
Sebastian smiles, dizzy with relief.
“We should get you that cat.”
“Don’t make promises you won’t keep.”
“After the next case, I’ll–”
Ominis kisses the bare slip of his collarbone. It tingles.
“Work’s been— rough,” Sebastian says. “But we closed this one, I’ll be better now.”
Ominis lifts up on his elbows and smiles like he doesn’t believe him at all. He has no reason to. There’s a patch of stubble on his neck; Sebastian rubs it with the pad of his thumb.
“I told you it wasn’t a good idea to take it.”
“It’s not like I can pick and choose just yet. And I can’t just stay away from Dark Magic forever, not in this line of work.”
Ominis ends the sigh with a kiss to the corner of Sebastian’s mouth; it eases the punch of it. Sebastian’s career is just one more thing Ominis quietly disapproves of. He probably thinks it’s like letting him into a candy store, all those Cruciatus curses laying around.
And yet, he still expects Sebastian to excel at it. He doesn’t blatantly push but Sebastian can sense the scepticism radiate off of him whenever Sebastian cuts himself some slack. Some days, he half expects Ominis to announce he cannot play before he finishes his home assignments.
Rationally, he’s likely simply anxious. It’s more than justified. Sebastian tips his head to the side and kisses him. It’s been long enough that his gut immediately sparks to life. The familiarity is staggering.
“I love you,” Ominis says, mouth soft and open on Sebastian’s chin. “Let’s forget about this. Case closed. If anything, I should thank you for the make-up sex.”
“What make-up sex?” Sebastian slides his hand under Ominis’ shirt, fingers walking up the vertebrae. “This make-up sex?”
Ominis laughs into the crook of his neck and nibbles at it. Sebastian can feel the tension seeping out of his posture, out of his pores. Eyes closed, he lets go of his own stress too.
He loves Ominis so much it hurts. Loves him when it hurts. It’ll all be all right. It has to be.
Ominis tell him that, too, after Sebastian bends him in half and takes him for the better part of the hour. The best part of the hour. The best part of this whole damn week.
“I love you so fucking much,” Sebastian pants out, wiping the sweat off of Ominis’ forehead. “You’re perfect.”
Ominis falls asleep holding his hand. Sebastian stays awake, watches the morning sun bring colour back to his cheeks.
It will be all right.
It all ends with a pleasant August evening; it ends much like one. The sundown comes late but inevitable.
They weed their tiny vegetable garden — the muggle way, because Sebastian’s latest mask is that of a man relaxed by physical work, and because Ominis never took any of Sebastian’s lessons on pretending he would rather be somewhere else.
He’s sprawled out in a patch of sun, sinking into the grass fingers-first. His left cheek and temple are tanned almost a shade darker than their right twins; a blister from the constant incline of his head towards the wand. Ever so often Sebastian peaks over his shoulder to catch him mid-laughter. Ominis looks as stunning as he does any other day — golden hair, azure eyes, boyish smile — which is why Sebastian doesn’t commit any of the details to memory. It’s just a regular Sunday.
Had he known it would be their last, he’d have tried to remember every second.
“It just seems illogical,” Ominis carries on, foot bobbing in the air. “How are wild flowers pretty and desirable but the weeds unsightly? What’s ugly about them? Aren’t they green? How can they be ugly?”
“They just— are,” Sebastian pulls at a particularly stubborn root. When it finally gives, damp soil splatters the front of his shirt. It's harder after the rain, and Sebastian loathes how the dirt clings to his palms. He shouldn't have put it off for so long. “Or maybe not. There’s just nothing special about them.”
“What if you made them into a bouquet? With a ribbon?”
“Everything’s pretty with a ribbon, is that your logic?”
Ominis snickers. “We could test that later, and not with flowers.”
“I thought I was already pretty.”
Sebastian wipes hands on his sullied trousers — they are wet at the knees and they will certainly stain — and lowers himself to the grass next to Ominis.
Today, no amount of physical work could make him forget. His latest case is too much. It hits too close to home, too close to the heart. The reasonable thing to do would be to get it reassigned, but giving up is the thing Sebastian finds the hardest to learn.
They went to see the children today. Their brittle bones, fragile smiles, and paper-thin skin are too familiar. So is the helplessness. Weeks of work, and they are nowhere near catching the man who cast the curses. Almost every day a new report flies in, but all the leads have them walking in circles.
Ominis slides his hand into Sebastian’s and toys with his fingers. The sky is that deep blue shade that has never thought of rain. A snow-white cloud shaped like nothing at all floats over their heads. Three more dissolve into the forest towards the west.
“Still nothing?” Ominis asks, squeezing his palm.
“Still nothing.”
“I was thinking… some of my brother’s books, the ones I kept, they could have something on curses. Why don’t we go up to the attic together tonight and check?”
Sebastian sits up so fast his neck cramps up.
“ Wait. ”
Ominis lifts himself up on an elbow, still clutching Sebastian’s hand.
“What? Did you think of something?”
“ Yes.” Sebastian leaps up to his feet. “Yes, I did. Ominis, you’re a genius. See, half of the problem with this man is we’ve nothing on record on him and the bloody Irish don’t want to send anything to us, but— But! He’s good, he’s brilliant, a strong wizard, it’s unlikely for him to be any sort of a hermit, he would’ve mingled, and all of his rituals are— You could have your father look at the magic-prints.”
It is genius. It has the potential to solve everything. The sacred twenty-eight are obsessed with their heritage, so if anyone could recognise the magic, it would be one of them. Failing that, they could at least eliminate some of the—
Ominis goes very, very still. When he breathes out at last, he hooks a finger into his collar and loosens it up.
“No.”
This must be what a boggart hit with a Riddikulus feels like. Ominis’ response is so off any script he could have imagined, Sebastian’s not sure what shape he’s supposed to take.
“What? Why?”
Ominis gets up on his knees and begins to tidy up the books he’s scattered around. “He won’t help you.”
“No, not me, he hates me. But he'll help you . If you explain it’s children—”
Ominis’ smile is crooked and so icy his cheeks ought to frost over. “My father doesn’t care about children.”
“Listen, you don’t know how important this is.”
“I do, trust me. I hate that you’re going through it. But— it’s not the first time it’s hard, Sebastian. It won’t be the last. I don’t want this to be your back up plan, ever. I already said I’d do something I’m not comfortable with. I’ll do anything. Not this. I can’t go back there.” Ominis’ tone carries all the weight of finality. He stands up and shakes out his robes. The grass strands he plucked off the ground come flying.
Sebastian digs his fingers into his thighs to prevent them from curling into fists. “There are children dying, and you won’t help me stop it because you’re uncomfortable?”
“This is the Crucio fiasco all over again. I thought you knew me better.”
“What?” Sebastian takes a step back, knees wobbling. The memory of the Scriptorium leaks in from the corner of his vision. “What? I’m not asking you to cast an Unforgivable, I’m asking you to see your father for five minutes.”
“It’s never five minutes with him. He’ll want favours back. He’ll think he has a hold on me again. You know this.”
Sebastian kicks the shovel. The sun and his fringe are both in his eyes; they sting.
“Calm down,” Ominis says. “Don’t do that.”
In many ways, emotions are akin to magic. For a second, time stands still. Sebastian’s throat closes up — it keeps the yell locked in. He breaks off the spell by kicking the shovel again.
Ominis scoffs. “I would go to him if it was the only way. It’s not. There are plenty of other people you can ask. I can help you look up the names.”
“It’s the easiest way. You could have it done tonight. Everything else will take time. We don’t have time.”
“You don’t understand.”
And there it is, the beloved calm down, you don’t understand. Dismissed. Like Sebastian’s a child, foolish and overreacting. Like he’s just taking his anger out on Ominis again, and Ominis The Bloody Saint needs to bear it in his infinite patience, needs to explain to Sebastian how a proper partner ought to behave. Don’t go near Dark Magic, Sebastian. Don’t drink too much, Sebastian. Apologise to me, Sebastian. No, I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t understand.
“No, you don’t understand,” Sebastian steps forward. It’s hard to choose what he hates more — that Ominis takes a step back, even though Sebastian never gave him a reason to believe he would hurt him, or that his expression remains impassive. “If he asks for a favour back, we’ll deal with it. It’s one time. Why can’t you make this easier on me? You know how much this matters.”
Ominis mouth twitches, one foot past the precipice of an outburst. Predictably, it softens down. Of course. Retaliation would be beneath him. “Are you saying the next case won’t matter? And the next? How long do I need to wait for you to put me first?”
“Get over yourself. Not everything is about you.”
“And what exactly is about me, lately?” Ominis asks the question like he would any other. He even tilts his head, all curiosity. When did he get so cold? Has he always been like this?
“Really, you want to do this now?”
“Not especially. But it’s been long coming, hasn’t it? I want to help you, but you chose this job knowing how it would affect you. Affect us. I’ll always support you. But I don’t want to pay for it everyday. And I don’t want you to just assume— You didn’t even consider how it would make me feel. You didn’t ask , you— You know this is the first thing you suggested we did together in three weeks?”
With all the clarity of the overlong evening, Sebastian realises that if he stays, something will change. Something grave. Something irreversible. He walks over to the back door and grabs the handle. It’s hot from the sun.
“Wait,” Ominis says, as soon as the hinges moan. “I know this is really about Anne, I’m sure we can—”
Sebastian slams the door back shut; he closes a different, metaphorical door, too. A shiver crawls up his arms, slimy fingers dampen the skin — he ignores it. Just like he ignores a promise they made, sealed with a kiss, that he’d walk away the second he feels too close to exploding. The promise Ominis asks him to break every single fucking time.
“No. No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to tell me it’s the Crucio fiasco, and then act like I’m a monster for getting annoyed. You don’t get to talk to me like this and put all the responsibility on me. What, do you want me to be like you? Just not give a fuck about anything? If you want me to stay so much, then stop making me want to fucking leave.”
Ominis shakes his head once, minutely, like he’s sharing a private moment with himself. He reaches for his wand. Sebastian freezes and his hand pats his own pocket on instinct — on instinct? — but Ominis just flicks his with a loose wrist. A red spark comes to life.
He never uses his wand around the house or the garden, the surroundings are familiar enough. The way he clutches to it now, disoriented, should perhaps shake Sebastian. But it’s the closest Ominis has come to showing emotion, so he’s almost glad for it.
None of that emotion transfers to Ominis’ face. His back is straight, shoulders rolled back. He’s all high-class grace.
“Fine. Then leave.”
Sebastian grabs the handle again. “For all you say you don’t care about your family, you sure behave just like a true Gaunt.”
A choked up sound comes from behind his back. Something falls on the grass with a soft thump. A book? Sebastian doesn’t turn to see it. There, that’s his triumph. A perfectly chosen collection of words, in the perfect order. They couldn’t have landed better if he’d prepared them in advance.
His eyes sting once more, and not from the sun.
“I care about my family,” Ominis says. “Anne was my family. You are. Or so I thought.”
Sebastian clenches his jaw and does the only thing he can do. He disapparates.