Rabastan could not sleep.
He tried to rest, tried to calm himself down, but he tossed and turned for hours before finally getting out of bed and dressing as best he could without needing to turn a light on. As long as he was still in bed, he couldn't stop thinking about Rodolphus, and he hoped – perhaps for no proper reason, but hoped – that getting out and leaving would help him clear his mind of thoughts of him.
It did him no good.
Barely had he opened the door of his bedroom and stepped into the corridor outside than his stomach heaved terribly and he had to rush for the lavatory and bend over the toilet. He spat up a mouthful of acid that burned his throat, for there was nothing in his belly to throw up.
Rabastan rested his head against the wall and trembled, his whole body shaking terribly.
You were only sick because of something you ate, he tried to tell himself, but he knew full well that that was a lie. He wasn't sick on bad food.
He was sick on guilt.
Crippling, agonizing guilt that made him feel disgusting inside and out.
He sat on the lavatory floor for a long time, occasionally leaning over and coughing up another mouthful of liquid, but mostly sitting in silence and allowing his guilt to wash over him in waves.
I'm such a mess.
Rabastan wondered vaguely if other boys ever felt this way or if he was the only one – though he couldn't bear to actually put into words – even in his own mind – what feeling this way meant. That would require thinking – really thinking – about what he had done and what he felt and he couldn't stand that.
Getting hard for your brother. Lusting over a boy, and not just any boy, but your own flesh and blood…
There was a soft knock on the door and Rabastan jumped.
He couldn't face Rodolphus. He couldn't face Rodolphus knowing that he knew what Rabastan had done when the two of them were lying in bed together. Of, even if Rodolphus didn't know, Rabastan wouldn't be able to look at him without thinking that he knew, and that might drive him mad…
So Rabastan didn't make a noise. He sat perfectly still and looked fearfully at the door, mentally willing it not to open.
Of course, it did.
The handle turned and the door creaked open slowly, and Rabastan dropped his head automatically, staring at his hands.
"Rabastan, darling?"
There were not words enough in the English language to describe the incredible relief that Rabastan felt when he heard not his brother's low, serious voice, but the high, fluttering tones of his mother. He looked up, weakened with relief.
"Mother," he said, forcing himself to smile slightly. He was far from genuinely pleased to see her, but it was vastly preferable to be interrupted by her than by his brother.
"Come down for dinner, dear. Bellatrix and Andromeda are here and Andromeda's asking after you. You gave us all quite a fright earlier today." She let out a breathy laugh and Rabastan wanted to slap her. Gave you all quite a fright – as though I fainted on purpose to bother you!
"I'm not hungry," he said quietly. "Can't you just tell Andromeda that I'm fine? I've been sick, Mother," he added, blinking his eyes so that tears came to them and looking up at her with what he hoped was an expression that would incite pity.
It did no such thing.
"No," Maria said. She leaned forward and took Rabastan's arm firmly. "Come downstairs right this minute. You needn't eat much, but you have to make an appearance. My God, you're a mess." She held him firmly in place, smoothing down his hair with her hands, then dampening the corner of a towel and using it to sponge off Rabastan's face. His cheeks flamed – I'm not a child, I can do this myself, I don't need your help for God's sake! – but he let her do it.
"Good boy," Maria said. She set down the towel, then pulled on Rabastan's shirt, straightening it. "You want to be presentable, don't you?"
Not particularly.
"Mother?"
"Yes, Rabastan, my darling?" She smoothed her hand over his shoulder and she didn't even meet his eyes. "What is it?"
"Am I really going to have to marry Andromeda?"
He didn't want to have to skirt around the point – he was going to have to do enough hiding of his true intentions in asking the question without having to hide the question itself as well. Maria looked a bit surprised and regarded him with some suspicion for a moment, but then took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could see the breath straining against her too-tight bodice and wondered briefly whether it hurt her to lace herself into such confining dresses.
"Your father and I think that it would be ideal," she said quietly. "It would be an excellent marriage, Rabastan – two ties to the Black family, if Rodolphus and Bellatrix get married – and you like Andromeda, don't you, darling?"
He lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. What was he to say to that? He couldn't tell his mother that he disliked her – though he had hated her earlier that day – but he didn't want to say that he liked her either. That would be like giving them permission to carry on with the marriage and he couldn't stand that.
"It's not finalized yet, in any case," Maria told him, shaking her head a little. "So don't worry yourself over it, my darling. We won't be sure whether you and she will be married until after Bellatrix and Rodolphus are. So if you're nervous…"
"I'm not nervous," Rabastan said quickly. Angry, yes, disgusted, yes, unwilling, yes, but not nervous.
"Good," she said, quickly smoothing her hand over his hair one more time, and unless Rabastan was very much mistaken, he thought that he saw tears glistening in his mother's eyes.
Maria did not cry. She was prone to all manner of other fits and displays of emotion, but he had never seen tears in his mother's eyes, except a sort of wetness that came when she was particularly angry, usually about something that Druella had done. But she didn't look angry – she looked sad, really sad, and before Rabastan could ask her if something was wrong, she had drawn him into a tight embrace.
He made no noise, no protest, but he went stiff when she smothered him against her breast. Her hold was altogether too tight, and if Rabastan had been as strong as Rodolphus was, he would have thrown her off. He would have pushed her away and told her not to touch him like that, like a real mother would, when she and he both knew that she hadn't been any sort of mother at all to him. She had spent her whole life letting Rodolphus raise him while she went around to her parties and now she was trying to hold him, trying to be tender…
He hated her.
Rabastan had never thought that before – it hadn't even fully occurred to him that one could truly hate one's parents, but in that moment, when all he could do was choke on Maria's perfume while she clung to him, he knew that he hated his mother with everything he had in him.
She wasn't any sort of real mother in any case – she didn't know how to raise a child and she didn't care. It was no wonder that Rabastan was sick…
No, that was stupid. He couldn't blame that on his mother.
Of course he could. Anger welled in his throat – it was easier to blame Maria. It was so easy to think to himself that the only reason he had for desiring his brother was that Maria didn't care about him so Rodolphus had always been the only person he was close to and some sick, disgusting part of his mind had confused the love that he ought to feel for his only caretaker with the love that he ought to feel for a woman…
"I love you, my little boy," Maria whispered, and Rabastan actually had to clench one hand into a fist to stop himself from shoving her away. My little boy indeed – did she really think him such a child? Did she really think that he was still young enough to call my little boy and that he wouldn't mind?
"I love you too, Mother," Rabastan said quietly, trying to keep derision out of his voice.
She broke away and gave him a watery smile before extending one hand.
"Come down," she said quietly. "They'll be waiting for us."
Rabastan looked at her hand for a moment, then brushed past her without taking it, heading downstairs.
He heard her sigh, and when he glanced back, she still had her hand outstretched.