Rabastan didn't go home. He couldn't face his parents. Had Bellatrix already gone to them and told them what she knew about Rabastan? Had they worked it out for themselves? So once he was out of Bellatrix and Rodolphus's manor, he just started wandering.
The skies were grey and there was a hint of rain in the air, and a thick mist that blurred everything far away. The weather suited Rabastan's mood perfectly.
Oh, how dearly he wished that he didn't feel the way he did about his brother, or about the Dark Lord. What wouldn't he have given to be a normal boy, the sort who was good for marriage?
Barely outside of Rodolphus and Bellatrix's grounds, Rabastan sank to the ground and drew his knees up to his chest. The air was chilling him, and he expected that he would make himself sick by staying out, but that didn't matter to him anymore.
He so desperately hoped that what had happened between him and Rodolphus would happen again – hoped it so desperately that it hurt. He would have given anything. But how could he force his brother into that? If Rodolphus truly didn't want to do it again, Rabastan had no control over that.
But he didn't believe that Rodolphus didn't want to do it again. He believed that Rodolphus wanted it every bit as much as he did. There had been something in Rodolphus's manner – and his actions – that absolutely convinced Rabastan that his brother desired him. He was sure that if Rodolphus hadn't, he would have pushed him away, moved away, told him no.
And he hadn't.
But that wasn't enough. Rodolphus hadn't pushed Maria away either, and he said that he didn't want her.
Maybe he had kissed Rabastan out of the same twisted sense of duty that had compelled him to go to bed with Maria. Maybe he pitied his poor little brother so much that he felt he needed to kiss him to make him feel better.
Oh, that hurt. Rabastan didn't want that. He didn't want pity – he'd had enough to last him several lifetimes.
If only he had someone who he could talk to about it…
There was Andromeda, he supposed.
Rabastan sank back so that he was lying flat on the grass, and he stared up at the sky, watching dark clouds blowing in. There was a storm coming. Good. Maybe he would freeze to death in the rain, or be struck down by lightning. That would solve everything.
He tried to imagine talking to Andromeda about what he felt for his brother. She would understand more than anyone else, he was sure – after all, she'd had an affair with her sister? And true, they had been children when it happened, which made it terribly different, but she would surely still understand what he was going through more than anyone else he knew would.
But how could he talk to her about it? He hadn't told her anything personal before. He had tried to avoid talking to her whenever he could. He had struggled to make sure that he never had to reveal anything about himself to her. Would she think him desperate if he suddenly decided that he wanted to spill his secrets to her? Would she think him mad?
Did it matter?
Maybe. Maybe he shouldn't tell her yet. Maybe he should wait a little while, until he was a bit surer about what Rodolphus felt for him. Until he was a bit surer about what he felt for Rodolphus, even – maybe now that he had done something with his brother, the desires would ebb away. Maybe he could direct his feelings towards the Dark Lord, which would still be all wrong, but better than wanting his brother, at least.
Rabastan felt fat raindrops splash down on his cheeks and he wiped them away, swallowing back tears.
And what about the Dark Lord? His affair with him wasn't very well going to stop his marriage to Andromeda; that was a certainty. And would it make it hurt even more if Rabastan had to marry her when he had the Dark Lord? He had always known that the wedding would be painful, but if he kept on with the Dark Lord…
Maybe Andromeda would understand. Maybe she wouldn't care about what he did with the Dark Lord – after all, she didn't want him. She wanted women. He could let her have her way with whatever women she wanted, and she could let him have his way with men, and surely they would both be happy, then.
Rabastan hoped, at least, that that would be how things would turn out. It was the best that he could hope for.
Lightning cracked across the sky and Rabastan sat up slowly. His spine was stiff from his position on the ground and it hurt him to struggle to his feet.
Still don't want to go home.
He hesitated, but the decision wasn't difficult. There weren't a lot of places that Rabastan felt he could go safely to.
And the Dark Lord's home was probably his best option.
His street looked even more dismal in the rain, but there was a light glowing in his window and Rabastan's heart skipped a beat. He slipped inside the building, shaking rainwater from his eyes and clothes, then started up the stairs in a hurry. He rapped quickly on the door, mentally begging the Dark Lord to let him in.
"Who is it?"
The Dark Lord's voice was sharp and edged with anger, and Rabastan swallowed before managing to whisper, "It's Rabastan Lestrange, my Lord."
There was a scuffling from inside, and the door flew open.
The Dark Lord had circles beneath his eyes and his face looked even paler and more drawn than before, if that was possible. There were books spread out on a table in the corner of the flat, and Rabastan saw a bottle of wine next to them.
"Have I interrupted something?" he asked quietly, but the Dark Lord shook his head and stepped back.
"Of course not, of course… come in…"
"You were working," Rabastan mumbled, feeling guilt choke him. He didn't want to interrupt the Dark Lord, and he was sure that he must be coming off as such a dependant little boy – he had barely even left, and already he was slinking back to see his lover…
"But something is distressing you." The Dark Lord met Rabastan's eyes. "What is it?"
"I- I don't want to bother you with –"
"But you do," he interrupted. "Of course you do. If you didn't, you wouldn't have come here. Now don't be foolish – it would be a waste of both of our time if you left now. Come in."
Rabastan entered the flat reluctantly and perched on the sofa where he and the Dark Lord had made love the night before (had it really just been one night ago? It seemed like a lifetime had passed between then and now). The Dark Lord sat at his table, closing the doors and corking the wine bottle.
"It's about your brother," he said, when Rabastan didn't say anything for a while. Rabastan looked up at him, surprised.
"How did you know that?"
"I have my ways."
Rabastan considered asking about those ways, but he didn't really want to know. He didn't want to know how deeply the Dark Lord could pry into his mind.
"I- I almost went to bed with him," Rabastan said quietly. He looked down at his hands and dragged his nails across his palms, scratching little pale lines into his flesh to distract himself from what he was saying. Saying the words out loud – and to a person who he hardly even knew, though he felt closer to the Dark Lord than he did to anyone save Rodolphus himself – made them feel far more real, and that frightened him.
"Almost."
"We didn't- we kissed," Rabastan muttered. "On his bed. And he… rubbed… rubbed on me… but we didn't… you know…"
"You and he didn't do as you and I did." There was a hint of something that might have been satisfaction in the Dark Lord's voice.
"That's right. We- we just… but I still… feel…"
"Guilty." The Dark Lord seemed to know Rabastan's thoughts better even than Rabastan himself did. "Of course. That's only natural."
"Is it?"
"It is." He reached out and put his hand gently against Rabastan's cheek. Rabastan shivered a little at his cold, feather-light touch. "When everyone you know is telling you that something's wrong, how could you help but believe them?"
"But… it is wrong…"
"Nothing is wrong unless you decide to believe it is – but when all your family is telling you that your desires are wrong, of course you'd believe them. But they don't understand, do they, Rabastan?" He edged closer, his hand still caressing Rabastan's cheek. "They don't understand what you want, what you need…"
"But you do." The words were out before Rabastan could stop himself, and the Dark Lord smiled a little at him.
"I do," he said. "I understand everything about you, Rabastan – so much more than they ever could."
"Yes… you do…"
The Dark Lord joined Rabastan on the sofa, his hand trailing down his neck and over his chest. His touch made Rabastan shiver and ache.
"Put them out of your mind, Rabastan," he said softly. "Think only of me. Can you do that?"
"O- of course, my Lord," he managed, and then the Dark Lord was undoing his shirt with gentle, skilful fingers, and Rabastan laid his own hands tentatively on his chest. He could feel the Dark Lord's heartbeat, quick and steady, beneath his touch.
It wasn't quite as arousing as being with Rodolphus, but it was close – and when the Dark Lord reached between his legs to cup and squeeze and work him in his hand, Rabastan was able to close his eyes and forget about his brother altogether.
It was so much easier to forget that there was anyone else in the world that Rabastan was supposed to care about (did care about) when the Dark Lord touched him like this.