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Ominis had been blind since birth, and after twenty-three years in this world, he was good at it. Better than most people expected. He navigated with his canes, his sharp hearing, and the array of accessibility tools on his phone that could read, describe, and locate almost anything for him. He knew how to count steps, map spaces in his head, and tell the difference between marble and linoleum by sound alone.
But of course, there were still things he needed help with.
His ex had hated that.
He’d get impatient whenever Ominis asked for guidance down an uneven staircase, or for a description of the room they’d just entered. Once, at an art museum, Ominis had asked him to describe a painting. His ex had sighed and said, “You’ve got that seeing-eye app, don’t you? Use it if you’re that curious.”
That same tone had crept in more and more as their relationship went on. At first, he’d been charmingly eager to help. “Of course you can hold onto me!” he’d said on their first date. “Want me to read the menu for you?” But as the months passed, the kindness had worn thin. The realization always seemed to hit around the same time: that Ominis’ blindness wasn’t going to fade. It wasn’t a temporary inconvenience he’d one day grow out of. He would always need help. He would always be blind.
And people grew tired of that. Especially him.
Sometimes it wasn’t even about mobility, it was just about making life easier. If Ominis misplaced his earphones, he could find them on his own. He could scan the room with his phone’s camera, use the audio cues, or backtrack step by step, feeling along every surface until he found them. But it was ten times faster if someone sighted just said, “They’re on the table.”
Whenever Ominis had asked his ex those small, ordinary questions —“Have you seen my gloves?” or “Can you plug this in behind the couch?” — he’d get a sigh in return. That long, theatrical kind of sigh that made Ominis wish he’d stayed silent in the first place.
He’d learned, over time, that there were few things people tired of faster than helping him.
Which was why Sebastian had been such a shock.
Sebastian never made help feel like a chore, or even like help at all. He did it as if it were second nature, so seamlessly that Ominis often didn’t notice until after the fact.
When they entered a crowded room, Sebastian would lean close and murmur, “Everyone here looks like they just came from a government meeting. Forty-five plus, suits, glasses, all of them. There’s a stage at the front; I think someone’s about to give a speech.”
Or on the subway, when Ominis heard a sudden burst of laughter from across the car, Sebastian would quietly whisper, “There’s a woman wearing a hat covered in live chickens. I’m not kidding.”
Sometimes, when Sebastian would gently describe something so trivial, like how the sunset turned the pavement gold, or how the old man on the park bench was feeding pigeons from a paper bag, Ominis would have to bite back a smile.
It was a difficult habit to grow out of, the one where he just assumed he was a liability, a bother. It was a feeling that stemmed not only from his ex, but from almost everyone in his life. His family, his classmates, his teachers … they all had acted as if Ominis’ occasional need for extra guidance or adjustments were not only a great inconvenience for them, but they were also the world’s greatest, kindest people when they eventually did make an adjustment for him. Like they all expected charity points for making a PDF file accessible for Ominis’ screen reader, or deserved a medal for reading the lunch menu out loud for him.
It was a slow process, but Sebastian was slowly helping Ominis realise his existence wasn’t a burden. He didn’t ask for “too much” when he wanted a description of the surroundings. He wasn’t being “an inconvenience” when he needed the text shown on the PowerPoint to be read out loud, causing everyone else, who skimmed the text with their eyes, to sigh. His slower pace or slight fumble when reaching for things didn’t make him incompetent or bothersome to hang out with.
“You just handle the world differently,” Sebastian said firmly, “and there’s nothing wrong with that. You deserve as much space in this world as anyone else.”
It hadn’t been easy for Ominis to accept that in the beginning.
The front door slammed shut, and made Ominis flinch. He heard Sebastian in the hallway, hanging up his jacket and kicking off his shoes. There was an edge to his movements, sharp and impatient. The shoes thudded against the wall, the jacket slipped off its hanger with a curse, and the keys clattered loudly into the bowl by the door.
The knot in Ominis’ stomach grew into a bowling ball in an instant.
“Hello?” Sebastian called, sounding tired.
Ominis’ mind immediately began to replay the day, searching for an explanation. Sebastian had been in a good mood when he left for work that morning. They’d had breakfast together, and Sebastian had praised Ominis’ scrambled eggs. Ominis had kissed him goodbye, handed him his lunch box with leftovers from last night’s dinner. Sebastian had kissed him back, pressed a soft one to his forehead, and promised to be home by six. It was Thursday, which meant Hobhouse, the colleague Sebastian despised most, wasn’t even in today. As far as Ominis knew, there were no major projects, no unpleasant clients, no looming deadlines. Even the weather had been kind. Nothing, absolutely nothing, explained the irritation in Sebastian’s voice.
“I’m in here,” Ominis called, standing quickly. He lowered the TV volume and brushed his hands over his shirt, checking for wrinkles or stains. At least the apartment was clean; he’d done the laundry and taken out a chicken to thaw for dinner. That had to help. Hopefully it would be enough to keep Sebastian’s bad mood from getting worse.
“Hey, love,” Sebastian said as he stepped into the living room. Ominis froze, uncertain of what was expected of him.
Sebastian didn’t hesitate. Two quick steps, and his arms were around Ominis, pulling him into a soft hug. Ominis didn’t dare relax yet, but his own arms lifted and wrapped loosely around Sebastian’s waist.
“God, what a day,” Sebastian sighed, pressing a brief kiss to Ominis’ cheek before letting go. Ominis smiled uncertainly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
That had always been the most important thing for his ex: to talk about it. He could rant for hours about an annoying coworker or a bus driver who’d closed the doors in his face. Ominis rarely had to say much, just nod, hum sympathetically, offer the occasional soothing comment. Not too soothing, though: once, his ex had accused him of being patronizing. But when the venting was over, things usually calmed down.
“Nah, it’s boring,” Sebastian said, wandering toward the kitchen. “I can tell you later. How was your day?”
Ominis wasn’t prepared for the question. He hesitated before following Sebastian, unsure if the question was genuine or just a polite habit.
“It was good,” he said, stopping by the table. He considered sitting down, then thought better of it. In case Sebastian got upset, or maybe wanted something else, it was better to be standing up, ready to move out of the way.
“Only good?” Sebastian chuckled, opening the fridge. Ominis felt a small wave of relief when he remembered there was still some of Sebastian’s favorite juice left. He heard the clink of a glass and the sound of juice being poured. “I see you cleaned and folded laundry.”
“Oh.” His ex had never noticed when he cleaned. Or done anything, really. “It wasn’t bad. Just tidying up a little.”
Sebastian took a sip, setting the glass down with a faint thud. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, and Ominis’ stomach turned to ice. What?
“I saw what this place looked like this morning,” Sebastian went on, cheerfully now, pouring another glass. “It must’ve taken you hours to get it looking this good. Thank you. And for washing my red sweater, too. But next time, tell me, so we can do it together. That was way too much for you to handle alone.”
Ominis didn’t understand.
“It — it was fine,” he said at last, uncertain whether Sebastian was serious or mocking him. A second later, a glass was set on the table beside him.
“Want some?” Sebastian asked.
Ominis blinked. “But that’s your juice.”
Sebastian laughed. “My juice? Love, we live here together. It’s your juice too. Do you want some?”
Ominis reached carefully for the glass and took a small sip of the cool, sweet orange juice. “Thank you,” he murmured, holding the glass with both hands.
Behind him, the fridge door opened again. “Oh, you took out the chicken? Perfect. How about chicken tacos tonight? I’m starving. Should we start dinner now? I can chop the vegetables, and you can handle the pan. No, wait, actually, you’ve done enough today. You just set the table. I’ll cook.”
Ominis moved on autopilot, opening the cupboard above the sink for plates and glasses while Sebastian pulled out vegetables and the thawed chicken, chopping away like he was auditioning for MasterChef.
“You wouldn’t believe my day,” Sebastian said, talking fast, his knife thudding unevenly against the cutting board. “First, the bus was late, and Hobhouse, who wasn’t even supposed to be there, decided to drop by and give me ‘feedback’ on my work…”
He was gesturing wildly, if the erratic rhythm of the chopping was anything to go by. But his voice wasn’t sharp anymore. The irritation had softened into amusement, as if the whole day had already turned into an anecdote he wanted to share with Ominis.
Ominis set out two wine glasses and felt, slowly but surely, the ice in his stomach begin to melt.
When he lived with his ex, Ominis had breathed a quiet sigh of relief every time the door shut behind him — and then spent the rest of the day dreading the moment it would open again. As the clock inched closer to the hour his ex usually came home, tension gathered in his shoulders like a storm waiting to break. The sound of the key in the lock, the door slamming shut, had always made his pulse spike. Everything depended on his ex’s mood. If he was cheerful, the evening passed in uneasy peace: light conversation, a few laughs, a fragile sort of calm that could be broken at any minute. But more often, he came home bitter or irritable. Those nights, Ominis scrambled to make himself useful: dinner on the table, dishes washed, laundry folded, lights dimmed just so, because too-bright light “gave him headaches,” and if he lashed out afterward, well, that wasn’t his fault.
Now, two months into living with Sebastian, the rhythm of coming and going had changed entirely. The sound of the door closing in the mornings made Ominis miss him; the sound of it opening again at night made him smile. He no longer checked the clock, no longer paced the flat or anxiously rearranged the shoes by the door. If dinner wasn’t ready, it wasn’t a catastrophe; Sebastian liked cooking together anyway, teasing Ominis about his precise chopping technique or his uncanny ability to burn toast. Evenings no longer felt like something to endure. They felt like something to look forward to.
“Here,” Sebastian said, and Ominis automatically held out his hand. He felt Sebastian place his cane into it. His fingers brushed along the folded sections, confirming it was the one with the marshmallow tip, the cane he mostly used to signal his visual impairment to others.
Ominis owned two canes. One with a roller-ball tip, useful for detecting changes in terrain. It was his go-to when navigating unfamiliar outdoor areas. The other, with the marshmallow tip, didn’t glide as smoothly over rough ground, but it was perfect for spaces he already knew. It served mainly as a warning to others, and as a way to keep himself from walking straight into a lamppost.
His ex hadn’t liked the canes. He’d insisted Ominis hold onto his arm instead, saying the canes looked “a bit ridiculous,” and that Ominis “didn’t even look blind unless he brought one with him.” Ominis had tried to gently explain that whether or not he looked blind, he was, and the cane wasn’t about appearance; it was a tool, a safeguard. Even when he held onto his ex’s arm, he hated the feeling of being tethered, of not being able to take a single step on his own without risking collision. His ex had taken offense, asking if Ominis didn’t trust him.
When Ominis first met Sebastian, he’d tried to use his canes as little as possible, only when absolutely necessary. But by their third date, Sebastian had asked about them. The difference between the two. Ominis had been caught completely off guard that he’d even noticed he had two different ones. Unsure if Sebastian was truly curious or just being polite, Ominis gave a short, hesitant explanation, not wanting to bore him. But Sebastian had asked more questions; did he have a favorite? Which one did he use most? Were they expensive? Before Ominis realized it, he’d spent nearly half an hour rambling about materials, tips, and mobility techniques. When he finally stopped, embarrassed by how much he’d gone on, Sebastian had sounded genuinely fascinated.
These days, Sebastian always handed Ominis his cane before they left the flat. Not because Ominis couldn’t grab it himself, but as a small, thoughtful gesture. Like passing someone their gloves or their coat. And Ominis noticed that Sebastian usually gave him the one he’d need: the roller-ball tip if they were going somewhere unfamiliar, the marshmallow tip if they were heading out to meet friends or run errands.
Sebastian liked guiding him, he’d admitted as much, but he never overdid it. He seemed perfectly content walking beside Ominis, chatting away so Ominis could keep track of his position and pace through the sound of his voice. When they approached a crossing, a crowd, or an obstacle, Sebastian would either slip his hand into Ominis’, or rest a light, steadying palm against his back. He didn’t pull, or yank, or shout warnings, just gave a simple, subtle cue that something was changing.
Ominis appreciated it more than he ever said aloud. It made him feel less like a child — his ex used to say things like, “Careful, there’s a big curb coming, don’t trip” — and when Sebastian took his hand, it didn’t feel like assistance. It felt like partnership.
The park smelled faintly of cut grass and distant rain. Ominis could hear the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their shoes and the laughter of children somewhere near the pond. Sebastian’s hand brushed against his now and then, a small, steady reassurance that he was still beside him.
“Wait here a second,” Sebastian said suddenly, and Ominis stopped.
He listened to the sound of Sebastian’s steps fade, and felt his pulse quicken. The words wait here tugged at something cold and familiar inside him.
He’d heard them before. In a shopping mall, years ago. He’d been told to wait here while his ex cooled off, irritated that Ominis hadn’t wanted to cling to his arm in public. And so he had waited. Five minutes, then ten, then twenty, before realizing he wasn’t coming back. He’d asked strangers, stammering and mortified, for directions to the exit, then fumbled his way home alone. His ex had been there waiting, calm, saying, Well, you said you could handle it on your own, so I don’t see the problem.
A breeze moved through the trees. Ominis drew a slow breath and reminded himself: Sebastian wasn’t his ex. Still, his fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his cane.
Then, footsteps returned, quick and familiar, and the tension in his chest dissolved before he could fully recognize it.
“Here,” Sebastian said, a little breathless. Ominis felt something cool and round pressed into his hands. The faint scent of chocolate and something fruity reached his nose.
“Ice cream?”
Sebastian laughed. “You said once you liked chocolate and raspberry, right? They had both.”
Ominis’ throat went tight. He hadn’t mentioned that combination in months, maybe longer. And Sebastian remembered. He’d even gotten it in a cup, not a cone, because Ominis preferred it that way.
Clutching his cane under his arm, he dipped his spoon into the ice cream, the cold sweetness melting against his tongue. For a long moment, he couldn’t think of what to say. His ex hadn’t remembered his favorite flavors even after two years. He had even asked, after their two-year-anniversary, whether he could eat lactose. And when Ominis used to choose a cup instead of a cone, he’d scoff. He thought it was childish to eat from a cup, and also a waste of money, since the cone cost the same and meant more food.
But Sebastian was different. He didn’t make it a test or a statement. He just… brought him ice cream in a cup, because that’s what Ominis liked.
Beyond the big gestures, there were a thousand little things Sebastian did that made Ominis freeze. Not out of fear, but from surprise at the thoughtfulness.
Like:
Ominis knew he dressed old-fashioned. He liked pressed shirts and waistcoats with tailored slacks instead of baggy jeans and hoodies. His ex had thought his style was embarrassing and often asked him to dress more “youthfully.” More modern. But now, as Ominis buttoned the last button of his shirt and slipped on his vest, Sebastian whistled behind him before stepping forward, wrapping his arms around Ominis from behind, and kissing the back of his neck.
“You look so damn hot in those vests,” Sebastian said, and Ominis knew his face was probably bright red. Even so, a warm, contented feeling spread through his stomach.
Or:
”Can you please put on your sunglasses? Your eyes freak me the fuck out when you stare at nothing.”
Ominis didn’t even bother explaining to him that … yeah, that kind of what happens when you’re blind. Instead he rubbed the somewhat sore marks on the bridge if his nose, where the sunglasses’ nose pads had begun irritating his skin, before he slipped them on again.
Now, Sebastian said: ”Babe, can’t you take off your sunglasses?”
Ominis hesitated. His ex wasn’t the only one who had asked him to keep them on, claiming his eyes made them uncomfortable.
”Are you sure?” he asked, fiddling a little with the temples of the glasses.
”Well, not if you don’t want to, of course. But I’d love to see your eyes.”
Ominis frowned, certain Sebastian was messing with him. ”My eyes are creepy,” he pointed out. He didn’t expect how sharply Sebastian reacted:
”They’re not,” he said firmly, and sounded allost a little angry. ”And fuck everyone who ever implied that. Your eyes are beautiful as hell. Like … like two stormy seas covered in misty fog.”
”My, such poetics,” Ominis teased, mainly to hide the strange but fluttering feeling in his stomach.
”I’m serious, Omi,” Sebastian said, coming closer. ”If you feel more comfortable, wear them. But if you do it to make others feel comfortable …”
”Alright,” Ominis said, and obediently slipped the glasses off and folded them.
”There you are,” Sebastian said, sounding pleased. He pressed a kiss to each one of Ominis’ eyebrows, and when Ominis’ eyes automatically fell shut, he kissed his eyelids too.
”Your eyes are beautiful,” Sebastian said firmly, ”and anyone who ever says anything else is a douchebag.”
And:
Ominis loved collecting postcards from different parts of the world. He didn’t quite know why, but the interest had started when he was little. He collected postcards from the few times he had travelled abroad himself, or bought them in stores and at flea markets. They rarely had Braille on them, so he either had to ask someone to describe the pictures or use an AI app. But he liked having them, even if he had never been to the places they depicted. It felt, in some way, like a way of still reaching all those exotic places — of “seeing” the historic monuments or statues.
His ex had thought the hobby was ridiculous.
“You can’t even see them,” he had scoffed. “And even if you went to Egypt to visit the pyramids, it wouldn’t make any difference to you. We might as well just stand in the garden on a hot summer day, play some Egyptian music, and you could pretend the pyramids were right in front of you.”
Sebastian, on the other hand, came home one day practically buzzing with childish excitement. Ominis barely had time to ask what was going on before Sebastian pressed something into his hand.
“Here!”
Ominis turned it over in his hands; it felt like an envelope. He found the opening, reached inside, and pulled out a small card.
“What is it?”
“It’s a postcard of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris,” Sebastian said. “You didn’t have one of those, right? I asked Anne to buy one while she was there and send it to me.”
The fact that Sebastian had not only remembered which postcards Ominis already had, but had also asked his sister to go out of her way to buy one while abroad, made something twist in Ominis’ stomach — in the best possible way.
“You didn’t have to,” he said, his voice a little thick.
Sebastian kissed his cheek.
“Of course I didn’t,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
And that was that.
“I can’t talk about this anymore,” Sebastian said, voice taut with frustration.
The words felt like a punch to the gut.
Ominis went still, the air catching in his throat. He hadn’t even realised how quickly things had escalated, how something small had become something sharp and tangled. He wasn’t even sure what exactly they were arguing about anymore. Just that Sebastian sounded tired, and Ominis’ pulse had climbed into his throat, and everything felt suddenly, perilously familiar.
This was the moment it usually happened — the sharp pivot into cruelty, the door slamming, the punishment of silence. His stomach knotted, bracing for the blow.
But Sebastian only exhaled. The sound was rough, but steady.
“I need some time alone,” he said after a moment. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in an hour.”
And then, softer still, like a promise he refused to break even in anger: “Love you.”
The door clicked shut. No slam. No echo.
For a long time, Ominis stood motionless in the quiet apartment, unsure what to do with his hands, his heartbeat, his thoughts. His mind chased itself in circles, trying to decode the silence. What had he done wrong? What could he say to fix it? Would Sebastian actually come back?
But an hour later, the door opened again. Ominis was curled up on the couch, having barely moved for the past sixty minutes.
Footsteps. The rustle of a jacket being hung up. Then a pause, and Sebastian’s voice, low and even:
“Hey. Can we talk?”
Ominis nodded before he could find words. Sebastian crossed the floor, the faint creak of the wooden boards marking each step, and stopped a few feet away.
“I’m sorry,” he began simply. “I didn’t handle that well.”
Ominis blinked, startled.
“I got defensive,” Sebastian continued, “and I stopped listening. That wasn’t fair to you.” He hesitated, then added, “When I get frustrated, I tend to talk like I’m trying to win something. Like an argument, or a point. But that’s not what I want with you. We’re supposed to be a team, right? It’s not me versus you.”
Ominis’ chest ached a little. No one had ever said we before, not like that. His ex had, in fact, phrased it in the completely opposite way, often making it sound as if he and Ominis were on opposite teams and whoever yelled the loudest, or got the final word, won the fight.
Sebastian went on, careful but firm. “The thing you said earlier, it upset me. Not because of you, but because of how I heard it. And instead of telling you that, I just snapped. That’s on me.”
He sounded so calm, so painfully reasonable, that Ominis didn’t quite know what to do with it. There was no blame hidden in his tone, no barbed words disguised as apologies. No “You were just being so annoying, and you made me lash out”, or “You really made me upset, so I feel like I was justified in my reaction”
Ominis finally found his voice. “You’re not… still angry?”
“I was,” Sebastian admitted. “But being angry doesn’t mean I stop loving you. It just means I needed to breathe before I said something I didn’t mean.”
Ominis nodded slowly.
"I just ... don't want to be that annoying boyfriend who keeps nagging ... or who brings up things that happened like, two years ago ..."
Sebastian reached for his hand. “You're not," he said firmly. "And it's okay if you bring up things that happened a long time ago if you feel like they're unresolved. I don't want you to carry around old hurt or confusion because you're afraid I'll think it's annoying. You know that I love you because. I don't love you despite. I hate fighting with you, but you must know I never want to make you feel belittled, or unseen, or not validated in your feelings. I don’t want us to yell to be heard. I’d rather we figure it out together, even if it takes time.”
The knot in Ominis' belly slowly loosened.
Ominis remembered his ex, who used to grow quiet when Ominis spoke to other men. It could just be a normal, friendly conversation, yet his ex turned practically green with jealousy. And it wasn’t the explosive, outraged kind; instead his ex would grow cold, distant. Gave Ominis the cold shoulder when they came home, not speaking to him, only humming shortly whenever Ominis tried to initiate a conversation.
Eventually, the quiet would snap. Accusations slithered out: Ominis wanted attention, he flirted back, he was obviously prancing around trying to catch other guys’ eyes …. Ominis’ words never helped; any explanation only seemed to tighten the invisible noose. And when he tried to defend himself, the justification twisted into guilt: “I only get mad because I care about you. I love you so much. You make me feel like I’m not enough.”
He remembered how it felt to navigate those moods — the careful calculations, the constant self-monitoring, the aching uncertainty that even a harmless conversation could end in blame. It had been exhausting, draining and impossible to escape.
Sebastian, as it turned out, was the complete opposite.
Ominis had wandered into the back corner of the bookstore, one earpod perched carefully in his ear, listening to a podcast while Sebastian fluttered away towards the romantasy-section. Ominis stood by what his phone announced was the biography section, scanning the spines every now and then without intentions of reading the book itself.
“Oh, I didn’t realize someone else had great taste in novels,” said a voice to his left. “Do you read braille books too, or listen to audio books?”
Ominis stiffened instantly, the familiar prickle of panic rising.
“I … mostly audio books,” he said, trying to locate Sebastian’s location from sound.
“Oh,” the guy continued, coming closer. “Well, I have been told I have an excellent reading voice. Paired with your looks, I think we would make quite a pair, hmm?”
Ominis’ stomach somersaulted. He muttered an excuse, something about needing to check another section, and hurried away, cane sweeping frantically before him, heart pounding. His mind raced: Did Sebastian notice? He’s probably going to be annoyed. Or worse.
When he finally located Sebastian at the counter, a few aisles over, he stood close to him, hoping he hadn’t noticed his exchange with the man.
“Who was that guy you were talking to?” Sebastian asked cheerfully.
Ominis’ mouth opened, then closed.
“I … no one. He just … came up and talked to me.” He tried to brush it off without sounding too casual, since that was suspicious too. When he tried to downplay things like this with his ex, he had gotten mad and said that Ominis was trying to make him jealous on purpose. That his casual way of mentioning other guys’ compliments was an attempt from Ominis to tell his ex he could have “other options” and “flaunt his desirability.”
“Did he flirt with you?” Sebastian asked. Ominis couldn’t parse his tone. He hesitated. Maybe Sebastian had noticed their interaction, and was just testing Ominis to see if he would be honest about it. It was better not to lie, and then try to placate Sebastian in case he got upset.
“I think he did, a little,” Ominis admitted carefully. He braced himself, waiting for either an outburst or a cold silence. Instead, Sebastian laughed, deep and easy. One arm snuck around Ominis’ waist, pulling him closer.
“Damn right he did,” he said, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “You’re gorgeous. Anyone who doesn’t flirt with you is a moron.”
Ominis blinked, momentarily unsteady. There was no cold shoulder, no quiet resentment, no accusatory weight in Sebastian’s tone — just amusement, warmth, and something like awe.
“Too bad for him you’re already mine,” Sebastian added, pressing a kiss to Ominis’ cheek. Then it was his turn to pay, and he let go of Ominis and greeted the cashier.
Ominis was left standing to the side, blinking slowly. He realized, with a small, surprising jolt in his chest, that Sebastian wasn’t jealous. Not in that toxic, suffocating way. He was happy for Ominis, genuinely proud of him, confident enough to celebrate that someone else had noticed him and tried to approach him.
When they exited the bookstore, Ominis with his hand loosely looped around Sebastian’s elbow, they passed the flirting guy again.
“Oh, man,” he said as they passed him, “you’re a lucky fella.” Even his voice was cheerful, not the slightest bit mad or bitter.
“I know,” Sebastian said, and once again pressed a smacking kiss to Ominis’ cheek, making him blush scarlet. “The luckiest man alive.”
The chicken was still frozen solid.
Ominis pressed his thumb against it, hoping the dense, icy surface was just a trick of his senses, but no. It was as stiff and unyielding as the silence settling over the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, before Sebastian even had the chance to react. “I thought— I took it out before lunch, I swear I did, I just— I thought it would’ve thawed by now.”
His voice trembled, and he swallowed, trying to stifle the familiar rush of panic. He had ruined dinner. He had had one task this morning, and it was to take out the chicken on time. But he couldn’t even manage that.
Sebastian, however, only laughed. “Why are you apologising?” he said, bumping Ominis’ shoulder as he stepped past him. “It’s not your fault the chicken’s a cold-hearted bastard.”
Ominis stood there, unsure how to respond. The tension in his body didn’t know where to go. He had braced for a sigh, a sharp tone, something. But instead, there was only the sound of Sebastian opening a drawer, searching for a menu.
“Takeaway?” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thai? Pizza?”
“Sebastian, I—” Ominis started, then faltered. “I really thought it would be ready. I can try to cook something else. Maybe pasta. Or soup. I don’t mind—”
“Ominis.”
Sebastian’s tone was gentle, but firm enough to make him stop mid-sentence. A chair scraped lightly against the floor, and then Sebastian’s hands were on his shoulders, firm but gentle.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s not a big deal. Really. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ominis nodded, but his throat felt tight. The words didn’t fit anywhere inside him yet. He wanted to believe them — wanted to believe that dinner could fail, that plans could change, and that no one would punish him for it.
“It could just as well have been me, who took the chicken out too late,” Sebastian continued. “Remember that time I brought out frozen shrimps and tried to cook them with the pasta, thinking that since it was a shrimp pasta anyways, it would only save me time?”
Ominis couldn’t help the wet giggle that escaped him.
“Yes,” he said, smiling carefully. “And the pasta was overcooked and the shrimps were still somehow frozen in the middle.”
“Exactly.” Sebastian squeezed his shoulders once, then kissed the top of his head. “Now, do you want pad thai or pizza?”
It was such an ordinary question, said with such easy warmth, that Ominis almost laughed. He exhaled, letting some of the tension unwind from his chest.
“Pad thai,” he said at last, and Sebastian made a swishing sound with the paper menu.
“One pad thai, coming right up, sir!” he said with a mock-formal voice, and Ominis couldn’t help rolling his eyes.
Sebastian had been quiet all day.
Not cold, not angry, just quiet. But Ominis had learned that silence could carry weight. It could be full of landmines, unspoken resentment, and traps waiting to be triggered. So even though he knew Sebastian wasn’t like that, the unease still clawed at him with familiar persistence.
By the third time he asked if everything was okay, Sebastian sighed.
It wasn’t a sharp or frustrated sound, but Ominis froze anyway. He had always been so careful about not overstepping the limit, and could already picture the lecture about how exhausting he was, how he couldn’t even let things be without turning them into something.
But instead of raising his voice, Sebastian patted the cushion beside him.
“Come here,” he said, voice calm but firm.
Ominis hesitated, uncertain. Then, slowly, he crossed the room and sat down, hands knotted together in his lap.
Sebastian turned slightly toward him. “You don’t have to keep asking if I’m mad at you every time I’m quiet,” he said, gentle but unwavering. “If I’m upset, or sad, or if something’s wrong, I’ll tell you. I’m not going to sulk in silence like a toddler and make you guess.”
Ominis swallowed, his chest tightening.
Sebastian reached out, curling a hand around Ominis’ wrist, thumb tracing small circles against his skin. “I know … he wasn’t like this. But silence isn’t a weapon. Not with me,” he said softly. “Sometimes I’m just tired. Sometimes I don’t feel like talking. But it’s never about you. You’re the best part of my day, Ominis. The one thing I never get tired of.”
Ominis’ throat burned. “I just— I never know. Before, when someone was quiet, it always meant…” He trailed off, the words dissolving.
“I know,” Sebastian said kindly. “But you have to trust me when I say I’ll always tell you what’s wrong. And if I do have a problem, I’ll work it out with you, not against you.”
He squeezed Ominis’ hand, grounding him. “We’re on the same side, remember? You don’t have to keep guessing where you stand with me.”
For a long moment, Ominis didn’t speak. Then he nodded slowly, Sebastian's word swimming in his mind.
“Alright,” he said, and leaned his head on Sebastian's shoulder.
It had taken Ominis a long time to tell Sebastian about his ex, and even then, the story didn’t come out all at once. It trickled out in fragments, scattered through quiet moments and offhand remarks. A hesitant confession when Sebastian gently asked why Ominis assumed he was angry about the frozen chicken. A muttered explanation when he flinched at a sudden sound or movement.
At first, Ominis hadn’t wanted to share any of it. Talking about it felt like peeling back skin, like exposing something ugly and weak. But Sebastian, patient as ever, kept asking, gently curious, wanting to understand. And when Ominis finally told him about the day his ex left him stranded in a shopping mall, Sebastian had gone so still, so silent, that Ominis almost asked if he was having a seizure.
Even now, whenever Ominis made an offhand comment about how his ex “hadn’t liked that” or “never let him do this,” Sebastian’s hands would tighten around his, his breath steady and measured through his nose, an obvious effort to contain a fury that burned just under the surface. Somehow, that anger made Ominis feel safer. It told him, wordlessly, that what had happened had been wrong, that he hadn’t been overreacting or too sensitive.
It also made him happy to know that his ex had moved all the way to another country after their breakup; he was pretty certain that if Sebastian met him, they would end up in a fistfight.
Now, Ominis had come to understand that the road to trust was not a straight one. It twisted and turned, sometimes doubled back on itself, and he had learned, through patience and bruised hope, that healing took time. But what mattered most was that he wasn’t walking it alone. Sebastian was there beside him, hand in hand, steady and patient, matching his pace. He didn’t pull or push, only guided and encouraged, quietly reminding Ominis that there was no finish line to rush toward.
Because with Sebastian, silence was never a weapon. With him, every small victory was shared — whether it was a promotion at work or the harmless thrill of a stranger flirting at a bar. Chores were done together, dinners were burnt together. Their conversations wove between Sebastian’s passions and Ominis’s curiosities, each given equal weight, equal care. There were no ultimatums. No double-edged compliments or carefully loaded words that made Ominis second-guess himself.
And that, he thought, is what a relationship is supposed to look like all the time.