Archive of Our Own

The letter was no surprise when it arrived. A sheet of egg-white paper, his name and address written neatly across the front, sealed with a bold red wax stamp. Sebastian opened it at once, only to confirm what he already knew, then slipped it behind the tin of tea in the kitchen. He had no need to read it again.

He was not shocked, not truly, though he had carried a foolish little hope that it might never find its way to them. That the odd pair in their weather-worn cottage on the outskirts of the village would somehow be overlooked. That some greater mercy would cast its eye upon them, see how much they had already endured, and quietly let him be spared.

Life was not so kind.

He said nothing to Ominis. There was no need. Sebastian knew that Ominis knew. That he could sense it in the smallest changes of Sebastian’s behaviour. Ominis was not naïve. And just like Sebastian, he kept his silence.

They continued as they always had: living side by side, cooking their meals together, sitting in the small garden to savour the sunset or the birdsong. Some nights, Sebastian would hear Ominis crying quietly, so softly it was barely sound at all. He never spoke of it. He would simply turn in the bed and gather that slender body into his arms, hiding his own tears in pale blond hair while he swallowed and swallowed, trying to force down the ache in his throat.

They let the village keep whispering about the strange couple: the blind young man and his supposed “caretaker,” whom more than a few busybodies had noticed being far too familiar for anything strictly professional. But that was the best thing about this town: no one had the energy to care for long. People minded their own business. And so, Sebastian and Ominis minded theirs.

For as long as time allowed.

The day came so quickly it felt as though no time had passed at all. One moment, everything was as it had always been; the next, Sebastian was standing at the worn gate outside their cottage. The house was small and badly in need of new paint, but it was their home. In the little garden, potatoes, tomatoes, and carrots pushed through the dark soil. The cracked window Sebastian had patched with a plank had now been firmly boarded and nailed in place, just to be certain it wouldn’t slip and give Ominis further trouble.

This had been Sebastian’s home  —  his truest, happiest home  —  for the past seven years. He supposed he ought to stand there and take a last lingering look at it. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Ominis.

Ominis, standing just inside the gate, wearing one of the jumpers Sebastian had decided to leave behind. Ominis, whose eyes were swollen from crying, whose mouth was held tight with effort. 

Sebastian needed to leave soon. He would be late otherwise, and heaven help the man who arrived late today. But still he couldn’t let Ominis go.

Was this truly what his life had come to? To loosen his hold on the person he loved most, to breathe in one shaky breath after another, taking in the faint scent of Ominis’ hair, telling himself over and over, this must be the last, I have to go, only to give himself a few more seconds every time?

He wanted to look at Ominis, to look until that face was branded onto the inside of his eyelids. The soft mouth and the sharp line of his nose. The scar along his brow. The way his hair fell in its elegant side parting, except for that one little unruly tuft that always insisted on going the other way.

But to look at Ominis properly, he would have to step back. And he could not do that.

So instead they stood there, holding one another, trying not to think that this was likely the last time they would ever do so.

“All right,” Sebastian said at last. He drew back a little, though his arms did not fall away. “There’s firewood.” His voice trembled and caught, but he forced himself to speak steadily. This was Ominis’ wellbeing, his survival, in the months to come. He had to manage it.

Ominis nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“It should last several months. I’ve sorted it into piles. Smaller sticks to the right, larger logs to the left.”

“Yes.”

“There are bundles of kindling. Several in the kitchen. You know where.”

Ominis sniffed.

“The larder’s full. Potatoes, carrots, parsnips, apples. There’s flour and oats as well. You know where the apple tree stands, and where everything grows in the garden.”

Another nod. Then a tiny hiccup. The sound made tears surge in Sebastian’s eyes again. He swallowed, hard and hot, and bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself onward.

“There’s dried meat and salted fish. And a little butter. I’ve spoken to Mr Fig. He’ll help you, should you need anything.”

Ominis didn’t move now.

“And… and take care of yourself. Be cautious. I… I’ll write. I’ll send the letters to Mr Fig, and he’ll read them aloud to you.”

Still no reaction. Ominis’ unseeing eyes were fixed sharply on something just past Sebastian’s shoulder. And Sebastian knew how meaningless his promise was. Most letters never made it past the letterbox.

“And I… I’ll miss you. I’ll think of you every moment.”

Ominis reached for him then; arms open, pulling him close once more. This time, Sebastian couldn’t resist. A broken sound escaped him, and then the tears came freely. He clung to Ominis, hands sweeping over his back, mapping the familiar curve of his waist, breathing in his hair, his heartbeat, everything.

And Sebastian knew, even before he stepped away, that nothing he would face in the months ahead would ever be as hard, as wretched, as this.

Ominis standing inside the gate while Sebastian began to walk away. Ominis, wrapped in Sebastian’s jumper, arms tight around himself, remaining there until he was nothing but a distant speck in front of what used to be Sebastian's home.

The thought struck him then: Ominis didn’t have the luxury of watching him grow smaller and smaller. The moment Sebastian’s footsteps faded, he vanished for Ominis entirely. The realisation made fresh tears burn his eyes; he wiped them away with frustrated swipes, determined to watch Ominis for as long as sight would allow, holding onto every precious second before he turned the bend in the road and disappeared.

He drew a deep, uneven breath and lifted his chin.

There was no turning back now.

The first weeks passed with Ominis moving as though on some silent mechanism. His body carried him through each day like a well-practised machine, while he sat somewhere behind his own thoughts, hands on the unseen controls. Sebastian had left on long journeys before  —  trading, bartering, trips for provisions  —  and for a while Ominis managed to pretend this was no different.

He woke alone in the small double bed. Reached instinctively for Sebastian, only for his hand to find cold sheets and an undented pillow. Ate eggs and carrots for breakfast. Tidied the house. Tended the garden by familiar paths and careful touch. Cooked supper alone, trying not to think of how the kitchen had once been alive with Sebastian’s awful singing, Ominis sighing by the stove while secretly smiling. He ate by himself at the rickety kitchen table, listening to the wind whistling around the walls, trying not to remember how he and Sebastian used to sit there and critique their own meals, or trade whispered gossip about the villagers. Then he went to bed on a mattress that was cold and far too large for one person, and woke alone. And then everything began again.

Now and then, he walked to Mr Fig’s bookshop nearby. Mr Fig owned only one book in raised type, and Ominis had no real desire to read it. But the company was pleasant. Mr Fig brewed tea, shared the latest village rumours, and  —  bless him  —  was tactful enough never to ask after Sebastian.

At first, Ominis asked him to read the newspaper aloud.

After a while, he stopped asking.

It grew too painful to hear about the endless war, about the lives poured out like water on the battlefield. Young men who had their whole futures before them, now dying alone in cold trenches or on blood-soaked ground.

Young men like Sebastian.

One day, nearly three months after Sebastian had left, a letter arrived. Ominis held his breath as Mr Fig read it.

My dearest Ominis,

It is undoubtedly hard here, with the constant cold, the rain, the mud. I don’t think I can remember the last time I was dry. The only upside is that Solomon used to teach me how to wield a rifle when I was little, and though I am by no means a skilled shooter, the basic muscle memory helps tremendously.

But I don’t want to burden you with my gray, weary days.

Instead I want to tell you how much I think about you. How much I miss you. Have you cut your hair yet, or is it still growing? It was already quite long by the time I left; I imagine it would be almost past your ears by now if you haven’t trimmed it.

When I go to sleep, I try to think about your smile, or the way you sigh and scowl at me, but really you're just trying to fight off a smile. When I hold my dying comrades in my lap, I think about the weight of your head in my knees and your soft, silky hair, rather than the blood-muddled frizz of my deceased soldiers.

I hope the wood and the food supply is still sufficient. I hope you’re doing fine, despite the hardships. I hope you’re taking care of yourself. I hope you find some company with Mr Fig. I hope you don’t miss me too much.

I hope you don’t give up.

I’ll write again.

Love you,

Sebastian

It was the first and only letter Ominis received.

The scent on Sebastian’s clothes began to fade. The jumper he had left behind lay on the bed; Ominis slept each night with his face buried in it like a makeshift pillow. He breathed deep, pretending it was Sebastian he held, not a bundle of worn fabric. Pretending it was Sebastian’s warmth, Sebastian’s real scent, not scratchy wool turning staler by the day.

Sebastian had been meticulous in his preparations. Ominis did not freeze. He lit the fire on his own. He harvested the vegetable patch, though it took far longer to identify which roots were ready for pulling and which were spoiled, without Sebastian at his side to point out worms or blight with quick certainty. He kept the house clean, dusted the shelves  —  Sebastian hated dust gathering on the picture frames. (Ominis tried not to think of the possibility that Sebastian might never again grumble about the dust at all.)

Time passed. The routine continued. The storage dwindled, the stack of firewood shrank. And it grew harder and harder to pretend this was temporary.

There was one plant Sebastian had kept in a pot on the kitchen table. He had dug up its root on one of his hunting trips and brought it home with triumph in his voice. He had described the flower as pale blue and lively, despite growing all alone. He had tended its seed faithfully ever since, hoping to coax a matching bloom into life in their little kitchen.

Ominis had never cared much for the plant. “We’ve more important things to encourage into the ground,” he had said. “Focus on the potatoes or the parsnips instead, darling.”

But Sebastian had persisted. He watered the plant dutifully, even though it never rose beyond the promise of a single stubborn bud. He hummed to it, placed it on the windowsill where the morning sun reached.

Now Sebastian was gone.

So Ominis took over the task.

He watered it.

Moved it to whichever window the sun touched that day.

Checked the soil with careful fingers each morning, sighing when he realised the bud had stubbornly remained just a bud.

But he did not stop watering it.

Days blurred again.

He cooked. Ate. Cleaned. Listened to the plant’s soil with careful fingers, searching for the faintest sign of life.

He found none.

One evening, when the silence in the cottage felt so thick he could hardly breathe through it, he went to Sirona’s tavern. He and Sebastian used to go there frequently, the path easier and more direct than the one to the market.

He slid onto a bar stool and folded his hands in his lap.

There was laughter. Tankards clinking. Boots scuffing against floorboards. Someone flirting terribly. A woman scolding her husband. Sirona humming under her breath as she wiped the counter.

There was life. So much life.

Ominis sat among it, like an observer watching through a glass wall. He pictured how it would have been with Sebastian beside him: Sebastian laughing loudly, squeezing Ominis' knee when he leaned close to whisper some joke he shouldn’t repeat in public. Sebastian brushing dust off Ominis' sleeve like an unconscious habit. Sebastian flirting jokingly with Sirona, who just sighed and always muttered that she liked Ominis better. “At least he is sensible enough to tip generously.”

Across the room, two women murmured about the war. Ominis didn’t want to listen. Couldn’t help but listen anyways.

The women spoke about boys who had not returned. About bodies buried in trenches, names written on letters no one could deliver.

"I heard that Mr Moon has been found dead. Blown to pieces. Could only identify him with his wedding ring and a boot."

"His poor wife. She was already struggling."

"They have a newborn too. I can't imagine it, poor girl. I'm almost happy my James died before the war. Means I got to miss him on my own terms."

"Perhaps we ought to pay poor Mrs Moon a visit. I heard she's completely broken."

"We can't visit every widow who's lost their husband, Penny. If so, we'd need to knock on the doors of half of this town."

The women chuckled a little.

Ominis’ stomach turned. His throat tightened.

He pressed a coin onto the counter, whispered his thanks to Sirona, and left. The cold night air hit him like a slap, but he welcomed it. He walked home with the taste of dread burning his tongue.

Then came the storm.

A violent gust rattled the house, and Ominis heard it: the unmistakable clatter of the wooden board Sebastian had nailed over the broken window.

It hit the floor. Wind rushed in, rain followed.

He felt his way to the fallen board, running his hands along its rough surface. He cursed to himself.

He knew where they kept their tools, but for rather obvious reasons, he had never had much business in that part of the cabinet. Now, he ran his fingers over the shelves, the boxes, until he finally wrapped his fingers around a small hammer.

Getting the board up was another matter.

He lifted it, pressed it to the window, hoped it covered all of it. Balancing the uneven weight of the board, he reached for the hammer, located the nail with one thumb, and  — 

Missed.

He tried again, nearly striking his thumb.

On the third attempt, the board slipped from his grasp, crashing onto the floor with a crack that echoed through the tiny cottage. Rain lashed against his face; cold air wrapped around him like fingers.

It was perhaps silly to give up so easily, but Ominis collapsed beside the fallen board. He lay on the wooden floor, chest heaving, his clothes damp with rain and humiliation. For a long, long moment, he didn’t move.

What was the point?

Maybe he could just stay here. Let exhaustion take him. Let the cold creep in. Eventually, Mr Fig would notice his absence and come checking. He would find Ominis’ body. Perhaps he would shake his head sadly and say it had been inevitable; no one survives with half a heart.

Would it be the chill that killed him? Or the grief? He wasn’t sure which one was more merciful.

He closed his eyes, and drew a shaky breath. It felt surprisingly nice to lie on the floor. It was rough, and cold, but it only made it feel more grounding, more real, rather than the treacherous softness of a cold, empty bed.

Then, he remembered.

I hope you don’t give up.

Ominis’ breath stuttered.

He wasn’t sure if Sebastian was alive. Maybe he would never be sure. But he knew that he, himself, was alive, and Sebastian had asked him not to give up. To take care of himself. As long as Ominis lived, he would fulfill that promise.

He pushed his aching body upright. Felt blindly for the board. Gripped the hammer until his hand shook. He pressed the wood to the window again. Lifted the nail. Found the right angle by sheer stubbornness.

He hammered again, barely blinked when he struck his thumb once, twice, three times. But he hit the nail the double amount of times, and then he moved to the other side, repeating the process, and suddenly, the board was back where it was supposed to be.

Ominis sank to the floor again, this time not from resignation, but simple exhaustion. He listened to the rain as it smattered against the board, and closed his eyes.

I did it, Sebastian.

I didn’t give up.

Ominis had grown accustomed to silence, but not to the kind that pressed down on him, thick and airless, until it felt like he was breathing grief rather than air. It was astonishing how quickly a life could shrink. How easily a home could become a world. How small that world became when one lived inside it alone.

He tried not to dwell on it. Tried not to think too long on what it meant to wake each morning with no voice calling his name, no warm body shifting beside him, no sure hands guiding his own when he reached the wrong shelf. He had lived alone before. He had survived it. But after knowing what it felt like to be truly seen  —  not in the literal sense, but in a way that felt deeper, truer  —  solitude became something else entirely. It scraped at him.

Before Sebastian, his blindness had been a series of obstacles to navigate, some easy, some exhausting, all familiar. After Sebastian… it had simply been a fact about him, one he could carry without shame because someone had loved him without flinching from it. Sebastian had never treated him like a burden. Never sighed when he needed a doorframe described. Never grew impatient when Ominis had to feel along a table for his cup. He had made the world feel possible.

Now the world felt enormous again. And Ominis felt very small inside it.

Still, he moved through his days because there was no other choice. He tended that ridiculous plant every morning, fingertips brushing its leaves, checking its soil, coaxing it along despite how stubbornly unimpressive it remained. He ventured into town when he had to, tapping his cane along the rutted road, breathing through the way people stared, or stepped aside too slowly, or said things like “brave lad” as though it were meant to comfort him. It only made him feel more alone.

And then  —  nearly a year since the day Sebastian had kissed him goodbye  —  something in Ominis cracked wide open again.

He hadn’t asked Mr Fig to read the newspaper in a long while. Hope had felt too painful, too childish. But that morning, on a strange, restless impulse, he found himself standing in Mr Fig’s kitchen doorway, cane in hand, saying quietly:

“Could you… read today’s paper?”

Fig hesitated. Ominis heard it  —  the tiny pause, the swallow. It turned his blood cold.

“Of course,” Fig said gently, and Ominis could already hear the heaviness in his tone as he unfolded the pages. A breath. Then the soft, awful words:

“There’s been another attack. An entire battalion… they say very few survived.”

Ominis felt something inside him go still. Not break. Not yet. Just… still.

“Which battalion?” His voice sounded thin, threadbare.

Fig read the number aloud.

Ominis didn’t know if Sebastian had been reassigned. He didn’t know if the army moved men around, or if they stayed with the same company for the duration. But that was the number Sebastian had left with. And the way Fig’s voice caught in his throat told Ominis everything he needed to know.

He walked home mechanically, feet finding the path by sheer repetition. He kept his cane firm by his side. He didn’t need it to fin his way homel. The wind brushed against his cheeks, cold and indifferent. He reached the cottage without remembering how he’d opened the door.

Inside, the quiet greeted him like a verdict.

For a second he stood there, listening to the wind making the cottage creak and groan. The slight whingy sound of the metal hinges on the gate. 

And, worst of all, the silence.

The silence which, so far, he’d been able to tell himself was temporary. 

Maybe for a year, maybe for five years, maybe for ten years.

But temporary.

Now, the silence almost felt mocking. Like it was pressing down on him, telling him: “Ha! You thought you got rid of me? Well, think again. I’ll always find you. I’ll always come back to you.”

Ominis had read that the last sense you lose when dying was hearing.

Maybe that was fitting.

That at the very end of this short, pitiful excuse for human life, you would only be greeted by silence.

He reached for the plant  —  the one he had tended like a promise, like a talisman. His fingers brushed the leaves and found them dry, drooping, lifeless. The bud that had once been stubbornly hopeful was shriveled to nothing.

He lifted the pot. For one suspended moment, he held it with both hands  —  that stupid plant, that stupid hope he’d kept alive, that stupid belief that Sebastian would return because he had to, because anything else was unthinkable.

He hurled it across the kitchen.

The crash was explosive. Ceramic shattered against the wall, shards skittering across the floor. Soil hit the boards in a dull patter. The echo rang in the house like a scream.

Ominis sank to his knees where he stood.

He didn’t sob, at first. Tears slid down his face without sound, falling onto the scattered soil. Then a breath punched out of him, and another, until grief tore its way up from somewhere deep and he folded forward, arms braced on the floor, letting the flood come. His shoulders shook. His breath broke. The sound of it filled the cottage that had spent a year pretending it wasn’t empty.

The plant was dead.

Sebastian was dead.

And Ominis himself wished he were dead.

For a long moment Ominis remained on the floor, breath stuttering, tears dripping onto the scattered soil. His mind was a blurred, roaring thing. His body trembled. Everything felt hollowed out and echoing.

Then a single thought sliced through the numbness:

He had destroyed the one living thing Sebastian left behind.

The realization hit him so hard he choked on it.

“No — ” The word burst out, raw, broken. “No, no  —  Sebastian, I didn’t  —  I didn’t mean — ”

His hands scrabbled over the floor before his brain caught up. He plunged them into the mess, fingers shaking violently as they sifted through damp earth and shattered ceramic. A jagged shard slit the skin of his palm, but he didn’t care. Didn’t care when soil smeared up his sleeves. He just dug, frantic, desperate, muttering half-formed pleas to no one.

“Please  —  please  —  where are you  —  don’t be gone too — ”

Another shard cut deeper. Warm blood slicked his hand. He ignored it. 

Then, finally, his fingers brushed something.

The seed, the root of the plant.

His chest constricted. He curled his hand around it, clutching it so tightly it pressed into his palm.

It had to be alive. It had to be.

He lurched to his feet, stumbling toward the cottage door, still clutching that tiny, stupid piece of hope. Gravel stabbed into his bare knees as he knelt in the garden, but pain was a distant thing. Only the seed mattered.

With shaking fingers, he dug into the earth, right next to the potatoes and carrots. He didn’t bother choosing a proper spot; he only knew he needed it in the ground, needed it safe, needed it to live even if nothing else did.

The soil was cold, damp, unyielding. He pushed harder. His nails tore. 

When the hole was deep enough, he carefully placed the seed inside. His bloody fingers trembled as he brushed soil over it, patting it down as though he could apologize through touch alone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I’m so  —  I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to  —  please grow, please — ”

His forehead pressed to the earth, dirt smearing across his skin. The garden was quiet except for his ragged breaths. The air smelled of turned soil and rain.

He stayed there for a long time, kneeling in the cold mud, one bloodied hand resting over the small mound.

Eventually, shivering, empty, he forced himself inside. Washed the blood off as best he could. Wrapped his injured hand with trembling fingers. Cleaned the soil tracked through the house by touch alone.

And the next morning, he rose with the same numb exhaustion as every day. Reached for the cold side of the bed, fingers gripping nothing but the worn blanket and what used to be Sebastian’s pillow. Ate eggs and some tomatoes for breakfast. Tidied the kitchen a little. Sat by the table with a cup of tea and nothing but his thoughts to accompany him.

Then, he went outside.

He watered the patch of freshly packed earth.

And he did the same the next day.

He tended to it. Checked the soil. Whispered absent, half-delirious encouragement like prayers. Day after day. Week after week.

The routine began all over again.

The bitter grip of winter had only just begun to loosen, giving way to the milder air of spring. Ominis knelt in the vegetable patch, having just unearthed a few meagre potatoes. Now, his fingers sought out the plant instead. While many of the other crops had frozen through the winter, the small bud had been stubborn: it hadn’t grown, not truly, but it no longer felt wilted either.

Absent-mindedly, Ominis brushed his fingers over it while reaching for the watering can.

He froze.

The bud had opened.

He checked again with both hands, just to be certain.

Yes.

It wasn’t a flower yet — but it had opened, just a little.

A strange warmth spread through his stomach, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Yes, it was foolish to place so much meaning, so much symbolism, in a stubborn little bud. But Ominis thought that surely, he was allowed a few delusions.

He heard footsteps crunching along the gravel path that led up to the garden. He didn’t bother reacting. Usually it was Ominis who went into town, but sometimes Mr Fig came to him instead — bringing a loaf of bread, sitting with him for a while, talking about nothing in particular.

Ominis was tired today. The night had been windy, and the boarded-up window had creaked ominously. He would likely need to hammer it shut again soon, with new nails this time. He shuddered at the thought. At least there was still plenty of firewood, though the axe was getting a bit slow.

He was just about to turn and apologise to Mr Fig, to say he wasn’t in the mood for tea today, perhaps tomorrow, when a voice said:

“So you finally decided to water the stupid plant.”

Ominis’ body went cold. Paralysed. Time seemed to freeze. The wind seemed to die out in an instant.

It wasn’t possible.

It wasn’t him.

And yet it had sounded so real. The voice was worn, tired, but unmistakable.

But it couldn’t — 

Ominis rose slowly to his feet, brushing the soil from his knees.

Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was still lying on the floor by the window, the cursed plank and nails scattered beside him while rain lashed its way inside. Perhaps he was still kneeling on the kitchen floor, surrounded by shards of the shattered pot.

If this was death, then he had never felt more alive.

“What, have you gone mute as well now? I leave you with one disability, and you’ve gone and collected another?”

Despite the surrealism, despite the sheer absurdity of it all, Ominis couldn’t help the breathy huff that escaped him. He turned slowly.

“Sebastian.”

Was it a question? A plea? A statement of fact? He didn’t know. He only knew it had been so long since he’d spoken the name aloud. So long since he’d let it roll off his tongue. It had existed instead as something forbidden in his mind — something he scarcely dared to think of directly. Sebastian had become an abstraction: a collection of memories, sensations, scents, feelings, all without a name.

And now — 

“I’m here.”

Three — four — five quick steps, and Ominis barely had time to stiffen before familiar hands seized him. He tensed, whether from shock or disbelief he couldn’t tell, when the impossible happened: Sebastian pulled him into an embrace. For a few seconds, Ominis stood rigid, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, still stunned, while Sebastian buried his face in the hollow of Ominis’ neck and held him so tightly it felt as though Ominis’ lungs — already too small, already strained — couldn’t quite draw breath.

“You smell the same,” Sebastian murmured.

And for some reason, those were the words that finally broke him.

He clung to Sebastian, afraid he might vanish if he didn’t hold on tightly enough. At first he heard a broken, hitching sob and thought it was Sebastian — but then he realised it was coming from his own chest. Sebastian echoed him, holding him so close Ominis could barely breathe, and still it didn’t feel real. Sebastian smelled of damp and earth and a hint of sweat, and yet he also smelled exactly as he always had: something grounded, something unmistakably him. Ominis’ hands moved frantically over Sebastian’s body, searching for injuries — or perhaps just trying to remember how he felt. Likely both.

“What are you doing here?” Ominis whispered, and only then did he realise they had sunk to their knees on the ground, the chill of frozen earth seeping through his trousers and into his bones. He hardly noticed.

“Are you… are you…?”

He knew the most common reason for an early discharge. Wounds severe enough to make a man unfit for service. His hands flew to Sebastian’s chest, noting the worn jumper and threadbare jacket, but he couldn’t feel anything that seemed truly wrong.

“I’m all right,” Sebastian said, catching one of his wandering hands and lifting it to his mouth, kissing Ominis’ fingertips even though they were still streaked with soil.

“I injured my leg rather badly a few weeks ago. Not life-threatening, but enough that they kept an eye on it. Then, about a week ago, I took a bayonet cut to the hip in close combat. The risk of infection was enough for my superior to finally send me home.”

Ominis let out a small, incredulous laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it was unreal.

“They sent you home over a cut,” he repeated, smiling faintly, and he could almost feel Sebastian rolling his eyes.

“A rather nasty cut,” Sebastian corrected, “with a very real risk of becoming infected if I don’t care for it properly. On top of that, my left leg isn’t much use just now.”

“But you’re here,” Ominis said, wrapping his arms around him again, burying his face against Sebastian’s chest and breathing him in. Sebastian’s arms closed around him once more, holding him close.

“I’m here.”

They stood there for a very long time.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Ominis wasn’t even sure whether he was awake or caught in some long, exquisitely detailed dream. He pulled Sebastian into the cottage, and Sebastian let out a low whistle, praising the state of the place. Ominis flushed and waved it off — he knew the house had fallen into some disrepair since Sebastian left, given his own difficulties in keeping up with everything. He laid out what had been his meagre lunch: a few carrots, some bread, cheese, and tomatoes. Sebastian devoured it with enthusiasm and swore it was the best meal he’d had in ages. Hearing Sebastian sitting there at the rickety table again, whistling as he ate, nearly made Ominis come apart all over again. He had to lean against the counter and draw a few steadying breaths, just to make sure this was real.

Sebastian was made to bathe properly, groaning in pleasure at the feel of warm water and soap against his skin, then hissing in pain when he brushed the wound. That alone was enough for Ominis to dress immediately after and march him straight to the village’s best doctor, Madam Blainey.

"I have to say," Sebastian said somewhat jokingly as Ominis more or less shoved him into his coat, "I never thought I'd miss you manhandling me into my outerwear, but here I am."

Ominis rolled his eyes and reached for his own scarf, looping it around Sebastian's neck.

"I wouldn't have to manhandle you if you actually wore enough clothing when you went outside, instead of claiming 'the cold is no match for your already cold heart'."

"It sounds dramatic and masculine," Sebastian complained, but obediently allowed Ominis to slip gloves on his hands. 

"You fought a literal war," Ominis said flatly. "You've done enough masculine things for a lifetime."

Sebastian grew quiet after that, but once Ominis had gotten his own gloves on, Sebastian lifted his leather-clad hand and kissed the back of it softly. Ominis nearly wobbled, and he would have suggested skipping their little outing altogether despite being the one who pushed for it in the first place, hadn't Sebastian hissed with pain as he shifted his weight onto his injured leg.

Madam Blainey seemed just as startled to see Sebastian as Ominis had been, but recovered quickly and planted him in a chair to examine the injury. By the time they left, they were carrying a cloth bag full of salves, medicines, herbs, and bandages. There was little to be done about his leg — it would either heal back to something like normal, or Sebastian would limp for the rest of his life. For now, she instructed him not to put more weight on it than necessary and to stretch the muscles every morning to keep them from stiffening.

“Otherwise I’ll end up needing a cane as well,” Sebastian joked. “We can match.”

Ominis swatted his good leg and tried to hold back a smile. It felt surreal, walking beside Sebastian again, hearing his easy, teasing voice, matching his footsteps along the gravel path.

Sebastian wanted to check on the house, do some gardening, harvest some of the vegetables before the weed took over. Ominis more or less forced him to sit down in the living room.

"The stupid plants and the stupid house and the stupid fence have survived twelve months without you," he said firmly, trying to sound determined when his voice was dangerously close to wavering. "Forgive me for wanting my partner's attention before he gives it to the stupid window or the potatoes."

Sebastian laughed. "Ominis," he chuckled, and then he pulled him into his lap, hugging him and holding him close. Ominis barely even noticed when he began to cry again; it wasn't the all-consuming, grief-stricken type of cry he'd gotten used to over the past few months, but rather a relieved one. A "I can't believe you're here"-cry. A "thank the heavens and everything above for coming back to me"-cry. A "please hold me and never let me go again"-cry.

That night, when they lay together in the bed again for the first time in a year, the sense of unreality crept over Ominis once more. It had to be an impossibly vivid dream. There was no way this was truly Sebastian’s arms around him, Sebastian’s familiar scent filling his lungs. Too many nights he had lain here clutching Sebastian’s jumper, trying to remember the weight of those arms, the warmth of that body beside his. It couldn’t possibly be real now.

For a long, long time, neither of them spoke. They simply held each other, breathing in sync, quietly marveling at the sound of the other breathing. At the steady, living proof of the other’s heartbeat.

Ominis wasn’t naïve. He knew this day — this night — was still wrapped in the fragile novelty of return, of reunion. This wasn’t the fairytale ending, riding into the sunset on a unicorn, never to be troubled again. Sebastian had fought a war. Literally. He had seen things Ominis never would, no pun intended. Ominis knew enough about survivor’s guilt and PTSD to recognize that even if Sebastian seemed calm now, even if he joked and smiled and kissed Ominis eagerly at every opportunity, something strained beneath it. A tension in his voice. A carefulness. It might have been the pain in his leg, but Ominis knew Sebastian well enough to understand that there was far more waiting to be unpacked.

He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it would be easy from here on out. There would be darker days. Days when the weight of memory would settle heavily on their chests. Days when they would need space, and silence, and time. To process, to grieve. To mourn the versions of themselves the war had taken from them. Even if Ominis counted himself among the lucky few whose loved one had actually returned, he knew that something had still been lost.

They had lost who they were before Sebastian went to war and saw people die, before he had to kill people himself. Before Ominis endured the suffocating quiet of a house too large and too empty for one blind man, when it had once been full of laughter, movement, and helping hands.

And yet.

The most important thing was that they were here. Together. That Ominis could rest his head against Sebastian’s chest again, listen to the rise and fall of his breath, feel the solid reassurance of him beneath his palm. That whatever awaited them — days, weeks, years of healing and setbacks and hard conversations — they would face it side by side.

After all, that had always been their way. Meeting the darker parts of life together. Helping each other navigate what couldn’t be avoided alone.

And Ominis was endlessly, achingly grateful that he had been given another chance to do exactly that.