𝓻𝓪𝓫𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷 𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮.
Rabastan had grown up being fed this kind of underhanded affection, the kind of attention that always stung, like a hand across his cheek. It was the way Rodolphus had thought to deal with him ever since they were boys, snapping at even the implication that Rabastan’s feelings should be taken into account. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect this from Lucius – he knew he could be blind when it came to the man currently digging his fingers into his shoulder, but he wasn’t that foolish. It was that Rabastan was just drunk enough that he didn’t particularly feel like backing down. Maybe Lucius was right, maybe there was a shred of truth to his words, but that didn’t feel particularly important right now. Rab just wanted to chip away at this cold facade until all that was left was a Lucius that could love and be loved in return without breaking everything he touched.
“You’re so fucked in the head that you think setting me up for failure is helping me,” Rabastan snarled, volume of his voice rising. He wasn’t thinking about where they were or who could hear. All he could focus on was the way Lucius was looking at him, as though he was this pathetic creature simply for having a working, functioning heart. “I bet a part of you wanted me to fail. A part of you wanted me to look like a goddamn fool because then I’m not a threat. Then, I can’t interfere in your little love affair with our mutual friend. Then, I will always be under your fucking thumb, always forced to your bidding on your time, on your schedule, whenever you feel like paying me even a sliver of attention. I’m not your wife, Lucius,” he spat venomously. “I don’t exist for your benefit, for you to throw around however you see fit.”
And as much as Rabastan was furious at Lucius, angry enough to throw a punch if he was provoked, he did feel a pang of sadness when Lucius pulled away, when the sharp squeezing pressure on the back of his neck was gone. The proximity between them and the proximity between anger and lust was really doing his head in, leaving him in a drunken haze where he couldn’t tell whether he wanted to punch Lucius in the throat or kiss him so hard they saw stars. Neither was an option, not really, but that didn’t stop his eyes from going practically black with desire.
“I fucking hate this version of you, you know that?” he said, emotion creeping into his voice. “You’re mean and you’re heartless, and you hurt because you can, and I know it’s somehow my fault for expecting you to be anything other than this…warped statue of a man, but I’m not built for this, Lucius. I’m not like you or my brother, who can force your feelings into tiny little boxes and pretend they never existed to begin with.” You know this. You’re like me, I know you’re like me, and it’s my fault you don’t remember. It’s my fault you catapulted yourself into playing pretend. “You, of all people, know how hard it is, being who we are. So, why are you trying to punish me for it? Isn’t the rest of the world enough?”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, smooth and clean, sharp and angled, tearing his eyes away from Lucius for the first time since they stepped to the side of the ceremony. “It’s not even that I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s that I don’t want to keep shoveling your shit and dealing with the twisted mind-fuckery that is being your friend. If you can even call this that.”
Had he wanted to see Rabastan fail? Maybe, but not quite - Lucius didn’t understand what his reason was behind the tainted Felix, in all honesty, because he had chosen not to dwell on the thought before, during, or after the exchange. A simple slip of his finger, if anyone tried to delve through the memory and find him none the wiser to his own shortcoming. A part of him assumed Rabastan was too brazen, too self-assured to actually use it; another part was jealous, rightly so in his eyes, and a bit of sabotage of those he was envious of always made him feel a fraction better. But the disgusting truth may have rested in Rabastan’s assumptions alone - that the distance between them grew without passing reason, and the only times the other man was driven back towards Lucius’ company was when he needed an ego stroked, a smile given, a smidgen of praise for all his worthless endeavors, and Lucius did it. Without regard to the usual hurdles he made people jump through, he gave those soft pieces to Rabastan whenever he asked, and in return, Rabastan was supposed to give him unmitigated friendship. What did it matter if the situation was slightly manipulated? What did it matter if the push of Rabastan back toward him, back into the orbit of his life, was at Lucius’ hand? He should be grateful the other man wanted him there at all, the younger Lestrange having thoroughly evaded his own usefulness years ago.
For reasons unbeknownst to him, parts of Rabastan’s counter landed as deftly as his own had; the word ‘wife’ thrown so venomously at him that Lucius’ nostrils flared at the accusation. This was possibly due to the fact he didn’t treat Narcissa in such a way, always treading carefully between his role of a husband and a patriarch, not wanting to accept the dichotomy they saw too often among the traditional families ( though, to be fair, he was unaware at how poor of a job he was doing ). It was more likely due to the fact that these quiet moments with Rabastan always led to the same outcome, regardless of how Lucius had meddled or what scenario had played out, good or bad; a viciousness lobbed at Lucius for reasons he didn’t quite remember, his favorite rabid dog biting the hand that feeds for no other reason than to what, exactly? The means to Rabastan’s end seemed so muddled and unclear - they’d been side by side nearly all their lives, and still, the man insisted on rendering confrontation in the worst way, choosing the path of broken tree branches and trampled plants despite knowing Lucius preferred a bit more finesse on the crooked walking path of their tilted arguments.
It didn’t help that Lucius despised tastes of his own medicine; it was rare for someone to know him well enough to land verbal punches as well as he tossed them out, but here was Rabastan - inebriated, rosy-cheeked, chiseled in his righteousness - sticking arrows in his chest just to watch him bleed, knowing Lucius couldn’t do a thing about it here, couldn’t lose his temper here, couldn’t say anything the raven haired man wanted him to say here, even if Lucius had no bloody clue what that could be anymore... The tables felt turned and Lucius hated this seat.
It was beginning to infuriate him, but the casket door was finally kicked close as Rabastan dragged a tired hand over sharp features, barbed wire words leaving his lips as he pronounced their friendship dead to rites. Nothing gentle is left to be said, Lucius’ anger more pronounced than his vulnerability, a little bit of color rising in his cheeks but otherwise, he forced his face to be expressionless. No one was allowed to hurt him - no one was allowed the satisfaction of seeing him break.
“Then don’t,” Lucius offered, swinging the bat for Rabastan’s knees, rooted in spot and ignoring the need to step forward, to initiate intimacy, when the other had made so clear it wasn’t what he desired anymore. “Leave,” another flippant response, tone icy cold, verbally erecting barrier after barrier between them as he continued, gaze trained on Rabastan’s face with the exactness of a man observing a dead bug under a microscope. “You’ve already shown your hand, Lestrange - you want me to care more than I do, and I don’t, so go. You’re embarrassing me at work, and I have more important things to do than listen to your manic ramblings as some lofty show to a boyhood friendship neither of us can seem to maintain.”
“You’ve exposed your willful ignorance toward anything larger than yourself long enough, and I’ve grown tired of cleaning up every mess you make simply because you blame me for them.” That should’ve been it, a finality ringing in Lucius’ voice as he went to step away, angling his body so that his shoulder bumped roughly into Rabastan’s in some schoolyard display of aggression - but the movement brushed the back of his hand against Rabastan’s knuckles, skin hot against his own, the sensation making his pulse skip momentarily and the blond found his eyes closing as he paused. As if stepping into darkness granted him a right for tenderness, for truth, and maybe it’s because he knows Rabastan’s four Firewhiskeys gone to the wind and won’t remember this anyway, but he found himself offering softly under his breath, without even realizing what he was saying, “I don’t pretend they don’t exist, Rabastan. I just feel them in my own time. Not everyone means what they say or says what they mean like you - some become statues because we need to survive, but I feel all the same.” We’re more than friends, and his ring finger twitched, and suddenly, Lucius was careening back to reality.
It’s too tender, too soft, and when Lucius opened his eyes to the cold light of the atrium, gaze immediately finding Sinistra across the room, the marble veneer fell back into place, jerking his hand away to shove in the pocket of his robes. “It’s time for you to go - don’t make me warn the Aurors about your ‘situation,’ you know the Department of Intoxicating Substances will be just randy to cart you away from the refreshment table if I give the word, and the Lestrange name doesn’t need any more bad press, in my professional opinion.” With that, Lucius swept away, not looking back to make sure Rabastan headed his word; in fact, Lucius would keep his eyes trained on Sinistra for the rest of the night, the willful ignorance to his surroundings the only combatant he had against the visceral urge to seek out Rabastan again. Their situation was woefully clear - if Rabastan didn’t want him, then Lucius wouldn’t waste his time begging for scraps of affection like he had with his brother. He was above that by now, thankfully, and if Rabastan was too - well, all the better for both of them. They’d been reliant on one another for much too long.
















