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It was not often that Ominis did not sleep through the night. He was a heavy sleeper, as Sebastian often liked to remind him. Sebastian also insisted that he snored, which he is fairly certain was a lie. Either way, Ominis did sleep heavily most of the time.
But that night, he did not. There was something off about that night, although not in a way that caused a pit of anxiety in his gut or his hair to stand on end. It was just odd. Peculiar and unusual.
His stomach did growl, however, and he stood with a sigh. His fingers found his wand at his bedside, and the hazy outline of Sebastian curled in his own bed faded into his senses. For all his bluster, Sebastian slept just as heavily.
Snorting out a soft laugh, Ominis slipped on a pair of shoes and made his way to the kitchens. Technically, there was a curfew, but it was hardly enforced. He also doubted he would get expelled for plucking a biscuit or two from the day’s leftovers.
There was something of an advantage to being blind, then. He was able to navigate the darkness of the corridors with ease, guided by the blinking red light on the end of his wand. Now and again, he would feel the unpleasant sensation of walking directly through a ghost, but neither would acknowledge the other and he would continue his journey.
Finally, his feet brought him to the kitchens. The house elves were mostly sleeping, but for a select few who were scrubbing pots and pans and cutting piles upon piles of vegetables.
“Young Master Gaunt!” One of the house elves piped up, his voice like the squeak of a mouse. “You’ve arrived at an opportune time. Your friend is here as well.”
“My friend?” Ominis’ eyebrows drew together. Surely Sebastian had not managed to wake up and make it to the kitchens before him. The thought is quickly erased from his head as a familiar silhouette fades into his senses.
Making friends was not always easy for Ominis Gaunt. Throughout his life, he could often count his friends on one hand with fingers to spare. However, he had opened his heart and allowed himself to become close to a very select few as of late. One of those select few was a Ravenclaw of his own age, a Chester Worthington III.
Chester was born to muggle nobility, and through a series of tragedies, ended up as a Duke at a very young age. Then, his magic was discovered, and he was cast into a wider and more unfamiliar world. Ominis found himself having more in common with such a person than he may have initially believed.
They also had key differences, although those differences hardly made them at odds. Chester was trained in martial combat. He was skilled with a sword, a lance, and on a horse. He was tall and strong. Ominis remembers comparing him to Godric Gryffindor once, and he would still stand by that comparison.
Although, it was not that Ominis thought poorly of himself, but he was no warrior and he was aware of the fact. Ominis was skilled with magic, certainly, but he could hardly lift a blade even if he tried his best. It was convenient, then, that Chester was terrible at magic.
And yet there were parts of him that felt an odd tumbling when he was around Chester. When they stood close, the scent of him was in the air. His cologne, something spiced and warm, and then the smell of wet metal and something else that was unique to him. It made his stomach twist in a way that was both pleasant and nerve-wracking.
And that feeling came back standing there, in the kitchens.
“Ah, Ominis.” Chester’s voice was soft when he spoke to him. That did not help with the feeling. “I did not expect to see you here. I thought- Well, I missed dinner and Everett Clopton already ate all of the snacks that are kept in the Ravenclaw Common Room.”
“You don’t need to explain.” Ominis replied, shaking his head. “You are just as welcome in these kitchens as I am. So long as the house elves are not shooing us away, then we shall enjoy a snack together.”
He smiled as he felt Chester pressing biscuits into his hand, and he lifted one to his lips. It tasted of pistachios and vanilla. Chester played the courteous host, as if Ominis had walked into his home. He guided him to a seat, made him a cup of tea, stuffed his hands with even more biscuits until he was laughing and covered in crumbs.
And Chester laughed too, and it was a warm sound. He liked that sound. And then the laughter faded, and Chester was quiet. He got like that sometimes. Contemplative. Ominis did not mind.
They munched the biscuits together in silence, listening to the sound of a scouring brush on a cast iron skillet, and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, and Chester spoke once more.
“Do you remember what I look like?” His voice tilted with curiosity. Ominis could hear it. “I let you feel my face once, but you said it didn’t show you much of anything.”
“You have dark hair– brown, I think you said. Your eyes are the same.” Ominis replied simply, putting down the remainder of the biscuits and dusting himself off. Then he feels Chester’s hand on his, pulling it towards him until their palms are pressed together. Chester’s hand dwarfs his. Despite Ominis being the slightest bit older, Chester was the larger of the two. Ominis suspected that the Worthingtons were not quite as inbred as the Gaunts.
“Our skin is different too. Yours is paler. You spend more time inside.” Chester’s palm is rough against his, and Ominis bites back a shiver. “Mine is a bit darker, but the tone is the real difference.”
“Tone?” Ominis tilts his head, distracted by his own curiosity. “What is the difference between a vocal tone and… a tone of skin?”
“Vision.” He can almost hear Chester shrug. “Your skin is the colour that most people want theirs to be. Mine is not quite so pale, not unless I’m terribly ill. It is not just from spending time outside. It is also hereditary.”
Ominis is about to comment on that, but Chester’s hands grip his, bringing them up to his face. “Feel again. Tell me what you feel.”
Ominis’ brows draw together as he tries to concentrate. He tries not to get distracted by the way that Chester’s hair feels under his fingers. Far too smooth, too enjoyable.
His forehead, his brow, and then over his closed eyes. The ends of his eyelashes dance on Ominis’ fingertips. The strong line of his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw. Ominis deliberately avoids his lips.
His fingers brush the line of his throat, his Adam’s apple, the way the muscles flex as he swallows. And then he can’t avoid it any longer. His thumb brushes his mouth.
And again, his thumb runs over his bottom lip, again and again.
And the tumbling, fuzzy warmth he usually feels burns far too hot and explodes into something molten. In a moment of pure insanity, his thumb slips more, pulling Chester’s bottom lip out and dipping ever so slightly, touching the wet line of his inner lip.
And both of them freeze, and he is not sure whether he is going to follow his hand and crash his mouth into Chester’s, or have a coherent thought and stop himself. And then the rhythmic chopping pauses, and Ominis all but rips himself away.
He clears his throat, and his face is on fire, and he hears Chester do the same.
“I- I should return to the Slytherin common room. It’s late. We’ve classes tomorrow.” Ominis hears Chester choke out some reply or another, but he’s too busy fleeing from the kitchens to decipher it.
He practically sprints through the castle, stumbling over the flipped ends of several rugs before he makes his way back down into the dungeons.
He stands outside the common room, forcing himself to suck in several steadying breaths before he whispers the password and enters. He cannot risk having anyone spot him returning to his dormitory at the midnight hour, sweating and panting like he just fled from a crime.
He manages to catch his breath before he sneaks back into his dormitory. His wand reveals that Sebastian is still sleeping, and he sighs in relief as he removes his shoes and tucks himself back into bed. He draws the curtains, folding himself into what feels like a safe and silent abyss.
Oddly, this was not the first time something like this has happened.
He recalls the Astronomy tower. He met Chester there once, and tried to show him a few spells. He accidentally drew him too close with Accio, and the proximity made his heart beat too fast for comfort.
There was a Renaissance Faire in Hogsmeade, and Chester was going to compete. Beforehand, they had a friendly duel– Magic against the sword. Ominis had put up a good fight, until Chester had pinned him to the wall.
He still remembers it as though he could step directly back into the memory. Their breath heaving, the humidity of the air clinging to their skin. Chester’s hand was wrapped around his wrist, trapping him against the wall. He was close enough to kiss then, too.
And in a momentary lapse, Ominis allows him to imagine what it would have been like had that happened.
He imagines Chester’s mouth sealing over his own, tasting the salt of the sweat on his lips. He imagines Chester dropping his sword, and the gauntleted hand coming up to cup his face and draw him closer. He imagines Chester’s leg pressing between his, pinning him to the barricade, and the rough scrape of his cheeks across his face–
Ominis shifts uncomfortably, rolling on his side. He reaches out with one hand, making sure that the curtains are closed around his bed. His fingers find his wand again, casting a small spell to muffle any noise, and after replacing it beneath his pillow, he slips his hand underneath the blankets.
He lets his hand slip under the waistband of his pajamas, and he finds himself achingly hard. He lets his thumb ghost over the tip, and hisses at the sensation of it. He is almost ashamed at how easily he’s gotten worked up over this. Over nothing but the barest of touches and a handful of memories.
But he doesn’t stop himself either.
He wraps his fingers around his length, giving a slow squeeze, and he feels all the breath rush out of him at once. His head feels heavy, and it falls back on his pillow. His toes curl as he drags his palm up, agonizingly slow. The sensation is like rapid pulses of electricity through his skin and he bites his tongue to hold in the sounds he so desperately wants to make.
He forces himself to take a breath, his free hand trembling as he pushes the blankets down and out of his way. He lets himself linger on another memory instead.
A hot spring in the Forbidden Forest. They sat together, their backs pressed to the warm stones lining the spring. Chester had almost kissed him then. Almost.
So he lets himself imagine the kiss instead.
He imagines Chester’s arms around him, their mouths pressing together. The perfumed water of the spring clinging to his skin, so warm against his.
The imaginary sensation of their bare skin pressing together makes Ominis shudder, and he shoves down his pajamas. He licks a long stripe up his palm and grips himself firmly, pumping his hand up and down.
And he imagines it’s not his own hand. He imagines rougher skin on the palm that squeezes him. He imagines longer fingers pushing up against the delicate skin, bunching slightly with each stroke.
A soft noise erupts from his mouth before he can stop himself, and he bucks up into his hand, the hand he imagines isn’t his.
But then he imagines that the hand is his. Instead, it’s his hand wrapped around someone else. He tries to imagine what it would feel like under his fingers, how it would be different from his own. He tries to imagine the sounds he would make. Would he like it?
Moisture beads at his tip, and it sticks to his fingers as he brushes it away. But if it was Chester, he wouldn’t.
Like falling down a flight of stairs, he imagines a thousand things at once.
What would it feel like against his tongue, he wonders, and in his mouth. He tries to imagine the sounds he would make. Would he like it? Would Ominis even be good at it? He would want to be.
His member jumps in his hand at the thought of it, of laying between Chester’s legs with his hands in his hair. He doesn’t know why the simple thought of it makes his mouth water. He will feel guilty about it later, but he has no time for it now, not with the way his hips roll desperately into his hand.
And then, a curiosity.
He’s touched himself before, close to a thousand times. He was only human after all. But there was something he hadn’t tried. Something he wanted to try.
Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away, wiping it on his pushed away pajamas. He presses a finger into his mouth for the briefest of moments, and then it goes down between his legs again, but lower this time.
His heart skitters with anticipation and anxiety, and he applies the smallest bit of pressure to the opening there. It feels odd, but not unpleasant. His free hand grips himself again, slowly running from the base to the tip, and he applies the slightest bit more pressure.
He hisses as his finger presses in, and he’s not sure whether it hurts or not, but suddenly he feels sweat prickle on the back of his neck and every inch of his body feels so sensitive. He runs his thumb over the tip again, finding even more liquid drooling from the end. He flexes his finger and hisses again, and his length pulses wildly.
And then the fingers aren’t his anymore, and his head falls back once again.
He grips himself again, squeezing, and has to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Warm spend drips over his hand and on to his stomach, and he can hardly move as his climax washes over him like a rushing wave.
He pulls his hands away, sucking in desperate breaths as he tries to compose himself. He tries to imagine what it would be like with him here, his warmth, the sound of his voice.
He wipes the mess away with his pajamas, and tosses them out of bed to clean the following morning. Sebastian won’t think anything of him sleeping naked, as he’s done it before.
He buries his head in his pillow, trying to remember the smell of Chester’s cologne. When he sleeps, he sleeps deep, and he snores.