A sore lump clogs up Draco’s throat. He is not sure he has ever felt the need to cry, even as a child. The demon has always leaned on his anger, choosing to lash out violently when he feels anything other than confidence and arrogance. Sometimes I think it’s my fault rings so loudly in his ears that his head begins to ache. Draco understands so completely that his back tightens with the weight of it.
It’s my fault, he thinks, though he would never say it.
It’s my fault because I couldn’t keep him around even when I understood more of what was going on. It’s my fault because I didn’t go after him immediately. It’s my fault because I allowed my resentment to push me into a bitter routine.
It’s my fucking fault.
But Draco doesn’t utter a single word, instead choosing to set dim crimson eyes on his draconic sibling. Dad would be pissed if he knew we were blaming ourselves, is his last thought before he pushes through the self-loathing to focus completely on Ghaul. Draco knows that logically this is their dad’s own fucked up solution to some small, fixable problem; but it does not soothe the ache. It does not soothe the burning question: Why was I not good enough for you to work through it?
It doesn’t matter, though. At least that is what the demon tells himself. It doesn’t matter and it never will, and Dad will probably be back around in a few years.
I’ll hate him more, then.
Draco chokes on his pain when he bursts, “Of course I would say goodbye, Ghaul, but I would never leave you or our home.” He knows to never say never. He knows Dad had said never plenty of times and still the pair ended up here. Broken. Violent. Clawing at some sense of relief and comfort that they can barely give each other.
“I love you, Ghaul,” Draco murmurs, saying every word carefully so as to not die on them. “You are blood of my blood. We will make Father regret missing us grow up. We’ll burn empires in his name.”
