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galaxiasgreen · 4 months ago

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🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-rated, 4.8k words]

"You ain't got a bad face either, lad. You looking for a partner? My daughter is quite beautiful." You hope Sebastian will chalk all that to the mania, but he wiggles his eyebrows at you. "That she is, sir."

You have a bad day – Sebastian seeks to change that.

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, grief, coarse language, dementia/ Alzheimer's disease.

3. good days, bad days

When Sebastian collapses onto the barstool, you can see the withdrawal written like plain English on his face.

"You know what I want," he croaks. "Please."

It's another typical weekday in a late summer heatwave. You pour him a stout and slide it across the counter, and as he guzzles it greedily, Adam's apple bobbing to the rhythm, you note the haggard look on his face. He's handsome, that's for sure, but today he's also worn down, stretched and contracted by the universe itself to leave this brittle husk behind.

"You looked like you needed that."

He slams the glass down.

"There are good days and there are bad days," he says, panting hard. "Today... today is a bad day."

He drags his thumb up his temple, plying one of the veins that protrudes across. He's sweating, from the heat and the relief, and you watch a fat droplet roll down his face. It sets a course along his jaw, down the sharp angle of his chin before it finally drips onto the back of his hand.

"You shouldn't stop immediately," you say, forcing yourself to look away. "You need to give time for your body to adjust."

"You think I don't know that?"

You say nothing.

He recoils a little. "Sorry. Shouldn't snap."

"Irritability," you mumble. "It's a symptom."

"That explains why everything is so fucking annoying today." His eyes meet yours. "You must've seen loads like me."

"Eight years' worth, yeah. You're not the first and you won't be the last."

"Have you ever..." He swallows. "How many have beat it?"

The answer leaps fully formed onto your tongue. None. None at all. You've seen people try, make promises to God when they're broken and on their knees... and you've seen those same people stagger their way back to your counter, begging for respite the only way they know how. Sometimes you never see them again, when someone imparts the sad news dressed in funeral black.

"Just because I ain't seen it doesn't mean it didn't happen – doesn't happen. It's possible." Sebastian is much too clever for lies and sickly sweet encouragement, but you stare at him straight anyway. "You survived the passing of your sister. That toughens a person. You can beat this."

Yet he thrusts his empty glass in your direction, a wordless plea that breaks your heart. You refill it in exchange for more coin, and Sebastian doesn't take his eye off your movements – pulling the leaver down, pouring the dark gold liquid, letting the foam float to the top. A skein spills over when you pass it back to him, and he draws his tongue up the glass slowly to lick it clean. You track it hungrily.

"It's all bloody pointless, isn't it?"

You focus on his eyes again, coffee, ground, chewed up and spat out.

"I'll keep trying. Every day I wake up and I just want to drink, and I tell myself no, because that's how it's supposed to be, but everyone knows I'll come back here. If Ominis took my feet I'd crawl on my knees, and if he took my knees I'd drag myself by my hands. I'd find a way. It just doesn't stop."

"It stops," you say, "when you choose to stop."

"It doesn't work like that. You know it doesn't." He gazes at you stormily over the lip of his glass. "Just because you choose to free yourself from the maw of a beast doesn't mean it'll let you go."

Last time he got like this you threw it back at him. This time it feels different. Sebastian isn't angry at the world – he's just angry at himself, and that only warms you with tides of pity and sorrow. In the next stride you're hoisting up the bar door and plonking yourself onto the stool at his side, aware of his scent, musky with the heat, and the way his eyes hook onto you, never once leaving yours.

"I don't do... comfort," you warn him. "Trying to beat addiction is shit, and I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I'm sorry that you're in this situation," you clarify. "Here's the thing though: you're going to fail. You're going to fail over and over. But what really matters is you don't give up when the going gets tough. You get up. Because the only one who can beat this thing is you."

He drinks again, slower now, contemplative, and he manages to stop a third of the way down.

"Not bad advice for someone who doesn't do comfort," he mumbles. "When I used to live up north, I got to know the barkeep at my local, too. She gave good advice. Must be in the profession."

"Must be all the listening to so many people whinge."

"You love it really." A smile peels out from his melancholy, which is gratifying to see. "Her name was Sirona. She was like a mother to me."

"Sirona?" You scoff. "You make a habit being on first-name basis with every barkeep, Sallow?"

"Nah, not all." He winks. "Just the pretty ones."

You roll your eyes and go to stand, get back to work, but Sebastian catches your hand. His fingers, though large and strong and ribbed with veins, are deceptively soft and gentle, and his thumb grazes over the skin, lighting up some darkness in your chest.

"Thank you."

It's simple, but it means the world.

When you wake one morning, the sunrise has long sheared away the darkness of your bedroom in the eaves.

That means you're late.

You curse yourself and throw off the blanket. It must be after seven. Damn it. You forgot to set your alarm clock last night, so overwhelmed with fatigue that you hit the sack immediately upon closing up the pub. Scrambling to make up for lost time, you throw on a day dress and apron and sprint downstairs.

Your mother stoops over the window sill overlooking the beer garden. The gnarled ridge of her spine protrudes out her back. What little hair she has is wispy and white, like a tuft of cloud, and her fingers crackle when they touch the glass, bony and desiccated from years of hard work.

"Mama—"

She doesn't turn around. "It's a pretty day, isn't it, dear?"

You frantically check she hasn't hurt herself – a scrape, bruise or God forbid, blood – but she seems unharmed, and you send a thank you upwards as you usher her towards the armchair. "It is, Mama."

"Where's Fluffy? Haven't heard him barking up a storm yet."

"Running around outside, Mama. Sit here. I'll get you breakfast."

Instead you race across the hall and almost crash into your papa, clenching the bannister for dear life. His withered face, sagged with age, makes no issues for his beaming smile, boasting his yellowed teeth.

"I dreamt of Margate today. We should go there, don't you think, dear? Last time we went you devoured three scoops of ice cream in ten seconds!"

Margate, the famous beach town over in west England. Your parents took you a few times when you were young, the only family day trips you could afford. The memories are fond and sentimental, though you haven't had three scoops of ice cream since you were about five.

"We'll see, Papa."

You slip a hand beneath his arm, trying not to flinch at how frail he is, and help him to the parlour. Your mama has moved from the chair again, back at the window, staring at the endless blushing sky. It's approaching the later months now, when the morning is a balancing act between sunlight and ink, and you have to squint to see the tiny mound at the back of the garden, where Fluffy has been buried for four years.

It doesn't matter that they forget, that they can't help themselves anymore. They're all you have left.

You feed them, you dress them, you wash them of their soiled clothes. You tuck them into their respective armchairs, then take a moment to clean yourself, checking periodically between sponging away last night's sweat to make sure they haven't fallen over and knocked into something. There's no time for grub now, so you head downstairs just as the front door bangs.

"Ada, hello."

Ada's low-cut dresses don't surprise you anymore; you don't have to imagine what she does after she's finished here for the day. She tears the cigarette from her lips and blows the smoke out, the stink of it stifling.

"Late today?"

"I slept in."

"Still counts as my time. And I want payment upfront."

It's getting more costly – two shillings, six pence – but you pay it, because the alternative is much worse. Ada bites each coin before pocketing them and silently making her way upstairs.

You snatch an apron from the side. It's time to work. You count the stock, clean the tables, accept deliveries and prepare food all before the other staff arrive – Bonny gives you a sweet smile.

"You aw'right, Miss?"

Her assaulter behind bars, she's been feeling much better about coming to work. It'll never be the same for her, but you take some comfort in knowing there's peace in closure.

"I'm fine. Can you rake the garden today?"

"'Course, but..."

"What?"

"Your hair's got a mind of it's own, Miss. You sure you're okay?"

You finger-comb it down. "Just get to work, please."

Your stomach growls when you open, but you push through for the late morning crowd. The in-house chef cooks breakfast, breads soaked in hot lard, smoked kipper on rye, beef gruels and broth, which only makes you long more for a moment to sit down. I woke up late, this is my punishment. Things only exacerbate when two – two – clumsy patrons drop their glasses, leaving you to clean up the shattered remains, and another woman gives you a bollocking for bungling an order.

Not even a surprise visit from Sebastian at eleven o'clock brightens your mood.

"You're early," you remark, when he sinks into his stool.

He raises an eyebrow. "And you're sharp. I thought I'd pop in. Bad day, huh?"

"I'm not an alcoholic."

"Hey, even you normal drinkers have Bad days."

Then today is a Bad day – a really fucking Bad day.

"I slept in. That's all."

He grins. "Guess it's my turn to comfort you, huh?"

"Don't need comfort."

"Like a fish doesn't need water?" When you shoot him a steely glare, he simply sticks out his tongue. "You're being crabby today. Ever thought about taking a break? Having a night out with friends?"

"No time."

"No time for friends?"

"No time to make them."

"Well, you've met Ominis. How about we share?" You wince; Sebastian laughs. "He's all right once you get to know him. You should meet Garreth too, he's a good sport. What about your parents?"

The bad mood colours with fear. "What about them?"

"You said they were retired. Do they live in the country?"

"You think I can afford to buy them property in the country?"

"Where do they live then?"

"Not here."

"Why not go visit them?"

"I see them every day."

It slips out. Fuck. A stupid mistake. His lips roll, but hopefully he can't see the way you've bent the truth.

"And you?" you ask quickly, busying your hands so you don't have to meet his gaze. "What about your parents?"

"Ah." He draws his thumb pensively across his cheek. "They're dead."

"Oh." Bugger.

His lips split into a grin. "The look on your face... relax, bar girl. It was a long time ago. Happens to everyone eventually."

You don't want to think about that.

"Tell me about them," he says, making himself more comfortable as panic runs riot in your bones. "Are they as crabby as you?"

"I am not crabby."

You are a little crabby.

"Nowt much to tell," you mumble, before he can retort. "Both of them worked here their whole lives, barely a break in between. Mama took some time off when they had me, but while I kipped she'd come down to wait tables."

His gaze flickers upwards. "You lived upstairs?"

Fuck. "Yeah. I mean, I do now, they don't."

"So you're here all the time? What do you do for fun?"

You slap your hands to the counter. Sebastian doesn't even flinch.

"I don't have time for a bloody interrogation, Sebastian. Do you want a drink or not?"

Instead the bastard leans a head in his hands, and bats his eyelids like a dewy-eyed debutante.

"You should swear more. I like it when you're crabby."

"You see that pot hanging up behind me? You're going to become very acquainted with it if you don't shut up."

He leans close until his breath whispers along your nose.

"I like you most when you're angry at me."

Before you can grab the pot, the stock room door groans opens.

"Dear!" cries your mama.

Every muscle in your body goes cold. You swing around, sure you misheard the voice, but it is her, smile wide and ignorant, shuffling towards you with the pace of a determined turtle.

You freeze. How did she get downstairs? And why? What the hell is Ada doing? And why isn't it the thing you're bloody paying her for?

"Mama," you step forwards to intercept her, "you shouldn't be here—"

"Oh, hello, young man," she says, regarding Sebastian. "My, you're very muscular, aren't you?"

You flush. "Mama—"

"Part of my job, ma'am," Sebastian responds smoothly. "I see where your daughter's beauty comes from."

You lose the ability to speak. My beauty? Your mother chortles. "What a charmer. What are you having?"

There's no beer in front of him, but still he says, "Stout."

"Ah." There's a twinkle in her eye. "That's my favourite of the beers. Did you know the name comes from its strength? Not one for the weak-willed."

"I didn't know that." His eyes slide to you. "Good to know I'm not weak-willed."

"I will never forget my first sip. Seventeen, managed to flirt with the barkeep for a pint to impress another man. Was sitting in that very stool. I knew he saw right through me but he gave me a pint anyway. Awful, didn't have the stomach for it back then, yet I drank the whole thing. Funny. I never saw the other man after that night, but the barkeep, well." She gives you a squeeze. "I think there was magic involved."

"I'll bet," Sebastian replies. "It's always good to believe in a little magic."

"Mama," you say tiredly. "Let's get you back upstairs."

"I miss Margate," she says as you take her arm. "We should go to Margate, shouldn't we, dear? The beach is lovely. Your father misses it so much, and you can have your ice cream."

"One day, Mama."

Sebastian gets to his feet. "Let me help you."

You can't say no. He ducks beneath the bar door and snakes his arm through your mother's. She looks at him strangely.

"Hello there. Where did you come from?"

It feels like your life is collapsing. This part of your image, carefully crafted to hide a terrible secret, has cracked upon the face – and what good is porcelain when it is no longer perfect? You put one foot after the other, mindful of your mama's pace, and Sebastian's, as you lead her into the stock room, and to the stairs leading back up to the house.

Ada is halfway down once you shut the door behind you. Her face is flushed. "Swear, I went to help your papa wash— I was only gone for two seconds—"

"Later," you snap. "Just do your bloody job now."

She heads back up the stairs, sheepish, as you and Sebastian follow up, and finally get her settled back into her armchair. You're frighteningly aware of how silent Sebastian is, how his eyes dart about, drinking in the details of your home, your space. Already you're thinking of a hundred excuses. She's just sick, this isn't normal, she didn't forget who you were in the space of a minute. It's useless now.

Sebastian will see through it all.

He doesn't say a word when you return back downstairs, after you lock the stockroom door. The day has turned from Bad to Catastrophic – the best you can do now is damage control.

Your pour him a stout and slide it to him.

"Please don't tell anyone."

He stares at it, confused. "What?"

"You can have free drinks, forever," you whisper. "Food too. Whatever you want—"

"Whoa, bar girl!" He laughs. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't need charity."

"Money then?"

"What makes you think I'll tell anyone?"

You flick your gaze between his eyes, but he's quite serious. "I know they're... they're..." mad, you can't say aloud, "but please, you can't tell anyone. I can't have them sent away to an asylum. They're all I have left."

"I'm not going to tell anyone," he says softly. "I promise."

It's not very reassuring, frankly. You paid Ada to take care of them, and she couldn't even do that. But Sebastian's never broken his word before, not with you, not with Bonny. You just wish he didn't know – wish you could erase the memory like it never existed at all.

"Are you going to take them?" he asks, breaking your train of thought.

"What?"

"To the beach?" Sebastian leans his head in his hands again. "Your mama wanted to go, said your father did too..."

You blurt a shrill laugh. "'Course not. The nearest beach is miles away and I ain't got the time nor money to get them there."

"I can take them."

That feeling you've been ignoring stirs again. You push it down.

"Yeah, all right, Sebastian, and I'll quit my job tomorrow to pursue a passion in ballet."

"Bet you'd look good in a tutu."

You flush despite yourself. "No offence, but you can barely walk in a straight line, and they can't leave the house!"

"I can be sober for a few hours. And if it's only one morning it'll be fine, right? It's not good to keep them cooped up there. Your mama seemed fine."

You shake your head. "No, no, she— and my papa— they aren't well." They're not right in the head anymore. "I appreciate the offer, but—"

"That's too bad." Sebastian shrugs. "I've decided to decline you."

"You— what?"

"I'm taking them to the beach." He makes it sound like he's offering to pick up some groceries at the market. "What day works best? Tomorrow? Meant to be nice weather. You can leave Bonny in charge for a bit."

"Are you nuts? How would you even get them there?"

"If I tell you," he grins, "I'll have to..."

"God, be serious, for once in your bloody—"

He takes your hand suddenly. This is only the second time now, but again you're totally arrested, focus pinpointed on the tenderness with which he squeezes you – with grip as firm as a promise unbroken.

"I can do it."

You swallow the hope down, but it persists like a lump. Is it a trick? Have you been lured by silver words and pretty smiles? Sebastian is a master of pretence and possesses not just a dark streak – but a demonic one. What if he hurts your parents? What if he turns them into the authorities? They're vulnerable people, and they're all you have left. Yet you can't bring yourself to say no anymore. You can't bring yourself to push him away, not when it seems like he would carry the world on his shoulders for a glimpse of your smile.

To make my parents happy, you correct yourself tersely. Parents, not me. He's doing it for them. That's why you're doing this too – for them.

"All right," you concede in a whisper. "But you can't just take them. I have to go, and I need to know logistics."

"I meet you here before dawn, I'll collect your parents, and you make you way over before us. I'll even let you ride my carriage."

"You have a carriage?"

"I can get one."

"You can... get one..."

"A man can't get a carriage now?"

"Not by tomorrow."

"I know the right people."

"In the police?"

He winks. "If I tell you..."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, so let's say I manage to believe you'll conjure a carriage from thin air as you escort my parents in God-knows-what contraption. How long will it take you to get there?"

"Don't worry about that. I'll be there before you."

The retort leaps onto your tongue, but when he gives you that look, the low-lidded eyes, the flicker of mischief, daring for you to challenge him, your words promptly back down.

"Trust me?" he asks.

How? The question burns, desperate for answers. Sebastian is an elaborate puzzle made of a thousand pieces, except most of them are missing and the few you have don't fit together.

"I'll try." You take a deep breath. "They're all I have left, and I swear to God, Sebastian, if you hurt them... I will hunt you down."

Sebastian slides the correct change across the counter, then downs his drink in one go.

"Oh, bar girl," he says with a laugh, "I'll be disappointed if you don't."

"We're going to the beach today."

If you were a lantern, the way their faces light up could fuel you for a hundred years.

"Margate?" asks your father, facing his wife. "You hear that, darling? The beach in Margate. I've been wanting to go there."

"Not Margate," you explain, and you hate having to temper their expectations, "but yes, the beach, Papa."

"We'll get you ice cream, dear," says your mama.

"I'd like that," you say, smiling.

You left Bonny in charge, giving her the keys and a list of hastily-scrawled instructions about what to do and when to do it. Bonny reassured she'd leave everything spick and span, and you're forced to believe her. You haven't taken a day trip out in – well, since your parents were healthy, and the anticipation excites you as it makes your stomach churn.

At precisely five-thirty, there's a knock at the pub's door. With the carriage and horses waiting on the road as promised, Sebastian leans against the wall with a cigarette jammed in his mouth. He jabs the orange stub into the wall when you bring out a sack of your belongings.

"You smoke now?"

"Good morning to you too. If you must know, it helps relieve the withdrawal." His gaze rakes you up and down, making you blush before it hooks on your footwear. "No, no. Go put some boots on."

"What's wrong with these? They're day shoes, easy to slip on and off for the sand."

"Trust me, you'll need boots."

By the time you've changed into a battered pair, Sebastian has already introduced himself to your papa.

"In the 70s, cor, I tell you, I was a looker," he says, and Sebastian, to his credit, appears genuinely interested. "Face like mine could win anyone over, but when I saw this darling sweet girl talking up that mug at the bar, I just knew she was the one. You ain't got a bad face either, lad. You looking for a partner? My daughter is quite beautiful."

You hope Sebastian will chalk all that to the mania, but he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"That she is, sir."

You snort. It's all a game to him, but it plucks your heartstrings nonetheless, and you clamber into the carriage without looking him in the eye.

Sebastian closes the door. "I'll see you in a few hours."

"Where's the driver?"

"Don't worry about that, the horses know where to go."

Now that is absurd. "How the hell—"

"Ah ah, remember? Trust?"

You sit back in the carriage. "I said I'd try."

"Then try harder." He slaps the carriage side, which prompts the horses into motion. "Get some rest! It's a fairly long journey!"

You don't. The whole way out of the city and down the winding, country roads, you're wide awake, taking in the sight of the buildings and bustle morphing into trees and villages, and fields that roll for endless miles. The horses canter most of the way, so the sea comes into view after only a few hours, the land flat and sparse, and when the carriage stops abruptly, about half a mile out from the shore, you open the door and find the earth damp and moist beneath you, veined with a thousand rivulets of gilded blue.

"Boots," you murmur, smiling.

They squelch when you jump down into the marsh. The air is tangy with salt and sediment, but the sea wind is welcome in the heat. For a moment you shut your eyes, and all that panic and worry and dread – it simply melts away.

As vowed, Sebastian and your parents are waiting on the shore when you cross the marshland towards them. All three of them are as pristine as when you left – another oddity that you cannot explain.

Sebastian sweeps his arm out. "Welcome to Egypt Bay."

It's a small beach, if it can even be called that, settled in a crook between the sea and the mouth of the Thames. The river folds in on itself out beyond, creating a shelf of foam that constantly undulates in perfectly even ripples. The beach itself is a dearth of life, the sand wet but undisturbed, save only for a flimsy parasol Sebastian has stuck into the ground, and your parents, already padding their way towards the ocean.

"The beach!" your father yells. "Wheeee!"

"We vanished in a fireplace!" your mother cries. "Reappeared in another house!"

She must be mad, but you're too elated to care.

"I can't believe you did it," you breathe, facing him. "You actually did it."

He scoffs, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets. "Was there ever any doubt?"

"At least ninety per cent."

"Only ninety? Should've gone for the full one hundred. Would've made a much more satisfying reveal."

He drags out a cooling box and opens the lid – it's full of ice cream. Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, a few more flavours you've never tried. The ice cushioning each tub is intact. How the hell did he transport ice cream without it melting?

"Flavour preference?"

You mumble out a meagre whatever you're having, because you're too overwhelmed to do anything else, so Sebastian takes the chocolate – perfectly frozen – and scoops it into two tubs. The flavour is rich and decadent, better than anything you've had, and brings back another wave of nostalgia for times long past.

"Are you going to tell me how?" you ask, once you're finished.

There's chocolate left on the corner of his mouth. He thumbs it away, then licks it clean.

"If I tell you..."

"You'll have to kill me, I know."

"It's more like, if I tell you, I'd have to... never mind." You shove down the curiosity when he nods his head towards your parents. "They look like they're enjoying themselves."

Your parents intertwine arms and kick up the wet sand with childlike joy. You've been seeing them in monochrome this whole time – now they're in full colour, like some spark has been lit in both of their hearts. Even if it's only for today, only for this rare, precious moment, you are grateful.

"It's all they've talked about the last few months," you mumble. "It's the only thing they've really wanted to do. I care about them, but bringing them out... I've been terrified to do it."

"Because of the forgetfulness?"

"Because if anyone sees them. They're mad and they can't take care of themselves anymore, and if they get sent away... I'll have no one. Selfish, I know, but..." Your breath wracks. "They're all I have left."

There's sand in his hair and lashes, sweat that courses down his jaw, down the column of his throat, past his shirt, a slit open to the air, teasing more of his muscle and tattoos.

"That's not true," he whispers. "You have me."

In the silence, you see him watching your parents in earnest satisfaction. He's a stranger, freckled, drunk, odd, and not above using trickery and deceit against his foes. He shouldn't have to do this, he's not under any obligation. Yet he has, for no other reason than he can, and that it will make your parents happy. Seeing the delight on their faces releases a burden you didn't know you were shouldering.

Tentatively, you reach for his hand, and he responds in kind, until your fingers are knotted together.

"Thank you."

It doesn't encompass all the feelings in your chest, that iridescent gratitude you can't put into words, and how fast your heart beats and your fingers itch to touch him more. How your lips hunger for his.

It's simple, yes, but for him, you hope, it means the world.

The sun catches his face in ethereal light.

"Good day," he says, squeezing your hand.

You squeeze back.

"Yes," you say softly. "Good day."

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