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Jim does not look at him.
Jim looks at his pillow, clean when he went to bed, now covered in something thick and black where his mouth had been. Where he had coughed into it during the better part of the night.
Omin tries not to stare, and realizes with no small amount of bitter realization that it wouldn’t matter now if he looked away because no one would be able to tell anyway.
He had taken a moment before showering that morning to inspect his eyes since he had been cured of his violet affliction, to see the full extent of this unforeseen side effect. To see why Bobby and Morgaen and Viari had refused to look him in the eyes the evening before. His pupils, iris and sclera all glossed over into an impossible black inky color, refusing to reflect light.
He pulled at his lower lid, found the sight unsettling, and punched the mirror out.
“It’s fine,” Omin says curtly, attention drawn to Jim’s wringing hands. A thought comes to him, and leaves him just as quick-- you think Jim would be used to being on the brink of death by now.
There is a clone of Jim Darkmagic on a different plane, somewhere deep in Avernus, containing half of a soul. The other half of that soul sits before him.
Omin does not know what will happen if this Jim dies. He does not know what will happen if this Jim is crushed to death, or run through with a broadsword, or poisoned, or lured in by a succubus with long eyelashes and a devilish smile. He does not know what will happen if this Jim foolishly volunteers to be a sacrifice at a blood circus again, because Jim cannot resist the stage, the crowd, the promise of applause.
Omin does not intend to find out.
“Yeah,” Jim croaks, watching as Omin flips the pillow over to the clean side. “S’fine.”
“Better?” Omin muses, half smiling. Pretending, as Jim is pretending, that this is not an unnerving development. That he is not thinking about how fragile his mortality may or may not be now thanks to the Soulmonger rending his soul in twain between two bodies.
“Cool. Cool as the other side of the pillow.” Jim pulls a nervous smile, still wringing his hands together. He has bitten his nails down to nubs, ruining the shiny purple polish that had been applied to them.
Jim’s gloves are on the nightstand and Omin resents being able to see the blackened veins in his arms, starting in his wrists, running up his biceps, disappearing under his t-shirt only to reappear around his neck. He follows the trail up and stops at Jim’s eyes.
The Arcane light in his eyes has dimmed in Jim’s weakened state. His normally vibrant, purple eyes are a rich, warm brown instead. They would be pretty, Omin thinks, if he didn’t know that this meant Jim was too exhausted to channel the Arcane right now, that he was too sick to reach a part of himself that he spent his whole life working tirelessly to access.
Jim makes eye contact and swallows nervously, struggling to maintain it, desperate to break it. There is a mutual discomfort over Omin’s new eyes, over Jim’s poisoned veins, that neither of them will comment on.
Omin frowns and places a hand over Jim's eyes. “Close them. It’s too weird this way,” he orders bluntly.
“It’s. It’s fine,” Jim lies, moving to wave him off.
“Look just. I can’t get through this if you’re gonna fucking stare at me like that. It's too weird. Just close them,” Omin says more firmly. It’s not that Omin doesn’t curse; he can hear his mother’s voice tsk him when he does it, but sometimes it helps to pepper it in, for emphasis. Jim tenses and nods, inhaling sharply and exhaling slowly before it stutters into a cough. He quakes, full body, trying to fight it before covering his mouth and nose with his hand.
Omin does everything in his power not to stare at the trail of thick, black blood dripping between Jim's fingers, down the side of his palm, into his lap.
“Hey.” He moves his hand to the side of Jim's face, tucks some of hair behind his ear. “It’ll be okay.”
Jim clears his throat and wipes his eye with his clean hand, nodding, still sputtering.
Omin lets his hand hover beside Jim’s face, hesitates. Rubs his thumb and fingers together while Jim tries to steady a raspy breath, eyes closed, chest heaving with the effort.
He hates the thought that crosses his mind, and prays that whatever telepathic power he has acquired recently does not alert every other telepath in a five mile radius that he is a pervert because he thinks Jim might be beautiful like this, his cheeks flushed and eyes closed and waiting patiently for Omin to do something. He hopes they don’t think he’s disgusting for finding the visual appealing; apologizes anyway.
He lets himself stare a half moment longer, before placing a hand to Jim’s cheek. Jim’s brows furrow but otherwise he does not respond, does not shy from his touch.
Omin can place his hand anywhere, and knows it. But, he thinks selfishly, there are not many opportunities to be near Jim like this. Often when Omin is healing him, it is because Jim was recently stabbed or electrocuted or hit with some kind of necrotic energy-- there is an urgency associated with healing him that is not present at the moment.
Jim inhales hard through his nose, through half parted lips, and tiredly submits into Omin’s hand, leaning into it. Exhausted from coughing all night and near ready to fall asleep against the offered palm.
Omin thumbs at the apple of his cheek, feels his own ears and cheeks heat from shame, from want, and hates himself the appropriate amount before mumbling out the verbal portion of the spell.
A magic Jim is all too familiar with at this point trails down his neck. His veins fill with light, and find the right coloration. He inhales a slow breath to test it.
There is a-- thing, that escapes through Jim’s breath and Omin puzzles, but it dissipates quickly, like fogged breath on a cold winter’s day. He notes the color and curl of it, makes a note to ask Vai what that might have been if all Jim was truly suffering from was a simple disease brought on by some common mold.
Omin pulls his hand back too quick and averts his eyes as Jim’s flutter open. “Better?”
Jim inhales hard, gesturing with both hands up his chest as he takes in too much air and exhales with a satisfied ah. “S’all good. Thanks, man.”
“No problem.” Omin stands, pulls pointlessly at his gloves to adjust them as Jim pulls on his own. He knows that they are headed home, and that this means Jim will stop by his office, collect some components for a teleportation circle, and then vanish into the pocket dimension he keeps his lavish mansion in. Jim has been avoiding the head office for some time now; Omin does not pretend that this time he will stay. He does not fool himself into believing that in the coming weeks he and Jim will see each other, eat together, catch a show. He does not bother to pretend that Jim will barge into his office, uninvited, not caring if Omin is neck deep in paperwork, to complain about something one of the interns did, or that the breakroom coffee is bad, or that he’s bored and lonely and out of things to do. Omin does not imagine that Jim will perch himself on the edge of his desk and talk for hours and hours with him until none of the work he intended to do is done, but the sun is setting and he’s ready to take Jim up on getting a drink at their favorite watering hole.
He’s not a child; he knows what going home will mean for them, knows full well that unless he orders Jim to spend time with him on a job such as this that he will not see him again until he has to. “Are you ready?”
Jim gets to his feet and holds out his hand, an invisible magic force bringing his cloak over from a hook on the wall. In a practiced maneuver, he pulls it over his shoulders and snaps it into place. “You know it. Let’s go home.”
Omin forces what he knows must not be a convincing smile. “Right. Home.”