Fic: Cold, PG-13 (second half)
Title: Cold
Author: acidpop25
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Theodore/Blaise
A/N: This is the second half of the fic. To start from the beginning, go here.
Blaise arches a brow and the man currently pinned under him on the training mat, waiting for the habitual reply of conceded.
Theodore looks up at him. “I yield,” he says quietly, and Blaise sucks in a soft breath and leans closer. Theodore slips his arms free and wraps them around Blaise’s waist, pulling him down until he is lying on top of Theodore, nose-to-nose, foreheads touching. There is a moment of stillness, eyes locked, before Theodore tips his head up and presses his lips to Blaise’s. Their eyes fall shut in the same instant as Blaise returns the kiss, but his fingers are digging into the training mat, tension cording up his arms with the effort of restraint. When they part, Blaise rolls off of him and gets to his feet in one smooth movement, something flickering briefly in his expression before he offers Theodore his hand.
Theodore looks up at him for a moment, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, then takes Blaise's hand, lets himself be pulled to his feet. After a moment more, the expression blooms into a real smile, a little crooked. "Good round," he murmurs, a touch of amusement in his tone. Blaise echoes the expression and rests a hand lightly between Theodores's shoulder blades, walking them both towards the exit from the training room.
"Yes," he murmurs, with faintly audible irony, "I did well."
Theodore looks over at him, expression serious once more. “You always do,” he answers, very softly. Blaise looks away, hair falling over his eyes. “I have to.”
"Blaise-" Theodore begins, but stops, biting his lip. He is frowning, very slightly; at length he murmurs only, "I'm sorry. I know that I... that this isn't easy for you, not at all."
Blaise doesn't answer immediately and doesn't look at Theo, merely shakes his head a little and firmly guides Theo out the door ahead of him by touch. When they are out in the hallway and walking next to each other again, he withdraws his hand and murmurs simply, "Don't apologise."
Theodore turns and catches Blaise's arm; their gazes lock for a long, intent moment, then Theodore abruptly closes the lingering distance between them and presses his lips to Blaise's. It is not a hard kiss, but it is thorough, and there is an edge of longing to it, please understand, please, and Blaise pulls Theodore in with an arm wrapped tightly around his waist, responding with an aching, breathless intensity before he can think to stop himself. When they break apart, he is breathing too fast, his eyes gone black. Their gazes lock, just for a moment, and then Blaise lets go, all but pushes Theodore back. Away from him.
"Don't apologise." he repeats, voice low and roughened, and strides off down the hall before Theodore can answer.
“-and the next time you decide to do something so utterly asinine, Theodore Nott, you can damn well bleed to death!”
Blaise recognises the scolding voice drifting through Theodore’s office door as that of Tracey, in the attitude of one masking worry. Sure enough, she is standing in front of Theodore with her wand out when Blaise walks in, fussing over a stretch of pink across Theodore’s pale chest that is in all probability a freshly healed cut. Theodore, sitting perched on the edge of the desk, seems to be suffering both her scolding and the gentle prodding of her fingertips with good grace.
Better grace than Blaise, anyway, who tenses up on instinct at the sight of her hands on Theodore’s skin.
“Tracey,” he says, rather coolly, closing the door behind him.
“It isn’t as bad as she would have you believe,” Theodore says, before Tracey can speak. “Caught on the wrong end of a Blasting Hex.”
“Idiot,” Blaise mutters, though none of the irritation in his tone is really directed at Theodore.
“I see we’re agreed,” Tracey says, pocketing her wand. “Also, Theo, I hope you know a good spell to get rid of bloodstains.”
“At least four, actually,” Theodore says, and shrugs back into his shirt; most of the front is now violently crimson. “Figures, the one day I’m not wearing black.”
“Shouldn’t tempt fate like that, you know better,” Tracey says, but the admonishment is fond. “Try to make it a social call the next time you see me, won’t you?”
“I make no promises,” he replies, smiling slightly.
“Try for me,” Tracey tells him, and she brushes a kiss across his cheek and disapparates. Theodore shifts, turning to look at Blaise, but before anything can be said Blaise has grabbed him by the waist and wound his other hand tightly into Theodore’s hair, and the force of the sudden kiss is nearly bruising, and wholly overwhelming.
The message could not have been clearer if Blaise had screamed it. You are mine. His hold does not slacken when their lips break apart, and Theodore lets out a soft, shuddering breath.
“Blaise,” he says, “Tracey is my friend. Nothing more.”
Blaise exhales a breath he had not realised he had been holding, though the tension doesn’t leave him. “None of your other friends kiss you.”
Theodore looks up at him. “What other friends?” he answers, very softly, and something clenches in Blaise’s chest. “I have acquaintances, and I have Trace, and then... there’s you.”
Blaise looks at him, sharply. “And what am I?”
Theodore reaches up, feathering his fingers across Blaise’s cheek. “Words,” he whispers, “are wholly inadequate.” He is still watching Blaise with wide, chocolate eyes. “Better to be silent,” he says. “Kiss me.”
Blaise does.
“You realise that you’ve now crossed the line from diligent to downright out of your mind with regards to your working hours,” Blaise says dryly.
Theodore looks up from the stack of parchments in front of him. “You’re still here,” he points out.
“I am on my way out. You, on the other hand, have at least-“ Blaise’s gaze flicks appraisingly to Theodore’s work, “a solid thirty pages to wade through.”
“Closer to fifty,” Theodore replies absently. “Goodnight, then.”
Blaise lets out a slow, long-suffering sort of breath. “Theodore. Go home.”
“When I’m done.” Theodore’s attention is back on the reports he is reading, and Blaise eyes him appraisingly for a moment, then reaches out and catches him firmly by the arm with one swift, smooth motion and disapparates them both with a crack.
Theodore grabs at Blaise’s hand for balance with a muttered oath when they reappear in the entry hall of Nott Estate, for once caught quite thoroughly off-guard.
“Blaise.” The tone borders on a whine. Blaise, for his part, just smiles slightly, sharply amused, and Theodore eyes him narrowly, his dark gaze calculating.
“Plotting vengeance, pet?”
Theodore’s stance relaxes slightly, and his expression slips back into its habitual mask of calm neutrality. “You realise,” he says, “you have no way of ensuring I don’t just apparate right back to the Ministry... unless you stay.”
Blaise swallows, and the set of his shoulders tenses almost invisibly. “Theo-“
“Truth be told,” Theodore interrupts, softly, “I would much rather be prevented from returning.”
There’s no good way to say no to that, and in truth, Blaise doesn’t want to, not at all. He merely nods his assent, and Theodore gives him one of those soft, melting smiles of his and leads him through the mazelike corridors of the house and up a long spiral stair to the top of the tower. His bedroom.
Blaise hadn’t ever really given much consideration to what Theodore’s bedroom might look like, but if he had, his guess wouldn’t have been far off the mark. The room is plainly, but unmistakably Theodore’s. Circular, with stone walls and a wide window facing west; beneath it, a comfortable-looking window seat complete with cushions and a deep blue throw. The floor, also stone, is mostly covered by a series of throw rugs, and there is a slightly disorganised writing desk, and a bookshelf that looks full to the point of overflowing.
And the bed, of course. A four-poster, off to one side, with covers and hangings all of deepest midnight blue. Blaise shuts his eyes briefly against a sudden, painfully vivid flash of how Theodore would look spread out on all that blue, porcelain-pale skin glowing against the dark fabric, shades of cobalt reflecting into dark eyes, eyes gone wide and passion-glassy...
No.
Blaise is not entirely certain how, exactly, he manages to force down that sudden, choking rush of desire, but he does, though a brief, twisting pain lances through his chest in doing so.
Theodore is watching him; his fingers are still curled around Blaise’s wrist, doubtless well able to feel the way his pulse is still speeding. “I trust you,” he whispers, and finally lets go. “Settle in-“ a brief flick of his gaze in the direction of the bed, “-and I will be back in a moment.”
True to his word, it does not take Theodore long (an eternity) to leave and come back; when he does, he is dressed only in a pair of loose black pyjama bottoms, everything about his body language screaming self-consciousness; it occurs to Blaise, quite suddenly, that he has only ever seen Theodore less than fully dressed when injured.
Blaise swallows again and draws in a slow, deep breath. Theodore certainly hasn’t got anything to be embarrassed about.
Theodore climbs up on the bed and gestures offhandedly at the bed hangings, which slide neatly shut at the silent command, then pauses, just looking at Blaise. “You’re certain that... that you’re okay with this?”
The irony of that question coming from Theodore is really too much to contemplate; Blaise seizes a pale wrist and tugs Theodore down on top of him and catches him against his chest, hard. A fierce embrace; Theodore wraps his arms around Blaise, no less tightly, and buries his face in the crook of Blaise’s neck, breath warm against the skin. It takes a long time for their holds to loosen, and neither lets go.
“Goodnight, Blaise,” Theodore murmurs, and Blaise feels the soft brush of lashes as Theodore lets his eyes fall shut.
“Goodnight,” he answers quietly, even though he knows he will not sleep. Not here, not like this, not with Theodore so damn close.
Close enough that Blaise can feel him breathing; it is hours and hours before the gentle rise-and-fall of Theodore’s chest at last truly sinks into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep.
The emergency call alarm jars Tracey from the potion she is working on, and she rushes from the lab and down the hall in the direction of the sound, barely even noticing when Terry appears from another doorway and matches her strides.
“Fucking hell,” she mutters, “what happened, Theo?” she already has her wand out, stepping around him to the conjured stretcher on which Blaise lies, unconscious and ashen, clearly still bleeding heavily through a makeshift bandage on his chest.
“Sprang a security ward in Algiers,” Theodore answers tightly. “Variant on a Cutting Curse, inhibited clotting, and I’m fairly sure there’s a toxin mimicking spell somewhere in there, but I didn’t get time to check.” His gaze is hard, fiercer than Tracey has ever seen it; she has to fight the impulse to shrink back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a political assassination to accomplish, I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can, and don’t you dare let him die.”
With that, Theodore turns his wand on Terry with a muttered obliviate and disappears.
“How is he?”
“Stable. He lost a lot of blood, so he’s a bit weak, but he’ll recover fine. He’s extraordinarily healthy; it shouldn’t take him too long to bounce back. The dittany was less effective than I would have liked, though, so there will be a bit of scarring-“
“How bad?”
“Not very. The cut had clean edges, it should be a neat, thin scar.”
Blaise finally opens his eyes, having heard enough. “Theo,” he says, “stop lurking in the doorway interrogating Tracey and come here.”
Theodore turns quickly, his conversation with Tracey abandoned with gratifying alacrity, and crosses to Blaise’s bedside in a few long strides. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, sinking into the chair next to the bed.
“Evidently,” Blaise returns dryly, and Theodore’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “I see you have retained your sarcasm.”
“If I’m conscious, I’m capable of sarcasm.”
“I had noticed.” Theodore shoots a quick look in Tracey’s direction, and she nods slightly and retreats from the room. Theodore catches Blaise’s hand in both his own and squeezes, gentler than he really wants to. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” He knows it would be a waste to try and tell Theodore he’s fine; by the look on his face, the easy half-truth wouldn’t convince him for a minute. The set of Theodore’s shoulders loosens a bit at the reply, and he leans over and wraps his arms carefully around Blaise. “Am I hurting you?”
“She healed it, Theo,” Blaise reminds him, and Theodore makes a quiet, almost choking sort of sound in his throat and abruptly tightens his hold with an edge of desperation, burying his face into the crook of Blaise’s neck. Blaise leans into him with an almost inaudible sigh, closing his eyes and returning the embrace more loosely. Theodore is still wound very tight; Blaise turns his face into Theodore’s hair and just breathes, fisting a hand in the fabric of Theodore’s shirt.
It takes a very long time for them to let go. They don’t, not completely; Theodore moves and lies down on his side next to Blaise, propped up on one elbow with his other hand holding on to Blaise’s once more.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Theodore whispers, in a tone that says I was terrified I’d lost you. And Blaise fully intends to tell him to be realistic, fully intends to tell him that he will do it again and they both know it, and that it is part of the job.
“I won’t,” Blaise murmurs.
“You will,” Theodore says, and leans over and kisses him, softly but slowly, slowly, as if he just wants to drown, and Blaise makes a low noise in the back of his throat without even being aware of it and moves closer, lets Theodore reassure himself all he likes, enough for the both of them- and for once, it is easy. When their lips part, Blaise leans gently, subtly against Theodore, and he knows by the way a smile flickers in those dark eyes that the gesture did not go unnoticed.
Theodore leans over and presses a soft kiss to Blaise’s brow. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, “I’ll be here when you wake.”
Theodore is sitting curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace, the flickering light washing his skin in shifting gold and bronze, teasing out the hidden auburn shades of his curls. He is reading, looking down at the book in front of him, and his lashes cast soft semicircles of black across his cheeks.
He's hard to look away from, and Blaise doesn't really try.
A few minutes more, and Theodore lifts his head and looks up. "Come here," he says softly, "and waste a little time with me."
"Time spent with you is never a waste," Blaise murmurs, sinking down gracefully next to him, and Theodore's lips give the barest twitch. It isn't really a smile, but his eyes betray him; they sparkle with more than just the reflections of the flames. Blaise rests a hand lightly on Theodore's shoulder, and his fingers seek out the bare skin just above Theo's shirt. For once, he is warm.
“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know what life is, you who hold it in your hands,” Theodore recites in a low murmur; Blaise can feel the pulse beating beneath his fingertips.
“Youth is cruel.” A pause. “I’ll be going back to Brazil for a while, in a few weeks,” Blaise says. “You ought to see it; it’s a wildly beautiful place.”
The blood pounds faster. “Was that an invitation?”
“It was.” The tone is a little too carefully even to be entirely casual, and Theodore cannot restrain his smile, and doesn’t really try. “Then I would like that very much,” he says, and he sets the book aside and turns, and his fingers feather across Blaise’s cheek. Softly, softly.
“Blaise.” Theodore whispers the name like a prayer, or like a promise, and leans in until there is no space between them save the barrier of their clothes. Blaise can feel Theodore's warmth through the fabric, and he tightens his hold. Their faces are close, achingly so, but their lips do not quite touch, hesitating at an almost-kiss, frozen in the second before, breathing one another's air. The moment is inexplicably heady, and Blaise's eyes fall closed with just a slight little shiver; his fingers curl into Theodore's shirt.
I love you, Theodore almost says, you are perfect.
The heat and intensity of the sun in the valley have rendered Theodore much more sluggish than he normally is. Languid. He is nowhere near so tense as usual. At Blaise’s insistence, the pair had retreated into the shade of the house when Theodore’s pale skin began to burn, and both are now sprawled together lazily on Blaise’s bed, each dressed only in light trousers. There is a fine sheen of sweat on Theodore’s skin, and his curls are sticking to his forehead, to the nape of his neck. Blaise shifts closer and pulls Theodore up against him with an arm around his waist.
Theodore makes a faint, unconvincing noise of protest. “You’re hot,” he murmurs, his tone falling just short of true complaint. He makes no move to disentangle himself, though, so Blaise ignores it and cards the fingers of his free hand through Theodore’s hair; the locks twine about his fingers like living things, and Theodore’s eyes fall closed. The corners of Blaise’s lips quirk, briefly, into a slight smile, and he leans in closer and kisses him, holding Theodore in place with the hand in his hair. Theodore relaxes further against him with a soft, sighing sort of noise against Blaise’s lips and wraps his arms around him. So close, bare skin pressed together and Theodore pliant and yielding next to him, and the way he sounds.
It is not a conscious action, neither intentional nor considered; Blaise pushes a careful measure of power into Theodore’s skin with a muttered word against his lips. Theodore makes a low hum of pleasure in the back of his throat, nearly a purr, and Blaise opens his eyes, watching him.
“How does it feel?” he murmurs, and Theodore opens his eyes again.
“Pleasant,” he answers, “but that isn’t what you’re looking for.” A pause. “That was sense magic, I take it? A pleasure spell.”
Blaise’s lips give a wry twist. “Yes.”
“It doesn’t work on me, not like that,” Theodore says, and Blaise nods. “I didn’t-“
“Blaise.” He lets out a breath. “Don’t stop.”
The words hang in the air between them for a long, trilling moment, and Theo almost expects him to refuse (and Blaise almost does). Something catches in his chest, though, and Blaise tightens his hold on Theodore and strokes a hand slowly, deliberately down his back, along the ridge of his spine, and Theodore seems to positively dissolve into the touch with a soft sigh of breath. His eyes are half-closed, drifting, and Blaise knows he cannot stay here much longer. Cannot stay like this much longer, no matter how much he wants to, how desperately he wants to.
He’s hard to pull away from. Blaise does so only after several more minutes, slowly and reluctantly, and murmurs that he promised his cousin he would go riding with her today. Theodore looks up at Blaise with dark, liquid eyes, and Blaise knows he’s not really fooled, but neither does he give any indication of being hurt.
“Give Tamira my best, then,” Theodore murmurs. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
Theodore is outside near the waterfall when Blaise finds him, lying on his stomach just barely within the shade of the trees; the evening sunlight through the leaves paints curious, shifting shadows across his back. He is propped up on his elbows, one hand lifted, and crawling on it is one of the enormous scorpions native to this place, a large blue-black one nearly the size of Theodore's palm. Theodore seems entirely unruffled by this state of affairs, as calm and controlled as ever, and the scorpion doesn't appear to have any intention of striking.
"It won't sting me," he says, evidently sensing both Blaise's presence and his thoughts, "not unless provoked." A wry smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "After all," he adds, lower, "I am not prey."
Blaise remains still, feeling the dappled sunlight playing on his back, and watches the vaguely monstrous creature sidling across Theodore's palm with a calm expression. Only the elusive tension that has settled into his shoulders betrays his unease, and Theodore can't see him from where he is lying, nor currently turn around to look.
"Scorpions are unreliable and aggressive," Blaise answers over the rushing sound of the water. "But their venom, I can deal with. So long as you stay clear of the serpents."
"So is everything," Theo murmurs absently. "Most species can't cause any permanent damage to us, though. A sting, and numbness, and a bit of swelling. Barely worse than a bee." Nonetheless, after a moment more he lets his hand drop smoothly to the ground, and the scorpion soon crawls off of it and into the grass. He watches it trundle along until it disappears into the undergrowth, then sits and looks up at Blaise, shielding his eyes against the quickly fading sun. Blaise relaxes marginally and tilts his head slightly when the other man looks up at him. After a moment, he slides down to sit cross-legged in the grass next to Theodore, his eyes on the vibrant blue of the lake.
"I almost died when I was nine years old." He gestures towards the lush green next to the water. "There. One of the white serpents bit me." Blaise turns his left arm over, exposing the thin skin of the underarm, and runs a finger along a scar there, faded and pale. Theodore's gaze flicks in the direction of the lake, then back to Blaise's arm, to the scar. He catches hold of Blaise lightly by the wrist, gaze never leaving the mark, and then shifts over, pressing his lips softly to the spot for a long, lingering moment, eyes finally closing.
"I'm glad you didn't," he whispers against the skin.
Though he remains motionless, Blaise's breath catches on a shiver at the touch. The softly spoken words, though, are what make him close his eyes and keep them closed. "I dream of it, sometimes," he murmurs at length; there is an odd, soft note in his voice. Theodore, for his part, makes no verbal reply; there is nothing to say, really. He lifts his head after a moment and strokes his fingers lightly over the skin, along the length of Blaise's forearm. Up, down, up, down, softly, softly. The motion is in time with the rhythm of Blaise's breathing, and feather-light. For a long time, they are silent. Spread out beneath them, the valley sinks into deep shadow, but the waterfall catches the last rays of the setting sun. Blaise watches the way the light teases red highlights out of Theodore’s hair, and he tangles his fingers in it- the only point of contact between them, though they’re close enough almost to feel the heat from one another’s bodies. Theodore's eyes fall shut, and he leans into the touch with a low hum of contentment. He says nothing, though, loathe to break the gentle silence between them; for the moment, it is enough to simply be.
It is not until the sky has darkened into a misty, bluish twilight that Blaise finally speaks, low and soft. “Thank you.”
Theodore opens his eyes again. "Whatever for?" he murmurs.
Blaise isn’t looking at him; he is watching the place where the sun has disappeared behind the mountains. “Being here.”
Theodore shifts, finally turning to face Blaise, and just watches him for a moment before he whispers, "I can't imagine any place else I would rather be."
Their eyes meet; it is all Blaise can do not to stop breathing. With a slow, smooth movement, he slides his hand out of Theo’s hair and down, resting the tips of his fingers over the other man’s heart. “Me neither,” Blaise whispers, and kisses Theodore on the lips, lightly, lightly, and Theodore catches him by the shoulders when he moves to draw back. "No," he murmurs, and winds his arms around Blaise's neck, shifting close once more, "stay with me."
A hitch of breath, ever so slight. There is the barest of moment of hesitation before Blaise folds his arms around Theodore, settling him gently against him and stroking a hand down his back. “I’m here, he answers, and Theodore curls closer, resting his head against Blaise's shoulder with a quiet sigh. "I don't want to ever go back," he murmurs.
Blaise turns his head, just enough to kiss Theodore’s hair lightly. “You’re here now.”
"I know." The barest whisper. Theodore brushes his fingertips lightly across Blaise's cheek; the touch, as ever, is soft. Blaise breathes out carefully, eyes falling closed for a moment, and tightens his hold a little. He shifts, gathering Theodore closer in his arms, and drops a light kiss, almost against his will, on the soft skin of Theodore’s neck, lingering. Theodore shudders almost imperceptibly and lets his eyes fall closed. His fingers twine into Blaise's hair, and he lets out a slow breath, and does not move away.
“Theo -“ Blaise’s voice is soft and rough, almost breathless. He holds himself still save for tightening his fingers into Theodore’s hair, desperately unwilling to let go but all too aware that he should. Soon.
Theodore lifts his head. "Shh." He lets go of Blaise's hair to press a finger to his lips, just looking at him, looking at him, before he moves his hand and lets his mouth replace his finger, a gentle pressure. Blaise makes a soft sound and leans into the kiss, deepening it- for just a moment, just a breath before he catches himself and breaks the seal of their lips. Theodore, though, makes no move to pull away, none at all. "Blaise," he whispers, and tightens his hold, cupping his face with his free hand. "It's... it's okay."
Blaise shakes his head sharply, setting a palm flat against Theodore’s shoulder and shifting, putting distance between them, though the movement is heavy with reluctance. Aching. He can’t seem to pull away completely, but Theodore feels like he is choking all the same, feels like there just isn't any air, like he has forgotten how to draw breath. Like he cannot, for all the wrenching tightness in his chest. He turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut against love and pain and need and feeling, against letting Blaise see just how lost he really is. Blaise remains still for a stretched, agonising moment, then he draws back sharply, getting to his feet with none of his usual grace. It feels as if he is tearing something when he pulls away, and his hands have clenched hard, nails digging painfully into the palms as he turns his back, tensing against a fierce impulse to shiver clawing its way out despite the warm tropical air. Theodore seems to shrink in on himself as Blaise goes; he tucks his knees to his chest and clasps his arms tightly around them, curling up, curling in. Every line of Theodore’s body is withdrawn, miserable, but he does not look up, he can't. He is biting at the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched; the taste of blood barely registers, and it is not until Blaise has disappeared from sight that he mutters, darkly, “Not unless provoked.”
“I don’t think,” Theodore murmurs against Blaise’s lips, “that you’re supposed to snog your adversary, Blaise.”
“When have I ever done what I’m supposed to?” he rejoins, twining his fingers into Theodore’s hair.
“Touché.” A slight smile, and Theodore tips his head up slightly, pressing his lips to Blaise’s once more, and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him in a little bit closer.
“Oi! Some of us might want to use the training room for things other than illicit love affairs, you know.”
Blaise breaks the kiss with more than a little reluctance, though he lingers close to Theodore, doesn’t yet let him go. “Mercy, you sound like a trashy romance novel.”
“And you two look like one,” she retorts. “Also, incidentally, I am very angry at the both of you.”
“And why is that, pet?” Blaise’s tone is a lazy drawl, edged with indulgence just shy of offensive.
“You conveniently skipped town right before an assignment in the middle of the Sahara. And I got stuck with Tellier. For a week.”
Theodore cringes slightly. “My condolences.”
Mercy tosses her hair. “You’re doing the next one,” she says archly, “now shoo.”
Theodore hates parties, hates them with a vengeance, but it takes a bolder man than he to refuse Zabini senior. At least Blaise is present, which is really the only comfort as far as Theodore is concerned, though it is pleasant, too, to encounter Draco again. Some things, Theodore finds, never really change, which suits him just fine while Blaise is off playing the dutiful son. The general air of elegant debauchery that surrounds Silene Zabini’s parties in particular has always been uncomfortable to Theodore, though, and eventually he retreats from the crowded ballroom to the relative quiet of the mansion’s empty halls.
“Theo.”
He turns at the sound of Blaise’s voice, shaded in tones he cannot quite place, and allows the other man to catch up to him. “You’ve escaped, I see.”
“You too,” Blaise answers, drawing closer, and catches Theodore by the wrists. “Red suits you, incidentally,” he murmurs, and there is an edge of roughness in his voice that makes Theodore’s shoulders tense up in spite of himself. Something in Blaise’s stance, and a naked spark in his eyes. Wide and black, gleaming with something nothing like affection and with something more than alcohol.
“Blaise,” Theodore says, as calmly as he can, “you’re not yourself.”
“Shh,” is the only reply Blaise gives, and with a sudden, quick movement Theodore finds himself pressed between Blaise’s body and the wall, wrists trapped behind him and Blaise’s mouth on his, and this isn’t right, this isn’t right at all, tongue and teeth and bitter something on his lips, and Theodore squirms. Stop stop against Blaise’s lips; Theodore shudders almost violently, eyes shut tight, shut tight, no no no, stop stop.
“Blaise, please…”
It is the wrong reaction.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” Blaise breathes, and hands, and hands, and hands, and Theodore’s skin is crawling and shivering but he’s got nowhere to go, nowhere to go his stomach is in knots he’s going to be sick, just just, “Blaise,” don’t sound desperate, “please, a… a bed. At least this time?” Skin crawling.
It is enough. Blaise’s grip relaxes the fraction he needs, and Theodore wrenches free with desperate speed, disapparates before either of them even has a chance to think, and shuts the wards on Nott Estate to any and every other person but himself.
It’s a solid week before Theodore shows his face at the Ministry again; he tells Thornapple, the head of the department, that he has been ill, and it is an easy lie. Theodore has always had a weak immune system, and he still looks off when he returns, even thinner and paler than usual. If Thornapple doubts him, he does not press the issue.
Theodore does not bother to knock at Blaise’s office door; he just walks in. “I don’t want you to apologise,” he says, without preamble, “and I’m not going to scream or yell or punish you, because I’m entirely certain you’re doing a far better job of it all on your own than I ever could. All I want is for you to not let that happen again.”
Blaise looks up at him like a hunted animal. “Stay away from me,” he says, “you’ll only get hurt, get hurt worse, just. Just stay away; you shouldn’t be near me.”
“Stop it,” Theodore says sharply, and closes the short distance between them to grab hold of Blaise’s wrist. "I'm here because I want to be."
A sharp twist, and Blaise throws him off, throws him back. "That’s because you fucking don't know what's good for you!"
"I'm not fucking made of glass, Blaise!"
"No, but I can smash this with one wrong move and you know it, and I don't know why you even bother!" Blaise growls, and Theodore just looks at him for a long, long moment, unflinchingly. When he speaks, it is soft, but with utter, absolute certainty.
"Because I'm in love with you anyway."
Blaise stares at him mutely, eyes wide and black on Theodore's, for an impossibly long second. Then he lunges, throwing Theodore backwards to collide hard with the nearest wall and pins him with his body, speaking into his ear in a low, vicious hiss. "No you are not. You have no idea who I am, and if you did I would be the last person in the world you would want near you, so stay the hell away before I do something to you that can't be undone. And don't fucking touch me."
Theodore watches him, but there is no trace of fear in his eyes, nor doubt. "You'll tell yourself I don't mean it 'til your dying day because you don't think you deserve it, because you think you're cruel and ugly at the core,” he says. “I can't make you believe me, and perhaps you are cruel, but you have never been ugly, and whatever you think doesn't change anything I feel." There is a pause, and his voice drops, softer. "If you want to leave me, I can't stop you. But I won't be the one to run away."
For the longest moment, Theodore doesn’t know if Blaise is going to kiss him or kill him, and all he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears.
“Get out,” Blaise says flatly, and pushes him at the door.
“Here is the file,” Thornapple says, handing it over. “You and Mercy will leave tomorrow at noon. And Blaise?”
“Yes, sir?”
Thornapple’s lips thin into a sharp, wry expression caught somewhere between bitterness and regret. “Try not to fall in love with her. I do not want to lose another of my best Unspeakables.”
Blaise honestly doesn’t know what to say, but Thornapple seems not to expect an answer; he sets a sealed, folded piece of parchment on top of the assignment and dismisses Blaise with a nod.
The houses are all gone under the sea.
The dancers are all gone under the hill.
This was what you asked of me, Blaise. I wish I could say that I will miss you; we both know I will not. By the time you read this, I will already have given all my memories of my time as an Unspeakable over to Thornapple; with them, the memory of you. Lost years, lost time. Perhaps one of these days you will learn to see in yourself what I did. You were always so beautiful, Blaise.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope.
Author: acidpop25
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Theodore/Blaise
A/N: This is the second half of the fic. To start from the beginning, go here.
Blaise arches a brow and the man currently pinned under him on the training mat, waiting for the habitual reply of conceded.
Theodore looks up at him. “I yield,” he says quietly, and Blaise sucks in a soft breath and leans closer. Theodore slips his arms free and wraps them around Blaise’s waist, pulling him down until he is lying on top of Theodore, nose-to-nose, foreheads touching. There is a moment of stillness, eyes locked, before Theodore tips his head up and presses his lips to Blaise’s. Their eyes fall shut in the same instant as Blaise returns the kiss, but his fingers are digging into the training mat, tension cording up his arms with the effort of restraint. When they part, Blaise rolls off of him and gets to his feet in one smooth movement, something flickering briefly in his expression before he offers Theodore his hand.
Theodore looks up at him for a moment, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, then takes Blaise's hand, lets himself be pulled to his feet. After a moment more, the expression blooms into a real smile, a little crooked. "Good round," he murmurs, a touch of amusement in his tone. Blaise echoes the expression and rests a hand lightly between Theodores's shoulder blades, walking them both towards the exit from the training room.
"Yes," he murmurs, with faintly audible irony, "I did well."
Theodore looks over at him, expression serious once more. “You always do,” he answers, very softly. Blaise looks away, hair falling over his eyes. “I have to.”
"Blaise-" Theodore begins, but stops, biting his lip. He is frowning, very slightly; at length he murmurs only, "I'm sorry. I know that I... that this isn't easy for you, not at all."
Blaise doesn't answer immediately and doesn't look at Theo, merely shakes his head a little and firmly guides Theo out the door ahead of him by touch. When they are out in the hallway and walking next to each other again, he withdraws his hand and murmurs simply, "Don't apologise."
Theodore turns and catches Blaise's arm; their gazes lock for a long, intent moment, then Theodore abruptly closes the lingering distance between them and presses his lips to Blaise's. It is not a hard kiss, but it is thorough, and there is an edge of longing to it, please understand, please, and Blaise pulls Theodore in with an arm wrapped tightly around his waist, responding with an aching, breathless intensity before he can think to stop himself. When they break apart, he is breathing too fast, his eyes gone black. Their gazes lock, just for a moment, and then Blaise lets go, all but pushes Theodore back. Away from him.
"Don't apologise." he repeats, voice low and roughened, and strides off down the hall before Theodore can answer.
“-and the next time you decide to do something so utterly asinine, Theodore Nott, you can damn well bleed to death!”
Blaise recognises the scolding voice drifting through Theodore’s office door as that of Tracey, in the attitude of one masking worry. Sure enough, she is standing in front of Theodore with her wand out when Blaise walks in, fussing over a stretch of pink across Theodore’s pale chest that is in all probability a freshly healed cut. Theodore, sitting perched on the edge of the desk, seems to be suffering both her scolding and the gentle prodding of her fingertips with good grace.
Better grace than Blaise, anyway, who tenses up on instinct at the sight of her hands on Theodore’s skin.
“Tracey,” he says, rather coolly, closing the door behind him.
“It isn’t as bad as she would have you believe,” Theodore says, before Tracey can speak. “Caught on the wrong end of a Blasting Hex.”
“Idiot,” Blaise mutters, though none of the irritation in his tone is really directed at Theodore.
“I see we’re agreed,” Tracey says, pocketing her wand. “Also, Theo, I hope you know a good spell to get rid of bloodstains.”
“At least four, actually,” Theodore says, and shrugs back into his shirt; most of the front is now violently crimson. “Figures, the one day I’m not wearing black.”
“Shouldn’t tempt fate like that, you know better,” Tracey says, but the admonishment is fond. “Try to make it a social call the next time you see me, won’t you?”
“I make no promises,” he replies, smiling slightly.
“Try for me,” Tracey tells him, and she brushes a kiss across his cheek and disapparates. Theodore shifts, turning to look at Blaise, but before anything can be said Blaise has grabbed him by the waist and wound his other hand tightly into Theodore’s hair, and the force of the sudden kiss is nearly bruising, and wholly overwhelming.
The message could not have been clearer if Blaise had screamed it. You are mine. His hold does not slacken when their lips break apart, and Theodore lets out a soft, shuddering breath.
“Blaise,” he says, “Tracey is my friend. Nothing more.”
Blaise exhales a breath he had not realised he had been holding, though the tension doesn’t leave him. “None of your other friends kiss you.”
Theodore looks up at him. “What other friends?” he answers, very softly, and something clenches in Blaise’s chest. “I have acquaintances, and I have Trace, and then... there’s you.”
Blaise looks at him, sharply. “And what am I?”
Theodore reaches up, feathering his fingers across Blaise’s cheek. “Words,” he whispers, “are wholly inadequate.” He is still watching Blaise with wide, chocolate eyes. “Better to be silent,” he says. “Kiss me.”
Blaise does.
“You realise that you’ve now crossed the line from diligent to downright out of your mind with regards to your working hours,” Blaise says dryly.
Theodore looks up from the stack of parchments in front of him. “You’re still here,” he points out.
“I am on my way out. You, on the other hand, have at least-“ Blaise’s gaze flicks appraisingly to Theodore’s work, “a solid thirty pages to wade through.”
“Closer to fifty,” Theodore replies absently. “Goodnight, then.”
Blaise lets out a slow, long-suffering sort of breath. “Theodore. Go home.”
“When I’m done.” Theodore’s attention is back on the reports he is reading, and Blaise eyes him appraisingly for a moment, then reaches out and catches him firmly by the arm with one swift, smooth motion and disapparates them both with a crack.
Theodore grabs at Blaise’s hand for balance with a muttered oath when they reappear in the entry hall of Nott Estate, for once caught quite thoroughly off-guard.
“Blaise.” The tone borders on a whine. Blaise, for his part, just smiles slightly, sharply amused, and Theodore eyes him narrowly, his dark gaze calculating.
“Plotting vengeance, pet?”
Theodore’s stance relaxes slightly, and his expression slips back into its habitual mask of calm neutrality. “You realise,” he says, “you have no way of ensuring I don’t just apparate right back to the Ministry... unless you stay.”
Blaise swallows, and the set of his shoulders tenses almost invisibly. “Theo-“
“Truth be told,” Theodore interrupts, softly, “I would much rather be prevented from returning.”
There’s no good way to say no to that, and in truth, Blaise doesn’t want to, not at all. He merely nods his assent, and Theodore gives him one of those soft, melting smiles of his and leads him through the mazelike corridors of the house and up a long spiral stair to the top of the tower. His bedroom.
Blaise hadn’t ever really given much consideration to what Theodore’s bedroom might look like, but if he had, his guess wouldn’t have been far off the mark. The room is plainly, but unmistakably Theodore’s. Circular, with stone walls and a wide window facing west; beneath it, a comfortable-looking window seat complete with cushions and a deep blue throw. The floor, also stone, is mostly covered by a series of throw rugs, and there is a slightly disorganised writing desk, and a bookshelf that looks full to the point of overflowing.
And the bed, of course. A four-poster, off to one side, with covers and hangings all of deepest midnight blue. Blaise shuts his eyes briefly against a sudden, painfully vivid flash of how Theodore would look spread out on all that blue, porcelain-pale skin glowing against the dark fabric, shades of cobalt reflecting into dark eyes, eyes gone wide and passion-glassy...
No.
Blaise is not entirely certain how, exactly, he manages to force down that sudden, choking rush of desire, but he does, though a brief, twisting pain lances through his chest in doing so.
Theodore is watching him; his fingers are still curled around Blaise’s wrist, doubtless well able to feel the way his pulse is still speeding. “I trust you,” he whispers, and finally lets go. “Settle in-“ a brief flick of his gaze in the direction of the bed, “-and I will be back in a moment.”
True to his word, it does not take Theodore long (an eternity) to leave and come back; when he does, he is dressed only in a pair of loose black pyjama bottoms, everything about his body language screaming self-consciousness; it occurs to Blaise, quite suddenly, that he has only ever seen Theodore less than fully dressed when injured.
Blaise swallows again and draws in a slow, deep breath. Theodore certainly hasn’t got anything to be embarrassed about.
Theodore climbs up on the bed and gestures offhandedly at the bed hangings, which slide neatly shut at the silent command, then pauses, just looking at Blaise. “You’re certain that... that you’re okay with this?”
The irony of that question coming from Theodore is really too much to contemplate; Blaise seizes a pale wrist and tugs Theodore down on top of him and catches him against his chest, hard. A fierce embrace; Theodore wraps his arms around Blaise, no less tightly, and buries his face in the crook of Blaise’s neck, breath warm against the skin. It takes a long time for their holds to loosen, and neither lets go.
“Goodnight, Blaise,” Theodore murmurs, and Blaise feels the soft brush of lashes as Theodore lets his eyes fall shut.
“Goodnight,” he answers quietly, even though he knows he will not sleep. Not here, not like this, not with Theodore so damn close.
Close enough that Blaise can feel him breathing; it is hours and hours before the gentle rise-and-fall of Theodore’s chest at last truly sinks into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep.
The emergency call alarm jars Tracey from the potion she is working on, and she rushes from the lab and down the hall in the direction of the sound, barely even noticing when Terry appears from another doorway and matches her strides.
“Fucking hell,” she mutters, “what happened, Theo?” she already has her wand out, stepping around him to the conjured stretcher on which Blaise lies, unconscious and ashen, clearly still bleeding heavily through a makeshift bandage on his chest.
“Sprang a security ward in Algiers,” Theodore answers tightly. “Variant on a Cutting Curse, inhibited clotting, and I’m fairly sure there’s a toxin mimicking spell somewhere in there, but I didn’t get time to check.” His gaze is hard, fiercer than Tracey has ever seen it; she has to fight the impulse to shrink back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a political assassination to accomplish, I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can, and don’t you dare let him die.”
With that, Theodore turns his wand on Terry with a muttered obliviate and disappears.
“How is he?”
“Stable. He lost a lot of blood, so he’s a bit weak, but he’ll recover fine. He’s extraordinarily healthy; it shouldn’t take him too long to bounce back. The dittany was less effective than I would have liked, though, so there will be a bit of scarring-“
“How bad?”
“Not very. The cut had clean edges, it should be a neat, thin scar.”
Blaise finally opens his eyes, having heard enough. “Theo,” he says, “stop lurking in the doorway interrogating Tracey and come here.”
Theodore turns quickly, his conversation with Tracey abandoned with gratifying alacrity, and crosses to Blaise’s bedside in a few long strides. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, sinking into the chair next to the bed.
“Evidently,” Blaise returns dryly, and Theodore’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “I see you have retained your sarcasm.”
“If I’m conscious, I’m capable of sarcasm.”
“I had noticed.” Theodore shoots a quick look in Tracey’s direction, and she nods slightly and retreats from the room. Theodore catches Blaise’s hand in both his own and squeezes, gentler than he really wants to. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” He knows it would be a waste to try and tell Theodore he’s fine; by the look on his face, the easy half-truth wouldn’t convince him for a minute. The set of Theodore’s shoulders loosens a bit at the reply, and he leans over and wraps his arms carefully around Blaise. “Am I hurting you?”
“She healed it, Theo,” Blaise reminds him, and Theodore makes a quiet, almost choking sort of sound in his throat and abruptly tightens his hold with an edge of desperation, burying his face into the crook of Blaise’s neck. Blaise leans into him with an almost inaudible sigh, closing his eyes and returning the embrace more loosely. Theodore is still wound very tight; Blaise turns his face into Theodore’s hair and just breathes, fisting a hand in the fabric of Theodore’s shirt.
It takes a very long time for them to let go. They don’t, not completely; Theodore moves and lies down on his side next to Blaise, propped up on one elbow with his other hand holding on to Blaise’s once more.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Theodore whispers, in a tone that says I was terrified I’d lost you. And Blaise fully intends to tell him to be realistic, fully intends to tell him that he will do it again and they both know it, and that it is part of the job.
“I won’t,” Blaise murmurs.
“You will,” Theodore says, and leans over and kisses him, softly but slowly, slowly, as if he just wants to drown, and Blaise makes a low noise in the back of his throat without even being aware of it and moves closer, lets Theodore reassure himself all he likes, enough for the both of them- and for once, it is easy. When their lips part, Blaise leans gently, subtly against Theodore, and he knows by the way a smile flickers in those dark eyes that the gesture did not go unnoticed.
Theodore leans over and presses a soft kiss to Blaise’s brow. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, “I’ll be here when you wake.”
Theodore is sitting curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace, the flickering light washing his skin in shifting gold and bronze, teasing out the hidden auburn shades of his curls. He is reading, looking down at the book in front of him, and his lashes cast soft semicircles of black across his cheeks.
He's hard to look away from, and Blaise doesn't really try.
A few minutes more, and Theodore lifts his head and looks up. "Come here," he says softly, "and waste a little time with me."
"Time spent with you is never a waste," Blaise murmurs, sinking down gracefully next to him, and Theodore's lips give the barest twitch. It isn't really a smile, but his eyes betray him; they sparkle with more than just the reflections of the flames. Blaise rests a hand lightly on Theodore's shoulder, and his fingers seek out the bare skin just above Theo's shirt. For once, he is warm.
“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know what life is, you who hold it in your hands,” Theodore recites in a low murmur; Blaise can feel the pulse beating beneath his fingertips.
“Youth is cruel.” A pause. “I’ll be going back to Brazil for a while, in a few weeks,” Blaise says. “You ought to see it; it’s a wildly beautiful place.”
The blood pounds faster. “Was that an invitation?”
“It was.” The tone is a little too carefully even to be entirely casual, and Theodore cannot restrain his smile, and doesn’t really try. “Then I would like that very much,” he says, and he sets the book aside and turns, and his fingers feather across Blaise’s cheek. Softly, softly.
“Blaise.” Theodore whispers the name like a prayer, or like a promise, and leans in until there is no space between them save the barrier of their clothes. Blaise can feel Theodore's warmth through the fabric, and he tightens his hold. Their faces are close, achingly so, but their lips do not quite touch, hesitating at an almost-kiss, frozen in the second before, breathing one another's air. The moment is inexplicably heady, and Blaise's eyes fall closed with just a slight little shiver; his fingers curl into Theodore's shirt.
I love you, Theodore almost says, you are perfect.
The heat and intensity of the sun in the valley have rendered Theodore much more sluggish than he normally is. Languid. He is nowhere near so tense as usual. At Blaise’s insistence, the pair had retreated into the shade of the house when Theodore’s pale skin began to burn, and both are now sprawled together lazily on Blaise’s bed, each dressed only in light trousers. There is a fine sheen of sweat on Theodore’s skin, and his curls are sticking to his forehead, to the nape of his neck. Blaise shifts closer and pulls Theodore up against him with an arm around his waist.
Theodore makes a faint, unconvincing noise of protest. “You’re hot,” he murmurs, his tone falling just short of true complaint. He makes no move to disentangle himself, though, so Blaise ignores it and cards the fingers of his free hand through Theodore’s hair; the locks twine about his fingers like living things, and Theodore’s eyes fall closed. The corners of Blaise’s lips quirk, briefly, into a slight smile, and he leans in closer and kisses him, holding Theodore in place with the hand in his hair. Theodore relaxes further against him with a soft, sighing sort of noise against Blaise’s lips and wraps his arms around him. So close, bare skin pressed together and Theodore pliant and yielding next to him, and the way he sounds.
It is not a conscious action, neither intentional nor considered; Blaise pushes a careful measure of power into Theodore’s skin with a muttered word against his lips. Theodore makes a low hum of pleasure in the back of his throat, nearly a purr, and Blaise opens his eyes, watching him.
“How does it feel?” he murmurs, and Theodore opens his eyes again.
“Pleasant,” he answers, “but that isn’t what you’re looking for.” A pause. “That was sense magic, I take it? A pleasure spell.”
Blaise’s lips give a wry twist. “Yes.”
“It doesn’t work on me, not like that,” Theodore says, and Blaise nods. “I didn’t-“
“Blaise.” He lets out a breath. “Don’t stop.”
The words hang in the air between them for a long, trilling moment, and Theo almost expects him to refuse (and Blaise almost does). Something catches in his chest, though, and Blaise tightens his hold on Theodore and strokes a hand slowly, deliberately down his back, along the ridge of his spine, and Theodore seems to positively dissolve into the touch with a soft sigh of breath. His eyes are half-closed, drifting, and Blaise knows he cannot stay here much longer. Cannot stay like this much longer, no matter how much he wants to, how desperately he wants to.
He’s hard to pull away from. Blaise does so only after several more minutes, slowly and reluctantly, and murmurs that he promised his cousin he would go riding with her today. Theodore looks up at Blaise with dark, liquid eyes, and Blaise knows he’s not really fooled, but neither does he give any indication of being hurt.
“Give Tamira my best, then,” Theodore murmurs. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
Theodore is outside near the waterfall when Blaise finds him, lying on his stomach just barely within the shade of the trees; the evening sunlight through the leaves paints curious, shifting shadows across his back. He is propped up on his elbows, one hand lifted, and crawling on it is one of the enormous scorpions native to this place, a large blue-black one nearly the size of Theodore's palm. Theodore seems entirely unruffled by this state of affairs, as calm and controlled as ever, and the scorpion doesn't appear to have any intention of striking.
"It won't sting me," he says, evidently sensing both Blaise's presence and his thoughts, "not unless provoked." A wry smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "After all," he adds, lower, "I am not prey."
Blaise remains still, feeling the dappled sunlight playing on his back, and watches the vaguely monstrous creature sidling across Theodore's palm with a calm expression. Only the elusive tension that has settled into his shoulders betrays his unease, and Theodore can't see him from where he is lying, nor currently turn around to look.
"Scorpions are unreliable and aggressive," Blaise answers over the rushing sound of the water. "But their venom, I can deal with. So long as you stay clear of the serpents."
"So is everything," Theo murmurs absently. "Most species can't cause any permanent damage to us, though. A sting, and numbness, and a bit of swelling. Barely worse than a bee." Nonetheless, after a moment more he lets his hand drop smoothly to the ground, and the scorpion soon crawls off of it and into the grass. He watches it trundle along until it disappears into the undergrowth, then sits and looks up at Blaise, shielding his eyes against the quickly fading sun. Blaise relaxes marginally and tilts his head slightly when the other man looks up at him. After a moment, he slides down to sit cross-legged in the grass next to Theodore, his eyes on the vibrant blue of the lake.
"I almost died when I was nine years old." He gestures towards the lush green next to the water. "There. One of the white serpents bit me." Blaise turns his left arm over, exposing the thin skin of the underarm, and runs a finger along a scar there, faded and pale. Theodore's gaze flicks in the direction of the lake, then back to Blaise's arm, to the scar. He catches hold of Blaise lightly by the wrist, gaze never leaving the mark, and then shifts over, pressing his lips softly to the spot for a long, lingering moment, eyes finally closing.
"I'm glad you didn't," he whispers against the skin.
Though he remains motionless, Blaise's breath catches on a shiver at the touch. The softly spoken words, though, are what make him close his eyes and keep them closed. "I dream of it, sometimes," he murmurs at length; there is an odd, soft note in his voice. Theodore, for his part, makes no verbal reply; there is nothing to say, really. He lifts his head after a moment and strokes his fingers lightly over the skin, along the length of Blaise's forearm. Up, down, up, down, softly, softly. The motion is in time with the rhythm of Blaise's breathing, and feather-light. For a long time, they are silent. Spread out beneath them, the valley sinks into deep shadow, but the waterfall catches the last rays of the setting sun. Blaise watches the way the light teases red highlights out of Theodore’s hair, and he tangles his fingers in it- the only point of contact between them, though they’re close enough almost to feel the heat from one another’s bodies. Theodore's eyes fall shut, and he leans into the touch with a low hum of contentment. He says nothing, though, loathe to break the gentle silence between them; for the moment, it is enough to simply be.
It is not until the sky has darkened into a misty, bluish twilight that Blaise finally speaks, low and soft. “Thank you.”
Theodore opens his eyes again. "Whatever for?" he murmurs.
Blaise isn’t looking at him; he is watching the place where the sun has disappeared behind the mountains. “Being here.”
Theodore shifts, finally turning to face Blaise, and just watches him for a moment before he whispers, "I can't imagine any place else I would rather be."
Their eyes meet; it is all Blaise can do not to stop breathing. With a slow, smooth movement, he slides his hand out of Theo’s hair and down, resting the tips of his fingers over the other man’s heart. “Me neither,” Blaise whispers, and kisses Theodore on the lips, lightly, lightly, and Theodore catches him by the shoulders when he moves to draw back. "No," he murmurs, and winds his arms around Blaise's neck, shifting close once more, "stay with me."
A hitch of breath, ever so slight. There is the barest of moment of hesitation before Blaise folds his arms around Theodore, settling him gently against him and stroking a hand down his back. “I’m here, he answers, and Theodore curls closer, resting his head against Blaise's shoulder with a quiet sigh. "I don't want to ever go back," he murmurs.
Blaise turns his head, just enough to kiss Theodore’s hair lightly. “You’re here now.”
"I know." The barest whisper. Theodore brushes his fingertips lightly across Blaise's cheek; the touch, as ever, is soft. Blaise breathes out carefully, eyes falling closed for a moment, and tightens his hold a little. He shifts, gathering Theodore closer in his arms, and drops a light kiss, almost against his will, on the soft skin of Theodore’s neck, lingering. Theodore shudders almost imperceptibly and lets his eyes fall closed. His fingers twine into Blaise's hair, and he lets out a slow breath, and does not move away.
“Theo -“ Blaise’s voice is soft and rough, almost breathless. He holds himself still save for tightening his fingers into Theodore’s hair, desperately unwilling to let go but all too aware that he should. Soon.
Theodore lifts his head. "Shh." He lets go of Blaise's hair to press a finger to his lips, just looking at him, looking at him, before he moves his hand and lets his mouth replace his finger, a gentle pressure. Blaise makes a soft sound and leans into the kiss, deepening it- for just a moment, just a breath before he catches himself and breaks the seal of their lips. Theodore, though, makes no move to pull away, none at all. "Blaise," he whispers, and tightens his hold, cupping his face with his free hand. "It's... it's okay."
Blaise shakes his head sharply, setting a palm flat against Theodore’s shoulder and shifting, putting distance between them, though the movement is heavy with reluctance. Aching. He can’t seem to pull away completely, but Theodore feels like he is choking all the same, feels like there just isn't any air, like he has forgotten how to draw breath. Like he cannot, for all the wrenching tightness in his chest. He turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut against love and pain and need and feeling, against letting Blaise see just how lost he really is. Blaise remains still for a stretched, agonising moment, then he draws back sharply, getting to his feet with none of his usual grace. It feels as if he is tearing something when he pulls away, and his hands have clenched hard, nails digging painfully into the palms as he turns his back, tensing against a fierce impulse to shiver clawing its way out despite the warm tropical air. Theodore seems to shrink in on himself as Blaise goes; he tucks his knees to his chest and clasps his arms tightly around them, curling up, curling in. Every line of Theodore’s body is withdrawn, miserable, but he does not look up, he can't. He is biting at the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched; the taste of blood barely registers, and it is not until Blaise has disappeared from sight that he mutters, darkly, “Not unless provoked.”
“I don’t think,” Theodore murmurs against Blaise’s lips, “that you’re supposed to snog your adversary, Blaise.”
“When have I ever done what I’m supposed to?” he rejoins, twining his fingers into Theodore’s hair.
“Touché.” A slight smile, and Theodore tips his head up slightly, pressing his lips to Blaise’s once more, and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him in a little bit closer.
“Oi! Some of us might want to use the training room for things other than illicit love affairs, you know.”
Blaise breaks the kiss with more than a little reluctance, though he lingers close to Theodore, doesn’t yet let him go. “Mercy, you sound like a trashy romance novel.”
“And you two look like one,” she retorts. “Also, incidentally, I am very angry at the both of you.”
“And why is that, pet?” Blaise’s tone is a lazy drawl, edged with indulgence just shy of offensive.
“You conveniently skipped town right before an assignment in the middle of the Sahara. And I got stuck with Tellier. For a week.”
Theodore cringes slightly. “My condolences.”
Mercy tosses her hair. “You’re doing the next one,” she says archly, “now shoo.”
Theodore hates parties, hates them with a vengeance, but it takes a bolder man than he to refuse Zabini senior. At least Blaise is present, which is really the only comfort as far as Theodore is concerned, though it is pleasant, too, to encounter Draco again. Some things, Theodore finds, never really change, which suits him just fine while Blaise is off playing the dutiful son. The general air of elegant debauchery that surrounds Silene Zabini’s parties in particular has always been uncomfortable to Theodore, though, and eventually he retreats from the crowded ballroom to the relative quiet of the mansion’s empty halls.
“Theo.”
He turns at the sound of Blaise’s voice, shaded in tones he cannot quite place, and allows the other man to catch up to him. “You’ve escaped, I see.”
“You too,” Blaise answers, drawing closer, and catches Theodore by the wrists. “Red suits you, incidentally,” he murmurs, and there is an edge of roughness in his voice that makes Theodore’s shoulders tense up in spite of himself. Something in Blaise’s stance, and a naked spark in his eyes. Wide and black, gleaming with something nothing like affection and with something more than alcohol.
“Blaise,” Theodore says, as calmly as he can, “you’re not yourself.”
“Shh,” is the only reply Blaise gives, and with a sudden, quick movement Theodore finds himself pressed between Blaise’s body and the wall, wrists trapped behind him and Blaise’s mouth on his, and this isn’t right, this isn’t right at all, tongue and teeth and bitter something on his lips, and Theodore squirms. Stop stop against Blaise’s lips; Theodore shudders almost violently, eyes shut tight, shut tight, no no no, stop stop.
“Blaise, please…”
It is the wrong reaction.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” Blaise breathes, and hands, and hands, and hands, and Theodore’s skin is crawling and shivering but he’s got nowhere to go, nowhere to go his stomach is in knots he’s going to be sick, just just, “Blaise,” don’t sound desperate, “please, a… a bed. At least this time?” Skin crawling.
It is enough. Blaise’s grip relaxes the fraction he needs, and Theodore wrenches free with desperate speed, disapparates before either of them even has a chance to think, and shuts the wards on Nott Estate to any and every other person but himself.
It’s a solid week before Theodore shows his face at the Ministry again; he tells Thornapple, the head of the department, that he has been ill, and it is an easy lie. Theodore has always had a weak immune system, and he still looks off when he returns, even thinner and paler than usual. If Thornapple doubts him, he does not press the issue.
Theodore does not bother to knock at Blaise’s office door; he just walks in. “I don’t want you to apologise,” he says, without preamble, “and I’m not going to scream or yell or punish you, because I’m entirely certain you’re doing a far better job of it all on your own than I ever could. All I want is for you to not let that happen again.”
Blaise looks up at him like a hunted animal. “Stay away from me,” he says, “you’ll only get hurt, get hurt worse, just. Just stay away; you shouldn’t be near me.”
“Stop it,” Theodore says sharply, and closes the short distance between them to grab hold of Blaise’s wrist. "I'm here because I want to be."
A sharp twist, and Blaise throws him off, throws him back. "That’s because you fucking don't know what's good for you!"
"I'm not fucking made of glass, Blaise!"
"No, but I can smash this with one wrong move and you know it, and I don't know why you even bother!" Blaise growls, and Theodore just looks at him for a long, long moment, unflinchingly. When he speaks, it is soft, but with utter, absolute certainty.
"Because I'm in love with you anyway."
Blaise stares at him mutely, eyes wide and black on Theodore's, for an impossibly long second. Then he lunges, throwing Theodore backwards to collide hard with the nearest wall and pins him with his body, speaking into his ear in a low, vicious hiss. "No you are not. You have no idea who I am, and if you did I would be the last person in the world you would want near you, so stay the hell away before I do something to you that can't be undone. And don't fucking touch me."
Theodore watches him, but there is no trace of fear in his eyes, nor doubt. "You'll tell yourself I don't mean it 'til your dying day because you don't think you deserve it, because you think you're cruel and ugly at the core,” he says. “I can't make you believe me, and perhaps you are cruel, but you have never been ugly, and whatever you think doesn't change anything I feel." There is a pause, and his voice drops, softer. "If you want to leave me, I can't stop you. But I won't be the one to run away."
For the longest moment, Theodore doesn’t know if Blaise is going to kiss him or kill him, and all he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears.
“Get out,” Blaise says flatly, and pushes him at the door.
“Here is the file,” Thornapple says, handing it over. “You and Mercy will leave tomorrow at noon. And Blaise?”
“Yes, sir?”
Thornapple’s lips thin into a sharp, wry expression caught somewhere between bitterness and regret. “Try not to fall in love with her. I do not want to lose another of my best Unspeakables.”
Blaise honestly doesn’t know what to say, but Thornapple seems not to expect an answer; he sets a sealed, folded piece of parchment on top of the assignment and dismisses Blaise with a nod.
The houses are all gone under the sea.
The dancers are all gone under the hill.
This was what you asked of me, Blaise. I wish I could say that I will miss you; we both know I will not. By the time you read this, I will already have given all my memories of my time as an Unspeakable over to Thornapple; with them, the memory of you. Lost years, lost time. Perhaps one of these days you will learn to see in yourself what I did. You were always so beautiful, Blaise.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope.