FIC: "Courtship of a Common Man" for coffee_n_cocoa
Recipient: coffee_n_cocoa
Author: ???
Title: Courtship of a Common Man
Rating: R
Pairings: Viktor Krum/Percy Weasley
Word Count: 4,544
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *none, except a sad lack of kink*.
Summary: Percy's so tired of nothing being right or perfect in the world that he's just about given up. Thank goodness Viktor doesn't believe in giving up.
Author's Notes: First, many thanks to the mod for her extreme patience with me. Thanks to my beta, B, for the fast proof, as always. Coffee_n_cocoa, I'm sorry there's not more Neville here, or, you know, plot. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
" - Great!"
Percy steps silently into the space between Hermione and Neville in time for the tail end of Ron's declaration. Clustered behind the dais, the little group is left mostly alone; few Ministry underlings are willing to walk behind the line of hierarchy drawn by the head table, even to hobnob with heroes. Harry and Ron are likely to spend the entire evening here, interrupted only by a few brave souls and those who can claim a personal connection.
"It was good, but it wasn't great."
He prefers to make use of these evenings himself, to present ideas and policies to department heads that are other times unreachable beyond the barricade of oak doors and militant assistants. But tonight he is inexplicably weary. Family members will at least have the decency to roll their eyes at him where he can see, instead of where he is not meant to. They're talking about Quidditch; Ron's expression would tell him as much, even if Viktor Krum himself were not standing there beside him, tall and dark and utterly unignorable.
"I'm telling you, the Bulgarians have never had a better season!" Ron rejoins, his swinging hand sending a swell of champagne over the rim of his glass.
"Ron!" Hermione admonishes, her eyes darting to Viktor.
"What?"
The champagne has spotted across the floor, barely discernible against the marble. Someone could slip, Percy thinks, but tamps his urge to clean it up.
"Percy," Hermione says, her tone tight. "Do you know Viktor?"
"Of course." Donning his best Ministry smile, Percy holds out his hand. "Though I don't believe we were introduced. A pleasure, Mr. Krum. Percy Weasley."
"Viktor, please. We have had many meetings together."
The words roll together, accent-soft and rich. He recalls those meetings, of course, the hours spent sitting in attendance while every detail of the World Cup was argued and eventually organized, drafting summary reports that were mostly ignored by the his supervisor and the same intent, evaluative stare of dark eyes that watches him now.
Viktor's hand curls against his, thick thumb lingering against the line of Percy's.
"Yes." Letting go, Percy clasps his hands behind his back to keep them still. "You did very well. I mean--" He pauses, glancing away from Hermione's disapproving look and the amusement of the others. "You had some very good ideas. Oh. That is to say, it's rare for someone so new to the Ministry to get their voice heard, even department heads--"
Percy closes his mouth. He looks out, over Viktor's shoulder to the expanse of ballroom behind, willing away the blushing heat creeping up his neck.
There's an amused curve to Viktor's smile, though Hermione looks pained.
"I'm sure he hardly needs to make himself heard!"
"It was surprising how many thought their department should arrange the Cup before mine."
"Well," Harry says, and pauses for an uncertain lick to his lips. "We're all glad it was sports and games that won out in the end. What a game--"
As the conversation turns back to Quidditch, Percy lets his attention drift, uninterested in recaps and broom bickering. The chandeliers float above them, their golden limbs dulled now by hours of candle wax dripping down. On the dais, the elves have cleared away the dishes and exposed the mottling of stains across the expanse of tablecloth. Percy keeps his face politely blank to hide his disappointment that the ballroom has lost its initial sparkling perfection.
"You are not a fan?"
The words, softly spoken though they are, startle Percy. He turns towards them to find Viktor standing almost intimately close beside him. Caught wrong-footed, his usual reply slips out.
"I prefer Garrum."
"It is a good sport. Did you play?"
"No, Hogwarts has never had a team." And the family had never been able to afford the equipment, not when his siblings had all preferred Quidditch.
"I played some when I was young, but I was not good. Always I let my temper lead me astray. It is a thinking man's game." Viktor tilts his head, gaze flickering down and back up. His eyes meet Percy's and hold there as he speaks. "You would be very good, I think."
Percy looks away, as if he could just turn away from the tangle of pride-pleasure-disappointment-frustration that the compliment stirs up. He shrugs, shaking the feelings down, and is grateful when Hermione's interruption saves him from having to respond.
"Viktor, we're having Sunday brunch at the Weasleys' this weekend; you'll come, won't you? All of us would love to see more of you."
"All of you?" Viktor asks, and Percy finds himself pinned again beneath his gaze. "Then I would not miss it."
***
Spring grasses, green and yellow in the Sunday sun, brush Percy's knees as he makes his way through the field. Burly bumblebees hover in the air, placidly bobbing between wildflowers, as if pollen-gathering were a side effect of their outing and not the purpose.
There are already hints of a path, bent stalks and the darker earth showing where others have walked before. Percy follows those steps as he can, body held stiff in a futile attempt to keep from marring his trousers with dirt. Rubbing at the heat-tacky skin of his neck, he wishes for winter and its clean blanket of snow.
Beyond the slope of the field lies the Burrow, and Percy can see the others already outside, setting the low wooden table. Percy doesn't pause his steps, having learned years ago that if he allows himself the hesitation of uncertainties buried, he will not be able to go on.
***
"That was delicious, Mrs. Weasley, thank you."
"Thank you, dear! No, no, you sit back down, you're our guest. Percy, take his plate, would you?"
Percy complies, gathering up Viktor's plate before he can object and adding it to the pile of dishes and cutlery he's accruing for cleanup. Though he does not sit down immediately, Viktor limits his help to assisting with the pile-up of dishes. It's a little awkward, standing together as their hands move over the table. Their robes brush, and Percy would swear he can feel the heat of Viktor's taller, broader body beside him, even above the afternoon sun. Viktor's hands, which are wider, blunter perhaps than most would expect, here demonstrate their agility as they pass over, under, alongside Percy's, plucking up glasses and cutlery with a neat efficiency.
Conversation picks up around them. Rose darts off to play in the garden. Neville makes to help with the dishes at their end of the table, but a touch of Harry's hand on his shoulder stops him. Percy watches as Harry gets up instead, watches the way Neville smiles at him before continuing his earlier talk with Hermione about Hogwarts.
At the threshold to the kitchen Percy pauses, watching his mum at the sink. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the gray above her ears and, in profile, the way her jowls have begun to fall.
"I'll get this, Mum."
"You don't--"
"It's no bother, I'll take care of them," he says, guiding her away from the sink and to the door. She stops him before he can turn back, pressing a kiss to his cheek in a familiar brush of soft lips and lavender perfume.
"You're a good boy, Percy."
Percy's smile fades as she turns away. He goes to start the dishes, trying to remember what it felt like to believe her without reservation.
From the kitchen window he can see most of the garden. Out beyond the fence, Ron and Harry are creating bubble creatures for Rose, the shimmering forms dancing in the sunlight. The others are still at the table, their words carrying to him in small swells of sound, undefinable beyond the occasional burst of laughter. Viktor's back is to him, but he can see George across the table and doesn't miss when his brother looks to the window for a long moment before getting up and coming inside.
"All right?"
"Fine." He watches his hands sink into the soapy water again to scrub at a cup. George moves to stand next to him.
"He likes you."
"He's polite."
"He made sure to sit next to you. Asked about you too, before you got here."
Dousing the cup in the cold water rinse, Percy hands it off to George for drying.
"And what I think," George's tone develops a hint of teasing, "is that you're a little keen on him yourself."
"You're daft."
"Go ahead and call me names, brother dearest. Dunno what he sees in an ugly bugger like you, but you mark my words, keep making those cow eyes at him and that speech from Dad about the birds and the bees will finally make sense."
He glowers at George's grin, but his heart isn't in it. "It was Bill, actually. And, as I recall, I was the one who gave you the talk, not Dad."
Nodding, George turns solemn. "I try to forget, but the memory is there, burned into my brain for all eternity. I couldn't wank for years afterward."
Percy lingers in the kitchen, even after the dishes are done and George has gone back out. He watches as they begin an impromptu Quidditch match, and finally makes his way out to stand at the fence and watch. It is only a minute or two before Viktor comes to stand beside him, long arms resting over the fence.
"You didn't want to play?" Percy asks eventually, uncomfortable with the silence. Viktor seems immune to the awkwardness, if his easy answer is any indication.
"It would not be fun for them if I joined."
"Because you're better?" Percy asks, honestly curious of the reply. Until this point, he has not seen a hint of condescension or vanity from Viktor. For the most part, the man seems to go about with a quiet certainty to his actions that Percy envies, aware his own vanity can, at times, get away from him.
"No, seeking is mostly luck, but I am too competitive. I want always to win. This," he gestures up to the game, "where the rules are not strict and the points are not kept, I cannot do."
"Oh." They turn back to watch the game. From the corner of his eye, he can see Viktor's profile: his dark hair kept bristle-short, his sharp jaw in contrast to his full lips and wide nose. Though he's not a classically handsome man, his features hold Percy's attention; they seem made up only of extremes, so unlike his own, regular face.
"You were like that at the Ministry, too," he finds himself saying. It's true. He'd been intelligent, cunning and just a little ruthless, when need be.
"Yes, it is the same with anything I want."
"I wanted to be Minister." He pauses uncertainly, a little shocked at himself. "But it's too late for that."
Viktor considers him, the taunts from the players above filling the air. "These things, so much of them is luck. When I played, there was no promise that I would catch the Snitch because I was faster, cleverer, braver than the other seeker. I could only know these things were true and say to myself I will have the snitch, and try, and hope that when it was time, it was my hand it would come to."
Percy gets it, he does, but he doesn't know how to explain that there's a fundamental difference between himself and Viktor, that he scorched the earth of that path years ago and has been staggering through the underbrush since. Fortunately, Viktor picks up on his discomfort and changes the conversation over to the proposed regulations on home-brewed potions commerce.
At sunset, they walk back beyond the wards to the Apparition point together. Percy can't help the flare of pleasure when Viktor turns to him instead of immediately Apparating out.
He inhales sharply as Viktor steps closer, his body mere inches away. It should be frightening, the sudden proximity and seriousness to Viktor's expression, but instead it makes arousal wash heady and hot over Percy's skin.
"I like you very much," Viktor says, voice low. He reaches up, fingers just touching Percy's cheek. "Will you have dinner with me?"
Percy nods. He tries to speak, to say yes, of course yes, but the words won't come.
Viktor smiles and trails his thumb across Percy's parted lips. "Good, I will owl you."
Then he is gone with a single step back and the muted pop of Apparition.
***
The restaurant is nice; it's a Muggle establishment a few blocks away from the Ministry, and Viktor's suggestion. If Percy is honest, it's a little too nice. The walls are lined with a rich brocade, the glasses real crystal. Sitting straight-backed in his chair, Percy doesn't fiddle with his silverware and pretends like he belongs. The waiter doesn't seem convinced, until Viktor arrives and has him smiling in seconds with his affability.
It shouldn't be surprising then, that the conversation does not lag the way it has on Percy's dates in the past. Viktor is highly engaging, and he makes Percy laugh with a wit so dry it could rival their wine.
"You said you played Garrum, was that before Quidditch?" He takes a small bite of his pudding, trying to make the meal last.
"Both were at Durmstrang, though I only played Garrum my first year."
"Really? With your skill, I would have thought it was earlier."
"No, I had no broom before then." He pauses, and Percy can see the debate to continue play across his features. "My father lost his wand hand to a dark curse in the war with Grindelwald. He was able to perform some magic with his other hand, to earn a living, but only enough to keep our shelter and food. He was... always losing his job to younger, skilled men.
"For many years I watched him struggle. I knew I had to do well at Durmstrang to keep my scholarship - I pushed too hard at everything then. Quidditch was not an escape, exactly, I never played for fun, but it was easy; flying is easy."
"I'm sorry that you had to go through that." A part of him aches to imagine Viktor's childhood, but there is also some pleasure in the knowledge that Viktor is willing to share such information with him.
"Ah, but I think you know something of hardship too."
It's perhaps the kindest way anyone has referenced his family's lack of money. "Some. We weren't so bad off. Mostly we had to deal with hand-me-downs, and taunts."
"I have always wondered what it would be like to have siblings."
"I can't really imagine what it would be like without them," he admits. "They've done amazing things, and I got to see them. I'm proud of every one of them."
"But--?" Viktor says, and Percy wonders what it means that he's read so easily.
Looking away, Percy doesn't answer right away. He watches the other diners talking together, slides his fork across his empty plate.
"I don't live in the history books. I'll never be popular. It's difficult, sometimes, being surrounded by them, when they make greatness look easy.
"And it isn't. I tried so hard to contribute something good to our name. I followed all the rules, did everything you're supposed to, and I--" He swallows and forces himself to hold Viktor's gaze. "I ended up hurting and dishonoring them." The pain is still there, and anger too, because it's not fair that the right thing should have led him so far astray.
"I am sorry." Viktor's hand covers his, and the weight of it calms him.
"You know what's funny? I know I'm not meant to be anything more than I am, a common man, but I keep forgetting, and trying."
Eyes darkening, Viktor squeezes his hand. "Forget it. I have seen how your family loves you. Whatever wrong you have done, you have done good that is far greater. There is nothing common in that." He says the last so fiercely that for a second, before the doubts can reassert themselves, Percy believes him.
Viktor pays the bill, waving away Percy's offer, and they make their way outside, passing silently between the other tables.
They linger outside, walking down the street with the excuse of moving to a less conspicuous location for Apparition. Viktor's fingers brush against his every few steps, in a way that Percy thinks cannot be natural and that sends a tingle of pleasure racing up his nerves.
He tells Viktor about his siblings, sticking to lighter stories, before the war, before Hogwarts even. Back when he taught the twins exploding snap, and Ron chess.
"I know it is not done much anymore, but I would like to walk you home.” Viktor says, when they turn to each other at the Apparition point. Percy can only nod, reaching out to touch his fingers to Viktor's wrist and pulling them both away in a blink.
They reappear in the alley just beside his apartment. Percy tries to regain where they were in the conversation, but cannot keep his focus as they climb the stairs. He ends up speaking in half-sentences, ending abruptly when he changes his mind again. Viktor follows behind him, one hand gliding along the handrail with the dusty sigh of wood and skin.
"Forgive me,” Viktor says, sounding uncertain. “I noticed you watch Harry often?”
Percy looks at the floor, the worn down tile full of cracks and yellowed with age. “My parents, they don't know I'm - well, I haven't told them. I was going to, years ago. But the second war started, and my father was talking about the purges that went on the first time, how anyone sane would keep it to themselves.” He shrugs, looking down the hall at the neighbor's door with its dusty wreath. “Maybe I'm a little jealous, that they can have what they do, and no one cares.”
"I thought perhaps it was you wanted one of them.”
"No,” Percy laughs, because Harry is a little too much like a brother, even to him.
"Of that, at least, I am glad.” Viktor says, with a finality that leaves him with nothing to say.
Percy fiddles with his key, turning it between his fingers. "Would you like to come in?" For tea, he's going to add, but Viktor touches him again, hands on both his cheeks and tilting his head up.
The kiss is achingly soft. Viktor's mouth brushes against his, coaxing Percy's open. They lick at each others' lips, biting gently in a way that makes Percy's breath stutter in his chest. Sliding his hand up to Viktor's hair, the strands at once soft and bristly, Percy deepens the kiss.
Viktor groans, pushing Percy back against the door, his kiss turning hungry.
"We should go inside," Percy pants, breaking the kiss and fumbling his keys at the lock, trying to open it without having to turn. There's a click, and they stumble inside.
Locking the door, he turns around into Viktor's arms.
"You are wrapped up all the time,” Viktor speaks the words against Percy's jaw between kisses, one hand working free the knot of his tie. “It makes me want to pull you open.”
Percy lets himself be stripped of tie, robe and jacket, laying kisses at Viktor's throat, before he remembers to help, to do something. It's been too long, and never like this, so soon, but when he tries to dredge up the doubts he knows should be there, they will not come.
Sliding his hands beneath the heavy fabric of Viktor's robe, he pushes it off his shoulders, palms skimming over the shirt-covered muscles beneath.
"We can't do this here,” he says, taking Viktor's hand and leading them back to the bedroom, leaving their robes tangled together on the spotless floor.
Viktor pulls him down onto the bed, uncaring that the cover is not pulled back and they're still half-dressed. It makes Percy laugh, a short, surprised sound in the darkened room.
They fumble together, hands working to undo buttons, feet kicking off shoes. He gets impressions of Viktor's body through the layers of clothes; the press of a strong thigh against his, the thick curve of his cock against Percy's hip. Eventually they get their shirts off, and Percy thinks how utterly inefficient that was, how next time, he is going to make Viktor strip bare the moment they enter the room.
Viktor kisses him, wet and dirty, his rough, broad hand sliding over Percy's hip. Shivering, Percy runs his hands across Viktor's chest, through the dark mop of hair there, so unlike his own. He licks at Viktor's collar bone, tasting clean skin.
A moan from Viktor makes Percy's hips jut out, pressing his cock against Viktor's hip through the layers of trousers and pants. He gasps a little, mouth pushing hot air over Viktor's skin, breathless that he can bring this man pleasure, that he can be wanted by him.
Hands sliding down, Viktor curls his palms over Percy's arse, kneading the flesh there and pulling their bodies together. Percy thinks he could do this forever, trading kisses and frotting gently. But eventually Viktor turns them, moving Percy onto his back and laying a wet trail of kisses down his chest. Nuzzling his cock, Viktor's hands work open his trousers. He snags both trousers and pants, dragging the fabric over Percy's hips, down his thighs and off, watching from beneath thick brows as Percy is revealed.
Viktor curls his hand over Percy's cock, lifting it and leaning down to lick across the head. Percy moans softly, reluctant to disturb the sight. Taking the head into his mouth, Viktor works his tongue over it, sliding slick across the top and around to the sensitive vein underneath.
Percy wants to touch him, all over, but all he can do is run his hands over Viktor's shoulders and head, fingers raking trails over skin. Viktor's hands slide around Percy's hips to settle on his arse and pull him closer, as if Percy would try and escape. He swallows, throat working around Percy's cock.
"Wait!” Percy gasps, arching up into Viktor's hot mouth. “Wait,” he says again, because it's too much.
Cold air hits his cock as Viktor pulls off. He crawls up the bed, warm skin brushing teasing touches, to hold himself over Percy.
"It was not good?” Viktor asks, face serious in the pale window light.
"Too good. I want--” But the words fail him. He pushes at Viktor's chest until he moves to the side, then crawls over Viktor's lap to reach the nightstand drawer.
Riffling through the drawer, he's surprised by the sharp slap to his arse. Viktor laughs at him when he looks back, and brushes a kiss over the abused skin.
Snagging the oil, Percy works his way back and kneels on the bed. “Take those off.” He nods towards Viktor's trousers, hands already working to uncap the oil.
Viktor obeys, undoing the fly of his trousers and pulling them off to expose long, powerful legs and a thick, hard cock that makes Percy's own prick twitch in anticipation.
Spilling the oil over his fingers, Percy draws one hand back to circle and slick himself. But he has barely touched himself when Viktor is kneeling before him, slicking his own fingers and budging aside Percy's hand.
It feels unsteady on the mattress, with both of them moving, so Percy gives in, leaning forward and letting Viktor support him and open him with careful fingers. He takes the opportunity to explore, kissing Viktor's shoulders and down, into the thatch of dark hair to find pebbled nipples.
When Viktor works in a second finger, easing him open with short thrusts, Percy slides his hand down to curl around Viktor's cock and stroke him in the same rhythm.
"Now,” he says, kissing Viktor's open mouth, pushing their tongues and bodies together to emphasize his point.
Separating, he moves to kneel on hands and knees, but Viktor stops him with a hand on his hip, urging him to turn over. He wraps Percy's legs around his waist and leans forward for a kiss before reaching down to guide himself in.
There's a little burn, it's been so long, but Percy closes his eyes and forces himself not to tense up, letting Viktor slide in slowly. He's forgotten how it feels, being claimed in this way, to be touched inside.
Viktor says something with too many consonants to make out, then begins to move. His thrusts are sharp and steady, and make Percy gasp with each one, surprised at the pleasure every time.
It has never been easy, in the past, to let himself go during sex. His mind never seems to stop, and too often his partners let his silence mute their pleasure. But Viktor grunts on each thrust, as if it were a part of the motion itself, and it does not seem so embarrassing, suddenly, to give his own accompaniment.
"Yes,” Viktor says, voice gone deep and accent heavier. “Let me hear you.”
Percy clutches at Viktor's arms, feeling sweat-slick skin and the muscles working beneath his hands. Viktor's thrusts speed up, driving into him with an intensity that would be frightening, but that there is no pain. His own cock is trapped between them, sliding between their stomachs wet with pre-come. He wants this to go on forever, Percy thinks, just as it becomes too much and he comes with a sharp, shocked cry, spilling between them.
He opens his eyes to see Viktor watching him, eyes pleasure glazed and triumphant. In the span of a few thrusts, Viktor's pace becomes uneven. Pushing deep, he stops and shudders, coming with a deep moan that seems to reverberate through both their chests.
Pulling out slowly, Viktor rolls to lay beside him, one hand over Percy's chest until Percy sits up to grab the tissues from the nightstand. Viktor takes them from him, reaching back to clean off Percy and then himself with a few quick strokes. He moves to toss the tissues aside, but Percy stops him and throws them in the waste basket.
Eyes already half-lidded, Viktor watches him with a sleepy contentment.
"We should get under the covers,” Percy says. “It'll get cold tonight.”
Viktor smiles a little, and slips from the bed and back in beneath the sheets when Percy does. He pulls them together right away, one arm curled over Percy's waist.
"My thoughtful Percy,” He says, kissing Percy languidly before closing his eyes.
Percy watches him in the dark, letting his finger touch Viktor tentatively beneath the sheets. He knows he will not wake up to a perfect world, that Viktor's touch will not change his job, his family, his self, but in this moment he is happy, and Percy's eyes close to sleep with a weightlessness he has not had since he was a boy.
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Author: ???
Title: Courtship of a Common Man
Rating: R
Pairings: Viktor Krum/Percy Weasley
Word Count: 4,544
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *none, except a sad lack of kink*.
Summary: Percy's so tired of nothing being right or perfect in the world that he's just about given up. Thank goodness Viktor doesn't believe in giving up.
Author's Notes: First, many thanks to the mod for her extreme patience with me. Thanks to my beta, B, for the fast proof, as always. Coffee_n_cocoa, I'm sorry there's not more Neville here, or, you know, plot. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
" - Great!"
Percy steps silently into the space between Hermione and Neville in time for the tail end of Ron's declaration. Clustered behind the dais, the little group is left mostly alone; few Ministry underlings are willing to walk behind the line of hierarchy drawn by the head table, even to hobnob with heroes. Harry and Ron are likely to spend the entire evening here, interrupted only by a few brave souls and those who can claim a personal connection.
"It was good, but it wasn't great."
He prefers to make use of these evenings himself, to present ideas and policies to department heads that are other times unreachable beyond the barricade of oak doors and militant assistants. But tonight he is inexplicably weary. Family members will at least have the decency to roll their eyes at him where he can see, instead of where he is not meant to. They're talking about Quidditch; Ron's expression would tell him as much, even if Viktor Krum himself were not standing there beside him, tall and dark and utterly unignorable.
"I'm telling you, the Bulgarians have never had a better season!" Ron rejoins, his swinging hand sending a swell of champagne over the rim of his glass.
"Ron!" Hermione admonishes, her eyes darting to Viktor.
"What?"
The champagne has spotted across the floor, barely discernible against the marble. Someone could slip, Percy thinks, but tamps his urge to clean it up.
"Percy," Hermione says, her tone tight. "Do you know Viktor?"
"Of course." Donning his best Ministry smile, Percy holds out his hand. "Though I don't believe we were introduced. A pleasure, Mr. Krum. Percy Weasley."
"Viktor, please. We have had many meetings together."
The words roll together, accent-soft and rich. He recalls those meetings, of course, the hours spent sitting in attendance while every detail of the World Cup was argued and eventually organized, drafting summary reports that were mostly ignored by the his supervisor and the same intent, evaluative stare of dark eyes that watches him now.
Viktor's hand curls against his, thick thumb lingering against the line of Percy's.
"Yes." Letting go, Percy clasps his hands behind his back to keep them still. "You did very well. I mean--" He pauses, glancing away from Hermione's disapproving look and the amusement of the others. "You had some very good ideas. Oh. That is to say, it's rare for someone so new to the Ministry to get their voice heard, even department heads--"
Percy closes his mouth. He looks out, over Viktor's shoulder to the expanse of ballroom behind, willing away the blushing heat creeping up his neck.
There's an amused curve to Viktor's smile, though Hermione looks pained.
"I'm sure he hardly needs to make himself heard!"
"It was surprising how many thought their department should arrange the Cup before mine."
"Well," Harry says, and pauses for an uncertain lick to his lips. "We're all glad it was sports and games that won out in the end. What a game--"
As the conversation turns back to Quidditch, Percy lets his attention drift, uninterested in recaps and broom bickering. The chandeliers float above them, their golden limbs dulled now by hours of candle wax dripping down. On the dais, the elves have cleared away the dishes and exposed the mottling of stains across the expanse of tablecloth. Percy keeps his face politely blank to hide his disappointment that the ballroom has lost its initial sparkling perfection.
"You are not a fan?"
The words, softly spoken though they are, startle Percy. He turns towards them to find Viktor standing almost intimately close beside him. Caught wrong-footed, his usual reply slips out.
"I prefer Garrum."
"It is a good sport. Did you play?"
"No, Hogwarts has never had a team." And the family had never been able to afford the equipment, not when his siblings had all preferred Quidditch.
"I played some when I was young, but I was not good. Always I let my temper lead me astray. It is a thinking man's game." Viktor tilts his head, gaze flickering down and back up. His eyes meet Percy's and hold there as he speaks. "You would be very good, I think."
Percy looks away, as if he could just turn away from the tangle of pride-pleasure-disappointment-frustration that the compliment stirs up. He shrugs, shaking the feelings down, and is grateful when Hermione's interruption saves him from having to respond.
"Viktor, we're having Sunday brunch at the Weasleys' this weekend; you'll come, won't you? All of us would love to see more of you."
"All of you?" Viktor asks, and Percy finds himself pinned again beneath his gaze. "Then I would not miss it."
***
Spring grasses, green and yellow in the Sunday sun, brush Percy's knees as he makes his way through the field. Burly bumblebees hover in the air, placidly bobbing between wildflowers, as if pollen-gathering were a side effect of their outing and not the purpose.
There are already hints of a path, bent stalks and the darker earth showing where others have walked before. Percy follows those steps as he can, body held stiff in a futile attempt to keep from marring his trousers with dirt. Rubbing at the heat-tacky skin of his neck, he wishes for winter and its clean blanket of snow.
Beyond the slope of the field lies the Burrow, and Percy can see the others already outside, setting the low wooden table. Percy doesn't pause his steps, having learned years ago that if he allows himself the hesitation of uncertainties buried, he will not be able to go on.
***
"That was delicious, Mrs. Weasley, thank you."
"Thank you, dear! No, no, you sit back down, you're our guest. Percy, take his plate, would you?"
Percy complies, gathering up Viktor's plate before he can object and adding it to the pile of dishes and cutlery he's accruing for cleanup. Though he does not sit down immediately, Viktor limits his help to assisting with the pile-up of dishes. It's a little awkward, standing together as their hands move over the table. Their robes brush, and Percy would swear he can feel the heat of Viktor's taller, broader body beside him, even above the afternoon sun. Viktor's hands, which are wider, blunter perhaps than most would expect, here demonstrate their agility as they pass over, under, alongside Percy's, plucking up glasses and cutlery with a neat efficiency.
Conversation picks up around them. Rose darts off to play in the garden. Neville makes to help with the dishes at their end of the table, but a touch of Harry's hand on his shoulder stops him. Percy watches as Harry gets up instead, watches the way Neville smiles at him before continuing his earlier talk with Hermione about Hogwarts.
At the threshold to the kitchen Percy pauses, watching his mum at the sink. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the gray above her ears and, in profile, the way her jowls have begun to fall.
"I'll get this, Mum."
"You don't--"
"It's no bother, I'll take care of them," he says, guiding her away from the sink and to the door. She stops him before he can turn back, pressing a kiss to his cheek in a familiar brush of soft lips and lavender perfume.
"You're a good boy, Percy."
Percy's smile fades as she turns away. He goes to start the dishes, trying to remember what it felt like to believe her without reservation.
From the kitchen window he can see most of the garden. Out beyond the fence, Ron and Harry are creating bubble creatures for Rose, the shimmering forms dancing in the sunlight. The others are still at the table, their words carrying to him in small swells of sound, undefinable beyond the occasional burst of laughter. Viktor's back is to him, but he can see George across the table and doesn't miss when his brother looks to the window for a long moment before getting up and coming inside.
"All right?"
"Fine." He watches his hands sink into the soapy water again to scrub at a cup. George moves to stand next to him.
"He likes you."
"He's polite."
"He made sure to sit next to you. Asked about you too, before you got here."
Dousing the cup in the cold water rinse, Percy hands it off to George for drying.
"And what I think," George's tone develops a hint of teasing, "is that you're a little keen on him yourself."
"You're daft."
"Go ahead and call me names, brother dearest. Dunno what he sees in an ugly bugger like you, but you mark my words, keep making those cow eyes at him and that speech from Dad about the birds and the bees will finally make sense."
He glowers at George's grin, but his heart isn't in it. "It was Bill, actually. And, as I recall, I was the one who gave you the talk, not Dad."
Nodding, George turns solemn. "I try to forget, but the memory is there, burned into my brain for all eternity. I couldn't wank for years afterward."
Percy lingers in the kitchen, even after the dishes are done and George has gone back out. He watches as they begin an impromptu Quidditch match, and finally makes his way out to stand at the fence and watch. It is only a minute or two before Viktor comes to stand beside him, long arms resting over the fence.
"You didn't want to play?" Percy asks eventually, uncomfortable with the silence. Viktor seems immune to the awkwardness, if his easy answer is any indication.
"It would not be fun for them if I joined."
"Because you're better?" Percy asks, honestly curious of the reply. Until this point, he has not seen a hint of condescension or vanity from Viktor. For the most part, the man seems to go about with a quiet certainty to his actions that Percy envies, aware his own vanity can, at times, get away from him.
"No, seeking is mostly luck, but I am too competitive. I want always to win. This," he gestures up to the game, "where the rules are not strict and the points are not kept, I cannot do."
"Oh." They turn back to watch the game. From the corner of his eye, he can see Viktor's profile: his dark hair kept bristle-short, his sharp jaw in contrast to his full lips and wide nose. Though he's not a classically handsome man, his features hold Percy's attention; they seem made up only of extremes, so unlike his own, regular face.
"You were like that at the Ministry, too," he finds himself saying. It's true. He'd been intelligent, cunning and just a little ruthless, when need be.
"Yes, it is the same with anything I want."
"I wanted to be Minister." He pauses uncertainly, a little shocked at himself. "But it's too late for that."
Viktor considers him, the taunts from the players above filling the air. "These things, so much of them is luck. When I played, there was no promise that I would catch the Snitch because I was faster, cleverer, braver than the other seeker. I could only know these things were true and say to myself I will have the snitch, and try, and hope that when it was time, it was my hand it would come to."
Percy gets it, he does, but he doesn't know how to explain that there's a fundamental difference between himself and Viktor, that he scorched the earth of that path years ago and has been staggering through the underbrush since. Fortunately, Viktor picks up on his discomfort and changes the conversation over to the proposed regulations on home-brewed potions commerce.
At sunset, they walk back beyond the wards to the Apparition point together. Percy can't help the flare of pleasure when Viktor turns to him instead of immediately Apparating out.
He inhales sharply as Viktor steps closer, his body mere inches away. It should be frightening, the sudden proximity and seriousness to Viktor's expression, but instead it makes arousal wash heady and hot over Percy's skin.
"I like you very much," Viktor says, voice low. He reaches up, fingers just touching Percy's cheek. "Will you have dinner with me?"
Percy nods. He tries to speak, to say yes, of course yes, but the words won't come.
Viktor smiles and trails his thumb across Percy's parted lips. "Good, I will owl you."
Then he is gone with a single step back and the muted pop of Apparition.
***
The restaurant is nice; it's a Muggle establishment a few blocks away from the Ministry, and Viktor's suggestion. If Percy is honest, it's a little too nice. The walls are lined with a rich brocade, the glasses real crystal. Sitting straight-backed in his chair, Percy doesn't fiddle with his silverware and pretends like he belongs. The waiter doesn't seem convinced, until Viktor arrives and has him smiling in seconds with his affability.
It shouldn't be surprising then, that the conversation does not lag the way it has on Percy's dates in the past. Viktor is highly engaging, and he makes Percy laugh with a wit so dry it could rival their wine.
"You said you played Garrum, was that before Quidditch?" He takes a small bite of his pudding, trying to make the meal last.
"Both were at Durmstrang, though I only played Garrum my first year."
"Really? With your skill, I would have thought it was earlier."
"No, I had no broom before then." He pauses, and Percy can see the debate to continue play across his features. "My father lost his wand hand to a dark curse in the war with Grindelwald. He was able to perform some magic with his other hand, to earn a living, but only enough to keep our shelter and food. He was... always losing his job to younger, skilled men.
"For many years I watched him struggle. I knew I had to do well at Durmstrang to keep my scholarship - I pushed too hard at everything then. Quidditch was not an escape, exactly, I never played for fun, but it was easy; flying is easy."
"I'm sorry that you had to go through that." A part of him aches to imagine Viktor's childhood, but there is also some pleasure in the knowledge that Viktor is willing to share such information with him.
"Ah, but I think you know something of hardship too."
It's perhaps the kindest way anyone has referenced his family's lack of money. "Some. We weren't so bad off. Mostly we had to deal with hand-me-downs, and taunts."
"I have always wondered what it would be like to have siblings."
"I can't really imagine what it would be like without them," he admits. "They've done amazing things, and I got to see them. I'm proud of every one of them."
"But--?" Viktor says, and Percy wonders what it means that he's read so easily.
Looking away, Percy doesn't answer right away. He watches the other diners talking together, slides his fork across his empty plate.
"I don't live in the history books. I'll never be popular. It's difficult, sometimes, being surrounded by them, when they make greatness look easy.
"And it isn't. I tried so hard to contribute something good to our name. I followed all the rules, did everything you're supposed to, and I--" He swallows and forces himself to hold Viktor's gaze. "I ended up hurting and dishonoring them." The pain is still there, and anger too, because it's not fair that the right thing should have led him so far astray.
"I am sorry." Viktor's hand covers his, and the weight of it calms him.
"You know what's funny? I know I'm not meant to be anything more than I am, a common man, but I keep forgetting, and trying."
Eyes darkening, Viktor squeezes his hand. "Forget it. I have seen how your family loves you. Whatever wrong you have done, you have done good that is far greater. There is nothing common in that." He says the last so fiercely that for a second, before the doubts can reassert themselves, Percy believes him.
Viktor pays the bill, waving away Percy's offer, and they make their way outside, passing silently between the other tables.
They linger outside, walking down the street with the excuse of moving to a less conspicuous location for Apparition. Viktor's fingers brush against his every few steps, in a way that Percy thinks cannot be natural and that sends a tingle of pleasure racing up his nerves.
He tells Viktor about his siblings, sticking to lighter stories, before the war, before Hogwarts even. Back when he taught the twins exploding snap, and Ron chess.
"I know it is not done much anymore, but I would like to walk you home.” Viktor says, when they turn to each other at the Apparition point. Percy can only nod, reaching out to touch his fingers to Viktor's wrist and pulling them both away in a blink.
They reappear in the alley just beside his apartment. Percy tries to regain where they were in the conversation, but cannot keep his focus as they climb the stairs. He ends up speaking in half-sentences, ending abruptly when he changes his mind again. Viktor follows behind him, one hand gliding along the handrail with the dusty sigh of wood and skin.
"Forgive me,” Viktor says, sounding uncertain. “I noticed you watch Harry often?”
Percy looks at the floor, the worn down tile full of cracks and yellowed with age. “My parents, they don't know I'm - well, I haven't told them. I was going to, years ago. But the second war started, and my father was talking about the purges that went on the first time, how anyone sane would keep it to themselves.” He shrugs, looking down the hall at the neighbor's door with its dusty wreath. “Maybe I'm a little jealous, that they can have what they do, and no one cares.”
"I thought perhaps it was you wanted one of them.”
"No,” Percy laughs, because Harry is a little too much like a brother, even to him.
"Of that, at least, I am glad.” Viktor says, with a finality that leaves him with nothing to say.
Percy fiddles with his key, turning it between his fingers. "Would you like to come in?" For tea, he's going to add, but Viktor touches him again, hands on both his cheeks and tilting his head up.
The kiss is achingly soft. Viktor's mouth brushes against his, coaxing Percy's open. They lick at each others' lips, biting gently in a way that makes Percy's breath stutter in his chest. Sliding his hand up to Viktor's hair, the strands at once soft and bristly, Percy deepens the kiss.
Viktor groans, pushing Percy back against the door, his kiss turning hungry.
"We should go inside," Percy pants, breaking the kiss and fumbling his keys at the lock, trying to open it without having to turn. There's a click, and they stumble inside.
Locking the door, he turns around into Viktor's arms.
"You are wrapped up all the time,” Viktor speaks the words against Percy's jaw between kisses, one hand working free the knot of his tie. “It makes me want to pull you open.”
Percy lets himself be stripped of tie, robe and jacket, laying kisses at Viktor's throat, before he remembers to help, to do something. It's been too long, and never like this, so soon, but when he tries to dredge up the doubts he knows should be there, they will not come.
Sliding his hands beneath the heavy fabric of Viktor's robe, he pushes it off his shoulders, palms skimming over the shirt-covered muscles beneath.
"We can't do this here,” he says, taking Viktor's hand and leading them back to the bedroom, leaving their robes tangled together on the spotless floor.
Viktor pulls him down onto the bed, uncaring that the cover is not pulled back and they're still half-dressed. It makes Percy laugh, a short, surprised sound in the darkened room.
They fumble together, hands working to undo buttons, feet kicking off shoes. He gets impressions of Viktor's body through the layers of clothes; the press of a strong thigh against his, the thick curve of his cock against Percy's hip. Eventually they get their shirts off, and Percy thinks how utterly inefficient that was, how next time, he is going to make Viktor strip bare the moment they enter the room.
Viktor kisses him, wet and dirty, his rough, broad hand sliding over Percy's hip. Shivering, Percy runs his hands across Viktor's chest, through the dark mop of hair there, so unlike his own. He licks at Viktor's collar bone, tasting clean skin.
A moan from Viktor makes Percy's hips jut out, pressing his cock against Viktor's hip through the layers of trousers and pants. He gasps a little, mouth pushing hot air over Viktor's skin, breathless that he can bring this man pleasure, that he can be wanted by him.
Hands sliding down, Viktor curls his palms over Percy's arse, kneading the flesh there and pulling their bodies together. Percy thinks he could do this forever, trading kisses and frotting gently. But eventually Viktor turns them, moving Percy onto his back and laying a wet trail of kisses down his chest. Nuzzling his cock, Viktor's hands work open his trousers. He snags both trousers and pants, dragging the fabric over Percy's hips, down his thighs and off, watching from beneath thick brows as Percy is revealed.
Viktor curls his hand over Percy's cock, lifting it and leaning down to lick across the head. Percy moans softly, reluctant to disturb the sight. Taking the head into his mouth, Viktor works his tongue over it, sliding slick across the top and around to the sensitive vein underneath.
Percy wants to touch him, all over, but all he can do is run his hands over Viktor's shoulders and head, fingers raking trails over skin. Viktor's hands slide around Percy's hips to settle on his arse and pull him closer, as if Percy would try and escape. He swallows, throat working around Percy's cock.
"Wait!” Percy gasps, arching up into Viktor's hot mouth. “Wait,” he says again, because it's too much.
Cold air hits his cock as Viktor pulls off. He crawls up the bed, warm skin brushing teasing touches, to hold himself over Percy.
"It was not good?” Viktor asks, face serious in the pale window light.
"Too good. I want--” But the words fail him. He pushes at Viktor's chest until he moves to the side, then crawls over Viktor's lap to reach the nightstand drawer.
Riffling through the drawer, he's surprised by the sharp slap to his arse. Viktor laughs at him when he looks back, and brushes a kiss over the abused skin.
Snagging the oil, Percy works his way back and kneels on the bed. “Take those off.” He nods towards Viktor's trousers, hands already working to uncap the oil.
Viktor obeys, undoing the fly of his trousers and pulling them off to expose long, powerful legs and a thick, hard cock that makes Percy's own prick twitch in anticipation.
Spilling the oil over his fingers, Percy draws one hand back to circle and slick himself. But he has barely touched himself when Viktor is kneeling before him, slicking his own fingers and budging aside Percy's hand.
It feels unsteady on the mattress, with both of them moving, so Percy gives in, leaning forward and letting Viktor support him and open him with careful fingers. He takes the opportunity to explore, kissing Viktor's shoulders and down, into the thatch of dark hair to find pebbled nipples.
When Viktor works in a second finger, easing him open with short thrusts, Percy slides his hand down to curl around Viktor's cock and stroke him in the same rhythm.
"Now,” he says, kissing Viktor's open mouth, pushing their tongues and bodies together to emphasize his point.
Separating, he moves to kneel on hands and knees, but Viktor stops him with a hand on his hip, urging him to turn over. He wraps Percy's legs around his waist and leans forward for a kiss before reaching down to guide himself in.
There's a little burn, it's been so long, but Percy closes his eyes and forces himself not to tense up, letting Viktor slide in slowly. He's forgotten how it feels, being claimed in this way, to be touched inside.
Viktor says something with too many consonants to make out, then begins to move. His thrusts are sharp and steady, and make Percy gasp with each one, surprised at the pleasure every time.
It has never been easy, in the past, to let himself go during sex. His mind never seems to stop, and too often his partners let his silence mute their pleasure. But Viktor grunts on each thrust, as if it were a part of the motion itself, and it does not seem so embarrassing, suddenly, to give his own accompaniment.
"Yes,” Viktor says, voice gone deep and accent heavier. “Let me hear you.”
Percy clutches at Viktor's arms, feeling sweat-slick skin and the muscles working beneath his hands. Viktor's thrusts speed up, driving into him with an intensity that would be frightening, but that there is no pain. His own cock is trapped between them, sliding between their stomachs wet with pre-come. He wants this to go on forever, Percy thinks, just as it becomes too much and he comes with a sharp, shocked cry, spilling between them.
He opens his eyes to see Viktor watching him, eyes pleasure glazed and triumphant. In the span of a few thrusts, Viktor's pace becomes uneven. Pushing deep, he stops and shudders, coming with a deep moan that seems to reverberate through both their chests.
Pulling out slowly, Viktor rolls to lay beside him, one hand over Percy's chest until Percy sits up to grab the tissues from the nightstand. Viktor takes them from him, reaching back to clean off Percy and then himself with a few quick strokes. He moves to toss the tissues aside, but Percy stops him and throws them in the waste basket.
Eyes already half-lidded, Viktor watches him with a sleepy contentment.
"We should get under the covers,” Percy says. “It'll get cold tonight.”
Viktor smiles a little, and slips from the bed and back in beneath the sheets when Percy does. He pulls them together right away, one arm curled over Percy's waist.
"My thoughtful Percy,” He says, kissing Percy languidly before closing his eyes.
Percy watches him in the dark, letting his finger touch Viktor tentatively beneath the sheets. He knows he will not wake up to a perfect world, that Viktor's touch will not change his job, his family, his self, but in this moment he is happy, and Percy's eyes close to sleep with a weightlessness he has not had since he was a boy.
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