Love in Ten Pieces
I put this together for the hp_cestfest Cest-a-thon 2010. At least, I think that's what it was. The Modly One, who has made me her official jester, has made me very confused about exactly what we're writing and when. I just wait until the Modly One announces a new fest and then sign up as fast as I can. I don't want to make her mad...she threatens delinquent authors that she will eat their faces broiled with fava beans unless they contact her before deadline. I don't want my face eaten, so I behave.
The structure of this piece is pinched from an original fiction story I wrote years ago: the idea is to take two opposing voices and harmonize them in ten steps, under 5000 words total. For some reason this version was an absolute bitch to write and went through about fifteen revisions before it went to beta and was eventually submitted at, literally, three minutes to deadline. If it weren't for that I'd be working on it. Several people gave me favorable feedback, which I really appreciate because I am neurotic and insecure as hell about my writing.
I'm glad I had the chance to do something that's long interested me: talk about Bill and Charlie as survivors of Voldemort's first war. If you think about Weimar Germany you'll see just how badly children who grow up in war time can fuck up as adults. Of course, I can't have really horrible things happening to my favorite Weasleys, so I touched it and moved on.
One piece:
Unlike their other siblings, Bill and Charlie remember the war against Voldemort. They had been eight and ten then and neither of them could stand to be alone after dark: they’d crawl into one of the twin beds and curl up together, sometimes hiding in the bottom of a wardrobe or trunk when the fighting came too close. They’d learned the emergency escape routes and the signs and countersigns they were to use on any adult that came to the house, even their parents. Occasionally Bill wondered if that’s where they had begun, two terrified boys curled up together, knowing they could trust only one another, keeping each other’s secret terrors secret.
Of course you weren’t supposed to fall in love with your brother. Bill knew that even when he was ten, well before he understood what it really meant to fall in love. By the time he was thirteen he understood enough about his body to know why his hands itched to touch Charlie’s skin, why the ready hugs and kisses they’d always exchanged felt so different now. Lust was a new sensation, but it didn’t even occur to Bill to wonder why it was Charlie he wanted. Bill got through that summer biting his lip and calling himself every kind of debased pervert he could think of-Charlie was eleven, for love of Merlin! He was in first year. He was too young.
He didn’t remember setting out to seduce Charlie. He remembered trying to talk himself out of it. They’d grown up together, closer than the twins in their own way: they were together because they shared experiences the others didn’t have, because they had spent so much their time together playing with and watching the younger kids, because they were nearly the same size though not the same age. They grew up at the same pace. It seemed natural, laughing over wank magazines a couple of summers later, for Charlie to ask, “Have you ever kissed anybody?”
“Like with tongues and all that? No. Have you?”
“Not even Karen?”
“She didn’t want to.” He’d gotten a very sharp shove for trying his luck and an equally sharp note giving him the push the next day.
“You can kiss me. Then we’ll know.”
Bill was shocked-and a little excited, but mostly shocked. Before he could get words together to refuse, Charlie kissed him. They were fumbling, clumsy, both guessing at the mechanics of this and it was still the hottest thing Bill had ever imagined. When they separated, Charlie tucked his face into Bill’s shoulder and in a small voice asked, “Is that what you wanted?”
“What I wanted…?”
“I’ve seen you watching me.”
Bill could feel himself blush. But he said, “Yes,” and kissed Charlie again.
Charlie was delighted by what they did together, as daring in bed as he was in everything else he did, never ashamed, never concerned at the wrongness their actions, never reluctant to say “I love you,” even when Bill’s guilt choked off his reply. His guilt was made worse by their few furtive encounters during term time: he thought of Charlie constantly, and he ended up dating his way through most of his year burning off frustration at being so close and unable to touch. Charlie didn’t date, which made Bill feel like he was cheating, using these girls to slake some of the heat in him, and it wasn’t fair for the girls either. The spiral grew deeper.
Charlie was mystified by Bill’s guilt, his attacks of conscience and remorse. “People spend their whole lives looking for what we have,” he said once. “Don’t you see how lucky we are, to find it so quickly? “
Bill didn’t. He couldn’t. After Bill accepted the job with Gringotts in Egypt, they’d fought nonstop: Bill knowing he had to leave, Charlie utterly unable to understand it, trying to resign himself to being left for love of the one who was leaving him. It was an insane effort, impossible for most adults, and Charlie was fifteen, losing the only lover he’d known.
On the night before he left, Bill tried again. He knelt on the floor by Charlie’s bed where Charlie lay staring at the ceiling, dry-eyed and silent. Charlie didn’t cry, he never had, but Bill could feel his pain just the same. He knew he had said the same words dozens of times but each time he hoped something would change, that somehow Charlie would understand.
“Char, I never gave you a chance. You’ve never even gone out on a date, never kissed a girl, never had a chance to be normal. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who’s sick. I should never have touched you. I’m sorry for it, now, but I can’t undo it. All I can do is get away from you and not make it any worse. I never meant to tie you to me like this. I never wanted you to give up everyone else.” Bill’s eyes were tearing up again, but he saw Charlie turn to face him, propping his head on one elbow. Bill blinked hard to clear his sight.
Charlie’s voice was soft, devastated. “You said you loved me. Were you lying?
Bill knew he should lie. He should tell Charlie that it had all been experimentation. But he’d never been able to lie to Charlie, never wanted to, and now he could not force himself to do it and make Charlie’s pain worse. “No, Char,” he whispered. “I do love you. That’s why I have to leave here. Do you understand? I want you to have a chance to be happy. To have a real life, one without secrets. A chance to love someone and not have to hide or be ashamed.”
In the dim light he could see Charlie’s throat working for a moment before any sound came out. “Can I make a deal with you, then?” Charlie asked hoarsely. “I’ll do what you want-date girls, be normal, if there is such a thing, do whatever you want. You make the rules and I’ll follow them. But when I’m done with school, if we both still want to, will you give me another chance? That’s all I’m asking, just a chance, when I’m older, to see if you might still love me. Just leave me something to hope for, because I don’t know if I can live without hope.”
Bill’s carefully constructed emotional armor shattered at Charlie’s begging. “All right,” he nodded, feeling ashamed of his own hope, because now Charlie wouldn’t be gone forever, and the bond between them wouldn’t be broken, only stretched, and Bill could face that thought more easily than he could face of the thought of life without Charlie.
Two piece:
They’d never written letters that could be taken as anything more than correspondence between brothers: they both knew their mother was likely to read every scrap of paper that entered or left her house. Bill talked about Egypt, Charlie about the Quidditch team and whoever he was dating, making certain Bill knew he kept his promise. Occasional letters from other family members confirmed it. Percy griped about Charlie’s promiscuity but acknowledged that at least he never lied about it, unlike the twins; Fred sent a furious epistle about Charlie poaching a girl Fred was interested in and since he had always thought Charlie was gay it was very unfair of him to pinch his brother’s love interests, since he had the nearly unbeatable advantage of being Gryffindor Seeker. (On the back of the letter was a note from George, saying nobody seriously thought Charlie was gay and that Fred was being an ass. He’d never had a chance with her anyway.)
Charlie had invited Bill to his graduation. Bill hadn’t gone, making an excuse about not having any leave available. He’d gotten a long, sad latter from his mother about how he’d hurt Charlie, who had grown into a fine young man deserving some attention from the brother he idolized. He hadn’t heard from Charlie at all for more than three months and secretly feared that he wouldn’t hear from him at all. At last the letter came to Meretseger camp. Scribbled on the outside was a note: I’m sorry this is so messy. I’m a little drunk. I don’t have the guts to send it when I’m sober.
The address and the wax seal were messy, but the writing in the letter itself was a neat as Charlie’s handwriting ever was. Bill wondered if he had the guts to read a letter Charlie had been afraid to send, but he had to know, whatever it was.
Dear Bill,
I kept my promise. I dated all through school, candy and flowers and dances and all, even though I didn’t like most of the girls much. But I guess I should tell you I went with guys too. I did everything I told you I would and was as normal as I could be, but I think I really am queer. I’m sorry, because I know you wanted me to find a way to live without secrets and that’s never going to happen now.
You told me once you’d give me another chance after I graduated. I understand now it’s not really another chance. It’s a first chance. It’s my first chance to win you over, to see if you love me as an adult. It’s my chance to try to get you to love me without hating yourself.
I’m not going to beg or make demands. I’m asking if I can come to you. It’s been a long time. A lot of things could have changed. I haven’t. I still love you. If you don’t want me, tell me now.
I’m done with school, and I’m looking for a job working with dragons. I‘ve taken what I saved and my graduation presents to visit some of the reserves in Europe. I’m going to leave England, move away from the family. I don’t know where. I haven’t been anywhere that felt right yet.
I’m in France right now, renting a room in the mountains, so Mum isn’t reading my letters. Write whatever you want, just please write something.
I was wrong. I will beg.
Charlie
The falcon-owls didn’t do well in Egypt-sat on a convenient rock and watched the man slowly lower his head to rest on his folded arms. Too much time, too much suffering, far too many secrets and lies, and all wasted. Bill didn’t know what to do next, and inspiration wasn’t coming. All he knew was that he wanted to see Charlie so badly it was a physical pain. He wanted his heart back.
He wrote his address at the bottom of Charlie’s letter.
That’s my apartment. The wards will let you in.
Go there and wait for me. I’m in the desert but I’ll be back soon, maybe even before you get there.
Please don’t beg. Just come here-I need to see you.
Three Piece:
Charlie spent two weeks in the Pyrenees to investigating the Preserva de las Piedras, the Reserve of Stones. It was easy to see how the place got its name-there were huge jagged granite outcroppings everywhere. The lakes were deep and crystal clear and very, very cold. The dragons, mostly the native Stonebreakers with a half dozen immigrant Himalayan Smokey Blacks, loved to swim in the nearly frozen lakes, blowing fire just beneath the surface to make steam clouds rise high into the air. Dragons didn’t usually swim. There was no reason they couldn’t, and if forced to it they swam very well, but the dragons at Las Piedras were the only ones known to swim for the pleasure of it. The Himalayan Smokey Blacks, a free-roaming colony that closely watched but not tended by draconologists, had caused panic when they vanished from their Himalayan reserve four years ago; they were nearly extinct, and the loss of three breeding females would have been devastating to the species. A month later the entire colony had turned up at Las Piedras, settling in as if they had been invited by the Stonebreakers, who abandoned their usual fierce territoriality and taught the newcomers to swim. Charlie had been as caught up in it as the staff, staying for a week just watching the Smokeys, whom he’d never seen in the flesh.
When he’d finally hauled himself off the mountain he’d stumbled back to the auberge for a hot bath and ten hours unbroken sleep. The hotelier had kept his mail for him and he read the stack of letters from his mother and replies to his queries to several dragon reserves while he plowed through an enormous fry-up he received courtesy the hotelier’s wife. Australian by birth, she agreed with Charlie that while France was a very fine and lovely country the French had absolutely no clue about how to do breakfast properly. He’d finished his meal when he saw his own letter to Bill, neatly folded, seeming untouched except for the address.
Oh no, he thought. Please tell me you read it, Charlie begged silently. Don’t dismiss me without a hearing. He gathered up the envelopes and went to his room, where he stared at his hands until they quit shaking. The he opened it, tearing it little in his haste, and saw Bill’s note.
It’s the only room on the 3rd floor above Faisal the coffee-seller and Marid the baker in the rug makers’ quarter of the old souk, opposite the Greek wand carver’s shop. Ask Darien Metelevi at Gringotts if you can’t find it.
That’s my apartment. The wards will let you in.
Go there and wait for me. I’m in the desert but I’ll be back soon, maybe even before you get there.
Please don’t beg. Just come here-I need to see you.
“Just come here-I need to see you,” Charlie whispered. It sounded urgent, important. More than that, it sounded like resolution. Bill was either going to give him his chance or tell him to sod off; either way, he would have answers to questions that had been hanging fire for years. He shoved the letter into his pocket and headed into the mountains again, running, walking and climbing for hours to burn off the wild nervous energy Bill’s note had set free. He returned to the hotel at suppertime composed enough to request the hotelier’s advice on the best way to travel to Cairo.
Four Piece
The Wizards of Cairo seemed not to share space at all with their Muggle kinsmen: their Cairo was cleaner, smelled sweeter and was not as crowded full of cars, people and rats. Instead cats ran free everywhere, soaking up sun on roofs and railings, and were no doubt responsible for keeping the rats out. Marid the baker turned out to be a fat jovial bloke who was constantly surrounded by cats: he fed them in lean times and they kept his flour rodent-free. Charlie and Marid had no common language-Bill had studied French and Latin at school, while Charlie had studied as little as possible-but it turned out they didn’t need one. Marid looked at the young man who stepped beneath his awning and carefully dusted flour from his hands. He reached out and tugged a handful of Charlie’s red hair, then pointed up the stairs.
“Bill’s my brother,” Charlie said. Marid responded with a grin and some incomprehensible Egyptian, followed by a shooing gesture that clearly meant Charlie should go upstairs, so he did. He felt the familiar magic of Bill’s wards, but the door wasn’t even locked.
Bill’s apartment had a strange spicy scent, smelling of the cassia and musk and flower oils that had been rubbed into the carved wood shutters and scented the air that drifted through them. The apartment was small, one room with a bath. It was neat but not compulsively so, full of books and odd trinkets, with a double bed against one wall covered with a brilliant yellow and orange throw against walls so white they were nearly luminous. It was bright and light and cheerful, books stacked against the walls like they were everywhere Bill lived. Charlie took off his boots at the door and walked around the room. There was a hot plate with a kettle and three cups for tea, a bottle of fire whiskey that had barely been touched and a box of biscuits.
Bill’s clothes, some battered and dull, others edgier and flashier, were in a small wardrobe. Charlie took a deep breath when the doors swung open: Bill’s scent clung to his clothes. So he picked out a silk shirt that would exactly match Bill’s eyes and ran his fingers over it, enjoying the clinging feel of the silk. Feeling foolish but not inclined to resist his growing excitement, he brushed the shirt across his cheek and lips, inhaling Bill’s scent and imagining he was wearing the shirt, his body warming the cool silk.
Beside that was a pair of dragon leather pants, Winterkill leather dyed black, that laced down the outside of each leg from the waistband to the hem. They laced closed, too, instead of having a button or zip. Charlie slid a hand inside his own trousers, adjusting but teasing himself a little too. He could imagine Bill’s perfect flesh-no scars, not even a freckle to mar it-pressing against the thongs of the trousers, laced so tight they fit like a second skin. Charlie carefully put the trousers away and closed the wardrobe door, half a breath from coming in his pants at the pictures his imagination conjured.
He was breathing fast, one hand pressing and squeezing himself through his trousers, savoring the excitement with the pounding of his heart. He unbuttoned his own jeans slowly and pulled them down just enough, then licked his palm and grasped himself. He was so hot he knew he wouldn’t last long, so he pictured slowly unlacing the fly of the leather trousers, Bill begging him to hurry… and then he was over the edge, orgasm making his knees weak. He let himself slide to the floor, covered in his own come and milking out the last of it, imagining Bill’s copper hair.
Before long he got up and figured out how to work the shower, climbing in still wearing the clothes he’d jacked all over, letting water rinse the clothes off as he stripped, then bathing himself, getting two days of travel grime out of his skin and hair. The clothes got hit with a cleaning spell and the dry heat of Cairo dried Charlie’s body almost before the towel did.
He stuffed his clothes into his pack and crawled naked into Bill’s bed, grinning like an idiot at the memories Bill’s scent evoked. He intended a short nap and then the adventure of finding dinner in a place where he had no local currency and didn’t speak the language. When he next awakened it was full dark, moonlight showing through the wood screens and clearly too late to go anywhere. He listened to Cairo’s night sounds for a while, wondering about life here, then went back to sleep.
Five piece:
Please don’t beg. Just come here-I need to see you.
He hadn’t received a reply from Charlie. He wondered if he should worry yet. He wondered what he was going to say, to do, except make a fool of himself begging forgiveness for being such a selfish imbecile in the first place.
He had found a pair of tombs, a priest and priestess, buried side by side. Brother and sister, husband and wife. He wished such simplicity was still possible, but even the old Egyptians had not sanctioned two brothers together.
The sun was coming up when he got home, walking from the apparition point to his apartment. The souk was still sleeping as he made his way upstairs to see the faint alterations in the lines of his wards: Charlie was here. Here already: he must have used Muggle transportation because two days wasn’t enough time to get the portkey made to send him here. Bill cast a silencing charm and went to look at his lifelong obsession, sprawled naked and innocent atop the sheets.
Charlie wasn’t a boy now. Most of his growing was done; he had man’s body. He was clearly an athlete, with wide shoulders and a deep chest, long legs; all toned, defined muscle earned through hundreds of hours of practice. His freckles were gone: in their place was a golden tan that covered his whole body, even places that shouldn’t have seen the sun. His hair was darker, more auburn than red. Bill reached out to touch him, to feel the muscles of his broad back, but stopped himself. He laid a sleep spell on Charlie then went to shower off the sand and grit of the valley.
He was hard already. Charlie did that to him, always had, but especially to come home and find him sprawled naked in Bill’s own bed, lacking only a bow to look like a gift. He was beautiful in an entirely unexpected way, nothing like the boy Bill remembered or the man he’d imagined. Fighting his own arousal, Bill turned the shower cold, gasping when the water hit his overheated skin.
Six Piece:
Charlie rarely had trouble sleeping. Waking up, though, he wasn’t so good at, and Bill knew it. In familiar surroundings he could be out of bed, dressed and fifteen minutes into his routine before his brain caught up. It was great for not missing 6:00 Quidditch practice because he’d almost literally wake up on the pitch, fifteen minutes ahead of his squad. Right now, it was a bit of a handicap, one that Bill took advantage of to touch Charlie before Charlie could see how badly his hands were shaking.
The tan skin made Bill think, nonsensically, of the pale gold limestone of Meretseger’s Valley, and suited auburn hair and lashes well. On a woman Bill would have thought it artifice, but on Charlie he knew it wasn’t: Charlie rarely thought of the way he looked. Bill brushed his cheek gently and felt the scrape of stubble beneath his fingers. He ran a fingertip across his lips and chin, started out of all reason by Charlie’s beard. Then he chuckled, smiling to keep from crying. Of course Charlie had a beard-why wouldn’t he? It was something he’d missed by leaving when he did: he hadn’t seen Charlie grow up.
Charlie swatted at the fingers tickling his face and turned his head deeper into the pillow. Bill knelt on the bed and ran his hands over Charlie’s shoulders, feeling the muscles relaxed under the skin, then down to the small of his back, out to the hip bones and up over the ribs. He was getting aroused again, he couldn’t help it, caressing the only lover he really wanted. He ran his hands from the base of Charlie’s spine to his shoulders, and this time Charlie stretched like a cat and made a contented sound as he looked over his shoulder. His eyes hadn’t changed; they were still blue-green, a color that Bill now associated with the Mediterranean.
“Were you working your way up or down?” Charlie asked, voice still muzzy from sleep.
Bill’s mouth was dry; when he spoke his voice was rough. “Do you have a preference?”
“Well…down, if you don’t mind?”
Bill nodded and let his hands continue wandering, this time with more intent. He drew the somatic components of two spells by licking his finger and writing on Charlie’s thigh: one activated the silencing charm built into the wards, the other was a cleansing and disease prevention charm he’d learned at a place he didn’t want to think about now. He cast it on them both. He knew what to expect but Charlie gasped and looked at him in shock. Dirty trick, Bill, he thought, but aloud said, “It’s okay, it’s just a cleansing spell.” It felt like a cold finger, working inside you, and then what felt like a sudden flood of ice water filling you until it was almost painful…and then vanishing, leaving you shocked and gasping, much as Charlie was now. Bill kissed his thigh in apology, trying not to enjoy the startled face and dilated eyes quite as much as he did. Instead he pushed Charlie’s knees wide apart, spreading him open, and ran a wetted finger along the strip of skin behind his balls. Charlie whimpered when he replaced the finger with his tongue. Bill closed the part of his mind that told him he shouldn’t do this firmly in the cellar and concentrated solely on pleasing Charlie. Something about feeling Bill’s tongue breach him drove Charlie mad and he begged for more every time Bill threatened to stop, getting less coherent by the second after Bill started stroking him. He came with a muted shout, muffled in the pillow, and almost fell onto his side, gasping for breath. Bill, still dressed, stretched out and watched him pull himself together, pleased beyond words that Charlie was here, now, and willing to let past and future go to hell.
Charlie reached out, grabbed a handful of Bill’s hair, then let it go and ran his fingertips lightly across Bill’s face. “Not a dream,” he said.
“No.”
Charlie’s face flickered in a half-grin. “Felt like one.”
“Thank you.”
“Smug bastard.”
Bill pulled him close, holding on tight, and whispered in his ear. “I am, I know, but let me have it. You’re here. I feel like the sun has come up again.”
Charlie kissed him, very sweet and gentle, then laid his head down on Bill’s shoulder. “Right,” he said softly, voice rough. “I know what that feels like. But we have to talk.”
“I know. But first a nap and then breakfast. After that we can talk.”
“Okay.” Charlie pulled himself closer against Bill and closed his eyes.
Eight Piece:
“You got my letter.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course. Or was there more than one?”
“No, just the one. It’s just…well, you sent it back. Gringotts having a paper shortage?”
“Gringotts is fine for paper, so far as I know-one of the perks of my job is that I don’t have to actually go there. The short answer to why I sent it back is that I was in Meretseger’s valley and didn’t have any other paper to write on.” Bill paused, choking on his own pride: he didn’t want to admit how much of an ass he’d been, or how selfish. But he had to.
Charlie spoke before he could. “Am I going to get my chance, Bill?”
Bill rolled onto his stomach on the carpet and buried his face in his hands. “Why do you want it?”
Charlie sat up and gathered the weight of Bill’s hair into his hands, then pulled it up and nipped the back of Bill’s neck. Hard, hard enough to make Bill draw a sharp breath and freeze in place, waiting for whatever was next.
“I want it because I want you,” Charlie whispered. “You made me waste two years on other people. Two years of pretending I wanted women I didn’t, of closing my eyes so I could pretend it was you, of biting my lip and keeping quiet so I wouldn’t say your name to whatever guy had his hands on me.” He straddled Bill’s hips, chest pressed against Bill’s back, and spoke very softly, hot breath on the back of Bill’s neck.
“There were times when I really hated you,” Charlie continued. “Sometimes I felt like a whore, imagining you laughing over making me do all these things. Then I’d remember you right before you left, crying and hating yourself for what you thought you’d done to me, and I knew you weren’t laughing. I’d write these meaningless letters, the same one three or four times so I could make sure you knew I was doing what you wanted but cutting out all the parts that made it seem I was unhappy. I was afraid you’d kill yourself.”
Bill felt tears building up beneath his closed eyelids. He’d censored his own letters, but never for fear Charlie would do himself harm. He shook his head very slightly.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Char. I won’t.”
He felt Charlie’s sigh. “Thank you. I wish you’d said that years ago, but I’m glad to hear it now.” Charlie kissed the place he’d bitten, and carded his fingers through Bill’s hair, pulling it to one side. “I wish I was half what you think I am, Bill. But I’m not very innocent and I’m not very nice. Percy swears I don’t have a conscience or morals. I do, I think, but they aren’t like his.” He rested his cheek lightly on Bill’s bare nape and nuzzled into his hair. “They aren’t like yours, either,” he said slowly. “I don’t feel any of the guilt or shame you do. I just love you, and I want to be with you. Will you give me a chance to prove it? That’s all I want, Bill. Just a little time.”
Bill laid his head on his folded arms, trying desperately to decide that mattered most. Charlie just rested gently atop him, keeping his weight on knees and elbows so all Bill felt was his warm, solid presence. Every action has consequences, and Bill knew he couldn’t shelter Charlie from them. If he wanted to keep Charlie-and he did-then he was going to have to pay for it, and make sure Charlie understood the costs too, though he suspected Charlie had thought more about this than he had. He patted the carpet beside him and Charlie slid over obediently, resting on his right side.
“I thought I could give you up,” Bill said softly. “If you loved someone else, if you could be happy in a normal life, I thought I could give you up. It was so hard to leave...I was late for my orientation here because I was drunk. I almost lost the job. But I love it, and I’m damn good at it, so the goblins put up with my drinking and vanishing and spending weeks in the desert, because I bring back what they want. I bring them gold, and I bring them magic. I’ve found fortunes for them. They never cared what I did or when I did it, as long as I brought them the goods.
“So they didn’t care that I’d managed to fuck myself up pretty good in the first two years I was here, just trying to stop thinking of you. I told myself I’d made it, until I got your letter. Then I ran out of lies.” Charlie reached out to take Bill’s hand, offering silent sympathy.
“You own me. I don’t know how it happened, but you do.” Bill’s confusion was clear in his voice, but he wasn’t unhappy. He kissed the back of Charlie’s hand. “So what will you do with me?”
“Keep you, of course,” Charlie replied immediately. Then he let out a slow breath. “I’m not sure how, though,” he admitted.
Bill nodded. “I know. We’re going to have a hell of a hard life, Char, keeping this hidden. And we’re going to have to. If we don’t, the whole family suffers.”
“Not to mention all the awards they’ll have to erase your name from at school,” Charlie said. “I thought about that.”
“Yours too.”
“Yeah. We can’t let anyone find out.” Charlie sighed, winding his fingers through Bill’s hair. “But dammit, I want to live with you. I want to be with you. I want to be able to kiss you when I want to and not care if anybody stares. I want to sleep with you every night and wake up with you every morning.”
Bill sighed. The thought was enticing, the sentiment touching, and the whole idea utterly impossible. “We can’t,” he said flatly. “The Wizarding world is small, and our family is pretty well known. There is no place we can go that word won’t filter back to them and to everybody else we’ve ever met. It will make the little kids lives’ hell, and I’m sure there’s a law that will see us put in prison.”
“Separately.”
“I think,” Bill said dryly, “that locking us up together would kind of defeat the purpose, don’t you?”
“Mmm.” Charlie was still playing with Bill’s hair, but he was clearly thinking of something else. “We could turn Muggle,” he said. “It’s supposed to be easier to hide among them.”
“I don’t know anything about being a Muggle, Char, and neither do you. “
“We could ask Dad.”
They looked at each other solemnly, then burst out laughing at the notion of their slightly dotty, Muggle-obsessed father helping anyone learn to be a Muggle. He collected electric plugs, for love of Circe. Not appliances, just plugs.
“What are we going to do, then?” Charlie asked a long while later. “Because I don’t want to give you up. Not when I finally feel like you’re really with me.”
“I don’t know,” Bill said soberly. A moment later he pushed Charlie onto his back and kissed him, a hard, passionate, possessive kiss that was all fire and promise. “We can do this. We can make it happen, Char, make a life for ourselves. We just have to be willing to do whatever it takes.”
Charlie looked up at him, eyes alight. “Whatever it takes.”
The structure of this piece is pinched from an original fiction story I wrote years ago: the idea is to take two opposing voices and harmonize them in ten steps, under 5000 words total. For some reason this version was an absolute bitch to write and went through about fifteen revisions before it went to beta and was eventually submitted at, literally, three minutes to deadline. If it weren't for that I'd be working on it. Several people gave me favorable feedback, which I really appreciate because I am neurotic and insecure as hell about my writing.
I'm glad I had the chance to do something that's long interested me: talk about Bill and Charlie as survivors of Voldemort's first war. If you think about Weimar Germany you'll see just how badly children who grow up in war time can fuck up as adults. Of course, I can't have really horrible things happening to my favorite Weasleys, so I touched it and moved on.
One piece:
Unlike their other siblings, Bill and Charlie remember the war against Voldemort. They had been eight and ten then and neither of them could stand to be alone after dark: they’d crawl into one of the twin beds and curl up together, sometimes hiding in the bottom of a wardrobe or trunk when the fighting came too close. They’d learned the emergency escape routes and the signs and countersigns they were to use on any adult that came to the house, even their parents. Occasionally Bill wondered if that’s where they had begun, two terrified boys curled up together, knowing they could trust only one another, keeping each other’s secret terrors secret.
Of course you weren’t supposed to fall in love with your brother. Bill knew that even when he was ten, well before he understood what it really meant to fall in love. By the time he was thirteen he understood enough about his body to know why his hands itched to touch Charlie’s skin, why the ready hugs and kisses they’d always exchanged felt so different now. Lust was a new sensation, but it didn’t even occur to Bill to wonder why it was Charlie he wanted. Bill got through that summer biting his lip and calling himself every kind of debased pervert he could think of-Charlie was eleven, for love of Merlin! He was in first year. He was too young.
He didn’t remember setting out to seduce Charlie. He remembered trying to talk himself out of it. They’d grown up together, closer than the twins in their own way: they were together because they shared experiences the others didn’t have, because they had spent so much their time together playing with and watching the younger kids, because they were nearly the same size though not the same age. They grew up at the same pace. It seemed natural, laughing over wank magazines a couple of summers later, for Charlie to ask, “Have you ever kissed anybody?”
“Like with tongues and all that? No. Have you?”
“Not even Karen?”
“She didn’t want to.” He’d gotten a very sharp shove for trying his luck and an equally sharp note giving him the push the next day.
“You can kiss me. Then we’ll know.”
Bill was shocked-and a little excited, but mostly shocked. Before he could get words together to refuse, Charlie kissed him. They were fumbling, clumsy, both guessing at the mechanics of this and it was still the hottest thing Bill had ever imagined. When they separated, Charlie tucked his face into Bill’s shoulder and in a small voice asked, “Is that what you wanted?”
“What I wanted…?”
“I’ve seen you watching me.”
Bill could feel himself blush. But he said, “Yes,” and kissed Charlie again.
Charlie was delighted by what they did together, as daring in bed as he was in everything else he did, never ashamed, never concerned at the wrongness their actions, never reluctant to say “I love you,” even when Bill’s guilt choked off his reply. His guilt was made worse by their few furtive encounters during term time: he thought of Charlie constantly, and he ended up dating his way through most of his year burning off frustration at being so close and unable to touch. Charlie didn’t date, which made Bill feel like he was cheating, using these girls to slake some of the heat in him, and it wasn’t fair for the girls either. The spiral grew deeper.
Charlie was mystified by Bill’s guilt, his attacks of conscience and remorse. “People spend their whole lives looking for what we have,” he said once. “Don’t you see how lucky we are, to find it so quickly? “
Bill didn’t. He couldn’t. After Bill accepted the job with Gringotts in Egypt, they’d fought nonstop: Bill knowing he had to leave, Charlie utterly unable to understand it, trying to resign himself to being left for love of the one who was leaving him. It was an insane effort, impossible for most adults, and Charlie was fifteen, losing the only lover he’d known.
On the night before he left, Bill tried again. He knelt on the floor by Charlie’s bed where Charlie lay staring at the ceiling, dry-eyed and silent. Charlie didn’t cry, he never had, but Bill could feel his pain just the same. He knew he had said the same words dozens of times but each time he hoped something would change, that somehow Charlie would understand.
“Char, I never gave you a chance. You’ve never even gone out on a date, never kissed a girl, never had a chance to be normal. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who’s sick. I should never have touched you. I’m sorry for it, now, but I can’t undo it. All I can do is get away from you and not make it any worse. I never meant to tie you to me like this. I never wanted you to give up everyone else.” Bill’s eyes were tearing up again, but he saw Charlie turn to face him, propping his head on one elbow. Bill blinked hard to clear his sight.
Charlie’s voice was soft, devastated. “You said you loved me. Were you lying?
Bill knew he should lie. He should tell Charlie that it had all been experimentation. But he’d never been able to lie to Charlie, never wanted to, and now he could not force himself to do it and make Charlie’s pain worse. “No, Char,” he whispered. “I do love you. That’s why I have to leave here. Do you understand? I want you to have a chance to be happy. To have a real life, one without secrets. A chance to love someone and not have to hide or be ashamed.”
In the dim light he could see Charlie’s throat working for a moment before any sound came out. “Can I make a deal with you, then?” Charlie asked hoarsely. “I’ll do what you want-date girls, be normal, if there is such a thing, do whatever you want. You make the rules and I’ll follow them. But when I’m done with school, if we both still want to, will you give me another chance? That’s all I’m asking, just a chance, when I’m older, to see if you might still love me. Just leave me something to hope for, because I don’t know if I can live without hope.”
Bill’s carefully constructed emotional armor shattered at Charlie’s begging. “All right,” he nodded, feeling ashamed of his own hope, because now Charlie wouldn’t be gone forever, and the bond between them wouldn’t be broken, only stretched, and Bill could face that thought more easily than he could face of the thought of life without Charlie.
Two piece:
They’d never written letters that could be taken as anything more than correspondence between brothers: they both knew their mother was likely to read every scrap of paper that entered or left her house. Bill talked about Egypt, Charlie about the Quidditch team and whoever he was dating, making certain Bill knew he kept his promise. Occasional letters from other family members confirmed it. Percy griped about Charlie’s promiscuity but acknowledged that at least he never lied about it, unlike the twins; Fred sent a furious epistle about Charlie poaching a girl Fred was interested in and since he had always thought Charlie was gay it was very unfair of him to pinch his brother’s love interests, since he had the nearly unbeatable advantage of being Gryffindor Seeker. (On the back of the letter was a note from George, saying nobody seriously thought Charlie was gay and that Fred was being an ass. He’d never had a chance with her anyway.)
Charlie had invited Bill to his graduation. Bill hadn’t gone, making an excuse about not having any leave available. He’d gotten a long, sad latter from his mother about how he’d hurt Charlie, who had grown into a fine young man deserving some attention from the brother he idolized. He hadn’t heard from Charlie at all for more than three months and secretly feared that he wouldn’t hear from him at all. At last the letter came to Meretseger camp. Scribbled on the outside was a note: I’m sorry this is so messy. I’m a little drunk. I don’t have the guts to send it when I’m sober.
The address and the wax seal were messy, but the writing in the letter itself was a neat as Charlie’s handwriting ever was. Bill wondered if he had the guts to read a letter Charlie had been afraid to send, but he had to know, whatever it was.
Dear Bill,
I kept my promise. I dated all through school, candy and flowers and dances and all, even though I didn’t like most of the girls much. But I guess I should tell you I went with guys too. I did everything I told you I would and was as normal as I could be, but I think I really am queer. I’m sorry, because I know you wanted me to find a way to live without secrets and that’s never going to happen now.
You told me once you’d give me another chance after I graduated. I understand now it’s not really another chance. It’s a first chance. It’s my first chance to win you over, to see if you love me as an adult. It’s my chance to try to get you to love me without hating yourself.
I’m not going to beg or make demands. I’m asking if I can come to you. It’s been a long time. A lot of things could have changed. I haven’t. I still love you. If you don’t want me, tell me now.
I’m done with school, and I’m looking for a job working with dragons. I‘ve taken what I saved and my graduation presents to visit some of the reserves in Europe. I’m going to leave England, move away from the family. I don’t know where. I haven’t been anywhere that felt right yet.
I’m in France right now, renting a room in the mountains, so Mum isn’t reading my letters. Write whatever you want, just please write something.
I was wrong. I will beg.
Charlie
The falcon-owls didn’t do well in Egypt-sat on a convenient rock and watched the man slowly lower his head to rest on his folded arms. Too much time, too much suffering, far too many secrets and lies, and all wasted. Bill didn’t know what to do next, and inspiration wasn’t coming. All he knew was that he wanted to see Charlie so badly it was a physical pain. He wanted his heart back.
He wrote his address at the bottom of Charlie’s letter.
That’s my apartment. The wards will let you in.
Go there and wait for me. I’m in the desert but I’ll be back soon, maybe even before you get there.
Please don’t beg. Just come here-I need to see you.
Three Piece:
Charlie spent two weeks in the Pyrenees to investigating the Preserva de las Piedras, the Reserve of Stones. It was easy to see how the place got its name-there were huge jagged granite outcroppings everywhere. The lakes were deep and crystal clear and very, very cold. The dragons, mostly the native Stonebreakers with a half dozen immigrant Himalayan Smokey Blacks, loved to swim in the nearly frozen lakes, blowing fire just beneath the surface to make steam clouds rise high into the air. Dragons didn’t usually swim. There was no reason they couldn’t, and if forced to it they swam very well, but the dragons at Las Piedras were the only ones known to swim for the pleasure of it. The Himalayan Smokey Blacks, a free-roaming colony that closely watched but not tended by draconologists, had caused panic when they vanished from their Himalayan reserve four years ago; they were nearly extinct, and the loss of three breeding females would have been devastating to the species. A month later the entire colony had turned up at Las Piedras, settling in as if they had been invited by the Stonebreakers, who abandoned their usual fierce territoriality and taught the newcomers to swim. Charlie had been as caught up in it as the staff, staying for a week just watching the Smokeys, whom he’d never seen in the flesh.
When he’d finally hauled himself off the mountain he’d stumbled back to the auberge for a hot bath and ten hours unbroken sleep. The hotelier had kept his mail for him and he read the stack of letters from his mother and replies to his queries to several dragon reserves while he plowed through an enormous fry-up he received courtesy the hotelier’s wife. Australian by birth, she agreed with Charlie that while France was a very fine and lovely country the French had absolutely no clue about how to do breakfast properly. He’d finished his meal when he saw his own letter to Bill, neatly folded, seeming untouched except for the address.
Oh no, he thought. Please tell me you read it, Charlie begged silently. Don’t dismiss me without a hearing. He gathered up the envelopes and went to his room, where he stared at his hands until they quit shaking. The he opened it, tearing it little in his haste, and saw Bill’s note.
It’s the only room on the 3rd floor above Faisal the coffee-seller and Marid the baker in the rug makers’ quarter of the old souk, opposite the Greek wand carver’s shop. Ask Darien Metelevi at Gringotts if you can’t find it.
That’s my apartment. The wards will let you in.
Go there and wait for me. I’m in the desert but I’ll be back soon, maybe even before you get there.
Please don’t beg. Just come here-I need to see you.
“Just come here-I need to see you,” Charlie whispered. It sounded urgent, important. More than that, it sounded like resolution. Bill was either going to give him his chance or tell him to sod off; either way, he would have answers to questions that had been hanging fire for years. He shoved the letter into his pocket and headed into the mountains again, running, walking and climbing for hours to burn off the wild nervous energy Bill’s note had set free. He returned to the hotel at suppertime composed enough to request the hotelier’s advice on the best way to travel to Cairo.
Four Piece
The Wizards of Cairo seemed not to share space at all with their Muggle kinsmen: their Cairo was cleaner, smelled sweeter and was not as crowded full of cars, people and rats. Instead cats ran free everywhere, soaking up sun on roofs and railings, and were no doubt responsible for keeping the rats out. Marid the baker turned out to be a fat jovial bloke who was constantly surrounded by cats: he fed them in lean times and they kept his flour rodent-free. Charlie and Marid had no common language-Bill had studied French and Latin at school, while Charlie had studied as little as possible-but it turned out they didn’t need one. Marid looked at the young man who stepped beneath his awning and carefully dusted flour from his hands. He reached out and tugged a handful of Charlie’s red hair, then pointed up the stairs.
“Bill’s my brother,” Charlie said. Marid responded with a grin and some incomprehensible Egyptian, followed by a shooing gesture that clearly meant Charlie should go upstairs, so he did. He felt the familiar magic of Bill’s wards, but the door wasn’t even locked.
Bill’s apartment had a strange spicy scent, smelling of the cassia and musk and flower oils that had been rubbed into the carved wood shutters and scented the air that drifted through them. The apartment was small, one room with a bath. It was neat but not compulsively so, full of books and odd trinkets, with a double bed against one wall covered with a brilliant yellow and orange throw against walls so white they were nearly luminous. It was bright and light and cheerful, books stacked against the walls like they were everywhere Bill lived. Charlie took off his boots at the door and walked around the room. There was a hot plate with a kettle and three cups for tea, a bottle of fire whiskey that had barely been touched and a box of biscuits.
Bill’s clothes, some battered and dull, others edgier and flashier, were in a small wardrobe. Charlie took a deep breath when the doors swung open: Bill’s scent clung to his clothes. So he picked out a silk shirt that would exactly match Bill’s eyes and ran his fingers over it, enjoying the clinging feel of the silk. Feeling foolish but not inclined to resist his growing excitement, he brushed the shirt across his cheek and lips, inhaling Bill’s scent and imagining he was wearing the shirt, his body warming the cool silk.
Beside that was a pair of dragon leather pants, Winterkill leather dyed black, that laced down the outside of each leg from the waistband to the hem. They laced closed, too, instead of having a button or zip. Charlie slid a hand inside his own trousers, adjusting but teasing himself a little too. He could imagine Bill’s perfect flesh-no scars, not even a freckle to mar it-pressing against the thongs of the trousers, laced so tight they fit like a second skin. Charlie carefully put the trousers away and closed the wardrobe door, half a breath from coming in his pants at the pictures his imagination conjured.
He was breathing fast, one hand pressing and squeezing himself through his trousers, savoring the excitement with the pounding of his heart. He unbuttoned his own jeans slowly and pulled them down just enough, then licked his palm and grasped himself. He was so hot he knew he wouldn’t last long, so he pictured slowly unlacing the fly of the leather trousers, Bill begging him to hurry… and then he was over the edge, orgasm making his knees weak. He let himself slide to the floor, covered in his own come and milking out the last of it, imagining Bill’s copper hair.
Before long he got up and figured out how to work the shower, climbing in still wearing the clothes he’d jacked all over, letting water rinse the clothes off as he stripped, then bathing himself, getting two days of travel grime out of his skin and hair. The clothes got hit with a cleaning spell and the dry heat of Cairo dried Charlie’s body almost before the towel did.
He stuffed his clothes into his pack and crawled naked into Bill’s bed, grinning like an idiot at the memories Bill’s scent evoked. He intended a short nap and then the adventure of finding dinner in a place where he had no local currency and didn’t speak the language. When he next awakened it was full dark, moonlight showing through the wood screens and clearly too late to go anywhere. He listened to Cairo’s night sounds for a while, wondering about life here, then went back to sleep.
Five piece:
Please don’t beg. Just come here-I need to see you.
He hadn’t received a reply from Charlie. He wondered if he should worry yet. He wondered what he was going to say, to do, except make a fool of himself begging forgiveness for being such a selfish imbecile in the first place.
He had found a pair of tombs, a priest and priestess, buried side by side. Brother and sister, husband and wife. He wished such simplicity was still possible, but even the old Egyptians had not sanctioned two brothers together.
The sun was coming up when he got home, walking from the apparition point to his apartment. The souk was still sleeping as he made his way upstairs to see the faint alterations in the lines of his wards: Charlie was here. Here already: he must have used Muggle transportation because two days wasn’t enough time to get the portkey made to send him here. Bill cast a silencing charm and went to look at his lifelong obsession, sprawled naked and innocent atop the sheets.
Charlie wasn’t a boy now. Most of his growing was done; he had man’s body. He was clearly an athlete, with wide shoulders and a deep chest, long legs; all toned, defined muscle earned through hundreds of hours of practice. His freckles were gone: in their place was a golden tan that covered his whole body, even places that shouldn’t have seen the sun. His hair was darker, more auburn than red. Bill reached out to touch him, to feel the muscles of his broad back, but stopped himself. He laid a sleep spell on Charlie then went to shower off the sand and grit of the valley.
He was hard already. Charlie did that to him, always had, but especially to come home and find him sprawled naked in Bill’s own bed, lacking only a bow to look like a gift. He was beautiful in an entirely unexpected way, nothing like the boy Bill remembered or the man he’d imagined. Fighting his own arousal, Bill turned the shower cold, gasping when the water hit his overheated skin.
Six Piece:
Charlie rarely had trouble sleeping. Waking up, though, he wasn’t so good at, and Bill knew it. In familiar surroundings he could be out of bed, dressed and fifteen minutes into his routine before his brain caught up. It was great for not missing 6:00 Quidditch practice because he’d almost literally wake up on the pitch, fifteen minutes ahead of his squad. Right now, it was a bit of a handicap, one that Bill took advantage of to touch Charlie before Charlie could see how badly his hands were shaking.
The tan skin made Bill think, nonsensically, of the pale gold limestone of Meretseger’s Valley, and suited auburn hair and lashes well. On a woman Bill would have thought it artifice, but on Charlie he knew it wasn’t: Charlie rarely thought of the way he looked. Bill brushed his cheek gently and felt the scrape of stubble beneath his fingers. He ran a fingertip across his lips and chin, started out of all reason by Charlie’s beard. Then he chuckled, smiling to keep from crying. Of course Charlie had a beard-why wouldn’t he? It was something he’d missed by leaving when he did: he hadn’t seen Charlie grow up.
Charlie swatted at the fingers tickling his face and turned his head deeper into the pillow. Bill knelt on the bed and ran his hands over Charlie’s shoulders, feeling the muscles relaxed under the skin, then down to the small of his back, out to the hip bones and up over the ribs. He was getting aroused again, he couldn’t help it, caressing the only lover he really wanted. He ran his hands from the base of Charlie’s spine to his shoulders, and this time Charlie stretched like a cat and made a contented sound as he looked over his shoulder. His eyes hadn’t changed; they were still blue-green, a color that Bill now associated with the Mediterranean.
“Were you working your way up or down?” Charlie asked, voice still muzzy from sleep.
Bill’s mouth was dry; when he spoke his voice was rough. “Do you have a preference?”
“Well…down, if you don’t mind?”
Bill nodded and let his hands continue wandering, this time with more intent. He drew the somatic components of two spells by licking his finger and writing on Charlie’s thigh: one activated the silencing charm built into the wards, the other was a cleansing and disease prevention charm he’d learned at a place he didn’t want to think about now. He cast it on them both. He knew what to expect but Charlie gasped and looked at him in shock. Dirty trick, Bill, he thought, but aloud said, “It’s okay, it’s just a cleansing spell.” It felt like a cold finger, working inside you, and then what felt like a sudden flood of ice water filling you until it was almost painful…and then vanishing, leaving you shocked and gasping, much as Charlie was now. Bill kissed his thigh in apology, trying not to enjoy the startled face and dilated eyes quite as much as he did. Instead he pushed Charlie’s knees wide apart, spreading him open, and ran a wetted finger along the strip of skin behind his balls. Charlie whimpered when he replaced the finger with his tongue. Bill closed the part of his mind that told him he shouldn’t do this firmly in the cellar and concentrated solely on pleasing Charlie. Something about feeling Bill’s tongue breach him drove Charlie mad and he begged for more every time Bill threatened to stop, getting less coherent by the second after Bill started stroking him. He came with a muted shout, muffled in the pillow, and almost fell onto his side, gasping for breath. Bill, still dressed, stretched out and watched him pull himself together, pleased beyond words that Charlie was here, now, and willing to let past and future go to hell.
Charlie reached out, grabbed a handful of Bill’s hair, then let it go and ran his fingertips lightly across Bill’s face. “Not a dream,” he said.
“No.”
Charlie’s face flickered in a half-grin. “Felt like one.”
“Thank you.”
“Smug bastard.”
Bill pulled him close, holding on tight, and whispered in his ear. “I am, I know, but let me have it. You’re here. I feel like the sun has come up again.”
Charlie kissed him, very sweet and gentle, then laid his head down on Bill’s shoulder. “Right,” he said softly, voice rough. “I know what that feels like. But we have to talk.”
“I know. But first a nap and then breakfast. After that we can talk.”
“Okay.” Charlie pulled himself closer against Bill and closed his eyes.
Eight Piece:
“You got my letter.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course. Or was there more than one?”
“No, just the one. It’s just…well, you sent it back. Gringotts having a paper shortage?”
“Gringotts is fine for paper, so far as I know-one of the perks of my job is that I don’t have to actually go there. The short answer to why I sent it back is that I was in Meretseger’s valley and didn’t have any other paper to write on.” Bill paused, choking on his own pride: he didn’t want to admit how much of an ass he’d been, or how selfish. But he had to.
Charlie spoke before he could. “Am I going to get my chance, Bill?”
Bill rolled onto his stomach on the carpet and buried his face in his hands. “Why do you want it?”
Charlie sat up and gathered the weight of Bill’s hair into his hands, then pulled it up and nipped the back of Bill’s neck. Hard, hard enough to make Bill draw a sharp breath and freeze in place, waiting for whatever was next.
“I want it because I want you,” Charlie whispered. “You made me waste two years on other people. Two years of pretending I wanted women I didn’t, of closing my eyes so I could pretend it was you, of biting my lip and keeping quiet so I wouldn’t say your name to whatever guy had his hands on me.” He straddled Bill’s hips, chest pressed against Bill’s back, and spoke very softly, hot breath on the back of Bill’s neck.
“There were times when I really hated you,” Charlie continued. “Sometimes I felt like a whore, imagining you laughing over making me do all these things. Then I’d remember you right before you left, crying and hating yourself for what you thought you’d done to me, and I knew you weren’t laughing. I’d write these meaningless letters, the same one three or four times so I could make sure you knew I was doing what you wanted but cutting out all the parts that made it seem I was unhappy. I was afraid you’d kill yourself.”
Bill felt tears building up beneath his closed eyelids. He’d censored his own letters, but never for fear Charlie would do himself harm. He shook his head very slightly.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Char. I won’t.”
He felt Charlie’s sigh. “Thank you. I wish you’d said that years ago, but I’m glad to hear it now.” Charlie kissed the place he’d bitten, and carded his fingers through Bill’s hair, pulling it to one side. “I wish I was half what you think I am, Bill. But I’m not very innocent and I’m not very nice. Percy swears I don’t have a conscience or morals. I do, I think, but they aren’t like his.” He rested his cheek lightly on Bill’s bare nape and nuzzled into his hair. “They aren’t like yours, either,” he said slowly. “I don’t feel any of the guilt or shame you do. I just love you, and I want to be with you. Will you give me a chance to prove it? That’s all I want, Bill. Just a little time.”
Bill laid his head on his folded arms, trying desperately to decide that mattered most. Charlie just rested gently atop him, keeping his weight on knees and elbows so all Bill felt was his warm, solid presence. Every action has consequences, and Bill knew he couldn’t shelter Charlie from them. If he wanted to keep Charlie-and he did-then he was going to have to pay for it, and make sure Charlie understood the costs too, though he suspected Charlie had thought more about this than he had. He patted the carpet beside him and Charlie slid over obediently, resting on his right side.
“I thought I could give you up,” Bill said softly. “If you loved someone else, if you could be happy in a normal life, I thought I could give you up. It was so hard to leave...I was late for my orientation here because I was drunk. I almost lost the job. But I love it, and I’m damn good at it, so the goblins put up with my drinking and vanishing and spending weeks in the desert, because I bring back what they want. I bring them gold, and I bring them magic. I’ve found fortunes for them. They never cared what I did or when I did it, as long as I brought them the goods.
“So they didn’t care that I’d managed to fuck myself up pretty good in the first two years I was here, just trying to stop thinking of you. I told myself I’d made it, until I got your letter. Then I ran out of lies.” Charlie reached out to take Bill’s hand, offering silent sympathy.
“You own me. I don’t know how it happened, but you do.” Bill’s confusion was clear in his voice, but he wasn’t unhappy. He kissed the back of Charlie’s hand. “So what will you do with me?”
“Keep you, of course,” Charlie replied immediately. Then he let out a slow breath. “I’m not sure how, though,” he admitted.
Bill nodded. “I know. We’re going to have a hell of a hard life, Char, keeping this hidden. And we’re going to have to. If we don’t, the whole family suffers.”
“Not to mention all the awards they’ll have to erase your name from at school,” Charlie said. “I thought about that.”
“Yours too.”
“Yeah. We can’t let anyone find out.” Charlie sighed, winding his fingers through Bill’s hair. “But dammit, I want to live with you. I want to be with you. I want to be able to kiss you when I want to and not care if anybody stares. I want to sleep with you every night and wake up with you every morning.”
Bill sighed. The thought was enticing, the sentiment touching, and the whole idea utterly impossible. “We can’t,” he said flatly. “The Wizarding world is small, and our family is pretty well known. There is no place we can go that word won’t filter back to them and to everybody else we’ve ever met. It will make the little kids lives’ hell, and I’m sure there’s a law that will see us put in prison.”
“Separately.”
“I think,” Bill said dryly, “that locking us up together would kind of defeat the purpose, don’t you?”
“Mmm.” Charlie was still playing with Bill’s hair, but he was clearly thinking of something else. “We could turn Muggle,” he said. “It’s supposed to be easier to hide among them.”
“I don’t know anything about being a Muggle, Char, and neither do you. “
“We could ask Dad.”
They looked at each other solemnly, then burst out laughing at the notion of their slightly dotty, Muggle-obsessed father helping anyone learn to be a Muggle. He collected electric plugs, for love of Circe. Not appliances, just plugs.
“What are we going to do, then?” Charlie asked a long while later. “Because I don’t want to give you up. Not when I finally feel like you’re really with me.”
“I don’t know,” Bill said soberly. A moment later he pushed Charlie onto his back and kissed him, a hard, passionate, possessive kiss that was all fire and promise. “We can do this. We can make it happen, Char, make a life for ourselves. We just have to be willing to do whatever it takes.”
Charlie looked up at him, eyes alight. “Whatever it takes.”