New fic: "Sow Good Services"
Yes, the reveal at weasley_fest has gone up and this was my primary offering, and George/Neville, at that. A rarepair that I'd not written before, or even considered!
And I was also given a banner! Art is by melmoe1
Title: Sow Good Services
Rating R
Featured Character or Pairing(s): Neville/George
Summary: Small seeds of friendship can grow into the most unexpected gardens of affection.
Warnings: Wanking
Word Count: 8,417
Author's/Artist's notes: Exceeding thanks to my betas: rickey_a, llembas and wolfiekins. Thanks also to Wolfie for the use again of Un-Robed!. :) Thanks also to my recipient (melmoe1, who seems to have deleted her LJ) who provided me with a new pairing to explore.
Gloaming-tide. Neville smiled as he gazed at the acres of meadow before him, seeing his plans manifested in his mind's eye. He poured himself a gimlet and then got out a sketchpad and aqua pencil. Until a year ago he'd never heard of the word gloaming. The magical time just before dusk and twilight actually had a word, and today he was enjoying it to the fullest. He took a sip of his tart cocktail, and then began doodling. Looking out at the plot of land in front of him, he let his gaze soften; the grasses and distant hills became unfocussed. When he'd taken his first steps along the road to become a Master Gardner, drawing fanciful parks and gardens was what he did to relax. Now he would actually be able to create a vision he'd crafted. He'd won a judged submission opportunity that would only come once in his lifetime: to design and plant a public garden, a memorial space for those who'd fallen during the second and final war with Voldemort. Neville was so caught up in his reverie of sketching that he started when he saw someone come into his line of sight.
"Hi! Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."
Neville glanced up at his unexpected companion, and smiled warmly at him. "It's no problem."
To himself, all he could think was that George Weasley still carried an aura of loss. He wondered if George would always have a Fred-shaped void where his levity and roguery had gone. That would be a tragedy, but not wholly unexpected.
"Would you like to sit down?"
"Sure. Thanks."
Neville scooted over slightly on the bench, letting curiosity nibble at him for mere seconds before asking, "What brought you here? Not that it's my business," he went on, the words falling awkwardly from his tongue. Neville had far more self-confidence than he had before the War, but even three years later, seeing George especially reminded him of how much had been lost. "Fancy a drink?" he added gamely.
"Yeah. Thanks."
George sank back against the bench, his legs splayed and his hands perched atop his thighs. Neville had brought only the one glass, so he rooted around his satchel for his sunglasses and transfigured them into a passable tumbler. When he handed the drink to George, Neville did his best not to let his eyes focus on the dark opening where George's ear used to be.
"I'm here because I wanted to congratulate you, actually," George said after he took a healthy swallow. "Saw the article in the Prophet today and thought I'd check out the place, and how it looks now before you get to work. I didn't think you'd be here, but I don't mind. Glad of it."
"I am too," Neville replied earnestly. He took a sip of his drink before asking, "How's the shop?"
"Business is steady," George said in a flat tone, and didn't offer up anything else as a topic of conversation. Neville was just about to grasp at any topic that was vaguely Weasley family oriented when George turned, a look of apology on his face.
"Sorry- normally I'm more chipper than this. Just feeling more alone today than some others."
Neville nodded at that. "Only too familiar with that feeling."
"I know you're not married, and if I'm prying, just say so. I guess I thought you had somebody you went home to."
Neville felt a flush begin to creep up his neck, and small knots forming in his stomach. Then again, what harm was it in George knowing his preferences? The twins might have tormented Ron growing up, but Neville felt very much like an equal to the man who sat at his side.
"I was seeing someone for about a year," he said, feeling a twinge of sadness, a short but brief pain when accidentally pressing an old wound. "I got a little too serious about things, I suppose, and I guess it spooked him."
When he turned to evaluate George's reaction, to Neville's surprise, he saw George's eyebrows were raised, a look of furtive satisfaction on his face.
"So you're a shirtlifter too!" he said approvingly. "And not ashamed of it. That takes some bollocks."
After a moment of stunned shock, Neville felt a smile wander to his lips and linger there. "I guess so. My gran died before I told her, but her one belief in life was to be true to yourself. I took that to heart. Doesn't mean that I flaunt it, though. My bollocks aren't that big," he continued, taking another sip.
George snorted, and then let out a rumbly laugh. It cheered Neville's spirits and he was on the verge of asking George if he wanted to join him for a friendly dinner when George said, "I've always been more of a legs man, myself. Legs and hands. A sizeable cock's always appreciated. Not that I'm particular."
He winked and clinked his tumbler to Neville's glass before he drained it. Neville was still a bit shaken up; his ability to tell if a wizard was queer or not was rather poor, and George hadn't acted in any way that would set off a charge of mutual understanding.
"How long have you known?" Neville asked, curious.
"Since seventh year. And no, Fred wasn't. One of the few ways we did differ," he said, his lips down turning to one side. "I hate to run off, but mum's expecting me- birthday party for Xavier, Percy's ankle biter."
"Oh. Okay. Well, thanks for stopping by," Neville enthused, standing up when George did and giving his shoulder a squeeze.
"Congratulations again," George said, gesturing at the field in its current uncultivated state.
"Thanks. I have a lot of work ahead of me, but I'm really looking forward to it."
"Don't you have a shop of your own?" George asked, placing the tumbler on the bench and shaking out his slacks.
Neville took a lightning-fast inventory of George's physique before answering, establishing that George wasn't his type. Not that Neville really had a type, but the few times he'd been struck with instant lust it had been with more lean, androgynous looking men. George wasn't as stocky as he'd been before the War, but he came across as definitively masculine.
"I'm a consultant for one, a greenhouse and floral shop. I'll only go in occasionally now that I have the funds and time to bring this memorial garden to life. I never dreamed " His words faded to a halt as he was newly overcome with the responsibility he now had.
"From the sketch in the Prophet, it looks really great," George said reassuringly. "Are you going to ask for volunteers? I could stand to get outside a bit more myself. Might be good for me to help out with a project like this."
"That's a brilliant suggestion," Neville said slowly, a new plan taking shape as he pondered the possibilities. "I'll need to be a bit picky as some elements will be trickier and need more skill than others, but it is meant to be a place for memory and healing. Letting people work on it as it's coming to life is a great idea." He looked at George, hoping his gratitude showed on his face. "I'm so glad you decided to come out here!"
George grinned, raking a hand through his shaggy hair. Neville felt slightly weak-kneed for just a moment; George really was charming when he meant to be.
"Me too. Well, I'll see you around."
"See you."
Neville gave George an amiable wave before he disappeared with the distinctive crack! of Apparition. For a few moments he stared at the spot where George had been, processing the revelations that had been presented to him. Not that it mattered whether George fancied men or women, Neville wasn't interested in George Weasley's sex life. It was more that he felt an affinity, a sense of unspoken bonding of knowing what it was like to be queer in their world. Perhaps surprisingly there didn't seem to be any outright laws on the Wizarding scrolls against it, but neither was it roundly endorsed by anyone. Except other gay wizards.
Dusk had crept in, draped with the chill of mid-spring. Neville finished his gimlet, transfigured the tumbler back into a rather sticky pair of sunglasses, got his things together and Apparated back to his modest flat. He had an uninspired dinner followed by a good half hour of reading congratulatory owl post. Neville was actually in quite upbeat spirits when it came time to go to bed, and he decided to treat himself to a leisurely wank. After brushing his teeth, he lit a juniper scented candle, as well as a couple of plain tapers for their warm light, and ferreted out one of his favourite and well-loved issues of Un-Robed!. He'd had this particular issue for a couple of years, and a few of the wizards in it were used to seeing him. As time had gone on, Neville had realised they'd figured out what he liked to see, within the confines of their original photographs, and were quite adept in stimulating him.
As he idly turned the pages, Neville passed by his usual companions, and found himself taking in the solo exploits of an auburn-haired gent with a dildo and a large bed. Surprised but pleased, the ginger in the magazine gave Neville quite a show. Neville found his hand straying to his interested cock early on, stroking himself with the same enthusiasm as the wizard did as he fucked himself with a blue phallus. Turning away from the magazine, Neville fumbled for some lubricant, coating his fingers before resting back against his pillows. The magazine levitated in the air while Neville shoved two fingers inside himself and pistoned his hand on his hard shaft. So much for leisurely. Panting, he kept his focus riveted on the handsome wizard, who seemed very close to his own orgasm, though he, in turn, was watching Neville.
"You go," Neville said in a ragged voice. He didn't really know how the picture would react, but the pale-skinned man nodded, pulling with hectic abandon on his cock until he came, thighs shaking and his shoulders and neck awash in a rosy flush.
Neville wasn't far behind, having imagined it was him thrusting deep into the keen wizard's firm arse. In his solo fantasy the air smelled of sex and the sated, panting wizard who now beamed at him was an actual warm body next to his.
"Thank you," he mouthed, and the wizard settled his chin into the palm of his hand.
"You're gorgeous," the ginger mouthed back. Neville was so surprised, he pointed at himself, his eyebrows knitted.
"Of course!"
Neville shook his head and reached over to a bedside table to retrieve his wand. He took the levitation spell off of the magazine and cast a Terego on himself. After waving good-bye to the wizard, he shut the Un-Robed! and put it back on the small pile under his bed. As he blew out the candles and stretched out under the covers, Neville's thoughts drifted back to his sketches and the memorial garden. George's suggestion really was superb; he'd need to get into the details of planning what would get planted and when. That way he could enlist the help of those witches and wizards who were interested in bringing the garden to life.
He was drafting a letter to the head of the organising board about it when he fell asleep.
* * * * *
Neville smiled at the small assembly in front of him, people of myriad ages and from all over Wizarding Britain.
"Thank you for coming out here today," he said, pulling his jacket more tightly to him against the chill of the spring day. "One of the lessons I learned from Professor Sprout, one reinforced during my Master Gardner studies, is that while you can do a lot of things via magical means, plants really do respond better if you do the work by hand. There are a few trickier species that I'll work with exclusively, but the rest anyone can assist with."
He looked down at an elfin-faced boy near the front, Herbert Mayflower, who stood clutching at a spade. A smile tried to reach his young lips but then, uncertain, didn't quite make it. His mother, Katie Mayflower, a Hufflepuff who'd gone to Hogwarts a decade before Neville, had contacted him about her son, asking if he could join in even though he was a squib.
"Today we'll be marking off the sections and putting up signs as to what plants go where, as well as drawing the labyrinth. So! Let's get started."
He handed out necessary tools and twine and reduced sized drawings of the plan, conferring with each pair or small group. "Thanks for being willing to work on the fountain," he said to George, who was decked out in a pair of sienna denim overalls.
"Happy to do it," George said, more animated than he'd been when Neville had seen him a few days prior. "What do you think?" he asked, waving a hand in front of him to reference his distinctive attire.
"They're something else," Neville said honestly as George waggled his eyebrows.
"Figured I should dress the part."
Neville let out a short laugh. "And you have. I'll check in with you later."
George saluted and then hoisted a hoe over his shoulder. Neville watched him as he sauntered off, wondering how on earth such unflattering clothes managed to show that the man had a really nice backside. He quickly shoved that inappropriate thought aside to focus on Herbert, still standing nearby, biting down on his lower lip.
"I'd really like for you to work with me on the labyrinth," he said, leaning down to be more on a level with the eight year old. "Is that okay with you?"
Herbert nodded mutely. His mother stood protectively behind him, as fierce as a lioness.
"I've put you on the trellis team, which is next to it," Neville said to Katie, and she nodded her acceptance.
"That's fine. Herbert, you follow Mr. Longbottom's instructions. I'll be right over there if you need me." She pointed to a pair of other women in their thirties.
"We don't need magic?" the boy asked tentatively, gripping a tape measure in his left hand.
"Not one bit, especially not what we're going to be doing," Neville said, trying to instil some confidence into his temporary charge. "But I do have one requirement," he went on and Herbert's face fell. Neville reached into the rucksack that hung across his chest and pulled out a chocolate frog that he presented to the boy. "You can't work with me and not enjoy chocolate."
The smile at last made a bold appearance on Herbert's mouth as he took the proffered gift.
"Thanks!" he said brightly. "I do love these."
"We'll get along just fine, then."
The day flew by; in fact, the entire week was a blur. On Friday Neville was jotting down some notes about the daily activities to be included in his weekly report when an owl swept in and landed on his rucksack.
"Whose owl is that?" George asked as he walked over, scratching at this cheek and smudging dirt there. He was the last person to leave and had dutifully been so since the project started.
"Seamus'."
He smiled at George before untying the parchment. It was a reminder about their biweekly Friday night get-together at the Dragon's Lair. Seamus, Dean and himself met there to chat, drink beer and throw darts. Glancing over at George, he waved the parchment.
"Blokes' night. Would you like to join us? We just talk, play darts, have a few pints. Seamus sometimes tries to chat up a girl, but really it's social time. I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
"Thanks, but I have plans," George said apologetically.
"Hot date?" Neville asked, keeping his voice light even though he'd felt an odd twist in his stomach.
George shook his head and huffed a laugh. "Don't I wish. No, I said I'd take Xavier, Percy's son, to a movie."
"Well, neither of us will get into any trouble tonight."
"Rather a pity, that," George said wryly. "There's a club I go to on occasion- since you're into guys as well, maybe you'd like to check it out?"
The question gave Neville pause. "I've not gone to a lot of clubs, to be honest. Is it Muggle or Wizard? I wouldn't want to have to hide who I am."
"Wizard." George pulled on his robes, a panoply of blue paisley. "I did go the Muggle route at first, figuring I could always cast a memory charm if things were awful. But yeah, not worth it. Just think about it. I know you're busy."
Neville thought about how long it continued to be that his hand and magazines were his nighttime companions and said abruptly, "Not that busy."
George's lips widened into a grin. "That's the spirit! Well, I'll see you mid-week. Need to do some inventory at the shop Monday and Tuesday."
"Fair enough. Look, it's great having you to help out."
With a surprisingly elegant shrug, George said, "Couldn't imagine not being a part of it. You're doing good work, Neville."
He clapped Neville on the shoulder, giving him another smile that Neville, with a shock of recognition, realised was both impish and warm like the bloke in Un-Robed! After George had Apparated away, Neville discreetly adjusted his jeans.
"Well, it's food for thought, anyway," he said to himself about a potential night of bone-jarring loud music and expensive drinks. "Maybe this place George has in mind is different."
He got his things together, giving the space a final look over before leaving for the weekend. All of the unique areas had been marked off, two large quadrants had been tilled, and the trellises were largely completed. Back at the greenhouse, Neville needed to organise the growing collection of seeds, seedlings and young trees before bringing them out onto the location. For now, though, it was time to go and enjoy himself with some much-deserved downtime.
* * * * *
Two weeks into the project, Neville's young assistant Herbert came down with bronchitis. The weather had turned unseasonably cold and several of the volunteers sent him owls of apology: they weren't going to be able to help that day. Neville replied graciously- he was making much faster progress than he'd expected anyway since there were people helping on a regular basis.
At mid-week, it was pouring buckets of rain and even Neville decided it wasn't doing anyone any good to be on the muddy grounds, uncomfortable even with water-repelling and heating charms. He went to the few dedicated witches and wizards and after thanking them profusely, suggested that they go home, dry off and have a hot cup of tea.
"The weather'll turn. Soon, I hope," he said to George, his wellies making obscene sucking sounds in the clutching mud.
"Yeah. I've had an idea for you about the fountain," George said, wiping wet hair out of his eyes. Neville had come to expect George's unique attire, and despite the rain, he hadn't disappointed. Today George sported an arresting turquoise slicker and, remarkably, a worn but flattering cowboy hat that kept off a lot of the rain. He had cast a low-grade repelling charm, but the rain was a force with which to be reckoned.
"Really? Like what?" Neville's interests were piqued. "I'm open to suggestion on it. It's the only non-plant element to the garden."
"How about we talk over a pint? Reckon you deserve one, for sure."
"Great suggestion. Have a place in mind?"
"Cauldron Bubble has some really tasty brews. They're brewed on the premises. Friend of Lee's opened it up in London."
"I've not heard of it, but it sounds promising."
George tilted his head up, exposing his neck to the rain as it poured from the sky. "Damn rain," he muttered.
"It's a miserable day," Neville agreed. "Let's get out of it."
A few moments later they were side by side in a part of wizarding London Neville had never before visited. It was raining there, too, but it was a more expected soft and steady issuance from the grey clouds overhead. George raised an arm and pointed up the street from the statue where they stood. "It's just up there."
Neville fell into sleep beside him and soon they were inside a cheery, mid-sized pub with a beckoning fire at one end. It was just after noon, and not many other people were there, so they were able to sit near the wide fireplace in two well-cushioned chairs. George hung up their coats on brass hooks set into the wall and then sat down, placing his hat on the floor and running his fingers through his damp hair. Neville was subconsciously cataloguing the differences of George's features to that of Ron, struck by the unassuming handsome qualities to his face when the bartender called out, "Weasley! You look like a drowned rat, mate. The usual?"
"Yeah. Two pints. And stop flirting with me."
"You wish," the bartender retorted.
Neville felt a shiver of delight skate across his skin, seeing George in such an ebullient mood. When he winked at Neville, a rush of heat lodged in his chest as though he'd just had a shot of firewhiskey, though the sensation sank down to become a heaviness between his legs.
"Two Selkie Swims on the bar, gents. Cheers."
"I'll get them," Neville said hurriedly to distract himself. The bartender had moved to the other end of the bar to attend to another patron, so Neville wasn't able even to get a sense of whether or not he was like them or whether what he'd witnessed was just usual banter he had with George.
"If you don't like it, there are several other ales, all excellent. Sorry for ordering for you- I was overenthusiastic." George smiled ruefully.
"I'm sure it's fine," Neville quickly said, sinking into his chair and taking a mouthful of the beer. It was dark, and slightly bitter, robust and with a flavour to it he couldn't quite place. George had taken a healthy quaff of his own and held the glass out, looking expectantly at Neville.
"It is good!" Neville remarked, clinking his glass to George's outstretched one. "To future sunny days."
George pulled his lips to one side for a moment, pondering something, and then his face cleared to an expression of thoughtful appraisal.
"To unexpected friends."
"Unexpected?" Neville repeated, looking curiously at George after accepting the toast.
"Look, I have a personal investment in the memorial garden because of Fred, but that wouldn't have been enough necessarily to get me out in dismally cold rain like today," he said in a companionable tone. "Oh, and there's a bit of kelp in the beer. That's what makes it unique."
"Oh." Neville was trying to keep up with George's line of thought, wondering if he should read anything further into what he said, but George hadn't made any kind of overture that hinted at any innuendo. "Being a friend to me is what's unexpected?"
"Well, yes."
George sat back and crossed his leg over his knee, cradling his pint glass in both hands. With his intriguing cowboy hat no longer on his head, the healed, dark wound on the side of his head was again noticeable, though it no longer troubled Neville as it had when he'd first started seeing George on a regular basis.
"I do have friends, mostly mates from Hogwarts," George continued. "But you know how it is. People's lives go in different directions, they get busy, and to be honest, I never expected to be alone. Not without Fred."
He gazed levelly at Neville, who was sitting forward, hanging on every word. He hadn't planned to ask George anything too personal, yet now George was offering up insight into some of his hidden emotional terrain.
"I look forward to hanging out with you, and the others, too. I'm comfortable around you. It's pretty cool that you thought enough of me to let me know your preferences, about, you know. Guys. A lot of people would have assumed I'd make some kind of joke about it, but you didn't."
He paused, and Neville felt the blood pound in his ears, hoping for a crazed moment that George was going to profess some heretofore unspoken feelings for him. How would he react? He was robbed any further sparks of hope when George said, "So about the fountain. Rather than it have a figure and spout, or central whatever, why not have a ring of individual jets of water? Kids would love that in summer. Or even a long reflecting pool, maybe with fish."
Neville covered up his misplaced disappointment by enthusiastically getting more details and suggestions from George. All the while, though, an undercurrent of buzzing thoughts like bees swarming around a disturbed hive clamoured for attention in the back of his mind. Two ales later, the voices had quieted down, and he was giving George a warm hug out in the drizzle before they Apparated to their respective next engagements.
"You're going to come with me to that club on Saturday. No excuses," George said jovially.
"I won't give you any!" Neville laughed. "Owl me where it is, or did you want to meet up beforehand?"
"I'll give you the address tomorrow. Oh, bugger it. I'm sorry," he said, shuffling back a little but still resting one hand on Neville's arm. "Angelina's daft enough to have asked me to be the godfather for her son. The ceremony and party are tomorrow. I could come by afterwards "
"You'll have had a full day. Not to worry. I'll see you Friday, then."
A warm cheeriness rose in Neville like steam from tea, and with a similar comfort. He waited until George had Apparated and then made sure he was focussed properly to Apparate himself without getting splinched. He wasn't even that buzzed, but he'd had near misses in the past and didn't wish to do so again.
He Apparated to the back entrance of the greenhouse, startling the owner's behemoth tabby. She let out a low yowl of irritation before her eyelids began closing again, the call to sleep a very powerful one. After digging into his overcoat for his keys, Neville shook out the key ring and found the distinctive emerald key to let him into the greenhouse.
"Graeme?" he called out, not wanting to surprise the owner.
"With a customer!" he replied in his cheerful, but nasal voice. "D'you need me?"
"No- just going to putter around with the memorial garden stuff. Thanks, though!"
Neville spent the rest of the afternoon digging happily in seedlings, pruning some trees, and casting two complicated spells of intention on particular seeds, one on the forget-me-nots and the other on the poppies. A thought struck him: he could send some flowers to George. A masculine bouquet, to thank him for his enthusiasm and their growing friendship. Cut flowers and plants weren't really his forte, so he decided to put together a few potted plants that would be hard to kill. George seemed quite adept at the memorial garden, however, and Neville felt whatever greenery he sent would thrive in George's care. He found a cauldron-sized terra cotta pot and filled it with rich potting soil. Some trailing ivy went in, and a malachite tree, the Wizarding cousin to plump-leaved jade trees, with marbled colouring and a penchant to make cooing sounds when in direct moonlight.
He glanced up at a small framed piece of cross-stitch that Hermione had hand crafted for him of a Muggle quotation she'd come across and felt was appropriate as he'd begun his Master Gardner studies.
Sow good services; sweet remembrances will grow from them. ~Mde de Stael
A flashed image sprang to Neville's mind from his time at the pub. George had been temporarily in reverie, his fingers idly playing on his pint glass, his t-shirt inched up to reveal a thin, fiery trail of hair. The memory caused a low throb of interest in his groin. Was friendship what he wanted, or was it more accurate to abuse his analogies and admit that he wanted to be ploughing the land of George's arse?
He's really not your type, a voice in his head insisted. And if George had any interest in him beyond friends, he was being very subtle about it. There was more than one Weasley dear to Neville's heart, and subtle was not what he would use to describe any of them. Well, there's the club, he thought as he filled a watering can and made sure the earth around his gift of flora was appropriately hydrated. He rummaged around a metal box of old spell cards, empty seed packets and other gardening detritus until he found a shop card. A quick search of his pockets produced a Muggle biro, and he wrote:
He nodded as he re-read the words, brief and to the point. Neville walked to the main part of the shop and found Graeme supervising his newest employee, a willowy but easily distracted witch named Prospera.
"Have the deliveries already gone out?" he asked after a wave of acknowledgement to Prospera. She beamed at him before letting out a sigh as she'd apparently lost her place in counting a set of ladies' gardening gloves.
"No, but Gerald's almost done packing the sledge. Are you sending something? I guess so," he said thoughtfully, answering his own question as he eyed the pot in Neville's hands.
"It's a thank you," Neville explained, and Graeme nodded, already preoccupied once more with the running of the shop. Picking up his pace, Neville walked quickly to the small staging area for deliveries.
"Hi Gerald!" he said brightly, handing the pot to the surprised deliveryman.
"Hullo. From you?"
"Yes. It's for a friend. Please take it to Weasley's Wizarding Wheeze's. For George," he added, unnecessarily.
"Okay," Gerald replied, the rolling burr of his Cornish accent a pleasure Neville never tired of. "Enjoy your evening."
"You too! Any plans for the week-end?" he asked, watching as the terra cotta pot was packed in between bouquets of roses and lilies and other traditional gift flowers.
"Not really. Bit of surfing, p'raps."
"Surfing?"
Gerald's smile quirked to the side, amusement dancing on his angular features. "Yes. I'll tell you more later. I need to get on," he apologised.
"Understood. Thanks."
It was still raining as Neville made his way home, but the weather couldn't dampen his spirits. He treated himself to some curry takeaway - it was a rarity as he tried to save money by not often eating out - and watched a couple of mindless dramas on his Muggle telly. His mind kept drifting back to the couple of hours he'd spent with George, wondering if he was letting his imagination run away with him. Well, it wasn't as though he'd fallen for him or anything George was physically attractive to him, and he'd quit fighting that. Even if nothing came of their Saturday outing, nothing between the two of them, anyway, maybe Neville would find somebody at least to share a blowjob. He was really tired of taking care of himself all the time. But there was that ginger in his magazine who'd continually inspired him. You and however many other hundred wizards, he said ruefully to himself.
Before bed, he retrieved the worn magazine and flipped past the hopeful faces of the variously engaged wizards until he got to the page with the slender redhead. 'Anthony' was the name printed below his moving picture, and he gave Neville a scorching, but playful look.
"I can't believe I'm practically having an affair with a guy I can't even touch!" he said under his breath, reaching in a drawer for a plug and lube. When he looked back again, Anthony had prepared his own intimidating dildo, this new one bronze in colour. Anthony had apparently cast a sticking charm on his and began riding it, slow and deep. Neville imagined George's thighs, wondered if his whole body was covered in freckles as Ron's was, wondered as his own clenching muscles sucked in the dildo if George preferred to top or bottom.
He took his time pleasuring himself, enthralled by Anthony who was vigorously fucking himself. His hand slid up and down on his prick as he gazed at Neville through heavy-lidded eyes. When Anthony tilted up his head, panting, Neville knew he was nearly there. Once again he realised just how much he missed the smell of sex, of a pillowcase jealously holding onto musk or cologne.
He came seconds after Anthony, ropey gouts of come falling onto his trembling stomach. Without thinking, Neville moved the fingers not covered in fluid to stroke along Anthony's belly. The look of sweet languor on the young man's face made Neville's heart pang. Why were his feelings so close to the surface? Well, if what his friends told him was true, they showed on his face more than he realised anyway. He did want to shag George, but he also wanted to continue enjoying his company, and to get to know him better. The garden project was going forward at a tremendous pace. It wouldn't drag on for months, though of course there would be regular maintenance.
"Just nurture whatever this seed is," Neville said to himself, waving goodbye to Anthony, who blew him a kiss. "Friendship or more, time will tell. Probably sooner than later."
* * * * *
Saturday arrived and Neville celebrated it as he usually did by sleeping in and then enjoying a pot of coffee. Next he'd try to work the crossword in the Prophet, followed by generally being as slothful as possible. George had ended up owling him the address to the club because he'd not been up to snuff on Friday. Apparently he'd overdone it at the party after Angelina's son's christening, and had taken most of the day to sleep it off.
I'll be in fine form by Saturday, not to worry, he'd promised. As the afternoon meandered along, Neville puttered amongst the plants he kept at his flat and no further owls came to indicate George's potential absence. He tried to read to while away a couple of hours, but found he couldn't concentrate. Desperate for diversion, he found himself in front of his telly again and watched part of a movie about paranormal investigators.
At last he found himself in front of a mirror, trying to be somewhat objective about how he looked. He'd shed most of the bulk from his younger years, but he didn't believe that tight clothes suited him. Luna Lovegood had once talked him into a pair of striped slacks that were surprisingly flattering, and if this club was anything like the one he'd visited a few times, his clothes would pale in comparison to some of the outlandish styles he'd seen. Hell, George dressed in rather shocking, unexpected, eclectic clothes, much different than Neville remembered from their Hogwarts days. Merlin only knew what he'd be sporting when Neville showed up.
When his clock chimed nine, Neville finished the glass of wine he'd indulged in to calm his nerves. Making sure he had his keys, his money tucked away in a back pocket and his wand, he Apparated to a spot a block from the club. Excitement zipped along his veins as he approached, myriad possibilities and hopes for the evening playing out in his mind's eye. A wizard at the door charged him an entrance fee, but it wasn't terribly high. Inside, Neville's eyes had to adjust to the dark space that throbbed with pounding music and lust. He took a deep breath, gazing around until he saw the bar. Navigating past a sea of gyrating male bodies, he made his way there and took up what he hoped would be a very temporary post.
Three Bitter Banshees later, he'd been approached by several men, but had yet to see George. A weight lodged in his gut as he glanced at his watch and realised that, without a doubt, he'd been stood up.
"Maybe there was a family emergency," he muttered uncharitably into the rim of his new drink. "It wouldn't be the first time."
As he took another swallow, a lanky wizard with graceful arms and luminous brown eyes sidled up to him. "You don't look as though you're having a good time," he said, his Scottish accent bringing a smile to Neville's lips quite despite his sour mood. "I'm a good listener- care to tell me about it?"
Neville made a brusque snort and then looked more carefully at his would-be companion. The word 'sprite' came to his mind, though the man's eyes held intrigue and interest, not mischief. Long tapers of fingers glided along the back of Neville's hand, the strangely intimate gesture provoking him to explain that his friend hadn't shown up to meet him.
"Friend? Not a very courteous one," the Scotsman observed as Neville tossed back his drink and then wished he hadn't. "I would never stand you up like that."
"Why not? You don't know me from Merlin's housecat!" Neville exclaimed, turning over his hand so soft finger pads could stroke his palm.
"Actually, I think I do. You're Longbottom. Making the victory garden." He'd eased nearer to Neville, the words breathed hotly into Neville's ear.
"Memorial garden," Neville corrected automatically. "And yes. Then you have me at a disadvantage, because I don't know who you are. I think I'd like to, though."
"Apollo," the young man murmured so quietly Neville thought he misunderstood.
"Paul?"
"No. Apollo. Let's go somewhere a bit more private, shall we?"
A few seconds went by until Neville's injured pride reasserted itself and he nodded, grasping Apollo's slender hand in his.
"Let's."
* * * * *
Neville didn't see or hear from George until the following Tuesday when he showed up at the memorial garden in atypically demure clothing, apology written all over his face. Atypically for Neville, he didn't feel particularly sympathetic toward George, even though it was obvious that he regretted something.
"I'm so sorry," George said, keeping his voice low even though the nearest group of volunteers were several feet away.
"Yeah. I am, too," Neville said, feeling the hurt that he'd been suppressing rise relentlessly to the surface. "I had a good time, don't get me wrong, but that's a really crappy way to treat a friend. What happened? Maybe it's not my business."
"No, I was a jerk. Full stop." He had his cowboy hat on again, but he took it off and began fidgeting with the brim. "There was one guy- an ex, I suppose, though we were never all that serious. He came by, broken-hearted about some wanker, and I," he paused, but then looked at Neville directly, his expression full of apology. "I made him feel better."
"I bet you did," Neville said with minimal sarcasm. "Is he still with you?"
"No, no," George said hastily. "Told him he needed to get back out into the world and I needed to work. You said you had a good time?" he asked, deflecting further commentary about his unnamed companion.
"Not at first, but my night picked up. Would have preferred your company, to be honest." George opened his mouth, but Neville went on, "It's okay. Disappointment never killed anybody. I'm just glad you didn't have some family emergency or anything like that."
"Oh no. Oh! Thank you for the plants!" he said, a slow smile rising to his lips. "Of course I feel like a schmuck, but they're great. I'm glad I'm getting to spend time with you as well, and maybe " his voice trailed off, evidently pondering something, and then decided against expressing the line of thought.
"You're welcome."
He gave George a smile that didn't feel completely genuine, and started to go find Herbert when George said, "Hey- I'm taking Xavier to see the Pride play the Cannons. I could swing a third seat. Xave's a great little guy, and while it's not a club, I'd really like to have some more downtime with you."
"I follow the Cannons." Herbert's voice came from Neville's left, and now he stood, yardstick stuck into his belt and his omnipresent trowel in his hand.
"Good on you!" George said, breaking into a wide smile. "I bet I could get a ticket for you as well. Where's your mum?"
"She's weeding the border hedges," Neville interjected, knowing where everyone was working, or supposed to be.
"So you'll come? Friday?" George asked, going so far as to place his hand on Neville's upper arm and squeeze. "Please let me make it up to you. It's mostly about people-watching, anyway."
Herbert was the picture of pent-up excitement, which proved to be infectious.
"Well, why not?" Neville finally answered. "We'll work a half day. Herbert, come on back after you've talked to your mother. We're going to be starting on the irrigation lines today."
"Thanks," George murmured, sliding his hand down to hold Neville's for a moment. His fingers were noticeably warm. "I'm really not a bad guy."
"I never thought you were," Neville said honestly, unable not to smile as George grinned and perched his unique hat back on his head.
"Let's get this sorted with your mum," George said to the boy as they walked away. "Who's your favourite player?"
Neville began pacing out the first irrigation line, a ball of twine in hand. A Quidditch match wasn't exactly the environment to have meaningful conversation in, or to gauge any potential sexual attraction. George probably only saw him as a friend anyway, especially if he'd been that willing to have a consolation shag-fest with an ex. In a paroxysm of self-awareness, Neville had to admit that if Piers had come to him in a similar state, he wouldn't have been so principled as to keep his own ex out of his bed, either. No matter what, going to a match would be a fun way to spend an afternoon. Thanks to George's unanticipated participation with the memorial garden, Neville had more of a social life than he'd had in months, Dean and Seamus notwithstanding.
"You'll need to owl them about blokes' night," he said to himself under his breath, and then turned his attentions firmly to the task at hand.
* * * * *
"I know you enjoy getting attention, but this is ridiculous," Dean cajoled, crossing his feet over his knee.
"I didn't mean to," Neville said with a feeble smile. "But I've always been clumsy."
"At least you're still in one piece," Seamus chimed in. "Sort of. A broken arm and dislocated knee aren't exactly one piece."
"Thanks for pointing out the obvious." Neville raised his cast-bound arm in a parody of a salute.
"Seamus, we'd best be off," Dean said. "We've bent your ear with enough of your nonsense."
Neville smiled broadly. "Not at all. Thanks for dropping by- I really appreciate it."
"Yeah, thanks, guys," George said, standing up and walking with them to the door. "I'll owl you once he's been released, probably later this evening."
"Thanks mate," Seamus said, giving Neville a parting look of pity. "And you! Be careful!"
"I promise."
Once it was just George and Neville again, George sat at his side, looking thoughtful.
"A Knut for your thoughts," Neville said quietly. "It was an accident. I had a great time at the match until I got nudged down the stairs."
"I'm just glad you didn't break your neck!" Rather impulsively, George reached over to hold Neville's hand, the one not bound in a setting cast. "Look, I know accidents happen. And life can be short. And you can go through life missing an ear and getting funny looks from people. You can also go out there and find you really care about somebody, somebody totally unexpected, and wait to see if he makes a move. Well, bugger that. If you're interested, I'd like to take you on a proper date."
Neville felt the blood roar in his ears. He'd never seen George look flummoxed, and the way he was gently kneading his fingers in apparent nervousness made him more appealing than ever before.
"I'd really like that," Neville replied, his pulse speeding up a notch at the thought of time together, just the two of them. Once he had full functioning of his arm and knee, anyway. "And I did send you flowers, you'll remember."
George smiled, though he rolled his eyes first. "They were plants. Gorgeous plants, but neutral, and your note, too, was carefully neutral. That's actually when I cottoned on that you might at least consider me beyond just a friend."
"You're the only person I've ever met who looks sexy in overalls!" Neville said, laughing. "And that hat? Your paisley robes?"
George gave him a wicked smile and leaned over, brushing his fingers across Neville's lips before pressing a firm, closed kiss on them. Neville let out a low moan of assent and opened his mouth, soon finding George's pliant tongue sliding around his own. They kissed for a few minutes, becoming familiar with the other's style and taste until George drew back, his cheeks pink under his freckles.
"I'm pretty flamboyant, but I've always been seen as different, anyway. The first things Fred and I bought when we could afford to after opening Wheezes'? Green dragonskin coats. Beautifully made, and they stand out from a mile away."
"I don't doubt!"
"I should get mine out again. For our date, perhaps," George said, squeezing Neville's hand.
"What do you have in mind?" Neville asked, using his thumb to caress along the edge of George's hand, broad and very warm to the touch. He felt light-headed from their kissing, caught up in the first dizzying waves of new desire and wishing he had the use of both arms to pull George close. "Dare I ask? Skydiving? Hippogriff racing?"
George leaned over again to give Neville another deep, searching kiss. He straightened up at the sound of a quick rap at the door before it opened. With a lopsided smile, he said, "No, I felt a picnic at the memorial garden might be a safer venue. For now."
The Healer, a young witch whose badge said 'Rose Marchmont' paused before approaching the bed, and Neville lowered his voice to deadpan, "Excellent suggestion. We can christen it."
George fixed him with a searing look, one that caused Neville to be very aware of his state of undress. "Let's talk more about that, very soon."
Despite the presence of Healer Marchmont at to his side, Neville looked at George, who'd moved out of the way, and nodded. "I'm going to need a bit of help for a few days until the skele-mend has set. Think you can handle the job?"
"Of course. You'll be in the best hands."
The Healer stopped moving her wand to look dubiously at him. She turned back around to recommence her examination, shaking her head as Neville felt a flush rise up his neck.
"You just keep them to yourself until he's been discharged," she said dryly.
. : ~ Epilogue ~ : .
"Oh ho ho!"
Neville heard George's playful chortle from his bedroom and wondered what on earth he'd come across. He looked up from the box he was spellotaping shut and saw George with a small stack of magazines: he'd found his porn stash.
"This one's a beaut!" George said with approval, waving the top one, the worn issue of Un-Robed! that Neville hadn't even thought about since he and George had started seeing each other.
"Oh Merlin," Neville groaned.
"C'mon, I have my own collection, no need to feel odd. Who was your favourite in this issue?" he asked, putting the small pile down in the staging area of Neville's moving boxes and thumbing through it.
"Well " Neville could feel his face heating up, which was ridiculous. "At first it was the two guys in the locker room. But after you showed up, I kept looking at Anthony."
"Anthony?" An amused smile lit George's lips.
"Red-haired guy. By himself. I imagined he was you."
George grinned outright at that, and hastily turned pages until he found the young man. "I see," he drawled.
Neville shook his head, gazing around at the boxes. He was nearly packed up, ready to move into George's place above Wheeze's.
"This guy's pretty keen, isn't he?" George said, obviously impressed.
"Yes, though I'm glad I have you now, in the flesh," Neville reminded him, walking over to take the magazine out of his hands. He waved at Anthony, who glanced from him to George and back, and then smiled widely, giving Neville a thumbs up of endorsement.
"Maybe we could give him a show, for once," George said playfully, pulling Neville to him and kissing him deeply. Neville kissed back with equal enthusiasm, their tongues plundering each other's mouths. Neville eased back to get his breath and then sucked on George's full lower lip before ruefully looking at the assemblage around them.
"Maybe once we get my things over to your place? You at least have a bed with sheets on it."
"Our place," George corrected him kindly. "Fair enough. Anthony, you'll have to wait."
The ginger, who had been watching, shrugged and mouthed, "Another time."
As George closed the magazine and dropped it to the side, Neville looked at George, at the riot of freckles on his handsome face, his expression expectant. Neville leaned over to nibble on the lobe of his remaining ear.
"I figured that the chance to design and create the memorial garden would be my legacy," he said, "but I could never have guessed how much it would change my life."
"What can I say? I'm a catch," George replied, kissing Neville into silence.
Neville didn't mind, not one bit, and continued to express his gratitude. Nonverbally.
And I was also given a banner! Art is by melmoe1
Title: Sow Good Services
Rating R
Featured Character or Pairing(s): Neville/George
Summary: Small seeds of friendship can grow into the most unexpected gardens of affection.
Warnings: Wanking
Word Count: 8,417
Author's/Artist's notes: Exceeding thanks to my betas: rickey_a, llembas and wolfiekins. Thanks also to Wolfie for the use again of Un-Robed!. :) Thanks also to my recipient (melmoe1, who seems to have deleted her LJ) who provided me with a new pairing to explore.
Gloaming-tide. Neville smiled as he gazed at the acres of meadow before him, seeing his plans manifested in his mind's eye. He poured himself a gimlet and then got out a sketchpad and aqua pencil. Until a year ago he'd never heard of the word gloaming. The magical time just before dusk and twilight actually had a word, and today he was enjoying it to the fullest. He took a sip of his tart cocktail, and then began doodling. Looking out at the plot of land in front of him, he let his gaze soften; the grasses and distant hills became unfocussed. When he'd taken his first steps along the road to become a Master Gardner, drawing fanciful parks and gardens was what he did to relax. Now he would actually be able to create a vision he'd crafted. He'd won a judged submission opportunity that would only come once in his lifetime: to design and plant a public garden, a memorial space for those who'd fallen during the second and final war with Voldemort. Neville was so caught up in his reverie of sketching that he started when he saw someone come into his line of sight.
"Hi! Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."
Neville glanced up at his unexpected companion, and smiled warmly at him. "It's no problem."
To himself, all he could think was that George Weasley still carried an aura of loss. He wondered if George would always have a Fred-shaped void where his levity and roguery had gone. That would be a tragedy, but not wholly unexpected.
"Would you like to sit down?"
"Sure. Thanks."
Neville scooted over slightly on the bench, letting curiosity nibble at him for mere seconds before asking, "What brought you here? Not that it's my business," he went on, the words falling awkwardly from his tongue. Neville had far more self-confidence than he had before the War, but even three years later, seeing George especially reminded him of how much had been lost. "Fancy a drink?" he added gamely.
"Yeah. Thanks."
George sank back against the bench, his legs splayed and his hands perched atop his thighs. Neville had brought only the one glass, so he rooted around his satchel for his sunglasses and transfigured them into a passable tumbler. When he handed the drink to George, Neville did his best not to let his eyes focus on the dark opening where George's ear used to be.
"I'm here because I wanted to congratulate you, actually," George said after he took a healthy swallow. "Saw the article in the Prophet today and thought I'd check out the place, and how it looks now before you get to work. I didn't think you'd be here, but I don't mind. Glad of it."
"I am too," Neville replied earnestly. He took a sip of his drink before asking, "How's the shop?"
"Business is steady," George said in a flat tone, and didn't offer up anything else as a topic of conversation. Neville was just about to grasp at any topic that was vaguely Weasley family oriented when George turned, a look of apology on his face.
"Sorry- normally I'm more chipper than this. Just feeling more alone today than some others."
Neville nodded at that. "Only too familiar with that feeling."
"I know you're not married, and if I'm prying, just say so. I guess I thought you had somebody you went home to."
Neville felt a flush begin to creep up his neck, and small knots forming in his stomach. Then again, what harm was it in George knowing his preferences? The twins might have tormented Ron growing up, but Neville felt very much like an equal to the man who sat at his side.
"I was seeing someone for about a year," he said, feeling a twinge of sadness, a short but brief pain when accidentally pressing an old wound. "I got a little too serious about things, I suppose, and I guess it spooked him."
When he turned to evaluate George's reaction, to Neville's surprise, he saw George's eyebrows were raised, a look of furtive satisfaction on his face.
"So you're a shirtlifter too!" he said approvingly. "And not ashamed of it. That takes some bollocks."
After a moment of stunned shock, Neville felt a smile wander to his lips and linger there. "I guess so. My gran died before I told her, but her one belief in life was to be true to yourself. I took that to heart. Doesn't mean that I flaunt it, though. My bollocks aren't that big," he continued, taking another sip.
George snorted, and then let out a rumbly laugh. It cheered Neville's spirits and he was on the verge of asking George if he wanted to join him for a friendly dinner when George said, "I've always been more of a legs man, myself. Legs and hands. A sizeable cock's always appreciated. Not that I'm particular."
He winked and clinked his tumbler to Neville's glass before he drained it. Neville was still a bit shaken up; his ability to tell if a wizard was queer or not was rather poor, and George hadn't acted in any way that would set off a charge of mutual understanding.
"How long have you known?" Neville asked, curious.
"Since seventh year. And no, Fred wasn't. One of the few ways we did differ," he said, his lips down turning to one side. "I hate to run off, but mum's expecting me- birthday party for Xavier, Percy's ankle biter."
"Oh. Okay. Well, thanks for stopping by," Neville enthused, standing up when George did and giving his shoulder a squeeze.
"Congratulations again," George said, gesturing at the field in its current uncultivated state.
"Thanks. I have a lot of work ahead of me, but I'm really looking forward to it."
"Don't you have a shop of your own?" George asked, placing the tumbler on the bench and shaking out his slacks.
Neville took a lightning-fast inventory of George's physique before answering, establishing that George wasn't his type. Not that Neville really had a type, but the few times he'd been struck with instant lust it had been with more lean, androgynous looking men. George wasn't as stocky as he'd been before the War, but he came across as definitively masculine.
"I'm a consultant for one, a greenhouse and floral shop. I'll only go in occasionally now that I have the funds and time to bring this memorial garden to life. I never dreamed " His words faded to a halt as he was newly overcome with the responsibility he now had.
"From the sketch in the Prophet, it looks really great," George said reassuringly. "Are you going to ask for volunteers? I could stand to get outside a bit more myself. Might be good for me to help out with a project like this."
"That's a brilliant suggestion," Neville said slowly, a new plan taking shape as he pondered the possibilities. "I'll need to be a bit picky as some elements will be trickier and need more skill than others, but it is meant to be a place for memory and healing. Letting people work on it as it's coming to life is a great idea." He looked at George, hoping his gratitude showed on his face. "I'm so glad you decided to come out here!"
George grinned, raking a hand through his shaggy hair. Neville felt slightly weak-kneed for just a moment; George really was charming when he meant to be.
"Me too. Well, I'll see you around."
"See you."
Neville gave George an amiable wave before he disappeared with the distinctive crack! of Apparition. For a few moments he stared at the spot where George had been, processing the revelations that had been presented to him. Not that it mattered whether George fancied men or women, Neville wasn't interested in George Weasley's sex life. It was more that he felt an affinity, a sense of unspoken bonding of knowing what it was like to be queer in their world. Perhaps surprisingly there didn't seem to be any outright laws on the Wizarding scrolls against it, but neither was it roundly endorsed by anyone. Except other gay wizards.
Dusk had crept in, draped with the chill of mid-spring. Neville finished his gimlet, transfigured the tumbler back into a rather sticky pair of sunglasses, got his things together and Apparated back to his modest flat. He had an uninspired dinner followed by a good half hour of reading congratulatory owl post. Neville was actually in quite upbeat spirits when it came time to go to bed, and he decided to treat himself to a leisurely wank. After brushing his teeth, he lit a juniper scented candle, as well as a couple of plain tapers for their warm light, and ferreted out one of his favourite and well-loved issues of Un-Robed!. He'd had this particular issue for a couple of years, and a few of the wizards in it were used to seeing him. As time had gone on, Neville had realised they'd figured out what he liked to see, within the confines of their original photographs, and were quite adept in stimulating him.
As he idly turned the pages, Neville passed by his usual companions, and found himself taking in the solo exploits of an auburn-haired gent with a dildo and a large bed. Surprised but pleased, the ginger in the magazine gave Neville quite a show. Neville found his hand straying to his interested cock early on, stroking himself with the same enthusiasm as the wizard did as he fucked himself with a blue phallus. Turning away from the magazine, Neville fumbled for some lubricant, coating his fingers before resting back against his pillows. The magazine levitated in the air while Neville shoved two fingers inside himself and pistoned his hand on his hard shaft. So much for leisurely. Panting, he kept his focus riveted on the handsome wizard, who seemed very close to his own orgasm, though he, in turn, was watching Neville.
"You go," Neville said in a ragged voice. He didn't really know how the picture would react, but the pale-skinned man nodded, pulling with hectic abandon on his cock until he came, thighs shaking and his shoulders and neck awash in a rosy flush.
Neville wasn't far behind, having imagined it was him thrusting deep into the keen wizard's firm arse. In his solo fantasy the air smelled of sex and the sated, panting wizard who now beamed at him was an actual warm body next to his.
"Thank you," he mouthed, and the wizard settled his chin into the palm of his hand.
"You're gorgeous," the ginger mouthed back. Neville was so surprised, he pointed at himself, his eyebrows knitted.
"Of course!"
Neville shook his head and reached over to a bedside table to retrieve his wand. He took the levitation spell off of the magazine and cast a Terego on himself. After waving good-bye to the wizard, he shut the Un-Robed! and put it back on the small pile under his bed. As he blew out the candles and stretched out under the covers, Neville's thoughts drifted back to his sketches and the memorial garden. George's suggestion really was superb; he'd need to get into the details of planning what would get planted and when. That way he could enlist the help of those witches and wizards who were interested in bringing the garden to life.
He was drafting a letter to the head of the organising board about it when he fell asleep.
* * * * *
Neville smiled at the small assembly in front of him, people of myriad ages and from all over Wizarding Britain.
"Thank you for coming out here today," he said, pulling his jacket more tightly to him against the chill of the spring day. "One of the lessons I learned from Professor Sprout, one reinforced during my Master Gardner studies, is that while you can do a lot of things via magical means, plants really do respond better if you do the work by hand. There are a few trickier species that I'll work with exclusively, but the rest anyone can assist with."
He looked down at an elfin-faced boy near the front, Herbert Mayflower, who stood clutching at a spade. A smile tried to reach his young lips but then, uncertain, didn't quite make it. His mother, Katie Mayflower, a Hufflepuff who'd gone to Hogwarts a decade before Neville, had contacted him about her son, asking if he could join in even though he was a squib.
"Today we'll be marking off the sections and putting up signs as to what plants go where, as well as drawing the labyrinth. So! Let's get started."
He handed out necessary tools and twine and reduced sized drawings of the plan, conferring with each pair or small group. "Thanks for being willing to work on the fountain," he said to George, who was decked out in a pair of sienna denim overalls.
"Happy to do it," George said, more animated than he'd been when Neville had seen him a few days prior. "What do you think?" he asked, waving a hand in front of him to reference his distinctive attire.
"They're something else," Neville said honestly as George waggled his eyebrows.
"Figured I should dress the part."
Neville let out a short laugh. "And you have. I'll check in with you later."
George saluted and then hoisted a hoe over his shoulder. Neville watched him as he sauntered off, wondering how on earth such unflattering clothes managed to show that the man had a really nice backside. He quickly shoved that inappropriate thought aside to focus on Herbert, still standing nearby, biting down on his lower lip.
"I'd really like for you to work with me on the labyrinth," he said, leaning down to be more on a level with the eight year old. "Is that okay with you?"
Herbert nodded mutely. His mother stood protectively behind him, as fierce as a lioness.
"I've put you on the trellis team, which is next to it," Neville said to Katie, and she nodded her acceptance.
"That's fine. Herbert, you follow Mr. Longbottom's instructions. I'll be right over there if you need me." She pointed to a pair of other women in their thirties.
"We don't need magic?" the boy asked tentatively, gripping a tape measure in his left hand.
"Not one bit, especially not what we're going to be doing," Neville said, trying to instil some confidence into his temporary charge. "But I do have one requirement," he went on and Herbert's face fell. Neville reached into the rucksack that hung across his chest and pulled out a chocolate frog that he presented to the boy. "You can't work with me and not enjoy chocolate."
The smile at last made a bold appearance on Herbert's mouth as he took the proffered gift.
"Thanks!" he said brightly. "I do love these."
"We'll get along just fine, then."
The day flew by; in fact, the entire week was a blur. On Friday Neville was jotting down some notes about the daily activities to be included in his weekly report when an owl swept in and landed on his rucksack.
"Whose owl is that?" George asked as he walked over, scratching at this cheek and smudging dirt there. He was the last person to leave and had dutifully been so since the project started.
"Seamus'."
He smiled at George before untying the parchment. It was a reminder about their biweekly Friday night get-together at the Dragon's Lair. Seamus, Dean and himself met there to chat, drink beer and throw darts. Glancing over at George, he waved the parchment.
"Blokes' night. Would you like to join us? We just talk, play darts, have a few pints. Seamus sometimes tries to chat up a girl, but really it's social time. I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
"Thanks, but I have plans," George said apologetically.
"Hot date?" Neville asked, keeping his voice light even though he'd felt an odd twist in his stomach.
George shook his head and huffed a laugh. "Don't I wish. No, I said I'd take Xavier, Percy's son, to a movie."
"Well, neither of us will get into any trouble tonight."
"Rather a pity, that," George said wryly. "There's a club I go to on occasion- since you're into guys as well, maybe you'd like to check it out?"
The question gave Neville pause. "I've not gone to a lot of clubs, to be honest. Is it Muggle or Wizard? I wouldn't want to have to hide who I am."
"Wizard." George pulled on his robes, a panoply of blue paisley. "I did go the Muggle route at first, figuring I could always cast a memory charm if things were awful. But yeah, not worth it. Just think about it. I know you're busy."
Neville thought about how long it continued to be that his hand and magazines were his nighttime companions and said abruptly, "Not that busy."
George's lips widened into a grin. "That's the spirit! Well, I'll see you mid-week. Need to do some inventory at the shop Monday and Tuesday."
"Fair enough. Look, it's great having you to help out."
With a surprisingly elegant shrug, George said, "Couldn't imagine not being a part of it. You're doing good work, Neville."
He clapped Neville on the shoulder, giving him another smile that Neville, with a shock of recognition, realised was both impish and warm like the bloke in Un-Robed! After George had Apparated away, Neville discreetly adjusted his jeans.
"Well, it's food for thought, anyway," he said to himself about a potential night of bone-jarring loud music and expensive drinks. "Maybe this place George has in mind is different."
He got his things together, giving the space a final look over before leaving for the weekend. All of the unique areas had been marked off, two large quadrants had been tilled, and the trellises were largely completed. Back at the greenhouse, Neville needed to organise the growing collection of seeds, seedlings and young trees before bringing them out onto the location. For now, though, it was time to go and enjoy himself with some much-deserved downtime.
* * * * *
Two weeks into the project, Neville's young assistant Herbert came down with bronchitis. The weather had turned unseasonably cold and several of the volunteers sent him owls of apology: they weren't going to be able to help that day. Neville replied graciously- he was making much faster progress than he'd expected anyway since there were people helping on a regular basis.
At mid-week, it was pouring buckets of rain and even Neville decided it wasn't doing anyone any good to be on the muddy grounds, uncomfortable even with water-repelling and heating charms. He went to the few dedicated witches and wizards and after thanking them profusely, suggested that they go home, dry off and have a hot cup of tea.
"The weather'll turn. Soon, I hope," he said to George, his wellies making obscene sucking sounds in the clutching mud.
"Yeah. I've had an idea for you about the fountain," George said, wiping wet hair out of his eyes. Neville had come to expect George's unique attire, and despite the rain, he hadn't disappointed. Today George sported an arresting turquoise slicker and, remarkably, a worn but flattering cowboy hat that kept off a lot of the rain. He had cast a low-grade repelling charm, but the rain was a force with which to be reckoned.
"Really? Like what?" Neville's interests were piqued. "I'm open to suggestion on it. It's the only non-plant element to the garden."
"How about we talk over a pint? Reckon you deserve one, for sure."
"Great suggestion. Have a place in mind?"
"Cauldron Bubble has some really tasty brews. They're brewed on the premises. Friend of Lee's opened it up in London."
"I've not heard of it, but it sounds promising."
George tilted his head up, exposing his neck to the rain as it poured from the sky. "Damn rain," he muttered.
"It's a miserable day," Neville agreed. "Let's get out of it."
A few moments later they were side by side in a part of wizarding London Neville had never before visited. It was raining there, too, but it was a more expected soft and steady issuance from the grey clouds overhead. George raised an arm and pointed up the street from the statue where they stood. "It's just up there."
Neville fell into sleep beside him and soon they were inside a cheery, mid-sized pub with a beckoning fire at one end. It was just after noon, and not many other people were there, so they were able to sit near the wide fireplace in two well-cushioned chairs. George hung up their coats on brass hooks set into the wall and then sat down, placing his hat on the floor and running his fingers through his damp hair. Neville was subconsciously cataloguing the differences of George's features to that of Ron, struck by the unassuming handsome qualities to his face when the bartender called out, "Weasley! You look like a drowned rat, mate. The usual?"
"Yeah. Two pints. And stop flirting with me."
"You wish," the bartender retorted.
Neville felt a shiver of delight skate across his skin, seeing George in such an ebullient mood. When he winked at Neville, a rush of heat lodged in his chest as though he'd just had a shot of firewhiskey, though the sensation sank down to become a heaviness between his legs.
"Two Selkie Swims on the bar, gents. Cheers."
"I'll get them," Neville said hurriedly to distract himself. The bartender had moved to the other end of the bar to attend to another patron, so Neville wasn't able even to get a sense of whether or not he was like them or whether what he'd witnessed was just usual banter he had with George.
"If you don't like it, there are several other ales, all excellent. Sorry for ordering for you- I was overenthusiastic." George smiled ruefully.
"I'm sure it's fine," Neville quickly said, sinking into his chair and taking a mouthful of the beer. It was dark, and slightly bitter, robust and with a flavour to it he couldn't quite place. George had taken a healthy quaff of his own and held the glass out, looking expectantly at Neville.
"It is good!" Neville remarked, clinking his glass to George's outstretched one. "To future sunny days."
George pulled his lips to one side for a moment, pondering something, and then his face cleared to an expression of thoughtful appraisal.
"To unexpected friends."
"Unexpected?" Neville repeated, looking curiously at George after accepting the toast.
"Look, I have a personal investment in the memorial garden because of Fred, but that wouldn't have been enough necessarily to get me out in dismally cold rain like today," he said in a companionable tone. "Oh, and there's a bit of kelp in the beer. That's what makes it unique."
"Oh." Neville was trying to keep up with George's line of thought, wondering if he should read anything further into what he said, but George hadn't made any kind of overture that hinted at any innuendo. "Being a friend to me is what's unexpected?"
"Well, yes."
George sat back and crossed his leg over his knee, cradling his pint glass in both hands. With his intriguing cowboy hat no longer on his head, the healed, dark wound on the side of his head was again noticeable, though it no longer troubled Neville as it had when he'd first started seeing George on a regular basis.
"I do have friends, mostly mates from Hogwarts," George continued. "But you know how it is. People's lives go in different directions, they get busy, and to be honest, I never expected to be alone. Not without Fred."
He gazed levelly at Neville, who was sitting forward, hanging on every word. He hadn't planned to ask George anything too personal, yet now George was offering up insight into some of his hidden emotional terrain.
"I look forward to hanging out with you, and the others, too. I'm comfortable around you. It's pretty cool that you thought enough of me to let me know your preferences, about, you know. Guys. A lot of people would have assumed I'd make some kind of joke about it, but you didn't."
He paused, and Neville felt the blood pound in his ears, hoping for a crazed moment that George was going to profess some heretofore unspoken feelings for him. How would he react? He was robbed any further sparks of hope when George said, "So about the fountain. Rather than it have a figure and spout, or central whatever, why not have a ring of individual jets of water? Kids would love that in summer. Or even a long reflecting pool, maybe with fish."
Neville covered up his misplaced disappointment by enthusiastically getting more details and suggestions from George. All the while, though, an undercurrent of buzzing thoughts like bees swarming around a disturbed hive clamoured for attention in the back of his mind. Two ales later, the voices had quieted down, and he was giving George a warm hug out in the drizzle before they Apparated to their respective next engagements.
"You're going to come with me to that club on Saturday. No excuses," George said jovially.
"I won't give you any!" Neville laughed. "Owl me where it is, or did you want to meet up beforehand?"
"I'll give you the address tomorrow. Oh, bugger it. I'm sorry," he said, shuffling back a little but still resting one hand on Neville's arm. "Angelina's daft enough to have asked me to be the godfather for her son. The ceremony and party are tomorrow. I could come by afterwards "
"You'll have had a full day. Not to worry. I'll see you Friday, then."
A warm cheeriness rose in Neville like steam from tea, and with a similar comfort. He waited until George had Apparated and then made sure he was focussed properly to Apparate himself without getting splinched. He wasn't even that buzzed, but he'd had near misses in the past and didn't wish to do so again.
He Apparated to the back entrance of the greenhouse, startling the owner's behemoth tabby. She let out a low yowl of irritation before her eyelids began closing again, the call to sleep a very powerful one. After digging into his overcoat for his keys, Neville shook out the key ring and found the distinctive emerald key to let him into the greenhouse.
"Graeme?" he called out, not wanting to surprise the owner.
"With a customer!" he replied in his cheerful, but nasal voice. "D'you need me?"
"No- just going to putter around with the memorial garden stuff. Thanks, though!"
Neville spent the rest of the afternoon digging happily in seedlings, pruning some trees, and casting two complicated spells of intention on particular seeds, one on the forget-me-nots and the other on the poppies. A thought struck him: he could send some flowers to George. A masculine bouquet, to thank him for his enthusiasm and their growing friendship. Cut flowers and plants weren't really his forte, so he decided to put together a few potted plants that would be hard to kill. George seemed quite adept at the memorial garden, however, and Neville felt whatever greenery he sent would thrive in George's care. He found a cauldron-sized terra cotta pot and filled it with rich potting soil. Some trailing ivy went in, and a malachite tree, the Wizarding cousin to plump-leaved jade trees, with marbled colouring and a penchant to make cooing sounds when in direct moonlight.
He glanced up at a small framed piece of cross-stitch that Hermione had hand crafted for him of a Muggle quotation she'd come across and felt was appropriate as he'd begun his Master Gardner studies.
Sow good services; sweet remembrances will grow from them. ~Mde de Stael
A flashed image sprang to Neville's mind from his time at the pub. George had been temporarily in reverie, his fingers idly playing on his pint glass, his t-shirt inched up to reveal a thin, fiery trail of hair. The memory caused a low throb of interest in his groin. Was friendship what he wanted, or was it more accurate to abuse his analogies and admit that he wanted to be ploughing the land of George's arse?
He's really not your type, a voice in his head insisted. And if George had any interest in him beyond friends, he was being very subtle about it. There was more than one Weasley dear to Neville's heart, and subtle was not what he would use to describe any of them. Well, there's the club, he thought as he filled a watering can and made sure the earth around his gift of flora was appropriately hydrated. He rummaged around a metal box of old spell cards, empty seed packets and other gardening detritus until he found a shop card. A quick search of his pockets produced a Muggle biro, and he wrote:
- Thanks for all your help. I'm glad to get to know you better.
~NL
He nodded as he re-read the words, brief and to the point. Neville walked to the main part of the shop and found Graeme supervising his newest employee, a willowy but easily distracted witch named Prospera.
"Have the deliveries already gone out?" he asked after a wave of acknowledgement to Prospera. She beamed at him before letting out a sigh as she'd apparently lost her place in counting a set of ladies' gardening gloves.
"No, but Gerald's almost done packing the sledge. Are you sending something? I guess so," he said thoughtfully, answering his own question as he eyed the pot in Neville's hands.
"It's a thank you," Neville explained, and Graeme nodded, already preoccupied once more with the running of the shop. Picking up his pace, Neville walked quickly to the small staging area for deliveries.
"Hi Gerald!" he said brightly, handing the pot to the surprised deliveryman.
"Hullo. From you?"
"Yes. It's for a friend. Please take it to Weasley's Wizarding Wheeze's. For George," he added, unnecessarily.
"Okay," Gerald replied, the rolling burr of his Cornish accent a pleasure Neville never tired of. "Enjoy your evening."
"You too! Any plans for the week-end?" he asked, watching as the terra cotta pot was packed in between bouquets of roses and lilies and other traditional gift flowers.
"Not really. Bit of surfing, p'raps."
"Surfing?"
Gerald's smile quirked to the side, amusement dancing on his angular features. "Yes. I'll tell you more later. I need to get on," he apologised.
"Understood. Thanks."
It was still raining as Neville made his way home, but the weather couldn't dampen his spirits. He treated himself to some curry takeaway - it was a rarity as he tried to save money by not often eating out - and watched a couple of mindless dramas on his Muggle telly. His mind kept drifting back to the couple of hours he'd spent with George, wondering if he was letting his imagination run away with him. Well, it wasn't as though he'd fallen for him or anything George was physically attractive to him, and he'd quit fighting that. Even if nothing came of their Saturday outing, nothing between the two of them, anyway, maybe Neville would find somebody at least to share a blowjob. He was really tired of taking care of himself all the time. But there was that ginger in his magazine who'd continually inspired him. You and however many other hundred wizards, he said ruefully to himself.
Before bed, he retrieved the worn magazine and flipped past the hopeful faces of the variously engaged wizards until he got to the page with the slender redhead. 'Anthony' was the name printed below his moving picture, and he gave Neville a scorching, but playful look.
"I can't believe I'm practically having an affair with a guy I can't even touch!" he said under his breath, reaching in a drawer for a plug and lube. When he looked back again, Anthony had prepared his own intimidating dildo, this new one bronze in colour. Anthony had apparently cast a sticking charm on his and began riding it, slow and deep. Neville imagined George's thighs, wondered if his whole body was covered in freckles as Ron's was, wondered as his own clenching muscles sucked in the dildo if George preferred to top or bottom.
He took his time pleasuring himself, enthralled by Anthony who was vigorously fucking himself. His hand slid up and down on his prick as he gazed at Neville through heavy-lidded eyes. When Anthony tilted up his head, panting, Neville knew he was nearly there. Once again he realised just how much he missed the smell of sex, of a pillowcase jealously holding onto musk or cologne.
He came seconds after Anthony, ropey gouts of come falling onto his trembling stomach. Without thinking, Neville moved the fingers not covered in fluid to stroke along Anthony's belly. The look of sweet languor on the young man's face made Neville's heart pang. Why were his feelings so close to the surface? Well, if what his friends told him was true, they showed on his face more than he realised anyway. He did want to shag George, but he also wanted to continue enjoying his company, and to get to know him better. The garden project was going forward at a tremendous pace. It wouldn't drag on for months, though of course there would be regular maintenance.
"Just nurture whatever this seed is," Neville said to himself, waving goodbye to Anthony, who blew him a kiss. "Friendship or more, time will tell. Probably sooner than later."
* * * * *
Saturday arrived and Neville celebrated it as he usually did by sleeping in and then enjoying a pot of coffee. Next he'd try to work the crossword in the Prophet, followed by generally being as slothful as possible. George had ended up owling him the address to the club because he'd not been up to snuff on Friday. Apparently he'd overdone it at the party after Angelina's son's christening, and had taken most of the day to sleep it off.
I'll be in fine form by Saturday, not to worry, he'd promised. As the afternoon meandered along, Neville puttered amongst the plants he kept at his flat and no further owls came to indicate George's potential absence. He tried to read to while away a couple of hours, but found he couldn't concentrate. Desperate for diversion, he found himself in front of his telly again and watched part of a movie about paranormal investigators.
At last he found himself in front of a mirror, trying to be somewhat objective about how he looked. He'd shed most of the bulk from his younger years, but he didn't believe that tight clothes suited him. Luna Lovegood had once talked him into a pair of striped slacks that were surprisingly flattering, and if this club was anything like the one he'd visited a few times, his clothes would pale in comparison to some of the outlandish styles he'd seen. Hell, George dressed in rather shocking, unexpected, eclectic clothes, much different than Neville remembered from their Hogwarts days. Merlin only knew what he'd be sporting when Neville showed up.
When his clock chimed nine, Neville finished the glass of wine he'd indulged in to calm his nerves. Making sure he had his keys, his money tucked away in a back pocket and his wand, he Apparated to a spot a block from the club. Excitement zipped along his veins as he approached, myriad possibilities and hopes for the evening playing out in his mind's eye. A wizard at the door charged him an entrance fee, but it wasn't terribly high. Inside, Neville's eyes had to adjust to the dark space that throbbed with pounding music and lust. He took a deep breath, gazing around until he saw the bar. Navigating past a sea of gyrating male bodies, he made his way there and took up what he hoped would be a very temporary post.
Three Bitter Banshees later, he'd been approached by several men, but had yet to see George. A weight lodged in his gut as he glanced at his watch and realised that, without a doubt, he'd been stood up.
"Maybe there was a family emergency," he muttered uncharitably into the rim of his new drink. "It wouldn't be the first time."
As he took another swallow, a lanky wizard with graceful arms and luminous brown eyes sidled up to him. "You don't look as though you're having a good time," he said, his Scottish accent bringing a smile to Neville's lips quite despite his sour mood. "I'm a good listener- care to tell me about it?"
Neville made a brusque snort and then looked more carefully at his would-be companion. The word 'sprite' came to his mind, though the man's eyes held intrigue and interest, not mischief. Long tapers of fingers glided along the back of Neville's hand, the strangely intimate gesture provoking him to explain that his friend hadn't shown up to meet him.
"Friend? Not a very courteous one," the Scotsman observed as Neville tossed back his drink and then wished he hadn't. "I would never stand you up like that."
"Why not? You don't know me from Merlin's housecat!" Neville exclaimed, turning over his hand so soft finger pads could stroke his palm.
"Actually, I think I do. You're Longbottom. Making the victory garden." He'd eased nearer to Neville, the words breathed hotly into Neville's ear.
"Memorial garden," Neville corrected automatically. "And yes. Then you have me at a disadvantage, because I don't know who you are. I think I'd like to, though."
"Apollo," the young man murmured so quietly Neville thought he misunderstood.
"Paul?"
"No. Apollo. Let's go somewhere a bit more private, shall we?"
A few seconds went by until Neville's injured pride reasserted itself and he nodded, grasping Apollo's slender hand in his.
"Let's."
* * * * *
Neville didn't see or hear from George until the following Tuesday when he showed up at the memorial garden in atypically demure clothing, apology written all over his face. Atypically for Neville, he didn't feel particularly sympathetic toward George, even though it was obvious that he regretted something.
"I'm so sorry," George said, keeping his voice low even though the nearest group of volunteers were several feet away.
"Yeah. I am, too," Neville said, feeling the hurt that he'd been suppressing rise relentlessly to the surface. "I had a good time, don't get me wrong, but that's a really crappy way to treat a friend. What happened? Maybe it's not my business."
"No, I was a jerk. Full stop." He had his cowboy hat on again, but he took it off and began fidgeting with the brim. "There was one guy- an ex, I suppose, though we were never all that serious. He came by, broken-hearted about some wanker, and I," he paused, but then looked at Neville directly, his expression full of apology. "I made him feel better."
"I bet you did," Neville said with minimal sarcasm. "Is he still with you?"
"No, no," George said hastily. "Told him he needed to get back out into the world and I needed to work. You said you had a good time?" he asked, deflecting further commentary about his unnamed companion.
"Not at first, but my night picked up. Would have preferred your company, to be honest." George opened his mouth, but Neville went on, "It's okay. Disappointment never killed anybody. I'm just glad you didn't have some family emergency or anything like that."
"Oh no. Oh! Thank you for the plants!" he said, a slow smile rising to his lips. "Of course I feel like a schmuck, but they're great. I'm glad I'm getting to spend time with you as well, and maybe " his voice trailed off, evidently pondering something, and then decided against expressing the line of thought.
"You're welcome."
He gave George a smile that didn't feel completely genuine, and started to go find Herbert when George said, "Hey- I'm taking Xavier to see the Pride play the Cannons. I could swing a third seat. Xave's a great little guy, and while it's not a club, I'd really like to have some more downtime with you."
"I follow the Cannons." Herbert's voice came from Neville's left, and now he stood, yardstick stuck into his belt and his omnipresent trowel in his hand.
"Good on you!" George said, breaking into a wide smile. "I bet I could get a ticket for you as well. Where's your mum?"
"She's weeding the border hedges," Neville interjected, knowing where everyone was working, or supposed to be.
"So you'll come? Friday?" George asked, going so far as to place his hand on Neville's upper arm and squeeze. "Please let me make it up to you. It's mostly about people-watching, anyway."
Herbert was the picture of pent-up excitement, which proved to be infectious.
"Well, why not?" Neville finally answered. "We'll work a half day. Herbert, come on back after you've talked to your mother. We're going to be starting on the irrigation lines today."
"Thanks," George murmured, sliding his hand down to hold Neville's for a moment. His fingers were noticeably warm. "I'm really not a bad guy."
"I never thought you were," Neville said honestly, unable not to smile as George grinned and perched his unique hat back on his head.
"Let's get this sorted with your mum," George said to the boy as they walked away. "Who's your favourite player?"
Neville began pacing out the first irrigation line, a ball of twine in hand. A Quidditch match wasn't exactly the environment to have meaningful conversation in, or to gauge any potential sexual attraction. George probably only saw him as a friend anyway, especially if he'd been that willing to have a consolation shag-fest with an ex. In a paroxysm of self-awareness, Neville had to admit that if Piers had come to him in a similar state, he wouldn't have been so principled as to keep his own ex out of his bed, either. No matter what, going to a match would be a fun way to spend an afternoon. Thanks to George's unanticipated participation with the memorial garden, Neville had more of a social life than he'd had in months, Dean and Seamus notwithstanding.
"You'll need to owl them about blokes' night," he said to himself under his breath, and then turned his attentions firmly to the task at hand.
* * * * *
"I know you enjoy getting attention, but this is ridiculous," Dean cajoled, crossing his feet over his knee.
"I didn't mean to," Neville said with a feeble smile. "But I've always been clumsy."
"At least you're still in one piece," Seamus chimed in. "Sort of. A broken arm and dislocated knee aren't exactly one piece."
"Thanks for pointing out the obvious." Neville raised his cast-bound arm in a parody of a salute.
"Seamus, we'd best be off," Dean said. "We've bent your ear with enough of your nonsense."
Neville smiled broadly. "Not at all. Thanks for dropping by- I really appreciate it."
"Yeah, thanks, guys," George said, standing up and walking with them to the door. "I'll owl you once he's been released, probably later this evening."
"Thanks mate," Seamus said, giving Neville a parting look of pity. "And you! Be careful!"
"I promise."
Once it was just George and Neville again, George sat at his side, looking thoughtful.
"A Knut for your thoughts," Neville said quietly. "It was an accident. I had a great time at the match until I got nudged down the stairs."
"I'm just glad you didn't break your neck!" Rather impulsively, George reached over to hold Neville's hand, the one not bound in a setting cast. "Look, I know accidents happen. And life can be short. And you can go through life missing an ear and getting funny looks from people. You can also go out there and find you really care about somebody, somebody totally unexpected, and wait to see if he makes a move. Well, bugger that. If you're interested, I'd like to take you on a proper date."
Neville felt the blood roar in his ears. He'd never seen George look flummoxed, and the way he was gently kneading his fingers in apparent nervousness made him more appealing than ever before.
"I'd really like that," Neville replied, his pulse speeding up a notch at the thought of time together, just the two of them. Once he had full functioning of his arm and knee, anyway. "And I did send you flowers, you'll remember."
George smiled, though he rolled his eyes first. "They were plants. Gorgeous plants, but neutral, and your note, too, was carefully neutral. That's actually when I cottoned on that you might at least consider me beyond just a friend."
"You're the only person I've ever met who looks sexy in overalls!" Neville said, laughing. "And that hat? Your paisley robes?"
George gave him a wicked smile and leaned over, brushing his fingers across Neville's lips before pressing a firm, closed kiss on them. Neville let out a low moan of assent and opened his mouth, soon finding George's pliant tongue sliding around his own. They kissed for a few minutes, becoming familiar with the other's style and taste until George drew back, his cheeks pink under his freckles.
"I'm pretty flamboyant, but I've always been seen as different, anyway. The first things Fred and I bought when we could afford to after opening Wheezes'? Green dragonskin coats. Beautifully made, and they stand out from a mile away."
"I don't doubt!"
"I should get mine out again. For our date, perhaps," George said, squeezing Neville's hand.
"What do you have in mind?" Neville asked, using his thumb to caress along the edge of George's hand, broad and very warm to the touch. He felt light-headed from their kissing, caught up in the first dizzying waves of new desire and wishing he had the use of both arms to pull George close. "Dare I ask? Skydiving? Hippogriff racing?"
George leaned over again to give Neville another deep, searching kiss. He straightened up at the sound of a quick rap at the door before it opened. With a lopsided smile, he said, "No, I felt a picnic at the memorial garden might be a safer venue. For now."
The Healer, a young witch whose badge said 'Rose Marchmont' paused before approaching the bed, and Neville lowered his voice to deadpan, "Excellent suggestion. We can christen it."
George fixed him with a searing look, one that caused Neville to be very aware of his state of undress. "Let's talk more about that, very soon."
Despite the presence of Healer Marchmont at to his side, Neville looked at George, who'd moved out of the way, and nodded. "I'm going to need a bit of help for a few days until the skele-mend has set. Think you can handle the job?"
"Of course. You'll be in the best hands."
The Healer stopped moving her wand to look dubiously at him. She turned back around to recommence her examination, shaking her head as Neville felt a flush rise up his neck.
"You just keep them to yourself until he's been discharged," she said dryly.
. : ~ Epilogue ~ : .
"Oh ho ho!"
Neville heard George's playful chortle from his bedroom and wondered what on earth he'd come across. He looked up from the box he was spellotaping shut and saw George with a small stack of magazines: he'd found his porn stash.
"This one's a beaut!" George said with approval, waving the top one, the worn issue of Un-Robed! that Neville hadn't even thought about since he and George had started seeing each other.
"Oh Merlin," Neville groaned.
"C'mon, I have my own collection, no need to feel odd. Who was your favourite in this issue?" he asked, putting the small pile down in the staging area of Neville's moving boxes and thumbing through it.
"Well " Neville could feel his face heating up, which was ridiculous. "At first it was the two guys in the locker room. But after you showed up, I kept looking at Anthony."
"Anthony?" An amused smile lit George's lips.
"Red-haired guy. By himself. I imagined he was you."
George grinned outright at that, and hastily turned pages until he found the young man. "I see," he drawled.
Neville shook his head, gazing around at the boxes. He was nearly packed up, ready to move into George's place above Wheeze's.
"This guy's pretty keen, isn't he?" George said, obviously impressed.
"Yes, though I'm glad I have you now, in the flesh," Neville reminded him, walking over to take the magazine out of his hands. He waved at Anthony, who glanced from him to George and back, and then smiled widely, giving Neville a thumbs up of endorsement.
"Maybe we could give him a show, for once," George said playfully, pulling Neville to him and kissing him deeply. Neville kissed back with equal enthusiasm, their tongues plundering each other's mouths. Neville eased back to get his breath and then sucked on George's full lower lip before ruefully looking at the assemblage around them.
"Maybe once we get my things over to your place? You at least have a bed with sheets on it."
"Our place," George corrected him kindly. "Fair enough. Anthony, you'll have to wait."
The ginger, who had been watching, shrugged and mouthed, "Another time."
As George closed the magazine and dropped it to the side, Neville looked at George, at the riot of freckles on his handsome face, his expression expectant. Neville leaned over to nibble on the lobe of his remaining ear.
"I figured that the chance to design and create the memorial garden would be my legacy," he said, "but I could never have guessed how much it would change my life."
"What can I say? I'm a catch," George replied, kissing Neville into silence.
Neville didn't mind, not one bit, and continued to express his gratitude. Nonverbally.