Fic: Cold, PG-13
Title: Cold
Author: acidpop25
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Theodore/Blaise
Warning(s): Near-noncon.
Word Count: 13,550 (split into 2 posts, since it is too long for the LJ posting limit).
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and universe belong to J.K. Rowling; I don't own them, and make no profit from their use. Likewise, the quotes from Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, and William Blake belong to their respective authors, not me.
Summary: They fell in love for all the right reasons; they fell apart for all the wrong ones.
A/N: We see straight characters, gay characters, and bi characters all over fandom. And, while I love all of these... it's high time, I think, for something a little different. This thought is what sparked the idea for Cold, which centers on an asexual character- alongside, for the sake of a little drama, the most sexual one I could think of. Cold has been a long and constantly challenging piece to write, but I loved every minute of it.
Acknowledgments: I am endlessly indebted to the brilliant and talented sandra_lanimil, my character beta, occasional co-writer, and partner-in-crime for this fic. Her suggestions, encouragement, and insight were invaluable; I could never have done it without her. Also, AVEN and asexuality, both of which were incredibly helpful resources in writing Theodore.
“What do you mean, the Minister signed the tariff agreement?!” Theodore’s voice echoes down the dark halls of the Department of Mysteries, and he comes into view a moment later, rounding the corner with quick strides that speak to his irritation as surely as the indignant volume of his normally quiet, calm voice.
“You heard me,” Solomon says; the younger Unspeakable looks fully as displeased as Theodore sounds.
“The resentment this will create in my area-” Theodore huffs out a frustrated breath and rakes his fingers through his hair. “There’s already more than enough for me to be doing, I’m stretched thin as it is, until we get someone else who speaks Chinese. Even aside from the fact, of course, that it’s patently stupid policy.”
Blaise’s lips twitch, almost a smile- Theodore’s rare fits of indignant pique are oddly endearing, though it isn’t often that much of anything gets him riled. Blaise schools his expression and pushes off the wall he has been leaning against, intercepting the other two.
“If you’ll pardon the interruption,” he says smoothly, “I need to borrow Theo.” Without waiting for an answer, Blaise catches Theodore’s arm and steers him down one of the other corridors. Theodore throws him a brief but intensely venomous look and twists free of Blaise’s hold, though he keeps pace with him. The motion is sudden, quick, and only just forceful enough to break Blaise’s grip without causing any pain, but the message could not have been any clearer if Theodore had screamed it. Do not touch me. Blaise is sorely, sharply tempted to press the issue, to grab Theodore’s arm and not let him break free, but he allows the impulse to slide; it would be foolish to indulge it when he wants Theodore’s time.
The training room is empty; it usually is, at this time of day. Blaise sheds his shirt and sets it aside, and Theodore arches a brow and shrugs his wand into his hand from where it had been hidden up his left sleeve. “No wands?” He does not really need to ask the question; Blaise merely nods and draws his own wand as well, and they both put them safely out of harm’s way.
“On three,” says Blaise, as they circle one another.
They both lunge on two.
Theodore is stronger than he looks, and five years of working with him have given Blaise good reason to know, but Blaise still easily outweighs him, and he presses his advantage. Theodore has always been painfully thin, fragile-looking, and he never grew out of it.
A sharp, sudden strike catches Blaise hard in the side; Theodore may be light, but he’s fast, both in motion and in mind, and the blow was hard, much harder than usual. Theodore is wound tight today, and uncharacteristically aggressive. No drawn-out game of wearing Blaise down to exhaustion; today, Theodore is fighting, plain and simple, and there is something sharp and unpleasant in his dark eyes. Blaise is not afraid of Theodore, but he knows that look would have plenty of their colleagues backing up and surrendering.
Theodore wins that fight; Blaise takes the second, though not easily. They are both breathing harshly, Theodore pinned on his back on the ground; he bucks under Blaise, hard, but can’t quite throw him off.
“Conceded,” Theodore says coolly. “Let me up.”
The fact that he’s straddling Theodore is abruptly called to Blaise’s attention with the words; their gazes lock for a brief, hard moment, breaking again when Blaise finally moves off of him and stands. Theodore puts distance between them again very quickly and summons his wand to him with a slight frown and a wordless gesture. He is no longer looking at Blaise, but Blaise is watching him intently; tension is etched into every line of Theodore’s body, sharp and unyielding.
“Merlin, Theo,” Blaise drawls, “don’t you ever get laid?”
Theodore’s gaze snaps up, dark and unreadable as ever, though there is, briefly, the slightest hint of surprise. “No,” he says, simply and noncommittally.
Whatever Blaise had been expecting, that isn’t it; there is a pause, and he looks at Theodore intently, eyes narrowing slightly, appraising, and is forced to conclude that he is telling the truth. That alone is unusual; Theodore is notoriously closemouthed where his personal life is concerned.
“Why ever not?” The question is not, as might be expected, facetious- Theodore is certainly attractive enough, if not conventionally so. There is a sharp, fragile beauty to him, an ethereal loveliness to his ice-white skin and near-black eyes. Certainly attractive enough that he should have no trouble acquiring a lover, should he wish one.
“I don’t want to,” Theodore says calmly, and brushes past Blaise and out the door without another word.
Theodore is not in his office as he usually is when Blaise seeks him out that evening; Theodore had long since set his wards to let Blaise in uninvited, but the room is unoccupied save for the usual organised chaos of Theodore’s desk. Blaise casts a cursory glance at the parchment on top, but it isn’t in a language he can read- Greek, it looks like.
He eventually finds Theodore not working at all, but in the Veil Room, seated near the veil’s base. His gaze is distant, unfocused, and if he is aware of Blaise’s intrusion, he gives no indication of it. The low whisperings of the veil catch at the edges of Blaise’s awareness, unsettling and distracting; he has never much cared for this place, but Theodore never seems to mind it- sometimes Blaise wonders what Theodore hears in the whispers of death, but he has never asked him, and Theodore is not one to volunteer information.
The room is still, silent but for the susurrations of the veil, and Blaise’s gaze lingers without pretense on the slight figure on the floor. Theodore sits curled in on himself, knees tucked up against his chest and arms looped around them; in the dim room, surrounded by black, Theodore’s pale skin seems almost luminescent, and his eyes very black, eerily ageless.
It is Theodore who finally speaks. “If you’ve a question to ask,” he murmurs, “ask it.” His voice is low, but it echoes; he still has not moved or looked at Blaise. There is a stretched moment of silence.
“Why don’t you want to?”
Theodore at last glances up at him, and there is a slight, wry twist to his lips, a self-deprecating half-smile. “I had wondered how long it would take you,” he says, and pauses for a moment. “I can no more give you a satisfactory answer to your question than a merperson can walk, however. There isn’t one; I simply never have.”
“Never.” Blaise’s tone is impossible to read, but Theodore merely shakes his head.
“I have never wanted to, and I have never tried it. I don’t believe I ever will.” He shifts slightly and tilts his head, looking up at Blaise. “That isn’t to say I don’t find anyone beautiful; I do. It simply does not translate into physical desire.” Theodore hesitates, and there is a flash of something in his eyes, too quick to read. “Emotional, perhaps,” he adds, quieter, “but never physical.”
Blaise does not answer immediately, but moves to sit by Theodore a companionable distance away. He reaches over, slowly enough for Theodore to stop him if he wants to, and takes hold of his wrist, lightly. “What do you feel?”
A pause, and Theodore shifts a bit, gaze flicking to Blaise’s hand and then back up to his eyes. “Uncomfortable,” Theodore admits; tension has run through his frame in spite of himself, though he does not flinch away. Blaise does not move his hand, though the touch remains as near to unobtrusive as Blaise can ever be, and his gaze is keen but calm, his voice quiet. “Why? I intend you no harm.”
Theodore opens his mouth as if to speak, but pauses for a long moment, clearly casting about for a good answer and not really finding one. "I know that," he finally says, "I just..." he lets out a breath. "I don't know why. It just does." He shrugs, very slightly. "It is easier with some people than others, though."
Something flickers very slightly in Blaise’s eyes, and his fingers on Theodore’s wrist tighten, barely, but enough to feel. “How is it with me, then?”
Theodore knows a loaded question when he hears one; he bites his lip and lets his gaze drop to Blaise’s hand once more. “Better than most,” he says, after a moment, “at least, when I am expecting it. You have a particular sort of... intensity, though, that isn’t easy.” Theodore looks up at him. “You’re reining it in, now; it is not the same.”
Blaise’s lips quirk, more acknowledgement than smile, and he shifts suddenly; he does not move, but something about the way he holds himself, the way his body is aligned toward Theodore, changes in a heartbeat. The veil in his expression drops, laying bare the subtle fire in his dark eyes. “And now?” he asks; his voice has become ever so slightly rougher at the edges, and he strokes his thumb across the fragile, pale skin of Theodore’s wrist with perfect, slow deliberation. Theodore had known this was coming, knew his response nearly demanded it; all the same, the sudden spark in Blaise’s eyes, the undertone of aggression threaded into Blaise’s stance makes Theodore swallow hard, almost convulsively, and he is very much on edge.
“Difficult,” Theodore says softly, “but I ought to put it in perspective. I... being looked at like that, just looked at...” he shakes his head slightly, fighting down a near-shudder at the thought, shying away from the name for that look. “I can’t always take that.”
Blaise knows that he should let go; every line in Theodore’s body practically screams it, tense as a cornered animal. It’s a strange sensation, thoroughly alien to Blaise. There is nothing hidden here; or rather, there are many things hidden, but nothing in the wide, dark eyes or the rigidly reluctant set of Theodore’s shoulders speak to desire, buried or not. Blaise relaxes, slightly, and leans back, but he does not let go, not yet, and he does not look away. “Who hurt you?” he asks. His voice is softer, but there is an edge to it, one not meant for Theodore.
A wry look. “Incredibly enough, Blaise, not everything is about my father,” he says dryly, though the hint of a barb in his voice is directed at himself as much as at Blaise. Theodore twists free of Blaise’s hold, but only briefly; his fingers find Blaise’s again and interlace with them, loosely.
The answer makes Blaise frown slightly; it doesn’t add up to him, and wants to question further, to make the pieces come together, but the thought is lost at the feeling of Theodore’s fingers, slender and cool, between his own. The gesture is carefully intimate in no sense of the word that Blaise ever recall feeling before, a sudden, intense shock to his very core, and Theodore’s hand is so, so white against his own.
When Blaise looks up, there is silence, broken only by the whispering of the veil, and Theodore meets his gaze, calmer now. Theodore does not look away as he curls his fingers in, tightening his hold ever so slightly. Blaise’s skin is warm against his own, entirely unremarkable, entirely terrifying. Theodore doesn’t let go.
Blaise has gone another kind of still. His eyes on Theodore’s are dark, no less intense than moments earlier but bereft, for the moment, of heat. He is keenly aware of the contact; the softness of Theodore’s palm, the way their skin warms to each other’s touch. He licks his lips unconsciously and returns the hold, stroking once, lightly, with his thumb. Theodore draws in a sudden, shuddering breath at the touch; the inhalation is soft, quiet, but it echoes in this room, bouncing off the polished black walls, echoing around them so it sounds as if Theo is gasping for breath, over and over again until it finally fades back into murmuring darkness once more. Blaise shivers, once, his own breath catching slightly in his throat. His free hand clenches on nothing, hard, fingers scraping against the black stone they are sitting on, and his gaze flickers and finally drops to come to rest again on their linked hands. Theodore’s fingers are entwined with his own, nowhere near the vulnerable wrist, so he couldn’t possibly feel the way Blaise’s pulse has leapt. Blaise’s eyes fall closed, just for a breath, and he murmurs with a quiet and sudden conviction in his voice, “I should go.”
Theodore hesitates, briefly but tellingly, before he allows his fingers to slide free of Blaise’s. “Have a pleasant evening,” he murmurs. His voice is low, his tone and expression entirely unreadable.
Blaise nods shortly and does not quite look at Theodore; he is standing almost before Theodore has let go, but there is a second where their hands are still linked, the briefest hesitation before he withdraws entirely- it is easy to miss, but Theodore does not, and he watches Blaise as he turns his back on him and leaves the room. Blaise’s strides are quicker than usual, echoing sharply, and he leaves without looking back, one hand pressed hard against his chest.
Theodore watches him go, but makes no move to follow.
Blaise looks up as a memo flies into his office with a quiet whoosh of air, entirely unaffected by anything so trivial as a closed door. It hovers for a moment, then makes a sudden beeline for Blaise. He is tired, his reflexes not what they ought to be, and the thing hits him square in the face before fluttering down to his desk and unfolding itself with a rustle of parchment, still quivering slightly as Blaise flattens it down to read.
Blaise,
I’ve translated the texts you asked for; incidentally, let it be known that a day of translating obscure Mandarin is most assuredly not my idea of a good time, and I do believe you owe me a favour. Anyway, there is a stack of parchment awaiting your attention in my office- you cannot keep avoiding me forever, you realise.
-Theo
Blaise sets the memo aside. Nicely played, he thinks, wryly; Theodore has backed him into a corner quite effectively. He glances at the clock; it is half past noon, and the chances of Theodore being anywhere but in his office are slim- he almost never eats lunch, Blaise knows. He crumples the memo into a ball and tosses it carelessly into the rubbish bin, then heads down the hall to Theodore’s office. The wards on the door give at a touch, and he does not bother knocking; he never does.
Theodore is, predictably enough, at his desk, bent over a stack of parchment and a heavy, ancient-looking book. He does not look up right away when Blaise enters, but makes a distracted gesture at the door; it falls smoothly shut behind Blaise. After a moment, Theodore’s eyes flick up from his work, and he straightens. “I see you got my memo.”
“It got me,” Blaise says dryly, pushing some of the parchments on Theodore’s desk to the side and perching on the edge. “I do think you could have made your point without such an aggressive charm.”
Theodore’s lips quirk, hinting at a smile, and there is a brief sparkle of humour in his dark eyes. “I could have, yes,” he replies, cocking his head at Blaise. The expression is quietly charming, and it takes Blaise a moment to put a name to it. Playful. It is not a word he ever thought to associate with Theodore, who has been terribly, preternaturally serious for as long as Blaise has known him. Subdued.
It’s enough to make Blaise pause before he answers to stop and look, really look at the other man. Something is different. The set of his shoulders; Theodore is not so tense as usual, not so rigidly standoffish.
It takes more effort than Blaise cares to contemplate not to kiss him.
“The translations, Theo?”
Theodore opens one of the drawers of his desk and pulls out a thick sheaf of parchment. “Right here,” he says, handing them over; their fingers brush as Blaise takes the proffered translations, and the touch lingers just a shade too long to be entirely accidental. Theodore is looking up at him unblinkingly, but his eyes betray nothing. Neutral, bordering on amused, just as before.
“My thanks,” Blaise drawls, rising, and heads to the door, but it is stuck fast. He turns back to look at Theodore, arching a brow. “Do you mind?”
The door swings open, and Theodore smiles.
The Paris night is cool, though not unpleasantly so; as assignment locations go, this is one of the better ones. Theodore is standing on the hotel balcony, blending into the shadows of the night and watching the city lights. Blaise is still inside, Theodore knows; he has been sharply aware of the other’s presence since they got here, though it is far from the first time they have shared such close quarters on assignment. Inside, Blaise is sitting cross-legged on the bed, frowning slightly at an ageing parchment map spread out on the sheets. He seems focused on the pattern of faded, fine lines, but most of his attention is actually trained on the slender shape of the other man standing just outside the balcony door. Now and then his eyes flick up, resting on Theodore for a second or two before he looks down again, recalling the task to hand. It is more difficult than it should be. As if sensing the attention, Theodore half-turns, looking over his shoulder, and catches Blaise’s gaze. There is a moment’s pause, then he calls softly, “You’re not getting any work done. Leave it.”
Blaise is silent for a moment, his expression neutral; after a moment he shrugs very slightly and concedes defeat, unfolding his legs and rising from the bed. His eyes linger on Theodore for a second longer before he turns his back and crosses the small room to the black leather bag he’s left carelessly on the floor. He draws out a small bottle and drinks, licking his lips at the taste, and stuffs it back into the bag. “I’d offer,” he says, speaking to Theo though he is still facing away from him, “but as I recall you’re not that way inclined.”
“No, not particularly,” Theodore says, “but the sentiment is well taken.” He has turned fully, now, and is watching Blaise instead of the city, but his expression betrays nothing of what he may be thinking. Blaise rises and turns, leaning against the wall, and folds his arms across his chest. He meets Theodore’s regard with a tinge of irony and remarks, “I suppose it would be a waste of time to ask what you do for entertainment.”
Theodore quirks a brow almost imperceptibly. “From your perspective, I daresay it would.”
A pause; Blaise’s eyes glitter faintly, and he tilts his head. “Try me. You might be surprised.”
Theodore steps inside, sliding the door to the balcony shut behind him, and sits down on the edge of his bed. “Thinking,” he says, after a moment. “I’m aware that’s a rather broad term, but nonetheless. It’s just a more pretentious means of escape, when you come right down to it.” Blaise is watching him, still standing, but he shifts subtly, aligning himself to Theodore despite the distance between them. “What do you think about?”
“It depends.” It’s an entirely inadequate answer, but it’s true. “If the metaphor is of use to you, consider books my alcohol.”
Blaise smiles, quirkily but with real amusement, and answers in a light drawl, “I’m partial to Blake. What’s your poison?”
“Eliot, but I’ve a deep weakness for the existentialist writers. Beckett, also.” Theodore smiles back, very slightly. “Tracey managed to impose a fondness for Shakespeare, as well.”
“She turns and looks a moment in the glass, hardly aware of her departed lover; her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that's done, and I'm glad it's over.'” Blaise quotes, and lets himself slide down to sit with his back to the wall, eyes dark and perhaps a little thoughtful, though the slight smile does not fade. Without looking away, he retrieves the bottle from the bag and drinks again, deeply. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “You have good taste.”
Theodore’s smile lingers, as well. “Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse,” he murmurs by way of reply; he is still watching Blaise, and his gaze is a little softer than usual, but no less intent for it.
Blaise is quiet for long moments, watching Theodore in turn in the low, warm light from the single lamp on his bedside table. Finally, he lifts the bottle to his lips again, and drops his eyes as he lowers it, exhaling slowly. “Expect poison from standing water,” he murmurs, very nearly too softly to hear. When he looks up again, something is subtly changed in his expression, impossible to place. He reaches out a hand in an elegant gesture, suspended somewhere between invitation and expectation. “Come here, Theo.”
Theodore pauses briefly, not so much in hesitation as in observation, but he gets to his feet and crosses to Blaise, settles neatly beside him. Blaise is silent, watching Theodore with an unreadable look in his dark eyes before he reaches out to brush a stray curl back from Theodore’s forehead. The touch is light, almost tender, and over quickly (perhaps too quickly); Theodore does not smile, not really, but something in his deep brown eyes warms profoundly and unmistakably at the gesture; they seem to glow in the yellow-gold light of the room. Blaise looks back at him, still; he does not reach for him again, but there is the slightest, subtlest edge in his posture that intimates he very much wants to.
He settles, instead, for a dry smile. “I feel as if I ought to be quoting Romeo and Juliet,” he murmurs, “but I fear that may strain my sense of irony past mending.”
The corners of Theodore’s lips quirk up at that. “I’ve the distinct impression I would end up playing Juliet,” he murmurs wryly, but it is not without humour.
Blaise arches a dark brow and extends one hand, palm up, to Theodore. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” he answers sardonically.
Theodore picks up the line. “Which mannerly devotion shows in this;” he continues, “for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” Theodore lays his hand in Blaise’s, lightly, and their fingers twine. Blaise inhales at the light shock of contact, leans closer unconsciously, without meaning to. His eyes do not leave Theodore’s, but his voice remains light; “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”
“Aye, pilgrim,” Theodore murmurs, “lips that they must use in prayer.” He tightens his grip on Blaise’s hand, very slightly, and Blaise returns it, the feeling of even so slight a contact resonating in his entire body.
“Well, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.” He leans closer still, though not so close he cannot still hold Theodore’s eyes. The sarcastic tone has fallen from his voice; the pitch has dropped, softer, but there is a roughness at the edges. “Then pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
Their gazes lock hard, hard and tense and intense, and Theodore’s breath catches in his throat for a long, tenuous moment. Hesitating, hesitating, hesitating before at last he speaks. “Saints do not move,” he answers, quieter still, “though... though grant, for prayer’s sake.”
Perhaps Blaise should pause, but he doesn’t; the tacit, careful permission is all he needs, all he has been wanting from the start. He pulls on their joined hands, pulls Theodore into his own space and catches him with a hand on his shoulder, sliding up to cradle the back of his neck. “Then move not,” Blaise murmurs, voice rougher still, “while my prayer’s effect I take.”
The kiss is light, closemouthed, and Theodore’s lips are cool against his own, and softer than he would have thought to expect. Blaise leans into the kiss slightly (he could not have stopped himself had he wanted to) and tightens his hold on Theodore’s hand, hard. The touch of Blaise’s lips sets Theodore trembling, makes his head reel and spin at the sudden intimacy. Distantly, intellectually, he knows that it is restrained, chaste, but it jolts him deeply and inescapably all the same, and something clenches hard in Theodore’s chest, a pull bordering on pain.
Barely the space of a breath, though it seems to last hours; the kiss is broken nearly as soon as it is begun. Blaise does not open his eyes, and he leans their foreheads together; the curls of Theodore’s hair brush against his skin, feather-soft. Without intent, the next words fall from Blaise’s lips in a slow, breathless whisper, so, so close. “Thus from my lips, by thine-“ Blaise draws in a shivering breath, “-my sin is purged.”
“Then have my lips the sin that they have purged,” Theodore whispers back, so softly it would have been inaudible had Blaise not been so close. There is a slight tremor in his voice, a quiver of barely-checked emotion threading into the quiet words. Without conscious thought, Blaise shifts his hold, stroking the hand that isn’t clutching Theodore’s slowly down the back of the other’s neck in soothing, smooth caress. They are so close that every breath is shared, and Blaise can’t seem to find his voice to do any more than whisper, “Sin from my lips...” Something has tightened in his chest, and there is a sudden shiver in his voice, making him stumble a little over the familiar words. “Give me my sin again.”
Theodore shakes his head, very slightly; his eyes have fallen closed. “If your kiss is your sin,” he whispers, “I would keep it forever.”
Blaise makes a soft, indistinct sound in his throat at the quiet assertion and finally lets go of the other man’s hand and reaches to cup Theodore’s face instead. He stays thus for a trembling moment, drawing deep, shuddering breaths in a futile effort to regain some semblance of calm. He does not try to phrase an answer, instead pressing his lips carefully to Theodore’s forehead. Lingering, just for a heartbeat, and then Blaise lets go entirely and sits back, leaning his head against the wall. His eyes remain closed, but Theodore’s eyelids finally flutter open when Blaise pulls away. Theodore looks at him for a long, silent moment, chocolate eyes wide, and touches his fingers lightly to his lips. He can still almost feel the press of the kiss, burned into him like a brand, heat. Blaise is so warm, so perilously alive. Theodore shifts carefully closer and reaches a hand out, brushing his fingertips lightly, lightly along the line of Blaise’s cheekbone, feathering over the skin ever so gently. Ever so softly. The light touch makes Blaise’s breath catch quietly in his throat, and he at last opens his eyes to look at Theodore. Blaise reaches up and catches Theodore’s wrist, watching him intently.
“Blaise,” Theodore whispers. Nothing more; only his name, but something in his voice makes Blaise’s grip tighten. He says nothing, but instead brings Theodore’s hand to his lips and brushes his lips lightly across his knuckles; Theodore’s eyes fall shut and he draws in a breath, holds it in until Blaise releases his hand again. When he opens his eyes, there are a hundred different emotions flickering in their depths, too much to take in, but there is something soft about his expression, something indefinably tender in the silent regard.
Blaise looks away.
Wordlessly, he rises and crosses the room to the balcony, slipping outside into the shadows of the night. Theodore watches him for a long, stretched moment, then lets out a breath. The tension seems to rush out of him along with the air, and he slumps back against the wall and lets his eyes fall heavily shut once more.
It is very early, and the Paris morning has dawned chill and blanketed in fog. Grey, everywhere grey, and all the edges blurred; the sun’s light seems barely to penetrate it, pale and distant. The city is almost silent but for the odd, lone songbird, or rare hurrying footsteps on pavement. Blaise is standing on the balcony with his back to the door, looking out at the city, and has been there for some time, watching. The set of his shoulders is off, just a little bit strained. He does not move.
Theodore slips back into the hotel room silently; the door gives easily at a whispered spell and makes no sound as it swings open, and his footsteps are equally quiet. His gaze is drawn immediately to the balcony, to Blaise, and Theodore makes his way to him soundlessly, stopping close behind him.
“Desolé pour être en retard,” Theodore murmurs. “Good morning.”
Blaise has spun before Theodore is even done saying the first word, wand out, but he lets his hand drop and puts it away when he catches sight of Theodore. Blaise’s eyes, however, are sharp. “You should have been back before sunrise. What happened?”
“They thoughtfully changed every bloody ward on the place since I was last here,” Theodore answers with a hint of annoyance. “Took me forever to get through them all; I had not anticipated having to riddle out that many security spells.”
Blaise nods shortly and looks away, out over the city, and is abruptly aware that it is cold out, too cold for the thin shirt he is wearing to really be enough. He makes no move to go inside, however, and Theodore looks at him, tiling his head slightly; after a moment, a small smile curves his lips. He says nothing, but moves to stand beside Blaise and lays a hand lightly on his arm. The touch is unexpected, enough so that Blaise looks back at Theodore, and something flashes in his eyes, gone too quickly to identify. Theodore looks back at him, but his gaze flickers a bit, not quite staying on Blaise’s eyes, sliding away despite himself. Theodore hesitates, drawing in a slow breath, then leans over and brushes his lips across Blaise’s. The touch is too light and too brief to really be termed a kiss, over almost as soon as it started, and even more unanticipated than the last; Blaise catches Theodore by the waist on instinct, not quite gently.
“You’re cold,” Theodore says softly. “We should go in.”
It is a moment before Blaise manages to process the words. “I don’t mind the cold.” His voice is low and just a bit rough; he wants, achingly and intensely, to tighten his hold. It would be easy, so easy to pull Theodore in closer, to press him up against the wall and kiss him, really kiss him, to find out how he tastes and how he yields, to catch his bottom lip between his teeth and bite.
Blaise does not move, and his hold does not tighten, but his shoulders tense. It does not escape Theodore’s notice; he can feel it echoed in Blaise’s arm, and he pulls his hand away and drops his gaze. “I should not have done that,” he mutters. Blaise lets go of him, but he lifts a hand to touch his fingers lightly to Theodore’s lips and answers in quiet and unreadable tones, “Don’t refrain if you want to.”
Theodore looks at him searchingly and catches Blaise’s hand in his own. “You tensed,” he says at length, “quite obviously because of me.” The rest is left unspoken: Why, if not because I upset you?
The irony, Blaise thinks with a bitter smile, is sickening. He looks back into Theodore’s clear brown eyes and says noncommittally, “I find it doesn’t suit me to be at ease.”
Before Theodore can reply, Blaise has withdrawn and gone back inside, leaving him alone on the balcony. Theodore walks to the edge of it, putting still more distance between them, and leans heavily on the railing.
The cold, grey city, shrouded in fog, offers very little by way of comfort.
When Blaise wakes, it is to the sound of water falling. He is still for a moment before his eyes blink open, and he casts a glance in the direction of the door to the balcony. Raindrops on the glass, and soft constant splattering of drops on the roof, on pavement. A subtle shift in the sound, then, and Blaise sits up and brushes his hair back from his eyes.
The door to the bathroom swings open, and Blaise’s mind finally catches up with his surroundings, shedding the last scraps of sleep. Running water. He turns his head as Theodore walks into the bedroom; he is fully dressed, but his hair is still wet from the shower, darkened to black. The water weighs down the tight curls- some of them fall nearly to his shoulders, shedding drops of water along the line of Theodore’s pale neck.
Blaise swallows hard and looks away, pushes down the urge to pull Theodore to him and tangle his hands in his hair, bite at that white skin, bruise it with his teeth and shove him to the bed, to throw him down and not let him say no.
No, no, no.
Blaise swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, brushing past Theodore with a cursorily muttered greeting, and retreats to the balcony without a thought for the rain. Air, he needs air, and he needs a barrier between him and Theodore, and he needs them both right now.
He isn’t entirely certain the balcony door will be enough.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to say it: this is a bad idea, Theo,” Tracey tells him. Theodore sighs and drops his gaze, and it is a long moment before he answers her.
“I know.”
“He’s absolutely going to want sex from you, if he doesn’t already.”
“I know.”
“He’ll almost certainly press the issue.”
“I know.”
“Not be be overdramatic, but this is going to end up a complete disaster.”
“You’re probably right.”
Tracey is silent for a long moment, watching Theodore. “You’re completely in love with him, aren’t you.” The softly spoken words aren’t really a question. There is a silence; Theodore gives no verbal reply, only a slight nod, and she sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He looks up at her across the table. “I’ve no bloody idea what I’m doing, as you’re well aware, or you would not have seen fit to give me that little speech,” he says. “You’re quite right, this cannot possibly be wise, but... but I want it, all the same.”
A pause. “And what does he think about it all?” she finally asks. “You have told him, right? That you don’t... that you’re not going to sleep with him.”
“I don’t lead people on,” he answers, rather sharply. “He knows damn well.”
“Don’t snap at me,” she says, “I was only asking.”
Theodore subsides. “I told him. It was... almost what started it, in a way.”
Tracey arches a brow at that. “He’s okay with it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Theodore says dryly. “He knows it’s how I am, even if it doesn’t make sense to him. I don’t think he’s sure he wants to deal with that. He’s been avoiding me, lately. Since Paris.”
“And what happened in Paris?” she asks, looking at him searchingly. “You’ve not been quite yourself since you got back.”
“Ah.” Theodore can feel his cheeks heat in spite of himself. “There... may have been a kiss involved. Possibly two.”
Tracey can’t quite disguise the shock is her eyes at the statement. “You’ve never kissed anyone in your life.”
“I’ve kissed you.”
“That is absolutely not the same thing, a peck on the lips because I’m your friend,” she informs him. “You really kissed him?”
“Technically, he kissed me,” Theodore hedges. “At least, the first time.”
“I cannot believe I wasn’t told about this sooner. Was it good?”
“Merlin, Trace,” Theodore says, “you’d think I had slept with him, the way you’re talking.”
“For you, you may as well have,” she points out. “You don’t let most people touch you at all, but you skip off to Paris and start snogging Blaise-“
“It was not snogging,” he protests. “Snogging implies... saliva.”
Tracey laughs. “Fine, fine. Kissing. You still haven’t answered my question.”
Theodore looks down again. “It was... well, yes. I should very much like to do it again, but seeing as he won’t get within a metre of me lately, it seems improbable.”
She tilts her head. “I don’t think the problem is that he doesn’t want to.” Off Theodore’s look, she elaborates, “If he kissed you, I think it’s safe to assume he wanted to, Theo. Possibly wanted to a bit too much, if you take my point. He might just not trust his self-control where you’re concerned.”
“But it was just-“
“Theo,” she interrupts, “please don’t panic when I say this, but you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that you’re actually, contrary to your own opinion, very attractive. Desirable. It would not surprise me in the least if Blaise is staying clear of you so he doesn’t jump you, Theo.”
“This is such a bad idea,” Theodore mutters, raking his fingers through his hair.
“No, no it isn’t,” she says. “You’ll work this out.”
“You told me it was a bad idea.”
“I changed my mind. Woman’s prerogative, and all. You should have what makes you happy, Theo, because Merlin knows it’s denied to you often enough. If not by other people, you do it yourself, most of the time. You’ll be more miserable without him.” She pauses. “Of course, if he hurts you, I will tie him up by his large intestines and force-feed him his own liver.”
Theodore wrinkles his nose. “Trace, I know almost every possible way there is to kill someone, but that is disgusting. You’ve unequivocally put me off my lunch.”
Tracey shrugs. “I’m a Healer, not much disgusts me anymore.” She pauses. “So you’re not going to finish that, then?”
He pushes his plate across the table to her. “Troublesome wench,” he mutters. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“My charm, intelligence, and excellent advice,” she answers promptly. “Ooh, shrimp.”
Theodore sighs.
“Good grief, Blaise, when’s the last time you had sex?” Daphne asks, motioning him in and shutting the door behind him.
Blaise arches a brow. “That obvious, hm.”
“You’re wound tighter that I’ve ever seen, I swear,” she answers. “A week? Two?”
“Nearer to three,” he says wryly, catching her against him with an arm around her waist. Daphne makes a sympathetic noise in her throat and wraps her arms around him.
“Should’ve come by sooner. Or were you gone on business?”
“Not for most of it.”
“Merlin, Blaise, if you can’t get laid, there’s no hope for the rest of us,” Daphne says.
“You do your own charms a discredit, pet,” Blaise replies.
“I am, admittedly, something of a sex goddess. Also, the pinnacle of modesty. Bedroom, now.”
She is pressed up against the wall before she quite has time to realise what is happening, and Blaise gives her a sharp, wicked smile.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Fucking cheater, Nott!”
Blaise pauses just outside the training room; the voice is that of Mercy, one of their colleagues, and she doesn’t sound pleased. He looks in the door; she is on her back on the mat, pinned under Theodore, who has a slim dagger at her throat.
“You know I am,” he tells her, unruffled. “You also know I always have a knife on me; it’s your own fault. Yield?”
She scowls up at him. “I yield. Bastard.”
“Slander and calumny,” Theodore says mildly, moving off of her and rising, spinning the dagger absently in his hand. “My whole bloodline is as pure as they come.”
Mercy cuffs him lightly on the shoulder, and Theodore gives her a tolerant half-smile, but his grip tightens on the dagger handle, and a subtle tension runs through the set of his shoulders.
Don’t touch him.
Theodore draws away from Mercy just a little too quickly to be polite, turning and sliding the dagger up his sleeve. He catches sight of Blaise standing in the doorway and gives him a very slight, cool nod. Blaise returns it, hair falling into his eyes, then slips away once more.
“Fucking ow,” Theodore curses, with some feeling, when Blaise lands a particularly viscous blow to his side. It will bruise, he knows, blooming into an ugly purple-black mark on his pale skin.
“You’re slow today,” Blaise answers, between breaths. Theodore shoots him a glare, but he knows it’s true; he’s off today, Blaise should not have gotten in that hit. Still, Blaise gets a hard kick in the knee for his trouble; Theodore is holding back, just enough so he doesn’t do any serious damage, but Blaise’s leg buckles, and Theodore wastes no time in throwing his balance with a well-timed shove and forcing him to the floor.
For a long moment, they are silent but for the sound of their breathing, heavy and fast from exertion. Their gazes are locked, unblinking, and finally Blaise says, “Perhaps not quite so off-form after all.”
The wry remark brings no reaction; Theodore is still watching him with unsettling intensity. “You haven’t been avoiding me because you don’t want this,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s the opposite. You want it too much.”
Blaise gives no reply, but his gaze flicks tellingly away. Theodore leans over, closer. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he says, voice soft. “Don’t run from me this time.” Before Blaise has a chance to protest, Theodore closes the rest of the distance between them and suits action to word, pressing his lips to Blaise’s and cupping his cheek with one hand. Blaise hesitates, but only for an instant, and then he is kissing back, twisting a hand into Theodore’s curls and pressing him closer, closer.
“Blaise,” Theodore whispers against his lips, in a tone Blaise refuses to put a name to.
For a long moment, they are still.
Theodore starts at the feeling of hands on his shoulders, and his head snaps up; he had not realised he wasn’t alone.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. Long enough.” There is the faintest tinge of amusement in Blaise’s tone. “Deeply engrossed, I see.”
“Leaving for China in two days,” Theodore answers. “I need to get this research done beforehand.”
“Ah.” Blaise’s grip tightens, very slightly. “How long are you there for?”
“About three days, probably,” he answers. “Do try not to pine.”
Blaise makes a vaguely derisive sound. “I shall manage,” he retorts, and starts kneading gently at the knots in Theodore’s shoulders.
“I’ve every confidence in you,” Theodore murmurs. “Mmm, oh, keep doing that, please.”
Blaise quirks a brow and digs his fingers in a bit harder. “You’re much too tense.”
“I hear that a lot.”
“Perhaps you should listen.” Theodore’s shoulders are finally starting to loosen under Blaise’s hands, and Theodore makes a low noise of appreciation. “I will if it means you’ll do that more often,” he says, rolling his shoulders slightly before stilling once more.
“I might be able to be persuaded.”
“A little to your left... yes, perfect, there,” Theodore murmurs. “And what with, pray tell? You know you aren’t getting sex.”
“Painfully aware of it,” Blaise answers dryly. “I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”
“Possibly I should be getting worried right about now.”
Blaise smirks; Theodore can hear it in his voice. “Possibly.”
“You said three days,” Blaise says, without preamble, “not nearly a week. What happened?”
“Long story,” Theodore answers; he sounds drained. He looks it, too, even after a day off to rest and adjust back to their time zone. “I’m fine.”
“You’re dead on your feet.”
Theodore gives him a wry look and sinks into the couch by the far wall of his office. “I’ll be fine. I’m just tired.”
Exhausted, Blaise amends mentally; Theodore doesn’t usually admit to it. Blaise skirts the desk and sits down next to him; Theodore glances in his direction, and Blaise leans over and steals a brief kiss. Theodore returns it, though it takes a moment; when they part, he exhales a quiet sigh and catches Blaise’s hand in his own.
“Theo,” Blaise says, “I don’t know what, exactly, you think you’re going to accomplish here when you’re like this. Go home.”
“I-“
“Theo.”
Their gazes lock, and Blaise arches a brow. “Am I going to be forced to tell on you to Mercy?”
Theodore cringes. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Continued...
Author: acidpop25
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Theodore/Blaise
Warning(s): Near-noncon.
Word Count: 13,550 (split into 2 posts, since it is too long for the LJ posting limit).
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and universe belong to J.K. Rowling; I don't own them, and make no profit from their use. Likewise, the quotes from Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, and William Blake belong to their respective authors, not me.
Summary: They fell in love for all the right reasons; they fell apart for all the wrong ones.
A/N: We see straight characters, gay characters, and bi characters all over fandom. And, while I love all of these... it's high time, I think, for something a little different. This thought is what sparked the idea for Cold, which centers on an asexual character- alongside, for the sake of a little drama, the most sexual one I could think of. Cold has been a long and constantly challenging piece to write, but I loved every minute of it.
Acknowledgments: I am endlessly indebted to the brilliant and talented sandra_lanimil, my character beta, occasional co-writer, and partner-in-crime for this fic. Her suggestions, encouragement, and insight were invaluable; I could never have done it without her. Also, AVEN and asexuality, both of which were incredibly helpful resources in writing Theodore.
“What do you mean, the Minister signed the tariff agreement?!” Theodore’s voice echoes down the dark halls of the Department of Mysteries, and he comes into view a moment later, rounding the corner with quick strides that speak to his irritation as surely as the indignant volume of his normally quiet, calm voice.
“You heard me,” Solomon says; the younger Unspeakable looks fully as displeased as Theodore sounds.
“The resentment this will create in my area-” Theodore huffs out a frustrated breath and rakes his fingers through his hair. “There’s already more than enough for me to be doing, I’m stretched thin as it is, until we get someone else who speaks Chinese. Even aside from the fact, of course, that it’s patently stupid policy.”
Blaise’s lips twitch, almost a smile- Theodore’s rare fits of indignant pique are oddly endearing, though it isn’t often that much of anything gets him riled. Blaise schools his expression and pushes off the wall he has been leaning against, intercepting the other two.
“If you’ll pardon the interruption,” he says smoothly, “I need to borrow Theo.” Without waiting for an answer, Blaise catches Theodore’s arm and steers him down one of the other corridors. Theodore throws him a brief but intensely venomous look and twists free of Blaise’s hold, though he keeps pace with him. The motion is sudden, quick, and only just forceful enough to break Blaise’s grip without causing any pain, but the message could not have been any clearer if Theodore had screamed it. Do not touch me. Blaise is sorely, sharply tempted to press the issue, to grab Theodore’s arm and not let him break free, but he allows the impulse to slide; it would be foolish to indulge it when he wants Theodore’s time.
The training room is empty; it usually is, at this time of day. Blaise sheds his shirt and sets it aside, and Theodore arches a brow and shrugs his wand into his hand from where it had been hidden up his left sleeve. “No wands?” He does not really need to ask the question; Blaise merely nods and draws his own wand as well, and they both put them safely out of harm’s way.
“On three,” says Blaise, as they circle one another.
They both lunge on two.
Theodore is stronger than he looks, and five years of working with him have given Blaise good reason to know, but Blaise still easily outweighs him, and he presses his advantage. Theodore has always been painfully thin, fragile-looking, and he never grew out of it.
A sharp, sudden strike catches Blaise hard in the side; Theodore may be light, but he’s fast, both in motion and in mind, and the blow was hard, much harder than usual. Theodore is wound tight today, and uncharacteristically aggressive. No drawn-out game of wearing Blaise down to exhaustion; today, Theodore is fighting, plain and simple, and there is something sharp and unpleasant in his dark eyes. Blaise is not afraid of Theodore, but he knows that look would have plenty of their colleagues backing up and surrendering.
Theodore wins that fight; Blaise takes the second, though not easily. They are both breathing harshly, Theodore pinned on his back on the ground; he bucks under Blaise, hard, but can’t quite throw him off.
“Conceded,” Theodore says coolly. “Let me up.”
The fact that he’s straddling Theodore is abruptly called to Blaise’s attention with the words; their gazes lock for a brief, hard moment, breaking again when Blaise finally moves off of him and stands. Theodore puts distance between them again very quickly and summons his wand to him with a slight frown and a wordless gesture. He is no longer looking at Blaise, but Blaise is watching him intently; tension is etched into every line of Theodore’s body, sharp and unyielding.
“Merlin, Theo,” Blaise drawls, “don’t you ever get laid?”
Theodore’s gaze snaps up, dark and unreadable as ever, though there is, briefly, the slightest hint of surprise. “No,” he says, simply and noncommittally.
Whatever Blaise had been expecting, that isn’t it; there is a pause, and he looks at Theodore intently, eyes narrowing slightly, appraising, and is forced to conclude that he is telling the truth. That alone is unusual; Theodore is notoriously closemouthed where his personal life is concerned.
“Why ever not?” The question is not, as might be expected, facetious- Theodore is certainly attractive enough, if not conventionally so. There is a sharp, fragile beauty to him, an ethereal loveliness to his ice-white skin and near-black eyes. Certainly attractive enough that he should have no trouble acquiring a lover, should he wish one.
“I don’t want to,” Theodore says calmly, and brushes past Blaise and out the door without another word.
Theodore is not in his office as he usually is when Blaise seeks him out that evening; Theodore had long since set his wards to let Blaise in uninvited, but the room is unoccupied save for the usual organised chaos of Theodore’s desk. Blaise casts a cursory glance at the parchment on top, but it isn’t in a language he can read- Greek, it looks like.
He eventually finds Theodore not working at all, but in the Veil Room, seated near the veil’s base. His gaze is distant, unfocused, and if he is aware of Blaise’s intrusion, he gives no indication of it. The low whisperings of the veil catch at the edges of Blaise’s awareness, unsettling and distracting; he has never much cared for this place, but Theodore never seems to mind it- sometimes Blaise wonders what Theodore hears in the whispers of death, but he has never asked him, and Theodore is not one to volunteer information.
The room is still, silent but for the susurrations of the veil, and Blaise’s gaze lingers without pretense on the slight figure on the floor. Theodore sits curled in on himself, knees tucked up against his chest and arms looped around them; in the dim room, surrounded by black, Theodore’s pale skin seems almost luminescent, and his eyes very black, eerily ageless.
It is Theodore who finally speaks. “If you’ve a question to ask,” he murmurs, “ask it.” His voice is low, but it echoes; he still has not moved or looked at Blaise. There is a stretched moment of silence.
“Why don’t you want to?”
Theodore at last glances up at him, and there is a slight, wry twist to his lips, a self-deprecating half-smile. “I had wondered how long it would take you,” he says, and pauses for a moment. “I can no more give you a satisfactory answer to your question than a merperson can walk, however. There isn’t one; I simply never have.”
“Never.” Blaise’s tone is impossible to read, but Theodore merely shakes his head.
“I have never wanted to, and I have never tried it. I don’t believe I ever will.” He shifts slightly and tilts his head, looking up at Blaise. “That isn’t to say I don’t find anyone beautiful; I do. It simply does not translate into physical desire.” Theodore hesitates, and there is a flash of something in his eyes, too quick to read. “Emotional, perhaps,” he adds, quieter, “but never physical.”
Blaise does not answer immediately, but moves to sit by Theodore a companionable distance away. He reaches over, slowly enough for Theodore to stop him if he wants to, and takes hold of his wrist, lightly. “What do you feel?”
A pause, and Theodore shifts a bit, gaze flicking to Blaise’s hand and then back up to his eyes. “Uncomfortable,” Theodore admits; tension has run through his frame in spite of himself, though he does not flinch away. Blaise does not move his hand, though the touch remains as near to unobtrusive as Blaise can ever be, and his gaze is keen but calm, his voice quiet. “Why? I intend you no harm.”
Theodore opens his mouth as if to speak, but pauses for a long moment, clearly casting about for a good answer and not really finding one. "I know that," he finally says, "I just..." he lets out a breath. "I don't know why. It just does." He shrugs, very slightly. "It is easier with some people than others, though."
Something flickers very slightly in Blaise’s eyes, and his fingers on Theodore’s wrist tighten, barely, but enough to feel. “How is it with me, then?”
Theodore knows a loaded question when he hears one; he bites his lip and lets his gaze drop to Blaise’s hand once more. “Better than most,” he says, after a moment, “at least, when I am expecting it. You have a particular sort of... intensity, though, that isn’t easy.” Theodore looks up at him. “You’re reining it in, now; it is not the same.”
Blaise’s lips quirk, more acknowledgement than smile, and he shifts suddenly; he does not move, but something about the way he holds himself, the way his body is aligned toward Theodore, changes in a heartbeat. The veil in his expression drops, laying bare the subtle fire in his dark eyes. “And now?” he asks; his voice has become ever so slightly rougher at the edges, and he strokes his thumb across the fragile, pale skin of Theodore’s wrist with perfect, slow deliberation. Theodore had known this was coming, knew his response nearly demanded it; all the same, the sudden spark in Blaise’s eyes, the undertone of aggression threaded into Blaise’s stance makes Theodore swallow hard, almost convulsively, and he is very much on edge.
“Difficult,” Theodore says softly, “but I ought to put it in perspective. I... being looked at like that, just looked at...” he shakes his head slightly, fighting down a near-shudder at the thought, shying away from the name for that look. “I can’t always take that.”
Blaise knows that he should let go; every line in Theodore’s body practically screams it, tense as a cornered animal. It’s a strange sensation, thoroughly alien to Blaise. There is nothing hidden here; or rather, there are many things hidden, but nothing in the wide, dark eyes or the rigidly reluctant set of Theodore’s shoulders speak to desire, buried or not. Blaise relaxes, slightly, and leans back, but he does not let go, not yet, and he does not look away. “Who hurt you?” he asks. His voice is softer, but there is an edge to it, one not meant for Theodore.
A wry look. “Incredibly enough, Blaise, not everything is about my father,” he says dryly, though the hint of a barb in his voice is directed at himself as much as at Blaise. Theodore twists free of Blaise’s hold, but only briefly; his fingers find Blaise’s again and interlace with them, loosely.
The answer makes Blaise frown slightly; it doesn’t add up to him, and wants to question further, to make the pieces come together, but the thought is lost at the feeling of Theodore’s fingers, slender and cool, between his own. The gesture is carefully intimate in no sense of the word that Blaise ever recall feeling before, a sudden, intense shock to his very core, and Theodore’s hand is so, so white against his own.
When Blaise looks up, there is silence, broken only by the whispering of the veil, and Theodore meets his gaze, calmer now. Theodore does not look away as he curls his fingers in, tightening his hold ever so slightly. Blaise’s skin is warm against his own, entirely unremarkable, entirely terrifying. Theodore doesn’t let go.
Blaise has gone another kind of still. His eyes on Theodore’s are dark, no less intense than moments earlier but bereft, for the moment, of heat. He is keenly aware of the contact; the softness of Theodore’s palm, the way their skin warms to each other’s touch. He licks his lips unconsciously and returns the hold, stroking once, lightly, with his thumb. Theodore draws in a sudden, shuddering breath at the touch; the inhalation is soft, quiet, but it echoes in this room, bouncing off the polished black walls, echoing around them so it sounds as if Theo is gasping for breath, over and over again until it finally fades back into murmuring darkness once more. Blaise shivers, once, his own breath catching slightly in his throat. His free hand clenches on nothing, hard, fingers scraping against the black stone they are sitting on, and his gaze flickers and finally drops to come to rest again on their linked hands. Theodore’s fingers are entwined with his own, nowhere near the vulnerable wrist, so he couldn’t possibly feel the way Blaise’s pulse has leapt. Blaise’s eyes fall closed, just for a breath, and he murmurs with a quiet and sudden conviction in his voice, “I should go.”
Theodore hesitates, briefly but tellingly, before he allows his fingers to slide free of Blaise’s. “Have a pleasant evening,” he murmurs. His voice is low, his tone and expression entirely unreadable.
Blaise nods shortly and does not quite look at Theodore; he is standing almost before Theodore has let go, but there is a second where their hands are still linked, the briefest hesitation before he withdraws entirely- it is easy to miss, but Theodore does not, and he watches Blaise as he turns his back on him and leaves the room. Blaise’s strides are quicker than usual, echoing sharply, and he leaves without looking back, one hand pressed hard against his chest.
Theodore watches him go, but makes no move to follow.
Blaise looks up as a memo flies into his office with a quiet whoosh of air, entirely unaffected by anything so trivial as a closed door. It hovers for a moment, then makes a sudden beeline for Blaise. He is tired, his reflexes not what they ought to be, and the thing hits him square in the face before fluttering down to his desk and unfolding itself with a rustle of parchment, still quivering slightly as Blaise flattens it down to read.
Blaise,
I’ve translated the texts you asked for; incidentally, let it be known that a day of translating obscure Mandarin is most assuredly not my idea of a good time, and I do believe you owe me a favour. Anyway, there is a stack of parchment awaiting your attention in my office- you cannot keep avoiding me forever, you realise.
-Theo
Blaise sets the memo aside. Nicely played, he thinks, wryly; Theodore has backed him into a corner quite effectively. He glances at the clock; it is half past noon, and the chances of Theodore being anywhere but in his office are slim- he almost never eats lunch, Blaise knows. He crumples the memo into a ball and tosses it carelessly into the rubbish bin, then heads down the hall to Theodore’s office. The wards on the door give at a touch, and he does not bother knocking; he never does.
Theodore is, predictably enough, at his desk, bent over a stack of parchment and a heavy, ancient-looking book. He does not look up right away when Blaise enters, but makes a distracted gesture at the door; it falls smoothly shut behind Blaise. After a moment, Theodore’s eyes flick up from his work, and he straightens. “I see you got my memo.”
“It got me,” Blaise says dryly, pushing some of the parchments on Theodore’s desk to the side and perching on the edge. “I do think you could have made your point without such an aggressive charm.”
Theodore’s lips quirk, hinting at a smile, and there is a brief sparkle of humour in his dark eyes. “I could have, yes,” he replies, cocking his head at Blaise. The expression is quietly charming, and it takes Blaise a moment to put a name to it. Playful. It is not a word he ever thought to associate with Theodore, who has been terribly, preternaturally serious for as long as Blaise has known him. Subdued.
It’s enough to make Blaise pause before he answers to stop and look, really look at the other man. Something is different. The set of his shoulders; Theodore is not so tense as usual, not so rigidly standoffish.
It takes more effort than Blaise cares to contemplate not to kiss him.
“The translations, Theo?”
Theodore opens one of the drawers of his desk and pulls out a thick sheaf of parchment. “Right here,” he says, handing them over; their fingers brush as Blaise takes the proffered translations, and the touch lingers just a shade too long to be entirely accidental. Theodore is looking up at him unblinkingly, but his eyes betray nothing. Neutral, bordering on amused, just as before.
“My thanks,” Blaise drawls, rising, and heads to the door, but it is stuck fast. He turns back to look at Theodore, arching a brow. “Do you mind?”
The door swings open, and Theodore smiles.
The Paris night is cool, though not unpleasantly so; as assignment locations go, this is one of the better ones. Theodore is standing on the hotel balcony, blending into the shadows of the night and watching the city lights. Blaise is still inside, Theodore knows; he has been sharply aware of the other’s presence since they got here, though it is far from the first time they have shared such close quarters on assignment. Inside, Blaise is sitting cross-legged on the bed, frowning slightly at an ageing parchment map spread out on the sheets. He seems focused on the pattern of faded, fine lines, but most of his attention is actually trained on the slender shape of the other man standing just outside the balcony door. Now and then his eyes flick up, resting on Theodore for a second or two before he looks down again, recalling the task to hand. It is more difficult than it should be. As if sensing the attention, Theodore half-turns, looking over his shoulder, and catches Blaise’s gaze. There is a moment’s pause, then he calls softly, “You’re not getting any work done. Leave it.”
Blaise is silent for a moment, his expression neutral; after a moment he shrugs very slightly and concedes defeat, unfolding his legs and rising from the bed. His eyes linger on Theodore for a second longer before he turns his back and crosses the small room to the black leather bag he’s left carelessly on the floor. He draws out a small bottle and drinks, licking his lips at the taste, and stuffs it back into the bag. “I’d offer,” he says, speaking to Theo though he is still facing away from him, “but as I recall you’re not that way inclined.”
“No, not particularly,” Theodore says, “but the sentiment is well taken.” He has turned fully, now, and is watching Blaise instead of the city, but his expression betrays nothing of what he may be thinking. Blaise rises and turns, leaning against the wall, and folds his arms across his chest. He meets Theodore’s regard with a tinge of irony and remarks, “I suppose it would be a waste of time to ask what you do for entertainment.”
Theodore quirks a brow almost imperceptibly. “From your perspective, I daresay it would.”
A pause; Blaise’s eyes glitter faintly, and he tilts his head. “Try me. You might be surprised.”
Theodore steps inside, sliding the door to the balcony shut behind him, and sits down on the edge of his bed. “Thinking,” he says, after a moment. “I’m aware that’s a rather broad term, but nonetheless. It’s just a more pretentious means of escape, when you come right down to it.” Blaise is watching him, still standing, but he shifts subtly, aligning himself to Theodore despite the distance between them. “What do you think about?”
“It depends.” It’s an entirely inadequate answer, but it’s true. “If the metaphor is of use to you, consider books my alcohol.”
Blaise smiles, quirkily but with real amusement, and answers in a light drawl, “I’m partial to Blake. What’s your poison?”
“Eliot, but I’ve a deep weakness for the existentialist writers. Beckett, also.” Theodore smiles back, very slightly. “Tracey managed to impose a fondness for Shakespeare, as well.”
“She turns and looks a moment in the glass, hardly aware of her departed lover; her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that's done, and I'm glad it's over.'” Blaise quotes, and lets himself slide down to sit with his back to the wall, eyes dark and perhaps a little thoughtful, though the slight smile does not fade. Without looking away, he retrieves the bottle from the bag and drinks again, deeply. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “You have good taste.”
Theodore’s smile lingers, as well. “Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse,” he murmurs by way of reply; he is still watching Blaise, and his gaze is a little softer than usual, but no less intent for it.
Blaise is quiet for long moments, watching Theodore in turn in the low, warm light from the single lamp on his bedside table. Finally, he lifts the bottle to his lips again, and drops his eyes as he lowers it, exhaling slowly. “Expect poison from standing water,” he murmurs, very nearly too softly to hear. When he looks up again, something is subtly changed in his expression, impossible to place. He reaches out a hand in an elegant gesture, suspended somewhere between invitation and expectation. “Come here, Theo.”
Theodore pauses briefly, not so much in hesitation as in observation, but he gets to his feet and crosses to Blaise, settles neatly beside him. Blaise is silent, watching Theodore with an unreadable look in his dark eyes before he reaches out to brush a stray curl back from Theodore’s forehead. The touch is light, almost tender, and over quickly (perhaps too quickly); Theodore does not smile, not really, but something in his deep brown eyes warms profoundly and unmistakably at the gesture; they seem to glow in the yellow-gold light of the room. Blaise looks back at him, still; he does not reach for him again, but there is the slightest, subtlest edge in his posture that intimates he very much wants to.
He settles, instead, for a dry smile. “I feel as if I ought to be quoting Romeo and Juliet,” he murmurs, “but I fear that may strain my sense of irony past mending.”
The corners of Theodore’s lips quirk up at that. “I’ve the distinct impression I would end up playing Juliet,” he murmurs wryly, but it is not without humour.
Blaise arches a dark brow and extends one hand, palm up, to Theodore. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” he answers sardonically.
Theodore picks up the line. “Which mannerly devotion shows in this;” he continues, “for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” Theodore lays his hand in Blaise’s, lightly, and their fingers twine. Blaise inhales at the light shock of contact, leans closer unconsciously, without meaning to. His eyes do not leave Theodore’s, but his voice remains light; “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”
“Aye, pilgrim,” Theodore murmurs, “lips that they must use in prayer.” He tightens his grip on Blaise’s hand, very slightly, and Blaise returns it, the feeling of even so slight a contact resonating in his entire body.
“Well, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.” He leans closer still, though not so close he cannot still hold Theodore’s eyes. The sarcastic tone has fallen from his voice; the pitch has dropped, softer, but there is a roughness at the edges. “Then pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
Their gazes lock hard, hard and tense and intense, and Theodore’s breath catches in his throat for a long, tenuous moment. Hesitating, hesitating, hesitating before at last he speaks. “Saints do not move,” he answers, quieter still, “though... though grant, for prayer’s sake.”
Perhaps Blaise should pause, but he doesn’t; the tacit, careful permission is all he needs, all he has been wanting from the start. He pulls on their joined hands, pulls Theodore into his own space and catches him with a hand on his shoulder, sliding up to cradle the back of his neck. “Then move not,” Blaise murmurs, voice rougher still, “while my prayer’s effect I take.”
The kiss is light, closemouthed, and Theodore’s lips are cool against his own, and softer than he would have thought to expect. Blaise leans into the kiss slightly (he could not have stopped himself had he wanted to) and tightens his hold on Theodore’s hand, hard. The touch of Blaise’s lips sets Theodore trembling, makes his head reel and spin at the sudden intimacy. Distantly, intellectually, he knows that it is restrained, chaste, but it jolts him deeply and inescapably all the same, and something clenches hard in Theodore’s chest, a pull bordering on pain.
Barely the space of a breath, though it seems to last hours; the kiss is broken nearly as soon as it is begun. Blaise does not open his eyes, and he leans their foreheads together; the curls of Theodore’s hair brush against his skin, feather-soft. Without intent, the next words fall from Blaise’s lips in a slow, breathless whisper, so, so close. “Thus from my lips, by thine-“ Blaise draws in a shivering breath, “-my sin is purged.”
“Then have my lips the sin that they have purged,” Theodore whispers back, so softly it would have been inaudible had Blaise not been so close. There is a slight tremor in his voice, a quiver of barely-checked emotion threading into the quiet words. Without conscious thought, Blaise shifts his hold, stroking the hand that isn’t clutching Theodore’s slowly down the back of the other’s neck in soothing, smooth caress. They are so close that every breath is shared, and Blaise can’t seem to find his voice to do any more than whisper, “Sin from my lips...” Something has tightened in his chest, and there is a sudden shiver in his voice, making him stumble a little over the familiar words. “Give me my sin again.”
Theodore shakes his head, very slightly; his eyes have fallen closed. “If your kiss is your sin,” he whispers, “I would keep it forever.”
Blaise makes a soft, indistinct sound in his throat at the quiet assertion and finally lets go of the other man’s hand and reaches to cup Theodore’s face instead. He stays thus for a trembling moment, drawing deep, shuddering breaths in a futile effort to regain some semblance of calm. He does not try to phrase an answer, instead pressing his lips carefully to Theodore’s forehead. Lingering, just for a heartbeat, and then Blaise lets go entirely and sits back, leaning his head against the wall. His eyes remain closed, but Theodore’s eyelids finally flutter open when Blaise pulls away. Theodore looks at him for a long, silent moment, chocolate eyes wide, and touches his fingers lightly to his lips. He can still almost feel the press of the kiss, burned into him like a brand, heat. Blaise is so warm, so perilously alive. Theodore shifts carefully closer and reaches a hand out, brushing his fingertips lightly, lightly along the line of Blaise’s cheekbone, feathering over the skin ever so gently. Ever so softly. The light touch makes Blaise’s breath catch quietly in his throat, and he at last opens his eyes to look at Theodore. Blaise reaches up and catches Theodore’s wrist, watching him intently.
“Blaise,” Theodore whispers. Nothing more; only his name, but something in his voice makes Blaise’s grip tighten. He says nothing, but instead brings Theodore’s hand to his lips and brushes his lips lightly across his knuckles; Theodore’s eyes fall shut and he draws in a breath, holds it in until Blaise releases his hand again. When he opens his eyes, there are a hundred different emotions flickering in their depths, too much to take in, but there is something soft about his expression, something indefinably tender in the silent regard.
Blaise looks away.
Wordlessly, he rises and crosses the room to the balcony, slipping outside into the shadows of the night. Theodore watches him for a long, stretched moment, then lets out a breath. The tension seems to rush out of him along with the air, and he slumps back against the wall and lets his eyes fall heavily shut once more.
It is very early, and the Paris morning has dawned chill and blanketed in fog. Grey, everywhere grey, and all the edges blurred; the sun’s light seems barely to penetrate it, pale and distant. The city is almost silent but for the odd, lone songbird, or rare hurrying footsteps on pavement. Blaise is standing on the balcony with his back to the door, looking out at the city, and has been there for some time, watching. The set of his shoulders is off, just a little bit strained. He does not move.
Theodore slips back into the hotel room silently; the door gives easily at a whispered spell and makes no sound as it swings open, and his footsteps are equally quiet. His gaze is drawn immediately to the balcony, to Blaise, and Theodore makes his way to him soundlessly, stopping close behind him.
“Desolé pour être en retard,” Theodore murmurs. “Good morning.”
Blaise has spun before Theodore is even done saying the first word, wand out, but he lets his hand drop and puts it away when he catches sight of Theodore. Blaise’s eyes, however, are sharp. “You should have been back before sunrise. What happened?”
“They thoughtfully changed every bloody ward on the place since I was last here,” Theodore answers with a hint of annoyance. “Took me forever to get through them all; I had not anticipated having to riddle out that many security spells.”
Blaise nods shortly and looks away, out over the city, and is abruptly aware that it is cold out, too cold for the thin shirt he is wearing to really be enough. He makes no move to go inside, however, and Theodore looks at him, tiling his head slightly; after a moment, a small smile curves his lips. He says nothing, but moves to stand beside Blaise and lays a hand lightly on his arm. The touch is unexpected, enough so that Blaise looks back at Theodore, and something flashes in his eyes, gone too quickly to identify. Theodore looks back at him, but his gaze flickers a bit, not quite staying on Blaise’s eyes, sliding away despite himself. Theodore hesitates, drawing in a slow breath, then leans over and brushes his lips across Blaise’s. The touch is too light and too brief to really be termed a kiss, over almost as soon as it started, and even more unanticipated than the last; Blaise catches Theodore by the waist on instinct, not quite gently.
“You’re cold,” Theodore says softly. “We should go in.”
It is a moment before Blaise manages to process the words. “I don’t mind the cold.” His voice is low and just a bit rough; he wants, achingly and intensely, to tighten his hold. It would be easy, so easy to pull Theodore in closer, to press him up against the wall and kiss him, really kiss him, to find out how he tastes and how he yields, to catch his bottom lip between his teeth and bite.
Blaise does not move, and his hold does not tighten, but his shoulders tense. It does not escape Theodore’s notice; he can feel it echoed in Blaise’s arm, and he pulls his hand away and drops his gaze. “I should not have done that,” he mutters. Blaise lets go of him, but he lifts a hand to touch his fingers lightly to Theodore’s lips and answers in quiet and unreadable tones, “Don’t refrain if you want to.”
Theodore looks at him searchingly and catches Blaise’s hand in his own. “You tensed,” he says at length, “quite obviously because of me.” The rest is left unspoken: Why, if not because I upset you?
The irony, Blaise thinks with a bitter smile, is sickening. He looks back into Theodore’s clear brown eyes and says noncommittally, “I find it doesn’t suit me to be at ease.”
Before Theodore can reply, Blaise has withdrawn and gone back inside, leaving him alone on the balcony. Theodore walks to the edge of it, putting still more distance between them, and leans heavily on the railing.
The cold, grey city, shrouded in fog, offers very little by way of comfort.
When Blaise wakes, it is to the sound of water falling. He is still for a moment before his eyes blink open, and he casts a glance in the direction of the door to the balcony. Raindrops on the glass, and soft constant splattering of drops on the roof, on pavement. A subtle shift in the sound, then, and Blaise sits up and brushes his hair back from his eyes.
The door to the bathroom swings open, and Blaise’s mind finally catches up with his surroundings, shedding the last scraps of sleep. Running water. He turns his head as Theodore walks into the bedroom; he is fully dressed, but his hair is still wet from the shower, darkened to black. The water weighs down the tight curls- some of them fall nearly to his shoulders, shedding drops of water along the line of Theodore’s pale neck.
Blaise swallows hard and looks away, pushes down the urge to pull Theodore to him and tangle his hands in his hair, bite at that white skin, bruise it with his teeth and shove him to the bed, to throw him down and not let him say no.
No, no, no.
Blaise swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, brushing past Theodore with a cursorily muttered greeting, and retreats to the balcony without a thought for the rain. Air, he needs air, and he needs a barrier between him and Theodore, and he needs them both right now.
He isn’t entirely certain the balcony door will be enough.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to say it: this is a bad idea, Theo,” Tracey tells him. Theodore sighs and drops his gaze, and it is a long moment before he answers her.
“I know.”
“He’s absolutely going to want sex from you, if he doesn’t already.”
“I know.”
“He’ll almost certainly press the issue.”
“I know.”
“Not be be overdramatic, but this is going to end up a complete disaster.”
“You’re probably right.”
Tracey is silent for a long moment, watching Theodore. “You’re completely in love with him, aren’t you.” The softly spoken words aren’t really a question. There is a silence; Theodore gives no verbal reply, only a slight nod, and she sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He looks up at her across the table. “I’ve no bloody idea what I’m doing, as you’re well aware, or you would not have seen fit to give me that little speech,” he says. “You’re quite right, this cannot possibly be wise, but... but I want it, all the same.”
A pause. “And what does he think about it all?” she finally asks. “You have told him, right? That you don’t... that you’re not going to sleep with him.”
“I don’t lead people on,” he answers, rather sharply. “He knows damn well.”
“Don’t snap at me,” she says, “I was only asking.”
Theodore subsides. “I told him. It was... almost what started it, in a way.”
Tracey arches a brow at that. “He’s okay with it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Theodore says dryly. “He knows it’s how I am, even if it doesn’t make sense to him. I don’t think he’s sure he wants to deal with that. He’s been avoiding me, lately. Since Paris.”
“And what happened in Paris?” she asks, looking at him searchingly. “You’ve not been quite yourself since you got back.”
“Ah.” Theodore can feel his cheeks heat in spite of himself. “There... may have been a kiss involved. Possibly two.”
Tracey can’t quite disguise the shock is her eyes at the statement. “You’ve never kissed anyone in your life.”
“I’ve kissed you.”
“That is absolutely not the same thing, a peck on the lips because I’m your friend,” she informs him. “You really kissed him?”
“Technically, he kissed me,” Theodore hedges. “At least, the first time.”
“I cannot believe I wasn’t told about this sooner. Was it good?”
“Merlin, Trace,” Theodore says, “you’d think I had slept with him, the way you’re talking.”
“For you, you may as well have,” she points out. “You don’t let most people touch you at all, but you skip off to Paris and start snogging Blaise-“
“It was not snogging,” he protests. “Snogging implies... saliva.”
Tracey laughs. “Fine, fine. Kissing. You still haven’t answered my question.”
Theodore looks down again. “It was... well, yes. I should very much like to do it again, but seeing as he won’t get within a metre of me lately, it seems improbable.”
She tilts her head. “I don’t think the problem is that he doesn’t want to.” Off Theodore’s look, she elaborates, “If he kissed you, I think it’s safe to assume he wanted to, Theo. Possibly wanted to a bit too much, if you take my point. He might just not trust his self-control where you’re concerned.”
“But it was just-“
“Theo,” she interrupts, “please don’t panic when I say this, but you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that you’re actually, contrary to your own opinion, very attractive. Desirable. It would not surprise me in the least if Blaise is staying clear of you so he doesn’t jump you, Theo.”
“This is such a bad idea,” Theodore mutters, raking his fingers through his hair.
“No, no it isn’t,” she says. “You’ll work this out.”
“You told me it was a bad idea.”
“I changed my mind. Woman’s prerogative, and all. You should have what makes you happy, Theo, because Merlin knows it’s denied to you often enough. If not by other people, you do it yourself, most of the time. You’ll be more miserable without him.” She pauses. “Of course, if he hurts you, I will tie him up by his large intestines and force-feed him his own liver.”
Theodore wrinkles his nose. “Trace, I know almost every possible way there is to kill someone, but that is disgusting. You’ve unequivocally put me off my lunch.”
Tracey shrugs. “I’m a Healer, not much disgusts me anymore.” She pauses. “So you’re not going to finish that, then?”
He pushes his plate across the table to her. “Troublesome wench,” he mutters. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“My charm, intelligence, and excellent advice,” she answers promptly. “Ooh, shrimp.”
Theodore sighs.
“Good grief, Blaise, when’s the last time you had sex?” Daphne asks, motioning him in and shutting the door behind him.
Blaise arches a brow. “That obvious, hm.”
“You’re wound tighter that I’ve ever seen, I swear,” she answers. “A week? Two?”
“Nearer to three,” he says wryly, catching her against him with an arm around her waist. Daphne makes a sympathetic noise in her throat and wraps her arms around him.
“Should’ve come by sooner. Or were you gone on business?”
“Not for most of it.”
“Merlin, Blaise, if you can’t get laid, there’s no hope for the rest of us,” Daphne says.
“You do your own charms a discredit, pet,” Blaise replies.
“I am, admittedly, something of a sex goddess. Also, the pinnacle of modesty. Bedroom, now.”
She is pressed up against the wall before she quite has time to realise what is happening, and Blaise gives her a sharp, wicked smile.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Fucking cheater, Nott!”
Blaise pauses just outside the training room; the voice is that of Mercy, one of their colleagues, and she doesn’t sound pleased. He looks in the door; she is on her back on the mat, pinned under Theodore, who has a slim dagger at her throat.
“You know I am,” he tells her, unruffled. “You also know I always have a knife on me; it’s your own fault. Yield?”
She scowls up at him. “I yield. Bastard.”
“Slander and calumny,” Theodore says mildly, moving off of her and rising, spinning the dagger absently in his hand. “My whole bloodline is as pure as they come.”
Mercy cuffs him lightly on the shoulder, and Theodore gives her a tolerant half-smile, but his grip tightens on the dagger handle, and a subtle tension runs through the set of his shoulders.
Don’t touch him.
Theodore draws away from Mercy just a little too quickly to be polite, turning and sliding the dagger up his sleeve. He catches sight of Blaise standing in the doorway and gives him a very slight, cool nod. Blaise returns it, hair falling into his eyes, then slips away once more.
“Fucking ow,” Theodore curses, with some feeling, when Blaise lands a particularly viscous blow to his side. It will bruise, he knows, blooming into an ugly purple-black mark on his pale skin.
“You’re slow today,” Blaise answers, between breaths. Theodore shoots him a glare, but he knows it’s true; he’s off today, Blaise should not have gotten in that hit. Still, Blaise gets a hard kick in the knee for his trouble; Theodore is holding back, just enough so he doesn’t do any serious damage, but Blaise’s leg buckles, and Theodore wastes no time in throwing his balance with a well-timed shove and forcing him to the floor.
For a long moment, they are silent but for the sound of their breathing, heavy and fast from exertion. Their gazes are locked, unblinking, and finally Blaise says, “Perhaps not quite so off-form after all.”
The wry remark brings no reaction; Theodore is still watching him with unsettling intensity. “You haven’t been avoiding me because you don’t want this,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s the opposite. You want it too much.”
Blaise gives no reply, but his gaze flicks tellingly away. Theodore leans over, closer. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he says, voice soft. “Don’t run from me this time.” Before Blaise has a chance to protest, Theodore closes the rest of the distance between them and suits action to word, pressing his lips to Blaise’s and cupping his cheek with one hand. Blaise hesitates, but only for an instant, and then he is kissing back, twisting a hand into Theodore’s curls and pressing him closer, closer.
“Blaise,” Theodore whispers against his lips, in a tone Blaise refuses to put a name to.
For a long moment, they are still.
Theodore starts at the feeling of hands on his shoulders, and his head snaps up; he had not realised he wasn’t alone.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. Long enough.” There is the faintest tinge of amusement in Blaise’s tone. “Deeply engrossed, I see.”
“Leaving for China in two days,” Theodore answers. “I need to get this research done beforehand.”
“Ah.” Blaise’s grip tightens, very slightly. “How long are you there for?”
“About three days, probably,” he answers. “Do try not to pine.”
Blaise makes a vaguely derisive sound. “I shall manage,” he retorts, and starts kneading gently at the knots in Theodore’s shoulders.
“I’ve every confidence in you,” Theodore murmurs. “Mmm, oh, keep doing that, please.”
Blaise quirks a brow and digs his fingers in a bit harder. “You’re much too tense.”
“I hear that a lot.”
“Perhaps you should listen.” Theodore’s shoulders are finally starting to loosen under Blaise’s hands, and Theodore makes a low noise of appreciation. “I will if it means you’ll do that more often,” he says, rolling his shoulders slightly before stilling once more.
“I might be able to be persuaded.”
“A little to your left... yes, perfect, there,” Theodore murmurs. “And what with, pray tell? You know you aren’t getting sex.”
“Painfully aware of it,” Blaise answers dryly. “I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”
“Possibly I should be getting worried right about now.”
Blaise smirks; Theodore can hear it in his voice. “Possibly.”
“You said three days,” Blaise says, without preamble, “not nearly a week. What happened?”
“Long story,” Theodore answers; he sounds drained. He looks it, too, even after a day off to rest and adjust back to their time zone. “I’m fine.”
“You’re dead on your feet.”
Theodore gives him a wry look and sinks into the couch by the far wall of his office. “I’ll be fine. I’m just tired.”
Exhausted, Blaise amends mentally; Theodore doesn’t usually admit to it. Blaise skirts the desk and sits down next to him; Theodore glances in his direction, and Blaise leans over and steals a brief kiss. Theodore returns it, though it takes a moment; when they part, he exhales a quiet sigh and catches Blaise’s hand in his own.
“Theo,” Blaise says, “I don’t know what, exactly, you think you’re going to accomplish here when you’re like this. Go home.”
“I-“
“Theo.”
Their gazes lock, and Blaise arches a brow. “Am I going to be forced to tell on you to Mercy?”
Theodore cringes. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Continued...