Beautiful Thing: Chapter Seven
Story: Beautiful Thing
Chapter Seven: Footsteps In The Sand
Author: mayberry_rose
Characters: Albus Severus/Scorpius
Rating: PG-13ish
Prompts used: All of them :)
Word count: ~2500
Warnings: Language, sickness, boy love
Summary: Al is ill, and Score is frantic, and vital things are - almost - learned.
Scorpius drifts awake, comfortable and warm. Al is pressed up against him, and Scorpius can feel the tips of his hair tickling his shoulder, can feel his mouth resting against the back of his neck, soft and... Hot. Too hot, Scorpius thinks, jerking blearily awake.
The room feels far too warm despite the open windows. He turns, conscious of a nagging worry at the back of his mind, to wake Al up and ask about the temperature.
He freezes.
Al’s face is flushed, his hair sweaty and clinging to his forehead. His thin T-shirt is soaked with sweat, and when Scorpius - wide-eyed - reaches out to shake his shoulder, he doesn’t stir.
“Al,” Scorpius whispers, instinctive panic rising in his throat, “Wake up.” He tries again, shaking harder. “Al!” He says louder, reaching for his wand and muttering revival charms, knowing even as he does that it’s useless. Al is too still, too heavy; when Score rests his palm on Al’s forehead, the heat burns at his skin. “Shit,” he mutters, mostly to himself, shaking Al again in the vague hope that it might help. Score isn’t stupid, though; he’s never seen anything like this, and after a moment of blind panic he stumbles out of bed, dragging on his jeans and shoes. He knows he has to get Al help, as soon as possible, but for the life of him he can’t think how best to do it.
Nearest hospital, he thinks, dazed, grabbing his rucksack and thanking Merlin that Al didn’t bother undressing last night as he leans over his friend, picking him up. Al is limp and warm, his head lolling against Score’s shoulder, and it’s at once so close to the way he carried Al through the park yesterday and a million miles away. Scorpius closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before half-running downstairs.
He bursts into the reception area, heading straight for the desk. The elderly man behind it looks distinguished, with his grey hair and stripy tie. He looks up, and Scorpius sees him take in the sight of the boys in front of him, Al flushed and now trembling in Score’s arms, Scorpius probably looking almost as frantic as he feels. The man drops his newspaper, standing at once.
“God,” he says, “Is he alright?”
Score shakes his head tightly. “No, I don’t think - I mean, I don’t -” He gasps in air, tries again. “Do you know where the nearest hospital is?”
The man nods, biting his lip. “I’m afraid it’s quite a long way. How do you -”
“We’ll get the bus, or something,” Scorpius interrupts, “If you can tell me where -”
“Nonsense,” the old man says, shaking his head firmly, “I’ll drive you.”
Scorpius stares at him, caught between hope and disbelief. His father always taught him that everyone is only out for themselves, and while getting to know Al and his family proved that one wrong, to be shown this sort of kindness by a near-total stranger... Scorpius starts as Al shifts in his arms, moaning quietly.
“That would be incredible,” he says quickly, the choice more or less made for him, “Thank you.”
The old man leads them out of the hotel to his car, calling someone on the way with one of the mobile cellular devices they learned about in Muggle Studies. Scorpius squeezes into the cramped back seat with Albus on his lap, somehow afraid to let him go.
The hospital is a good half-hour’s drive away. For Scorpius - clutching Al, feeling his skin cool down and then watching him start to shiver, trying to warm him up with his own coat and sheer force of will - it feels like hours. He almost cries with relief when he carries Al inside to see the tiny hex-mark beside the desk that marks the old, sea-front building out as a Muggle hospital with a Magical wing.
The doctor is a Chinese woman, tall and slim, with nail varnish the delicate blue colour of robin eggs. She walks out of the room Al is resting in - after having been forcibly wrenched away from Scorpius by a couple of burly nurses - and rests a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m Dr Chang,” she says politely, “I went to school with your father.”
“Oh,” Scorpius replies, trying to smile when all he wants to do is shake her until she gives him news of Albus. Some of his impatience must show on his face, because the Doctor looks up at him and smiles.
“We think that your friend will be fine,” she assures him, “It’s just an infection.” Scorpius wants to scream that Al lying limp and fevered and unreachable in bed beside him, or shivering in his arms a few moments later, or being torn away from him by the nurses with almost-tinged-blue lips, is not ‘just’ anything.
“Thank-you.” Scorpius manages instead, thinking of the very real possibility of them throwing him out of the hospital if he says all he wants to say. She smiles at him, and he notices that the line of her mouth is sharp, but her eyes are kind.
“You may go and see him now,” she says. “We’re awaiting the results of some of the higher diagnostics charms, but we know that he’s not contagious.”
Scorpius nods, forcing another smile, slipping into the hospital room. Al is lying on the bed, dressed in a strange white gown, looking unearthly pale. His lips are still almost blue-tinged. Scorpius can’t hold back a shudder.
“Hey,” he whispers. He sits down on a chair beside Al’s bed, clutching his friend’s hand. It’s cold now, and Al’s fingers are limp, and he’s struck by the contrast and the similarity of their positions now and last night. His thoughts are chaotic, unbearable. It’s only a few moments before he reaches down to fish his sketch pad out of his rucksack, not knowing how to think, needing to focus on something but the torrent of ‘what-if’s’ rushing through his mind. He keeps hold of Al’s hand, just in case.
The sketch turns out beautifully, the kind of drawing he only manages to produce once in a blue moon, all until he reaches Al’s face. For reasons he can’t really explain, the way Al’s lips are still curved up at the corners makes his throat tighten and his eyes water, and then before he knows it a tear lands on the page, smudging the drawing, and “Fuck,” Score whispers, tearful, “Fuck.” He crumples the paper, sudden and harsh, hurling it against the window with all the force he can manage and feeling oddly bereft, useless, when it just bounces off.
He can feel his shoulders start to shake with the effort of holding back sobs, but he can’t cry, not yet, not when Al is sick and pale and needs Scorpius to be here for him, and strong for him, and - Merlin, he thinks, that’s all assuming that Al ever does wake up. He knows that the Doctor said that Al would be alright, he knows that, but Scorpius was always taught never to trust, and with something as precious as Albus he can’t bear to take the chance.
The image of life if Al doesn’t wake up - dull and cold and lonely - wells up behind his eyes and he sobs, just once, just accidentally. He looks up sharply when he feels something squeezing his fingers, and - oh, thank Merlin - Al’s eyes are open and he’s watching Score, confused, concerned, alive.
Scorpius knows, deep down, that he needs to stop crying in front of Albus. He knows that he should probably call Dr Chang at once, and that Al’s probably stiff and sore and doesn’t need Score touching him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He stands at once, moving over to sit on the bed with Albus and hugging him hard. Al is sitting up, clutching the back of his shirt, and Score feels him kiss the skin of his neck and can’t help the tears of relief that spill down his cheeks.
He pulls himself together as quickly as he can, leaning back and wanting so much to kiss Albus on the lips but - conscious, more than ever, of the paralysing fear of losing him - settling for kissing his forehead instead.
He’s barely pulled away when Dr Chang bustles in, looking pleased to see Albus awake. Scorpius slips away to sit on the windowsill, managing to avoid getting thrown out of the room until she starts running more diagnostic charms. He waits until Dr Chang turns away, reaching over to squeeze Al’s hand before he leaves.
Outside, still tense and jittery, he realises that he has no idea what to do with himself. He can’t wait to get outside the hospital - he hates them, all of them, with the tension and silence and sadness that hang in the very air. More importantly, he wants to do something useful for Al, maybe get him something to help him feel better, but he finds that he has no bloody idea what you’re meant to get for people you lo- care about when they’re sick.
He sees a middle-aged woman with dark eyes and a friendly smile crossing the hallway, sporting the uniform of a janitor. On a whim, he runs over to ask her.
Scorpius walks away from his conversation with the woman thinking that it shouldn’t be too difficult to buy grapes and flowers, but in a town as small as the one they’re in it turns out to be a challenge. On the way, he drifts down the seafront to the ocean, leaving footsteps in the sand.
Score toes off his shoes to wade into the ocean, to dip his feet in the midnight-blue surf. He calls the old man from the hotel - Mr Andrews, he remembers now that his panic has abated - thanking him, telling him that Albus should be alright. Praying that it’s true.
On the way back, Score buys three red roses from the little store outside the hospital, pinching a few blooms of a yellow flower he doesn’t recognise from someone’s garden, and nicks a bit of blue lace from one of the hanging baskets outside. He twines them together so they look alright.
When he sneaks back into Al’s room and gives them to him, blushing, Al flushes and grins and says “Thank-you,” and if Score didn’t know him better he’d say Al sounded shy.
“So,” Al says too quickly, joking, “Any other presents for me?”
“Yeah, actually,” Score says, “there’s something else, but... It didn’t really work.”
Al looks up at him in confusion. “I was going to bring you grapes,” Scorpius says, knowing he’s blushing all over again, “but the bloody hospital store didn’t sell them, so I had to go outside and look, and most of the shops were closed, and...”
“Score.” Al says gently, and Scorpius sighs. “These were all I could find.” He admits, holding out a box of blueberries. Al looks down at them, and smiles, and bursts out laughing. Scorpius finds that he doesn’t mind; watching Al laughing - all twinkling eyes and pretty mouth - has recently become a favourite pastime of his, and something that he’d half-convinced himself he’d never do again. Any part of him that might have taken a little bit of offence is assuaged when Al stops laughing, leaning forward to hug him tightly. “Thanks,” he whispers, soft and sincere, “I prefer blueberries anyway.”
Dr Chang returns soon after, telling them that Al’s infection can be easily treated with a few charms and some potions, but that they want to keep him in the hospital overnight. Then she disappears, returning just as Scorpius and Al are finishing off a dinner of Al’s hospital food and whatever junk food Score could find in the hospital store.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Malfoy.” She suggests, “Mr Potter needs his rest.”
He turns towards her, desperate, and he knows the moment her expression softens that his pleading eyes have worked. After a few minutes of joint persuasion Dr Chang agrees to let him spend the night, so long as he leaves and sneaks back in again after the nurses have done their rounds.
Later that night, curled up in the chair beside Al’s bed, Score looks over at the rise and fall of his best friend’s chest, the surprisingly delicate line of his wrist.
“Need anything?” he asks softly, and Al chuckles. “Hardly,” he says, “I'm not about to start demanding four blue candles, three black towels and two beers everywhere I go.” Scorpius arches an eyebrow.
“Is this from one of your crap Muggle movies?” he asks, suspicious, and Al gasps. “Of course not!” he protests, mock-affronted, “James said it once.”
Scorpius fixes Al with his most piercing glare. “That,” he declares, “makes it worse.” His best intimidating face, as usual, has no stronger effect on Al than making him giggle. The laugh is interrupted by a yawn, and Score leans over to poke his friend in the stomach.
“Go to sleep, Al,” he orders, smiling when Al jokingly blows him a kiss. “Of course, darling,” Al mumbles, exaggerated American accent and all. He lies down, and Scorpius tries to curl up tighter in the chair. He watches the late-evening sky fade to black, smiling at the twinkling silver-blue stars.
Later, in the darkness beside Scorpius, Al tosses and turns. “Score,” he whispers, sounding upset, “I can’t sleep.”
“What’s up?” Score whispers back, and he can see Al blush through the twilight. “Used to you sleeping beside me,” he says quietly, and something in Score’s chest flutters a little. He clambers up onto the bed with Al, cuddling up beside him. He’s determined not to fall asleep, just to stay here until Al does and then go back to the chair, but Al’s arm is slung over his waist and Al’s breathing is deep and comforting against him, and he’s just going to rest his eyes for a moment...
He wakes with a start to find an elderly nurse staring down at him, bemused. “Young man,” she begins, “What -” Scorpius stands up quickly, planning a speedy exit, but then Al groans and stretches out a hand, lightly catching his wrist. He stands, torn, wanting to run but unable to leave Albus behind.
The woman raises an eyebrow when Albus sits up carefully, helped by Score’s arm supporting him. “Sorry, ma’am,” Albus says, with that easy charm Scorpius has always envied, “He’s here looking after me.”
The woman’s expression softens. “Well,” she says, still trying for stern, “Just see that it doesn’t happen again.” Al nods, warm and sleep-ruffled and contrite, and Scorpius finds that he can’t take his eyes off him.
When the nurse leaves Al reaches out a hand, smiling, and Scorpius crawls back into bed beside him.
Drifting off to sleep, he doesn’t notice Al intertwining their fingers, or feel Al brushing his hair back from his eyes, or hear Al’s whispered, “Thank-you,” pressed with a kiss onto his cheek.