Kythe
I
The sky hangs like a sheet of periwinkle blue on the morning of February 13, cold and distant. Harry starts this day like he does any other, waking with warm sheets tangled around his legs and drool fresh and sticky on his pillow. As usual, the first thing he sees when he manages to lift his eyelids is a man—if he could be called that, for the person in question does not possibly look as though they could have passed the age of nineteen yet. This man, or boy, rather—Harry has long since given up trying to decide—sits perfectly composed in the wooden chair by the bed, and if his hair is a little crumpled, or his eyes a little tired, Harry does not mention it.
"Good morning," the man says, as though he has said it a million times before. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," Harry mumbles into the pillow, lowering his head again. He does not need to see it to know that the man is quirking an eyebrow in some sort of muted amusement, or that where his eyes were dark with some sort of jaded contemplation as he watched Harry sleeping—only moments ago—now they are considerably lighter. "Wffbffyff?"
"How articulate," the other man remarks dryly, tapping his hand against the arm of the chair. "You never fail to impress me."
At last, Harry raises his head, and he knows that, like they usually are when he wakes up, his green eyes shine remarkably clear. Surprising, he thinks, only not so, because he's used to surprises. He can't help but feel a little disappointed each morning, however, when he sees the smudges beneath the other man's. "And your wit never fails to astound me, Tom."
At last, the other man smiles. "Of course," Tom says softly, but remains silent as Harry struggles to lift himself from the bed. His eyes remain averted while Harry dresses, focused on the one small window there is in the large but dingy room, and Harry cannot tell if this is out of some small courtesy—like it matters, he tells himself wryly—or some deeper, vaguer emotion.
Breakfast, as per usual, is set in the high-ceilinged gray-stained kitchen. Harry watches over his eggs as Tom reads the paper, and ever so often their eyes will meet. He never knows what to say in these situations; he'd like to believe nothing needed to be said, and sometimes he knew that it didn't, but at other times, words almost seemed like they could somehow frame the moment. It was a small comfort that Harry knew Tom felt just as uncomfortable—if not more—at the absence of that speech; the other boy would have taken the inability to control what was happening very harshly indeed. But he also knew that sometimes even the most uncomfortable silences could, almost, become comfortable.
"You've got mail, Harry," Tom tells him in the breaks between chewing and newspaper articles. It is no great shock that Tom has gotten the mail—his morning schedule seems to revolve around getting up precisely half an hour before Harry each day (or at least that was what Tom had told him, although he did have rather a sardonic smile on that occasion...): time enough to shower, dress, and then watch Harry sleep.
Harry nods, taking the envelope, and the intensity that comes with the half-unreal state of just waking is gone; he rips into it to find it's from Hermione. His eyes skim the note, ever interested in news from his friends' lives, as certain words and sentences and phrases stand stark out amongst the rest.
Harry… Fred and George… shop… dreadful! What will the… Ron says it's… I think Rose… your mother? … Stupid, I… Last time, Molly almost… In answer… yes, I do think so. Mum and Dad… awful!… I'm… like Lockhart's, really… deserved it… Ha! …Ought to feel different… Excited!...
Ron and I are going out for dinner tonight—it is Valentine's Day tomorrow, remember, Harry? Anyway, Ron and I were talking and we thought it would be nice to catch up, as we really haven't spoken enough lately… So, Harry, we'd like it very much if you joined us tonight—maybe you could introduce us to your partner?
Harry swallows.
and grins.
"Tom," he says, shaking his head in an attempt to rid his face of the black strands of hair currently invading his vision. "We've been invited out to dinner. Tonight, you know."
Tom raises an eyebrow again as he looks up from the paper. "And just who would be inviting us, Harry?" he says, his voice laced with something dangerously like suspicion.
"Er." Harry pauses. This was to be expected, he thinks, although it certainly doesn't evoke any comfort into the idea of answering. "Ron and Hermione, actually."
Tom's face takes upon an ugly sneer, though he shows no other sign of displeasure, no shift in his posture, no clenching of the knuckles and certainly no drop of the jaw. "Oh, really? And what makes you think I'd like to come?"
"Oh, I don't doubt how much you'd hate it," Harry assures him, and he lays his mug down on the table, thinking about the most delicate way to approach this. "But… I thought you might anyway?" He waits for the other boy's answer with a careful—certainly acquired—patience, his gaze on the other's eyes—dark with thought—and his high, lilting brows. There is silence.
"It's not like I've never done anything for you," Harry reminds him, although he is wary of sounding accusing. There are still words that can hurt, and he is cautious of snatching at them too carelessly in anger or desperation. This… thing, whatever it is, is still too fresh.
"I have never requested for you to meet my friends," says Tom finally, and he leans back in his chair, staring Harry down. Do you have any friends, Tom? "What is it exactly that you would hope to achieve by this? I don't think you realise that, in whichever direction the meal would take, it would end poorly. You're not planning on telling them about me, are you?" His lip curls slightly, and Harry can't tell whether it's from amusement or disapproval.
"I was thinking of it, yes," says Harry evenly, thankful for the many days he's spent thinking it over. It gives him an advantage, a certain calm face he wouldn't have been able to keep otherwise, and this is good. He knows what he wants. It's just a question of how badly Tom wants it, too.
"And how do you think—how do you think this Ron and Hermione will react?" Tom questions, his eyes narrowing. At long last, he pushes his plate back and glowers murderously—no, not murderously, Harry thinks firmly—at the table. "Do you think they'll treat me like they did little Ginny, soft, beautiful Cho?" He sounds, Harry thinks—in truth, almost relieved—angry. "Do you think they'll see me as a partner worthy of their precious Savior? Weasley, for all his faults seems creative enough—he won't even need for me to say a word; the image of his sister will be seared across his eyelids, her limp body in the Chamber, tiny hands clenched together, sweet little mouth red with blood—"
"Stop it," Harry says firmly, and he is not sure why he is bothering, only that his temper is wavering dangerously, he knows someone has to back down and, by God, someone has to be the bigger man. "Ron and Hermione… are stubborn. If they don't see it from my point of view, that's their problem."
Tom's eyes flicker up to Harry's, his face reflecting mild, morbid fascination. "They won't see it that way and I know you're not stupid enough to think that. So what, pray tell, are you planning on doing if they inform you it's me or them?"
"If they say that—" Harry hesitates. It is important to say this right. "I think if they say that, it truly is their problem. They're my best friends and I plan on keeping both of them, but… if they make me choose, I can't help that, because I'm not choosing. If they can't see that, then…" He bows his head, and reaches for his coffee cup again, grimacing when he finds it to be empty.
"Interesting," is the only answer Tom provides, and even this is soft and subdued. When Harry looks up, however—nervous but determined, his cheeks burning red—the thoughtful contemplation on the other's face is more than enough to placate him.