Morning After

Part 1: Imagined Conversations

Charlie woke up with a lingering warmth in his belly, like waking up on Christmas, or (he liked to imagine) waking up after a night of great sex. The feeling lasted all of ten seconds, which was when Charlie realized that the cause of the warmth was sleeping on the far side of their room, with long legs spilling over the edges of a tiny bed that wasn't his. Which is how it's supposed to be, Charlie reasoned as he felt himself fall still (that was really how he would prefer to put it. It wasn't as if he told his muscles to tighten like maybe he was afraid, or had something to be afraid of). Because Bill wasn't supposed to on Charlie's bed, or wear anything but pajama's to bed, or taste like he should be kissed forever.

Hearing the light snoring from across the room didn't loosen the muscles of Charlie's hunched shoulders, but it gave him time to think about what he was going to say in the morning. After a good half an hour, Charlie's imagination had set up a very specific scenerio: he would be downstairs picking at the instant oatmeal Molly left in the kitchen for morning people like himself, and Bill would half stumble down the stairs with blurry eyes, muttering something about food. Charlie would nod to the pot and around mouthfuls of oatmeal, he'd say, "I heard the Harpies lost to the Kestrels,"

Bill would roll his eyes and say, "Because girls can't play Quidditch, right?"

"Glad to hear you're finally admitting it, big brother," he'd reply smugly. Except maybe he would leave out the "big brother" part.

"Chauvinist," Bill would say, and Charlie would hide a grin because he liked the way Bill rolled words off his tongue when he was being righteous, and not at all think about that tongue lapping against his own.

If the conversation lagged, Charlie would mention how he didn't understand why girls liked that Witches Brew band, and Bill would say, "You mean Witches Spew?" and they'd snicker, even though the joke was ages old. Unless Bill knew Charlie liked to sing WB songs in the shower, and if that point was brought up, Charlie would say that even if they were bad, the songs were catchy.

Bill would shove him lightly, and they'd scuffle on the floor without thinking about how their thighs were pressed together, or how their breath mingled pleasantly, and no mistletoe would be around for another year. Then Molly would come in with sleepiness hanging from the bags under her eyes and Ginny resting on one hip, and break them up before starting breakfast.

And everything would revert back to normal.

He must have taken longer than he thought to get ready, because Charlie was only in the kitchen for fifteen minutes before he heard a distinct stumbling sound on the creaky stairwell. The quickening of his heart definitely must have been due to the lack of food in his stomach, and Charlie search for a packet of Smeagol's Instant Oatmeal became earnest.

By the time a particularly familiar head of hair peek around the corner (and it was particular because no one else's hair flopped past their ears or had that certain Bill-ness to it), Charlie thought his chest might combust. Or explode. Definitely explode, Charlie amended, knowing Bill would laugh at how he liked to think of combust as explode because they sounded as if they should be synonymous.

Bill walked in blurry eyed, as expected, but when he saw Charlie, he paused mid-step before muttering something about food. It went exactly as Charlie planned, except for the slight pause and the fact that Bill's eyes cleared for that moment, and then clouded with something other than sleep.

"IheardtheHarpieslosttotheKestrels," Charlie said, still frantically searching for the oatmeal and hoping that he didn't sound as stupid as he thought he did.

"It was a close game, though," Bill replied, slipping into a chair with one lazy motion that made Charlie swallow hard and wonder at how Bill did everything with such lazy ease. Like flying, or smiling. Like kissing.

"Um, yes," Charlie said because he couldn't remember what he would usually say, and the tingling blush that trailed up his neck to burn his ears wasn't helping with his concentration.

The silence that followed wasn't the comradely type. Charlie spent the time rustling through the kitchen and trying to think up something to say. "Good morning," seemed a little belated, and mentioning the Witches Brew just seemed out of place, so he settled for an awkward, "Did you get what you wanted?"

Bill blinked, his mouth dropping open just enough to flash his two front teeth. "What?"

"You know, for Christmas," Charlie said, mind working furiously to discover the possible insinuations Bill might have gotten out of that.

Slouching lower in his chair, Bill nodded and licked his lips.

Charlie decided then that the tightening of his pajama bottoms was probably spontaneous. Arthur had that particular talk with him when he was twelve, and it was the only logical explanation. Still, he thought it might be better if he sat down (or at least less obvious, because natural or not it was exceedingly embarrassing, like how girls thought their monthlies were embarrassing—and he really did not need to think about that just before breakfast).

So he pulled up a chair from across the table of Bill, making sure his legs were spread just enough to not be considered improper. He tried to think of something else to say, but dismissed every subject as stupid. Soon, his leg began doing that nervous bouncing thing that he knew Bill hated, even though he's told Bill repeatedly that he really couldn't help it. But Bill just kept perfectly still and didn't say anything. Not even when Charlie's foot accidentally brushed against his calf. Not even when Charlie's foot purposefully began to trail up his calf.

"Mum!" Bill voice cracked for the first time in years. Charlie would have laughed if he had't feel quite so breathless.

Molly breezed by with Ginny on balanced on her hips, ruffling Bill's hair ("Remind me that you need a haircut, Bill, dear,") and gasping when she saw Charlie. "I completely forgot to buy more oatmeal!"

"S'Okay, Mum," Bill cut in before Charlie could get in a grumble. "Charlie and I have gotten some time to catch up," he finished, shrugging and smiling his I'm-such-a-nice-boy smile, while refusing to let Charlie catch his eyes.

"Good for you, boys," Molly said, eyes crinkling. "And don't think this means I'm letting you grow out that hair, Bill,"

Bill's smile turned rueful as he asked, "Want me to take Ginniekins?" He tickled her under her chin, and Ginny made a flailing motion toward him.

Molly handed the toddler off, and said, "Charlie? Could you wake up the twins and Percy? Ron still needs another hour."

Charlie replied, "Sure, Mum," and began to trudge up the stairs as the smell of eggs and Ginny's girlish giggle quickly began to permeate through the Burrow. Everything was back to normal, and all Charlie wanted was the awkwardness that confessed the previous night had not just been a dream.

Author's Notes: Ah, Weasleycest. Non-angsty Weasleycest. Whoo whoop.