oh, but you're an explosion
Albus' relationship with his best friend Lysander would be completely, relatively normal if it is not for the fact that the latter is a voyeur.
That's what crosses his mind, anyway, staring at the deep blue of the sky through the eye of a half-eaten doughnut – white chocolate cream and chocolate rice – while the aforementioned voyeur has his eyes glued to his binoculars, spying on a couple not too far away from where they can't be seen.
"You know," Al remarks idly, "I thought those binoculars were a gift from your dad. To go nargle watching, or something." In response, Lysander doesn't move, just smirks infuriatingly – as the Hufflepuff can see from the corner of his eye – before correcting him, teasing, "More specifically, to go bird watching."
"Not just the hens though," the younger boy mutters quietly. Lysander doesn't hear him, and for a while they are quiet, falling into their usual routine – Al tossing doughnuts from the greasy box to his mouth, Lysander invading people's privacy – until suddenly the blonde swears under his breath.
"What?" Al bolts upright, anxious, the doughnut still half-chewed in his mouth – have they been caught?
"Nothing. Just—oh fuck that's hot," his senior hisses, eyes fixated upon whatever was happening. His whole face is a bright red. Curiosity piqued, Al swallows the sugary confection, before scrambling to sit up. Lysander's murmuring something about tongues and then his gaze is on Al, electric-blue-spark setting the circuit to sea-glass green on fire, intense. Al's body seems to malfunction, like how he is when he jerks off on thoughts of – no, he's not going there – or, what? What, what?
His throat is pinhole thin. It takes so much effort to choke out, "Lysander, what—"
But he never gets those words out, because suddenly Lysander is—everywhere – those slender, graceful long fingers Al likes to see tinker at odd metal devices cupping the side of the green-eyed boy's face, digging into flesh so hard they could leave a mark – an imprint – a sign of property; his long, cotton-clad legs framing Al's shorter ones as he – or maybe it's Al, or both of them, fuck this isn't really the time for thinking or – leans in, closing the small space between them; and then those artisan's lips, a glorious masterpiece, pink like budding rose petals, thin, oh god those lips melding with Al's, tasting like water and salt.
And then it's over, Lysander shifting away, and Al wants to cry out, ask him to wait – can we do that again? can we? – but the moment's gone.
He gets his Cloak and leaves.
It was an unlikely sort of friendship to start with – and it couldn't have started without the push of ulterior motives. Lysander is a strange kid – as expected of the child of Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander – constantly fiddling with strange Muggle devices, always keeping to himself; and he made Albus Severus Potter extremely curious.
So it wasn't a strange thing to follow – not stalk – the guy around, right?
Al isn't a good stalker – erm, investigator – and he was caught almost right away, when he tripped on a tree root and the Invisibility Cloak slipped off his shoulders. Lysander had spun around, and the Ravenclaw had already calculated the best possible course of action by the time he had reached the boy sprawled haphazardly on the ground.
"Are you a voyeur?" was the first thing Al blurted out, and possibly not the smartest, either.
"Yes. Do you want to be my friend?" Scamander said absentmindedly, attention already turned to other things.
"What?" Al stuttered, confused. But Lysander was busy – his fingers prodded and poked at the silky cloth hanging off Al's shoulders, mapping out the threads and knots and history. "Did you get this Cloak from your Dad?" he asked, those bright eyes like meteorites never leaving the object in question.
The third-year blinked owlishly, hesitating only a fraction of a second before he said, "Yeah." The other boy just looked at him for a second – gaze scrutinizing, intense, as though he was analysing Al under a microscope, cataloguing every detail of his life, before launching into a full-blown spoken essay on the possible modifications he could experiment on the Cloak. Meanwhile, Al was considering the numerous advantages of having a smarter, older friend.
"Are we friends, then?" he asked, green eyes directed straight at animated blue ones. Lysander blinked for a few seconds, as though trying to wrap his mind around the word, before eagerly responding, "Yes."
Al couldn't, for the life of him, explain why that made him so happy.
Lysander didn't mean it. Al guesses he was just aroused by whatever he saw through the binoculars that day. That kiss – that stole Al's breath and undid him and blew up dynamites in his mind – didn't mean anything. Lysander doesn't… like Al or anything, and Al doesn't, either.
So why is it so hard to stop staring at the other boy's lips?
"Al. Al. Are you alright?" Lysander's in his face – oh gods don't get so close. Al feels the blood rushing to his cheeks. He's kind of lightheaded, floating on air. He's distinctly aware of Lysander asking him if he's alright (again).
"Yes – no. No! No, no – I'm not alright," he manages, chokingly. "I feel weird!" It feels a bit better to tell Lysander this, since he's a) older and hence wiser and also b) a Ravenclaw who is a fountain of useful and occasionally dirty information. Conclusion – he would have a solution.
Lysander's fingers feel cool against his burning cheeks. Al is suddenly plagued by the memory – or is it a mere daydream? – of them tangled in his hair, curling around the messy strands as Lysander dragged him closer, closer—
The boy frowns. "I think your temperature just got higher."
Al nods dumbly. "Do you – do you know why?"
The Ravenclaw smirks, self-satisfied. "Maybe. Say, when did you start feeling all hot and bothered?"
"Since yesterday or so," Al answers. "D'you think it could be the flu bug?"
"Hmm, maybe," Lysander murmurs, before leaning in closer like yesterday, his nose almost touching Al's, his gaze inquisitive. Al attempts to shove him away. "Quit getting all close, it makes me feel worse," he complains.
"If that's the case, I have the diagnosis and the cure!" Lysander declares confidently.
"What's it, then?"
"This," he says shortly, before cutting Al off with a kiss.
And oh gods it is fantastic or amazing or wonderful or. Lysander's kissing him, teeth gently tugging at Al's lower lip, biting and what is that he's doing with his tongue – don't stop, Al wants to say but that would require stopping so yeah he just lets Lysander maul his lips with his teeth and fuck is that tongue – what is that you're doing, Lysander, whatever it is don't stop, dammit, and then Al's synapses remember they exist and he remembers he exists and also the existence of social etiquette which kind of decrees that when someone kisses you, hey, you should kiss back right, it's quite the polite thing to do.
"Better now?" Lysander asks, drawing away.
"Um. Um. Not really. Maybe. Um. Worse," Al confesses, very intelligently.
"That's alright, I've got plenty more stamina," the older boy says cheerfully. And then returns to the deconstruction of Al's mouth.
They're snogging – with greedy tongues and scraping teeth and bruising lips – and then there are hands grabbing – those perfect pianist's fingers curving against Al's cheekbones as Lysander lays a trail of kisses down his jaw, or knitting themselves into the tangle that is Al's dark tresses, as his captor crushes their swollen lips together, raw and desperate and biting and needy, or digging into the Hufflepuff's hipbones as Lysander's teeth bleed a dark pattern into Al's neck, tongue rolling over sweat-and-skin. Somehow they end up on the floor, with Lysander's graceful fingers holding Al down onto the grass, as the former attacks his mouth.
"Just—" kiss "—tell me—" bite "—one more thing," Al gasps out breathily, words trapped underneath his more-than-friend's aggression.
"Wh – what?" Lysander pants out impatiently, his speech almost slurred as though he is drunk. Can you get drunk on kissing?
"Who did—" lick "—you see over in—" moan "—the bushes—" gasp "—that day?"
Out of the blue, Lysander stops in his assault (which causes an unconscious moan of disappointment from Al), straightening to grin wolfishly at Al. He barks out a laugh, before asking cockily, "Who do you think it was?"
"I wouldn't ask you if I knew!" the other boy says, short of breath. Lysander pauses, as though considering whether or not to tell.
"It was your brother," he answers eventually, "And mine, snuggling veeeery cutely together."
"And your face turned all red from hugging! We've seen worse!"
Lysander snorted. "Hardly. Just. It made me think of the worse things," he pauses to nip at Al's teeth, "I could do to you. Starting with my tie, incidentally…"
Albus' relationship with his not-so-best friend Lysander would be completely, relatively normal if it is not for the fact that it commonly resulted in bruised lips, very distinctive hickeys, and suspiciously sore arses.
A/N: Okay, so I can't even pull the 'this is my first time writing slash' plead. I'm sorry if it sucks. Beta'd by wei tian (whatthehellfairy) and clarissa who won't give me her url. I own nothing, except the mistakes.
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