Coffee-flavoured kisses

(an ode to my vice)

Peter was the eldest of the four; it had surprised them, but it was true. Upon him becoming the first teen of the group, James insisted: the teenage morning ritual must be adopted.

They stared curiously into the mug of strong-smelling liquid. One by one, they tasted its contents – James and Peter recoiling, gagging; Remus and Sirius contentedly sharing the remnants between them, trying to conceal their naїve awe at the simple thrill of an indirect kiss.

It became habitual, as time went on. Whoever reached the table first would serve it up for both, maybe adding a spoon of sugar or a square of dark chocolate to Remus'; cinnamon or spices to Sirius'. Afterwards James would complain of their terrible stale coffee breath, but the two canines, catching the scent of the rich aroma mingled with the others' breath, would always disagree. On the day after the full, Sirius would bring him a pot to share; as they grew older, sometimes with a shot of Irish cream or rum to soothe the pain, assuage the fear.

One morning an accident happened, as they do; one mug fell, smashing heavily on the floor. We'll share, someone said; and they did, because friends don't care about those sorts of things. And both cursed their lingering naїvety as they watched the other drink, careful not to let their lips touch the same spot – but somehow they strayed there anyway.

Then the coffee was gone, and they were close, so close; inhaling the same bittersweet air. It was just the obvious thing to do, as kaleidoscopic brown met stormy grey; and they were moving closer, closer, finally meeting somewhere in the middle. Mouths pressed tentatively together, confidence growing as tongues snaked out, tasting.

It became habitual, as time went on. Out in the halls, morning rituals continued; while in the hospital wing, two boys shared coffee-flavoured kisses.

/fin/

a/n I feel so pretentious when I write in this style. But I love it so, so much.