will you sway with me (go astray with me?)

by tigerlilycorinne

Blaise and Neville have... something. They spend their weekends together, kiss and visit Blaise's mother—all that. They're basically in a relationship. Except they haven't said so. Except Blaise isn't out, and when they go clubbing with their friends, Blaise dances all over the girls he finds. But they're basically in a relationship, so it's fine. It's fine.

"Mandrake's?"

Neville shoots Ron a smile, patting the soil down absently. "These? No, mandrakes' tops are—"

Ron shakes his head. "No, tonight. Mandrake's, are you coming?"

"It's Friday already?" Neville tries to recall his calendar. "I… yeah, of course. Always."

Ron shakes his head again, this time rueful. "Man, you must really love your job. You're sad the week's out, and here I've been counting down to the weekend. I'll see you there!" Ron slaps the doorway of the greenhouse and ducks back out.

"Bye," Neville sighs to the closed door.

Neville's not really sure how it started.

He'd thought, before, if he was dating someone, he'd know. If he was in a relationship, he'd know. He wouldn't just fall into a relationship—he was too careful and serious about it to do something like that. Falling into a relationship, not defining a relationship, dating-but-not, that was for more daring, slippery, life-of-the-party types, people who didn't treasure security the way he did.

Perhaps that was why, of all people, he ended up like this with Blaise Zabini; Blaise Zabini was exactly that type.

What he knows is that in Eighth Year, Blaise was his roommate. Blaise was everything Neville felt like he should be: fit, confident, clever. He was cleverer than Draco, even, but didn't work nearly at all, while Draco applied himself diligently.

It shouldn't have been attractive; it was.

In any case, it's not a wonder Neville interested himself in Blaise Zabini—it's a wonder that Blaise Zabini interested himself in Neville. It's a wonder that they started… whatever it is they're doing.

They're not in a relationship.

They're not not in a relationship.

It started in Eighth Year, Harry and his roommates (Ron, Draco, Seamus), Neville and his roommates (Blaise, Dean, Theodore), Hermione and her roommates (Lavender, Pansy, Millicent), plus Ginny and Luna—the whole mass of them had collectively decided they deserved to let loose after the war. They'd found Mandrake's and a few other places, but Mandrake's was the reining favorite: a club that turned a blind eye both to Luna and Ginny's ages and to Harry, Hermione and Ron's celebrity status, and to Draco's ex-Death Eater status.

Neville doesn't actually have to be here after his early dinner, but he wanted to check on the plants just one more time before the weekend, and he may have gotten distracted: he'll be a little late and when he casts a glance outside the greenhouse, he can see that the sun's already dipping against the horizon.

He pats the dirt down a little bit more, sheds his gloves, and leaves the greenhouse, locking it behind him before he Apparates home—if he doesn't change from his cargo pants and dirty T-shirt, he will never hear the end of it from Blaise. Last time he didn't change (he was late and he forgot, pure and simple), Blaise threw his arm around Neville's shoulders and Side-Alonged him without so much as a warning.

"That's not what I opened my wards for you for," Neville said.

Blaise shrugged and threw open Neville's wardrobe. "Needs must. Take those fucking clothes off, they're a disgrace. How'll you pick anyone up that way?" It was a joke. Neville was taking no one home except for Blaise, and it was Blaise with consistency.

Neville took his fucking clothes off.

They were very late to the club.

"He's got practically nothing to wear," Blaise said dismissively, when Harry asked. "Took a while to find something that didn't have dirt stains."

Neville dresses in Muggle jeans and a clean T-shirt and calls that good. Blaise calls it the bare minimum, or perhaps not even that, but it isn't as if Blaise is looking anyway.

He Apparates over.

The music is playing too loud, as usual, and there are more people than Neville usually likes to be around, as usual, and the club is dark with lights that make everything seem more chaotic than it would otherwise be, making it look like people are moving faster and more unpredictably than they are. As usual. It smells strongly of alcohol and even more strongly of people. They're smiling and loud and in motion, and it always takes Neville a moment to take it all in when he gets there.

He's still swallowing down the whole scene, getting his bearings, trying to locate his friends, when Blaise suddenly appears at his elbow.

"You shaved!" he exclaims with delight over the pounding of the music. His eyes trace Neville's face, and he says in Neville's ear, "I like it."

As if Neville didn't know, as if Neville didn't shave specifically for him.

Blaise likes it when Neville shaves; if they were at Neville's place, he'd spend long minutes kissing over Neville's newly smooth skin, the soft underside of Neville's chin. But they're not at Neville's place.

Presently, he takes Neville in the least romantic place possible—his elbow—and pulls him right through the clusters of people. Neville would've picked his way around them, but Blaise has a way of winding about, as if he's made of liquid, slipping through cracks. This is, of course, helped by his presence, the kind of presence that parts best friends right through if he wants to get by. All Neville has to do is follow.

"Neville!" Seamus shouts from his place in the booth, Dean's arm resting easily around his waist. "Fashionably late!"

Pansy looks at them both over her glass—something colorful and sweet-looking. "More like just late. Who let you out like this? Ron, was he wearing this when you checked in with him?"

"He was wearing something worse," Ron says cheerily. "But who cares? I'd hit that."

"Thank you, Ron." Neville smiles.

Neville can feel Blaise's hand tighten around his arm, and it gives him irrational pleasure. "Too bad no one would hit that then, Weasley, not even Longbottom."

Neville slides into the booth and accepts the drink Harry slides him—good old fashioned fire whiskey. He'll need it. As he always does to make it through Friday nights. "I resent that 'even.'"

Ron throws up his hands and looks down at his baggy clothes, wrinkled enough that Ron could've slept in them. He clearly hasn't changed from Auror training. "What, you don't think I'm hot enough? Shows what you know, Zabini. There's no accounting for heterosexual taste."

Blaise laughs easily. "Maybe I am the only heterosexual with taste."

Neville takes such a long drink from his Firewhiskey he almost comes up coughing.

Accepting a friendly thumping on the back from Harry, Neville settles into a night sharing drinks with his friends, as Pansy and Blaise take to the dance floor. Pansy dances on her own, eyes closed, jet black hair shining under the colored lights. When she looks back to the table of those who aren't dancing, her eyes invariably find Hermione, who looks as if her heart's going to fall out of her open mouth.

Blaise doesn't dance alone for long—soon enough, he catches a girl's eye, just as he always does. Today's girl has a tiny waist and a large chest, long hair that she keeps loose even as she dances. She shimmies up, and someone walks between Neville and Blaise, and when Neville's view is clear again, her back is to his chest, his hands on her hips. There is no discernible space between Blaise's crotch and her arse. It's that kind of song, as Blaise would say.

Neville downs the rest of his Firewhiskey and looks away. He tries to take the anger in his gut toward the girl and redirect it towards Blaise. The girl has no idea. It's not her fault.

After Eighth Year, they just kept doing this. The whole gang would hit the clubs—or really, club, since it's hard to turn around such a large group and because they have… a diverse crowd—and Blaise would dance, all hips and long limbs. He didn't approach any girls, but he sure didn't turn anyone down. And they still kept doing other things, Blaise and Neville. Lunch together, dinner together, sleeping together, the whole deal.

Neville did ask once, why Blaise hadn't come out yet. Blaise had said he didn't want to think about it, about talking to everyone and saying "oh, I'm gay." He didn't like the bit after, more than anything—when people would make reference to his newly out sexuality or good-naturedly tease him about it. He wanted to live in a world where he'd always been out, which Neville could admit he understood. "Besides," Blaise had said, "Why do they assume I'm straight? That's their default, not mine."

So Neville let it be.

An even worse song comes on.

Neville looks around to see if he can get a refill.

When Neville and Blaise get back to Neville's place—Harry left with Draco, Luna with Ginny, Pansy with Hermione, Dean with Seamus, and the rest of them collectively agreed that the night was closing—Blaise does his little guilty dance again, leaning unhappily against door frames, sitting knees-on-elbows, hand rubbing the back of his neck, until Neville finally asks if Blaise is hungry or wants a glass of water, and Blaise rolls his eyes and pulls him into bed.

To be fair, Neville doesn't say anything about it. And they never agreed that Blaise couldn't dance or anything—because couples sometimes do that: one half of a couple will dance with someone who is not the other half all the time. Particularly if the other half is tired and is fine with it… but it isn't as if they're actually a couple, so the whole train of thought is pointless anyway.

When Neville wakes up beside Blaise, he tells himself again that this is enough for him.

"I don't understand why you live so Muggle," Blaise says, watching Neville push scrambled eggs around the pan. "It seems like so much trouble."

"I have wards." Neville lifts a shoulder, smiling over his shoulder. "What more magic do I need? This way, there's low enough magical interference that I can actually have a telephone."

Blaise slides his arms around Neville's waist, putting his chin on Neville's shoulder with a matching smile. "Yeah? Who are you telephoning, then?"

Blaise has a point; it isn't as if anyone else has a telephone, so it really doesn't have much use. Ron once called from a pay phone because he made Harry teach him how to use it properly, but other than that… the telephone's just there. Neville enjoys the beeping sounds it makes when he puts in numbers, the idea that you could have a conversation with someone who isn't there. Wizards, he thinks, should have an equivalent, or perhaps develop magic-proof telephones.

He turns his head and kisses Blaise softly, closing his eyes, savoring the gentle, innocent press of Blaise's mouth. Blaise tastes of a minty breath-freshening charm and of a Hangover potion. When Neville pulls back, he looks at Blaise innocently and says, "My Muggle boyfriend."

Blaise snorts and lets Neville go to slap him on the shoulder and move away, getting out his favorites of Neville's plates—the ones Blaise himself bought for Neville, a not-so-subtle hint that there's nothing "decent" in Neville's cabinets. "Fuck you," he says sweetly, and grabs the toast from the toaster. "Ow. Fuck."

"Toaster's hot," Neville says belatedly. No matter how many times Blaise makes breakfast with Neville, Blaise always forgets to be careful with the toaster.

Blaise shakes out his hand. "Muggle," he groans. "No finesse. The heat gets everywhere."

Neville just shakes his head at Blaise with a fond smile and adds the scrambled eggs to the plate. "Grab jam and butter? If you must."

Blaise does this gross thing where he puts a thick layer of butter on the toast and then a thin layer of jam over it; Neville thinks butter and jam should not be applied to the same piece of toast. Blaise says he agrees in theory, but that in practice, butter-and-jam toast tastes too good. Neville likes the smile Blaise gets when he teases Blaise about it.

Sure enough, Blaise smiles this half-amused, half-exasperated smile, and Neville's heart skips a beat.

"So what are your weekend plans?" Blaise asks, once they've laid out the table and sat themselves across from each other. He leans back in his chair, tipping it back until it hits the wall behind him. They're in one of Neville's favorite parts of the house—the breakfast nook, the space taken almost entirely by a small round table and wooden chairs, a window out into the street on one side. Whenever Blaise stays for breakfast, he spreads out his limbs as if he's trying to occupy the whole space on his own.

Neville leans forward, elbow on the table, chin propped in his hand. "More of the same. Planting some things in my backyard, bake something. I think I may need to do a little grocery shopping; fridge is getting empty."

Blaise raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, fine, yes, I'll go with you to your mother's." As friends goes unsaid, but they both know it's there. If Neville is free on Saturdays, he does this. Goes to Ms. Zabini's place and helps Blaise through the misery of visiting his mum. The thing about it is Ms. Zabini always wants to know about who Blaise is with, if anyone. She's always tickled to hear that Blaise goes to clubs all the time and dances with people. Over nearly a year of visits, Neville has come to realize it's a completely genuine excitement for her son; Ms. Zabini falls in love in the blink of an eye, and she keeps hoping that Blaise will find that spark too.

But Blaise invariably says he hasn't found someone yet.

It's Friday again, and Harry has been tasked with letting Neville know it's about time.

Neville's up to his elbows in dirt when Harry pops in, per usual, joking that Neville ought to set an alarm.

"Why set an alarm?" Neville jokes, "I have you!" But he makes a mental note (and hopes it will stick) to devise some way to remind himself what time it is so he can get there in time. He thinks, maybe, if he enjoyed their nights more he wouldn't keep putting off checking the time, as if not knowing was a good enough excuse.

Harry waits for Neville as Neville brushes off and changes quickly—clean T-shirt and jeans.

"Come on," Harry says.

"Mandrake's?"

"'Course. We idiots have no variety, as Draco has said." Harry offers his arm for Apparition.

There's a twist and a whirl, the squeezing sensation of being pulled rapidly through a tube, and then they land with a jolt outside of Mandrake's, music spilling out of the club, dim lights outside lighting up the grimy sidewalk.

They slip inside, past the bouncer who doesn't even blink at Harry Potter striding through the doors, through people who either don't notice or don't care or are fully used to Harry Potter. It's a relief for Neville, who enjoys Harry but not the attention Harry brings, and certainly for Harry, who seems to shed an untraceable mask he wears—one he wears in public which makes him seem both personable and completely unapproachable—when he steps through the door.

Here he's just Harry with baggy T-shirts and a crooked grin.

Here, Neville is just another fat man, blond, smiley, who sits at the table and drinks alcohol, perpetually single.

Here, Blaise is the center of the dance scene, already gleaming, slightly sweaty, on the floor. Today he has a redhead with straight hair cut sharply at the shoulders, brilliant red-lips-white-teeth smile. Her shorts are barely there. Her arms are around Blaise's neck.

When she lets go, whirling and dancing solo but definitely as a show for Blaise, Blaise doesn't take his eyes off of her. He probably doesn't even know Neville's there.

Blaise's hips move like he's fucking someone.

"Blaise is getting some," Harry says loudly over the music, following Neville's gaze. "Can't bring myself to dance like that, even if that's how we're supposed to do it. But clearly it works. Jesus Christ."

"You have a boyfriend," Neville reminds Harry, trying to keep his tone light, although nothing can be completely unaggressive when you have to talk this loud.

He can't even blame Harry. Blaise looks like he's professionally trained to be a sex god. He'd probably make real money as a dancer for some pretty big stars—hips, bare limbs, the kind of look that would set even a straight man on fire. He's got this uncanny connection to the beat, as if the beat might be matching him instead of the other way around.

Neville loses his breath watching Blaise dance from across the room, half a dozen people crossing his line of sight every minute.

He can't blame the girls, either. He might like to share a drink with some of them. Commiserate.

"Even a taken bloke can appreciate that talent," Harry says, and Neville pulls his eyes away from Blaise. "But you're right—where is my boyfriend?"

They look for Draco's spot of white-blond hair, and locate the rest of the group this way. Pansy is just kissing Hermione a coy farewell and sauntering off to dance, waving at Harry and Neville as she passes them.

Seamus and Dean aren't there, and it takes a moment—half looking and half focusing too hard on not looking at Blaise to look for anyone else—for Neville to find them on the dance floor. They're both disasters, but they laugh at each other and catch each other when they stumble, and Neville thinks that's certainly the better option against having the hottest dancer on the floor getting handsy with someone else.

Is hands on the waist handsy? What if her waist is bare and her top is basically a bra? And it looks like his thumbs are touching the base of it?

Neville looks away. Again.

He can't talk to Hermione; Hermione's all googly eyes. He can't talk to Draco or Harry, since their hello rather occupies their mouths. He casts a look around the table—Ron's watching Neville with eyebrows raised, the kind of expression that says both goddamn and woe is me. It sums up to that's one hot straight boy.

Neville accepts a Firewhiskey and throws it back without fanfare. "Have you got your eye on anyone, Ron? Everybody else seems to have paired off."

Ron shakes his head, running a finger down the condensation on the glass in front of him absently. "Dunno. No. Why, are you asking me out? Gotta say, flattered, but—"

"No, no," Neville waves his hands quickly. "Definitely not. I was just wondering if you have some secret romance or something. You seem so…"

Ron's mouth lifts. "Content to be alone?" He shrugs. "I am. Maybe someone will come along, but I'm just fine like this. I mean, you're single and you don't seem to be trying to meet anyone either."

Neville, through sheer force of will, keeps his eyes from straying to Blaise. Another one of those songs has come on again, and the people on the dance floor are going wild. "Yeah," he says, after too long of a pause. "Guess I'm not. Not really."

That's why he hates this. Or, one of the reasons why he hates this. It's not only that Blaise keeps getting out there and pulling girls, but that Neville has to lie to his friends, too. Blaise's lie becomes his own.

He doesn't think he would mind, though, if Blaise didn't keep letting girls put their hands all over him. If he needed time to come out… Neville thinks he would wait a hell of a long time. Years.

But when Neville's pretty much lying to Ron at the same exact time Blaise is grinding his hips into a redhead's arse… that's another story.

Fine. Fine! It's the girls, yes. Jealousy is such a bad, black emotion.

When Neville tosses back more drinks, watching Ron and not the man he thinks he might love on the dance floor, he thinks he can pretend that bad, black emotion isn't sitting in the pit of his stomach after all. It's just the whiskey.

There's a low whistle from the bathroom. "Longbottom…."

Neville slips in his shirt, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. By the time he's got all his limbs situated in his shirt and has stood up from the edge of his bed, Blaise is standing in front of Neville, pulling the collar of his shirt down with a pointed smirk.

Neville doesn't need to see; he saw earlier this morning, when Blaise didn't have any shirt on at all. He'd woken up before Blaise, right as dawn was breaking, streaming through the curtains and catching on Blaise's tight curls, his long eyelashes, the smooth curve of his cheek. And… the bruises on Blaise's collarbone, the faint scratches on his sides. Neville had gone hot, remember the sounds Blaise had made when he'd dragged his nails, when he'd sunken his teeth in.

Neville hadn't done it because he thought Blaise might like it—although if he had thought it, maybe he would have—he'd only done it because he couldn't stop thinking about that redhead, her hands on Blaise's back, her eyes on the sweat in the hollow of Blaise's throat. Neville, mostly but not entirely sobered up by the time they fell into bed, had wanted to press himself over every inch of Blaise, wanted to leave traces of himself there. He isn't yours, he wanted to say to anyone who saw Blaise. But even through that, he'd had the sense to bite where a shirt could cover it, however much he wanted to leave one on Blaise's neck, where the world could see it.

He didn't like this. He hadn't… he hadn't thought he was like this.

Biting, possessive.

In the clear morning light, he wanted to take the whole shameful thing back.

Blaise lets his collar back up, straightening it neatly. "You had a bit to drink last night, I assume." He hands over a vial—a Hangover Potion from Neville's cabinet, glimmering—and takes a seat next to Neville for a minute on the bed, rubbing Neville's shoulder as Neville takes it down and makes a face. It's the kind of tender gesture that Blaise likes to pretend he doesn't do, the kind that makes Neville's heart pound out of his chest; Blaise can probably feel it. "It was a fun time. I certainly look like I had a good time."

"Fuck." Neville rubs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, trying to get the lingering bitterness of the potion off of his palate. "I didn't mean to… Merlin. Look at you. Merlin and Godric."

Blaise grins that grin he gives when he's pleased and going soft—a little sheepish, but proud at the same time, and leans in. "You're a vision, blushing like that," he murmurs, taking Neville's face in both hands.

"Merlin," Neville says again, pushing Blaise's shoulder gently. "Don't kiss me. I've just taken a Hangover Potion. I should at least brush my teeth."

Sighing, Blaise turns his head and presses a kiss to Neville's forehead and his cheek and his neck, gentle and close-lipped. "I'll help you make breakfast, and then we can brush our teeth, and then I can kiss you properly. Come on."

Neville, head now clear and Blaise's chest well-covered, nods and stands. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Mandrake's?"

It's Friday. Again.

Hermione is the one to come grab him, still dressed in crisp business robes, clinched at the waist and billowy, her bushy hair yanked back against her head, poof-ing up behind her in a ponytail. "We'll both have to change, I guess," she says, looking at Neville's dirty knees. "You'll meet me there? Or should I escort you."

"The escorting is unnecessary," Neville assures her with a smile. "Thanks for the reminder."

Hermione tilts her head with a bemused expression. "No problem. I know a thing or two about needing time checks."

Neville pops home, changes, and Apparates to Mandrake's, where Hermione meets him. She winds her way through the people as if it's a busy street and she's late back from her lunch break: impatient, purposeful, an expression that makes the people step out of her way. She probably looks like there's a bit of an emergency compared to the rest of the people here. Neville lets her drag him by the wrist, shooting apologetic smiles in her wake.

"Hermione." Pansy takes a sip from her cocktail, leaving lipstick on the glass, and drags her eyes over what Hermione's now wearing: short-short denim, a tight half-sleeve top that stops before her waist. Pansy looks like she's physically restraining herself. "Hello."

I want that, Neville finds himself thinking, watching their open affection, Merlin. I want that.

Blaise is not on the dance floor yet; he's still talking to Draco, his hand curled around an almost-empty glass, leaning back in the booth. When he catches sight of Neville, he raises his glass as if to say cheers, but he returns to Draco without missing a beat, finishing off the rest of his drink. From here, Neville can read his lips: Gonna dance.

Neville knows Draco has been watching him watch Blaise—Slytherins, Merlin, they don't miss a thing—and he really doesn't want to hear what Draco did and didn't see. He can still feel Draco's eyes on him, narrowing slightly as Blaise leaves for the dance floor with a friendly shoulder bump for Neville and a smile, sending Neville's heart into a tailspin, and Neville knows Draco can see it.

So Neville announces, "I'll grab us a couple more drinks," and turns right back around.

There's plenty of space for Neville to make it through, mostly, but it feels as if sweaty bodies are pressing in on him from all sides, lithe bodies. When he makes it to the bar, it feels like a lesser version of stepping out of the club—the music falls away a little, there are fewer people around him, and they move less.

He didn't think this through: he didn't ask what people wanted. He didn't think of where to put his eyes while he's waiting for the drinks, since he doesn't like to watch the bartender too intently, or he feels as if he's acting impatient. He has nothing to take his attention off of the dance floor.

The redhead is back, narrow shoulders and a bright neon top, the kind of cross between beautiful and wild that Neville has always thought Blaise would go for. And Blaise isn't bisexual, he's gay, he's said so himself. But Godric, a part of Neville wishes more than anything that he was that girl anyway.

"Hey, hey!"

Neville turns. The bartender is slapping the bar in front of Neville, the drinks on a tray beside him, a wry smile on his lips.

"These are for you."

Neville swallows, pushing the bitter feeling in his chest down so he can manage a smile at the man. "Yeah, uh. Thanks."

"'Course. Hey, tough luck, huh?" The bartender nods in the direction of the dance floor. "Sometimes it's like that. But there are other blokes, you know? People have been looking your way."

Neville forces a smile and a light tone. "They're not him," he says, unable to stop himself from looking in the direction the bartender is.

They're dancing facing each other, which in some ways he likes better—at least it doesn't look quite as much like they're having sex—but then—

"Oh, shit." The bartender sounds sorry.

They're kissing.

She starts it, leaning in, but that's hardly a consolation. Not when Blaise is, after a split second of maybe, maybe, maybe—he's kissing back. Hands on her waist.

The music plays on.

"Huh," is what Neville can get out. "Okay."

He feels kind of numb. He can't stop watching.

"Hey." It's the bartender who stops him, leaning over the counter to pull at his shoulder, urging him to turn away. "Hey, shit, hey. Have… have a drink. Sorry, that's. That sucks."

"Yeah." Neville lets the bartender manhandle him around and push the drinks into his hands. "Sorry. Thanks."

"Get back to your friends," the bartender says, not unkindly. "Don't look."

Neville does that.

They're at home. At Neville's home. "Um," Blaise says pointedly, shifting on his feet in the middle of Neville's living room. "Well…"

At this point, they usually would've made it to Neville's bedroom, but like hell is Neville taking him to bed tonight.

"Well," Neville echoes. He looks around, studiously avoiding looking at Blaise. He hasn't really been able to since they left Mandrake's. "I think I'm going to grab a Sobering Potion. Do you want one?"

"A Sobering Potion?" Blaise follows him into the bathroom, where Neville's rifling through the cabinets under the counter. "They taste like shit. They feel like shit."

"And they sober you up, which is what I think I want," Neville replies flatly, pulling out one vial. "I guess you don't want one?"

Blaise sighs, and he crouches beside Neville. When he speaks, Neville can picture the careful look on his face. "I'll take one if you're taking one. Listen, if you want to talk about it…"

Neville presses the cold vial into Blaise's open hand without looking his way, popping his own open and downing it in one go, capping it, walking briskly past Blaise, making his way to the kitchen so he can wash the vial clean. "Talk about what?"

"Neville." Blaise is following him, the pop of the Sobering Potion vial sounding behind Neville. "Tonight. The…" There's a pause. "The girl I kissed. Neville—you can just wash them with magic…"

It's too quiet, Neville's house. He kind of wishes that they were back in the club, so that he could pretend not to hear Blaise. He settles for turning on the water, perhaps harder than he needs to. He can feel the Sobering Potion taking effect—everything seems a little sharper, clearer: the black sky and the silhouettes of trees through the window, the hard spray of water in the sink and against the glass of the vial. Blaise's presence beside him.

"Why would we talk about that?" Neville watches the vial quickly overflow with water, and just continues to hold it under the water, watching. It'll be clean in a few seconds, but he might as well wash it for longer, just to be sure. Blaise draws a breath beside him, and his gut twists. "You didn't do anything unexpected. You've been putting your hands all over plenty of girls already. If you want to kiss a girl, kiss a girl! You're not—" He puts the vial down and turns to face Blaise only long enough to take Blaise's now-empty vial and start washing that one. "Under any obligations to me. And I'm not under any illusions in regards to you."

For once, Blaise seems at a loss. His hands curl around the edge of the counter, more still than Neville has ever seen Blaise. He's quiet as Neville finishes washing his vial and pulls a kitchen towel to dry them off more vigorously than he needs to. Neville hates the silence, hates the way Blaise's lack of response makes him feel even more stupid than he already feels, so he turns and puts the vials away and, for lack of anything else to do, walks back out of the room again.

"Let's talk about it, then," Blaise says after him, "Neville!"

Neville doesn't think he's heard Blaise say his name this many times in only a few minutes before, ever. Except in bed. "So talk about it," he says. He can't help one glance at Blaise—Blaise is rubbing his neck, his brow furrowed. Neville can't look at him any longer than a second without his anger fading, and he wants to be angry, he wants to stay angry about this.

"I…" Blaise starts, and stops. "I've never seen you like this."

Neither have I, Neville thinks, feeling a little foolish, but he can't make himself settle and smile again—when he reaches for that side of him, it won't come. He wishes it would. This may not be an argument he can win, and then he'll just feel foolish. He says, "Well, I've never seen you kiss a girl." I've never seen you kiss anyone but me, he thinks but doesn't say.

"It's not—I don't… she kissed me, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't mean it." Blaise is so still, standing there in the middle of Neville's living room. "Are you upset because I haven't come out?"

Merlin. "Are you kidding?" Neville bursts out, looking at Blaise before he can stop himself. Blaise's hands hover a second before dropping, as if he was reaching for Neville before Neville looked up. Fuck, Neville can feel his anger dropping—Blaise looks so miserable. "No. No, I—no, take all the time you need. Fuck, Blaise, you kissed someone! Is it stupid to be upset about that?"

"Well, I—"

"I know you don't owe me anything," Neville interrupts. "I should've expected—it's not like we're anything special, right? And it was only a kiss."

"Neville."

"But I kind of thought we did. Have something."

Blaise sucks in a breath. "Neville…"

"But it's not like I'm known for being right about things."

"Neville!" Blaise grabs his shoulders. "Merlin's sake! When I said we should talk about it, I meant we." His eyes are the prettiest brown Neville's ever seen, and he's looking Neville right in the eyes.

They make Neville want to run and hide and never come out again. "What do you want to say? Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I meant that much to you? I thought we were just having fun?"

Blaise's expression flickers, and Neville knows he's got it in one. "Well…"

"I already fucking know that. Merlin." Neville takes Blaise's hands off of his shoulders and pulls his gaze away. "Just leave, alright? Let's not talk about it."

"Neville…" But it comes out weak, as if Blaise doesn't really want to be protesting.

"Please, just." Neville waves his hand and swings open the door, letting in a rush of cold air. "I really can't right now."

For a moment, they're just standing there, Neville waiting for Blaise to go. A part of him hopes that Blaise will refuse to leave, that Blaise will say something.

But Blaise just lets out a breath and leaves.

Friday.

It's Friday, and Neville hasn't spoken to or even seen Blaise since a week ago. He missed the get-together with Blaise's mother for the first time in a while, and his Saturday felt empty; his breakfast felt lonely and quiet. He always thought he wanted more quiet on the weekends, but it felt all wrong.

Someone knocks on the greenhouse, and Neville flicks his hand, opening the door without looking. He's poking small divots into the soil and dropping seeds in, covering them carefully with half an inch of soil, and he's nearly done with this row. Finishing the row gives him a minute to think—does he even want to go tonight? He thinks perhaps not. He thinks… it may hurt too much to see Blaise dancing as if nothing happened, even though Neville's the one who said they shouldn't talk about it.

Footsteps approach as he finishes up the row and stands, brushing his hands off on his already dirty trousers…

It's Blaise.

Blaise blinks his brown eyes and wets his lips, meeting Neville's gaze. Usually, Neville sees Blaise over the course of the week as well, and now that he hasn't had anything but Blaise in his memory for a week, Blaise in person hits Neville like a punch in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. The sheer amount of bare skin Blaise shows when he goes clubbing—a sleeveless Muggle T-shirt, showing the curve of his biceps, the loose neckline where Neville can see Blaise's collarbone, the short hem where he can see Blaise's hip. It sets off an ache in him, the amount of time it's been since he's kissed Blaise's lips, his neck, his jaw, since he's pressed his hands in Blaise's soft curls and on the small of Blaise's back and traced his ribs.

And he knows: he absolutely cannot do this.

"I'm not—" he starts, but he breaks off involuntarily, because Blaise raises his hand up to Neville's face, and for a breathless moment, Neville thinks Blaise might kiss him.

Blaise doesn't touch Neville's cheek, just hovers his hand there for a moment, and then seems to chicken out, letting his hand fall back to his side. "Dirt," he says, as if he's having trouble speaking. His eyes drop to the unfinished planting job at Neville's feet. "On your cheek."

Neville rubs the sleeve of his long-sleeve shirt vigorously against his cheek where Blaise's hand almost touched, swallowing his disappointment. Had he really thought… "I'm not coming."

Blaise's head snaps up. "No," he says quickly, "No, come."

"I have… planting to finish. I want to put in these Dittany seeds so I can have sprouts by Monday." Neville's astonished he's managed a full sentence. He holds up the packet of Dittany seeds, half empty, to punctuate his sentence. That's not even the speed at which Dittany takes root and sprouts, but Blaise doesn't know that.

"I'll help!" Blaise looks down at his clean clothes, biting his lip, and before Neville can protest, he's on his knees in the dirt, straightening the box with the lines of little pots Neville was working at a minute ago. "I'll poke the holes and you put the seeds in. We can both cover them."

"Blaise." Neville joins Blaise on the ground with the bag of seeds. "I can't."

Blaise's eyes flash. "I'm not going to be the reason you don't go to the club with your friends. I'll stay back?"

"Don't stay back." Neville puts in the seeds and watches Blaise cover them deftly. He's good at gardening, Blaise. A week ago, Neville would've told him so, but now he just watches.

"If you're not going, I'm staying here and planting." Blaise tilts his head at Neville, a small checkmate smile in the corner of his mouth. "Please."

Neville stands abruptly, rubbing his hands off on his trousers again, looking away. "Fine. Let's just go."

Blaise looks up at him from the ground, still patting down the soil lightly over one of the seeds with one hand. There's dirt dusted over his trousers and on his white shirt. Neville wants more of this—gardening with Blaise, dirtied up, earnest-looking. "The… dittany?"

Awkwardly, Neville shakes his head at Blaise, not sure what words to use to say, that was a lie; I just didn't want to be around you. "None of them will sprout by Monday," he settles on.

"Oh. I see." Blaise stands, looking down and brushing off his trousers lightly, though it doesn't get rid of all the dirt. "I don't know anything about plants." This is accompanied by a tiny, hesitant smile and a soft laugh.

Neville's heart skips in his chest. "You're good enough at planting," he can't help saying.

Blaise's answering smile makes his heart feel tight.

You should help me plant the rest tomorrow, he wants to say, but he locks the words carefully away and puts them at the back of his mind, along with most of his other thoughts about having something with Blaise. "I have to change," he says instead. He's got on loose jeans with dirty knees and a baggy brown shirt—despite the color, you can still see the dirt smears on his front where he occasionally wipes his hands.

Blaise just takes his hand, gently. His hands are big, with thin fingers, and warm as anything. "Let's just go," he says, far more gently than Neville said it, and Neville wants to ask him what the hell he's doing. What's the point of being all soft and nice to Neville? Neville would rather pretend nothing happened than deal with Blaise's overly-kind pity act.

Neville's about to insist on changing when he realizes that would probably mean Blaise also coming into Neville's house, which he'd like to avoid entirely. So he nods and says instead, "Stop looking at me like that." And tightens his hand around Blaise's for the Side-Apparition.

Crack!

As soon as they land, Neville releases Blaise's hand, pushing his hands into his pockets instead, and hurries in ahead of Blaise, winding through people. Sweaty, dancing, singing, yelling to each other, making out shamelessly, throwing back shots and laughing… they're all lively and exciting. Normally, this is a con to Neville, but tonight it might be a pro: they're distracting. They provide clutter, however unpleasant that clutter is, and today clutter is more than welcome. Today, Neville will take even the most unpleasant mental clutter there is, if only to avoid focusing on Blaise. Fridays are always about Blaise.

Not tonight.

Tonight, Neville's got his work cut out for him: he'll drink and laugh with his friends and not look at the dance floor, not once. Surely Ron has interesting stories. Surely Harry has a new stalker. Surely Draco has a new petty disagreement with his mother, who he pretends not to adore.

What's especially nice is that if Blaise is saying Neville's name, Neville can't hear it. He's probably imagining things anyway; Blaise doesn't really talk to him on Fridays—not much anyway—until they get to Neville's place.

"You haven't changed," Ron observes by way of greeting when Neville makes it to the table and waves hello to everyone. "I thought Zabini was fetching you?"

Neville slides into the booth, glancing back—just the one time!—to see how far Blaise is behind him. Not that far. He's doing that thing, where he slips deftly through the crowd and something about the way he moves makes people part for him. Neville grins at Ron. Or, he hopes it's a grin. "Yeah, well. If you'd believe it, he permitted these clothes."

"You look like you were gardening in those clothes." Pansy leans across the table and licks her thumb, rubbing at Neville's jaw. "Blaise must be someone else in Polyjuice."

"No, it was me," Blaise says, finally arriving at the table and throwing his star-bright smile around the table. "We're couples matching."

Neville tries very hard not to choke on the air. Couples matching? Blaise is clearly joking, but it's still. Not. A Blaise thing to say. About a guy. "We're not."

"He's pissed at me." Blaise waves his hand down his front. "But the clothes speak for themselves."

"You're dirty!" Pansy exclaims with horror.

"Absolutely filthy," Blaise agrees, lifting his arms behind his head so the hem of his shirt rides up and Neville can see his navel, and does something with his hips.

Neville looks down at his drink.

"You look like you've been rolling in soil," Draco says flatly. "It doesn't look particularly artful."

"No appreciation for sex appeal," Blaise says, sighing in mock disappointment. He grabs an untouched drink that Draco pushes his way. "What's this?"

"Firewhiskey."

"Sure, why not." It's only because Neville's watching the table and not Blaise's face that Neville notices his hand is shaking a little. Neville doesn't look up, but a short moment later, Blaise's brown, thin-fingered hand places the glass back on the table, empty.

"I said Firewhiskey," Draco says, "Not water."

"Just give me another one," Blaise says. Neville holds up the one Harry has just passed him without looking up. He's not going to look at Blaise he's not—

There's a pause, and then Blaise takes the glass from him, and then Neville can't help looking up, watching Blaise's Adam's apple go up and down and up and down.

Someone whistles low—Seamus. "You have to give it a minute, mate," he says.

The song slips seamlessly into another one—the kind that Blaise likes. Most of them here are, but it still hurts.

Blaise hands the glass back to Neville half empty and leaves. For the dance floor.

Neville doesn't look away until Blaise's back disappears behind other dancers. He looks back down at his glass.

"What was that?" Ginny demands, probably voicing the thoughts of the entire table.

"I don't know," Neville says.

"What did he mean when he said you were pissed at him?" Hermione asks bluntly, her eyes narrowed, as if Neville's a case to be solved. "That would put him in a mood for sure."

"I don't know."

Hermione frowns. "You're clearly pissed."

Pansy laughs quietly. "No tact," she says fondly, just loud enough to be heard over the music, just about as tenderly as you can get in a place this loud. "Not an ounce."

They're such a sweet fucking couple, Neville thinks miserably. Even though Pansy's a flirty diva sex goddess and Hermione can't puzzle social conventions for the life of her. Hermione's a genius badass, though. Neville's neither of those.

"Not pissed," he lies. He picks up the half-full glass. "Gonna be, though."

"Did you have eyes on the girl he was snagging last night?" Ron frowns sympathetically. "I know you were watching them last night."

"Maybe." It's close enough.

The music halts.

It feels shockingly, stunningly quiet for a moment, as people chatter in confusion for a moment, pausing in their dancing, looking around at each other. They're moving idly away from the dance floor, back to the booths, laughing with slightly hoarse voices. The lights are still going, moving slowly across the floor.

"Damn, I was going to dance," Pansy says, and Hermione laughs softly, putting her head on Pansy's shoulder. "This is good too," Pansy amends.

Neville's ready to call it a technical difficulty when there's a small microphone screech.

"Um," comes Blaise's voice. From the speakers. "Wow, Muggle technology. This is interesting."

"Oh my god," Ginny says.

Neville agrees.

"Um." An awkward laugh. "I should've written this down, I think. But I didn't think the DJ would wait for me to do that. So… I… There's someone I had kind of a thing with, and I thought—I mean I didn't know if it was a big deal or not, but I wanted it to be. I want it to be. So… no pressure, because I know you're mad at me, but if you want to dance… Fuck, I'm much more charming when I'm not about to piss my pants." Another awkward laugh. Several people laugh with Blaise, murmuring to each other. "I just thought… I thought we had something special too."

The dance floor has cleared so that everybody can see Blaise, standing there at the front of the room with the microphone in his hand. It's such a Blaise thing to do—to get up in front of a bunch of people and try to be charming to solve a problem—but fuck, it's worked. Blaise's expression is equal parts earnest and terrified, and he's got someone to fucking spotlight him, and Neville is charmed.

He's pretty sure he can't walk over to Blaise—his knees are weak and his heart is pounding, and butterflies doesn't even begin to cover what's going on in his stomach, but he manages to stand up.

Seamus lets out another whistle.

"Sure," Neville says, and heads turn. "Yes. I'll dance with you."

More whistles, a couple awww. A few people are cheering, including Ron.

Blaise's mouth opens. His eyes go wide. "Thank fuck," he says. Into the mic. He's staring straight at Neville with those brown eyes. "Can we have a slow dance? I honestly don't think I'm capable of anything else right now."

There's the fumbling click of a microphone getting disconnected, and then music pours out of the speaker.

It's a slow song.

Couples are dragging each other out onto the floor: Seamus and Dean, Pansy and Hermione, Luna and Ginny, Harry and Draco, Theo and Millicent.

The redhead, the one who was dancing with Blaise last week, taps Ron on the shoulder. "So you're not alone at the table."

Ron gives Neville a push in his back. "Go get him."

So Neville makes his way over to Blaise, people parting to make a path for him.

"Blaise," Neville says when he reaches Blaise. "Merlin's tits."

Blaise gives him a shaky smile. "Neville." He loops his long arms around Neville's waist.

"I didn't mean… I only wanted you to stop hitting off with other people." Neville wraps his arms around Blaise's neck. They're so close, Neville has to look up to look at Blaise. And they're in public. "I didn't mean you had to out yourself."

"Nah. I wanted to."

Neville doesn't mind the loud music so much now. It travels from the floor through his feet, feels like it's sinking in through his skin. It's like a hug. "If you're sure."

"What? Didn't it work?" Blaise has regained his star-bright smile, but he's smiling it only at Neville, drawing Neville's body closer, so that their waists press together.

Neville can't help smiling back. He feels as if his happiness is ready to burst through his skin. "I guess it did, yeah."

Blaise's eyes flit down. "Can I kiss you? Or are you still pissed?"

Neville's breath catches. He slides his hands up Blaise's neck and pulls Blaise down. It's a sweet kiss, slow and easy. Blaise's arms tighten around him when he presses his hands into Blaise's springy curls, parting his lips. When they pull away, Neville kisses Blaise's jaw lightly. He's missed Blaise's skin, his reactions, the way his hands tighten whenever Neville kisses him. "I want to know what we are before I answer that question," he says, pulling back so he can properly look at Blaise's face.

Blaise pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. "Do you want—? Can we be—?"

"Monogamous?"

"I was going to say boyfriends." Blaise's smiles. Merlin. "Monogamous, yes. Yes."

"Boyfriends sounds good," Neville says breathlessly. "Yes."

Blaise has a hickey on his neck.

Neville offered to heal it, but Blaise declined, pressing it lightly with his thumb and looking pleased. Blaise kissed Neville's jaw, murmuring something about Neville shaving, and Neville was sufficiently distracted.

"You know I don't mind that you dance with other people?" Neville says, kissing the tips of Blaise's fingers where he burned himself a little getting the toast out of the toaster. "I just wish they knew you're not on the market."

Blaise looks up at him. "I do like dancing. But not more than I like you."

Neville serves up a fried egg on both of their plates, trying and failing to hide his blush. It's not even a good line; he shouldn't be blushing. "I really don't mind."

Blaise grins, his eyes on Neville's face. "If you're sure." He taps his fingers with his wand, healing them, and glances at the clock. They took a while getting out of bed; this is more brunch than breakfast. "Are you coming today, to my mother's?"

"Of course. We'll just have to eat light." It's lunch, every week, and there's always more food than really is necessary for three people—enough appetizers to be a meal by themselves, multiple courses, dessert—and it's an unspoken rule that they have to at least try to eat what they're served.

Today is no exception—by the time they get there, the table is already decked out in a white tablecloth and napkins curled around utensils, a breadbasket, a cheese plate and small bowls of chilled soup already in their places.

"Blaise! Neville!" Ms. Zabini, draped in casual robes, as she normally is, spreads her arms. "How are you?"

"Can't walk," Blaise says.

Neville trips over his own feet. "We're wonderful, Ms. Zabini!"

When Blaise's mother asks, as she always, always does, whether Blaise has found someone, Blaise puts down his cucumber sandwich and looks at Neville.

Neville looks back. How many people are they telling? He's not quite sure yet.

"I have, yeah," Blaise said, and something inside Neville relaxes. "I have for a while."

Blaise finishes watering the last row of dittany seedlings and turns to Neville. He's got dirt on his shirt again. "We're going to need to go soon."

"Alright," Neville murmurs, stepping in close to Blaise to kiss him on the cheek. "You have dirt on your forehead. How did it even get there? You were only watering."

"Shut up, Longbottom."

They Apparate straight over, Blaise holding Neville's hand tight as they land and not letting go when they go in. When they get to their table, whistles and calls erupt from Ron, Seamus, and Ginny.

Harry mock-frowns at them. "You cost me five galleons," he groans. Draco grins, his fingers flitting to his pocket.

"Put it towards drinks, Draco," Blaise says, flopping gracelessly into the booth. He drags Neville with him, so that Neville's body is squished up against Blaise's, and Neville can feel the warm, solid shape of him—his shoulder, his hip, his ribs—moving with his breath. "To coming out or getting fucked by Neville Longbottom or something."

"To Blaise coming out." Draco raises his glass lazily and the table does a half-hearted toast.

"To Neville and Blaise."

"To getting fucked by Neville Longbottom." Blaise tips his glass back and finishes with a satisfied smile. "You haven't lived until—"

"No," says half the table, Neville included. Neville hides his burning face, but he's laughing, too. Blaise Zabini from one to one hundred in the blink of an eye, that's his way.

"You're due for an interrogation," Pansy says. "No one can blame you for running home early last week, but we're out of the loop! When did this happen? Fill us in."

"Pansy…" Blaise draws her name out, "We can do it later. When we're not shouting."

Neville laughs. It's so relieving and new to be out here, drinking with his friends, as part of a unit with Blaise. It feels as if a weight has been lifted off of his chest, as if his throat has opened up and he can suddenly breathe and speak. "Go dance," he says, getting up so Blaise can get back out. "I know you want to."

"Good god," says Pansy. "You're going to let this man dance?"

"Not alone, he's not." Blaise grabs Neville's hand, and Neville's heart jumps. That wide smile, those pretty brown eyes, thin fingers and bare arms and just a peek of hip bones, it's his, all of it. "Come on, Neville. Dance with me."

So Neville puts down his glass and does exactly that.