I'm nervous. Obviously, I'm nervous. I'm fidgety, my hands are damp, and my voice is doing that unsteady wavering thing that makes me want to crawl in a hole with the biggest book I can find and not emerge until I've memorized it. Which would be a long time, but not technically forever. Just long enough that I can get it together.

Standing on what feels like shaky baby deer legs in my living room, I have some concerns about vomiting on the carpets. But I've arranged for this moment. It's a gift. To me. From me. I suck a deep breath in through my nose and develop new concerns that involve passing out on the carpets, too. I can do this. I think. Maybe.

I start anyway.

"I have something to say." Not a terrible start. To the point. Devoid of vomit. My audience sits rapt. "Well, I have a lot of somethings. Might take a minute. Or several. I just—it needs to be said. I have a few important pieces of evidence to lay out that should convey my point. So if I could have the metaphorical floor—though I suppose I'm standing on an actual floor, so—okay, don't look at me like that. It's my birthday. You must be nice to me. And let me do this."

No objections. Excellent. I continue.

"So. Being in love with your best friend—who doesn't totally realize he's in love with you too—is not something I'd recommend. Let's start there. It's a pretty miserable experience, actually. But I, Scorpius 'positive as a proton' Malfoy, am nothing if not…well, positive. And persistent. And patient. And proficient in alliteration, but I don't think that particular skill is relevant at the moment."

Odds of vomiting versus passing out feel about fifty-fifty at present. My audience looks unimpressed, wide, feline eyes laden with judgement.

"And I don't mean to say that my best friend doesn't know he loves me at all. I know he does. And I know he knows he does: but in a best friend kind of way. He hasn't quite come around to the 'we could be more than best friends' kind of way. You know, the way that also includes fucking."

I blanch, cringe, and gasp all at once. No. Fucking will not make it into the final version of this speech. Best not lead with the fucking. Oof, even thinking it is tough. It's a harsh word, not really my brand. I'm much more interested in intimate, passionate love-making anyway. With candles and kissing and mood lighting. But I probably shouldn't bring that up within the first minute, either. I make mental revisions and push onward.

"So anyway. While I am definitely patient, I've also decided that it's time to say something. I deserve to give myself a chance, you know? We finished school a year ago and have been living together in our own flat off Diagon ever since. Unfortunately, he's still as oblivious as ever."

I glance at the clock. I left work just early enough to give myself time for a dry run before my aforementioned oblivious roommate returns and I potentially bombarda over a decade of friendship.

I clear my throat. The cat on my couch is judging me. Intensely, from the looks of it.

"First, my evidence. About him loving me. In a romantic way. That is."

Throat clearing ensues again. I'll have to figure out how to string together sentences longer than a few stunted words in the next ten minutes. I brace myself, onward .

"He's not straight. Which isn't evidence in and of itself, obviously. Being not-straight and being in love with me aren't like, quantum-ly entangled states of being or anything. But him being not-straight definitely opens up previously closed doors. I spent years on the other side of what I thought was a firmly closed and locked door until that day a few months ago when he so casually threw it open during a documentary on cicada broods I made him watch by saying, So I slept with a guy the other night. I think I'm bi."

I choke on my attempt at inhaling. That might have been too many words strung together at once. Pendulum swung way too far. Light-headedness increases my odds of passing out. I'd really hate for him to find me unconscious on our living room floor. The cat, his cat, probably wouldn't even move a muscle to assist me in my distress. I wonder how many minutes before it tries to eat my unconscious face. I could probably find a documentary about it.

"So as you can see, him realizing he's bi means that I don't have to be totally resigned anymore. I was going to live with it. I already have for our last few years in school together, particularly after my doomed first date, kiss, and subsequent revelatory experience with Rose Weasley wherein I learned very quickly that I was not interested in…her bits. I'd thought I was. Ha—turns out, no. Not so much. And then I realized that what I'd thought was best friend love might actually have been something a little…different. Specifically, romantic. But I'd accepted it wouldn't go anywhere."

"I don't exactly have an abundance of gay role models in my life, but it seemed likely that every young gay—yes, that's how I'm choosing to refer to myself and we're not going to laugh about it—would fall a little bit in love with one of their straight friends at least once. Like a rite of passage or something. A passage one enters…and then exits."

"I never exited. Fifth year. Sixth year. Seventh year. Living together. Which, I knew living together wasn't the smartest decision for my head and my heart and my poor…ack, never mind. Focus. But apparently I like to suffer because the idea of not living with my best friend was even more painful than the idea of living with him and still not having a chance at being with him."

My stomach gurgles. Vague, panic-induced nausea starts feeling a little more like real, bile-churning nausea.

"So, right. Where was I? Yes. That's evidence number one." Another deep breath. "Evidence number two, if I may submit it to the Wizengamot—strike that, bad joke. We won't use that in the actual pitch."

The cat doesn't seem convinced.

"Anyway. He's very interested in my dating life. Very interested. More so than a normal best friend would be. And especially more so since his 'I'm bi' bombshell. It's not like I haven't been trying to date other people. I want a relationship. I don't want to spend my whole life pining for someone who's not interested. Hence why this whole"—I make a few strange, self-referential motions—"thing is happening. So I've been distracting myself, trying my hand at dating. I deserve that, you know? To find and love someone and be loved in return in the same way I'm so very tragically in love with my best friend. But the whole point of this is that I'm not convinced it's so tragic anymore, remember?"

I almost smile. I'm almost excited. It's kind of a thrill, really.

"I realized he was probably a little too invested in my dating life when he started requiring full date recaps after the fact. And he's never shy about expressing his disappointment on my behalf. Like the time I had to abort a dinner date before our entrees even arrived because the stranger I let my coworker set me up with insisted on abbreviating almost everything. Did we want to order some appies? Should we get some pumpkie pasties? Have I tried the muggle delicacy known as the chicken tendie?"

I sigh just thinking about it. He'd been cute. I had high hopes.

"I think he wanted to be charming. And honestly, if my dearest best-friend-slash-probably-the-love-of-my-life had made the same jokes, I might have laughed. Or at least given a pity laugh. But this person who I'd met five minutes before? No. No thanks. That was not the personality trait he should have led with."

I pause, half-expecting the cat to have input. But he's started kneading the cushions, not even paying attention anymore.

"Focus." I try to affect my most stern voice. The cat, predictably, does not listen. He just swishes his gray little tail at me. I wring my hands, try to banish a few more nerves, then continue. "Okay. Well. Then there was the guy who'd wanted to meet in Muggle London. Made a whole thing about meeting outside a Primark so we could then take a charming walk around the city while he recounted made-up historical facts about the sights neither of us knew much about. Quite regrettably, it got a little blood purist-y in the first five minutes. I pretended I was in gastro-intestinal distress in order to escape the date early."

I'm getting a little worked up now. These things are all related, I know know know they are.

"And then there was his absolute outrage over the first guy I actually introduced him to. It was a big deal for me. I…probably moved too fast. Was I trying to prove to myself that I was over my best friend and had moved on? And therefore an invitation to all hang out over takeaway and beer was a good idea? Yes, yes I did. But this was also the first guy I'd been on more than two dates with in…ever. He was a super nice guy, a muggleborn, went to Beauxbatons, and had just started working at the Ministry in some kind of international liaison role. Had a hot french accent, too. He was a bit of an oblivious jock, not my normal type. But he looked like he probably knew how to snog the daylights out of someone. Bet he had a nice penis, too. Which I have no evidence for. It was more wishful thinking since I'd been sexually and emotionally frustrated for a handful of years at this point. I allowed myself the fantasy."

I cringe again. I should really try to avoid mentioning penises. Just as a rule of thumb. Or a rule of penis, I suppose. I'm trying to be romantic.

"So anyway. Ten minutes into our great best-friend-meets-the-almost-boyfriend evening, my almost-boyfriend stared very confusingly at a photo of my best friend's parents with his aunt and uncle and said 'are those The Beatles?' Quite unfortunately, neither me nor my best friend even understood the reference. And the elaboration from my almost-boyfriend didn't help. 'The band? They're Muggles. Everyone knows them.'"

Well. Everyone knows the Golden Trio, too. My best friend doesn't even like getting recognized, but some things are unforgivable lapses in knowledge, apparently.

"So it was an awkward night, to say the least. I got a Floo call the next morning from my almost-boyfriend about how he'd been reflecting during his morning lift and had come to the conclusion that we weren't really all that compatible. I wasn't certain the words 'reflecting' and 'compatible' were even in his vocabulary, which made it feel all that more like a pity line."

I blow out a breath and check the clock. I'm running out of time. Both because he'll be home soon and because the cat doesn't look like he's going to stick around on that sofa much longer.

"This brings me to evidence number three. When I told my best friend about getting dumped via Floo call, he got all weirdly still. He'd been making us french toast and had paused, leaving it on a plate suspended between us in the kitchen, all gooey and delicious and hovering out of reach, unfortunately. He got a bit broody before looking at me and saying, 'You know you're a catch, right? He was wrong for you. But he's…definitely missing out.'"

I can taste my heartbeat just thinking about it.

"You can imagine my surprise, watching my best friend—who, well, he's not the most emotionally intelligent person—stumble through giving me something of a compliment while looking adorably abashed while doing so. If I wasn't already in love with him then, that moment would have sealed it. Nineteen year old boys don't just give each other heartfelt compliments like that. Nor do they suck in tiny, almost-inaudible gasps when they finally deliver their hostage french toast and linger side by side, shoulders and arms touching for way too long. If I could bottle and preserve and consume that little intake of breath, I think they'd have to invent a specialized recovery program for me because I'd become an addict so fast."

I'm running out of stamina. And conviction. The closer it gets to the official end of the work day, the more confident I'm feeling that this is a terrible idea. A friendship ruining one. No matter what I think I deserve, even on my birthday.

The cat looks ready to ditch me so I scoop him up instead, bribing him with scratches behind his little ears.

Quieter, I continue. "Time for an evidence recap, I think. One, he's not straight. Two, he's very invested in my dating life. And three, we had a little moment over french toast that one time. Merlin. That's really only three pieces of evidence, isn't it? Not really compelling enough to draw any hard and fast conclusions."

I bury my face in the cat's fur, feeling unexpectedly wobbly. The good news is that I no longer think I'll vomit or pass out. The bad news is that I now have new concerns about crying. They might be stress tears, or just sadness tears. I'm not totally sure.

"So the evidence doesn't seem all that impressive laid out like that. I guess they're just these tiny, totally inconsequential moments that feel so huge in my head. And he already takes up so much space in there. But I—I can't explain it. Which makes the whole point of explaining it seem silly. But I just know. I think. And since it's my birthday, and every date I've been on in the last six months has been a tragic disaster, I was hoping that he might be willing to consider going on a date with me. Just once. Just to see. And then for the sake of our friendship, if I'm wrong and it doesn't work, I'll pretend none of this ever happened. I'll stop looking into things and I'll even move out if that's what he wants—"

"That's not what I want."

I accidentally throw the cat. Literally throw him. He has far too much horizontal momentum for me to pass it off as simply dropping him. Thank Merlin he's a sturdy thing and far more agile than I am. He just lands on his feet, gives me one severely disappointed look which I very much deserve, and scampers away.

Albus is here. Standing just—right there, leaning against the wall behind me.

"Do you think the cat doesn't know you're talking about me? You haven't said my name this whole time." Al's not smiling. In fact. He looks very, scarily serious. "You are—talking about me, right? You don't have any other best friends lying around?"

My mouth has gone dry. Totally dry. I might need medical attention.

"How long have you been there?"

Al's serious face only grows more so. Vomiting is back on the table. "Ah—since the beginning, pretty much. I came home early today."

"What?"

"I planned a surprise for you. Since it's your birthday and all. When you came home, I didn't know what to do. Then you grabbed the cat and started monologuing. Which is very Draco Malfoy of you, by the way. You know your dad does that too, right?"

"You've been listening. This whole time." My face is on fire. Is spontaneous combustion via embarrassment a thing? It feels like a thing. That, or I'm currently conducting groundbreaking research with myself as the test subject.

Al's jaw makes a weird hinging motion while I watch him figure out what he's going to say. How he's going to let me down, most likely. Then he just says, "I…yes. I have been."

I feel myself nodding, but my skin has erupted in painful pinpricks so I barely notice the nodding, or the sitting on the sofa, or the melting into the earth. Though I might be imagining that last bit. Cool. Cool cool cool.

My traitorous thoughts, wading through a swamp of mortification, can't help but notice how good Al looks. He's traded his usual jeans and a jumper for smart trousers and a button up. He's wearing a belt. And his hair has been styled; it still looks reluctant to cooperate, but it has been smoothed and brushed and parted neatly. I catch a whiff of the orange and clove aftershave I got him for Christmas. He smells like summer and cider. If I hadn't already landed on the sofa, it might have doubled me over.

"Scorpius I—"

"Please don't," I interrupt. I can't look at him. "I wasn't quite ready yet. And that wasn't the final version and I just need a—minute, I think. To prepare myself for you to…to…"

The sofa dips beside me. Al's voice is soft. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

I immediately feel sheepish. This is Al. "Kick me out? Tell me I've violated a major tenet of our friendship—stop laughing it's not funny."

But I'm laughing a bit too; relief tackles me when I look up and see Al's smile. "It's funny. You're all worked up and panicky over nothing."

"Not nothing."

"You're right. It's not nothing. But I'm not going to do any of that. I was actually hoping we could—" he breaks off, fingers tapping rapidly against his knee. "You were right. About—well pretty much all of it. But especially the emotional intelligence bit, I think. But I have figured it out, you know. I don't need the evidence. And I was hoping to surprise you, but you've beaten me to it."

I think I've gone numb. Which might mean that passing out has emerged as an option again.

"I was right?" I realize the whole point of presenting the evidence was to prove my rightness, but…did I expect it to work? Maybe not. Hoping is hard.

Al summons something from the kitchen, cancels a stasis charm, and thrusts a box in my direction. Something savory and fried swallows Al's aftershave. "I got these for you."

When I crack open the takeaway box I find—

"Chicken tendies." Al says, smiling through what looks like a bit of a grimace. "It's one of our appies"— he winces—"for the evening. Then I thought we could take a stroll downtown, stop by Primark, or wherever, and on the way I can tell you all sorts of made up facts about Muggle London."

He knew. He really knew. And he's using my bad dates against me. And I'm pretty sure I'm swooning, which definitely isn't fair. He's weaponizing my woes and looking so painfully handsome while doing it. And he's not done.

"After that I thought we might come back here; I found a documentary on locust swarms I thought you might like. But we could also try to find one on cats eating their owners since you brought that up. Both sound pretty terrible to me, but if it makes you happy—it's your birthday after all. You like learning weird things."

At that, Al actually looks away and I can't tell if I'm imagining the red streak staining the skin beneath his collar.

I feel a bit ridiculous, sitting there with a box of takeaway chicken tendies in my lap, brain on overdrive.

So I stand.

I deposit the takeaway box on the coffee table.

I narrowly avoid pacing.

My chest feels tight, like each breath turns a crank; like each turn of that crank rotates a complicated configuration of gears; like each rotation of those gears compresses my heart between two slabs of concrete. Like my entire person is a very haphazardly cobbled together mechanism and Albus has just thrown a wrench or a wand or an unexpected declaration right into my inner workings, grinding me to a halt.

Which I think technically means I should be able to breathe because the gears aren't turning anymore, but my thoughts are getting harder to chase down: wild, rampant things that they are.

Then Al's hand is on my face.

"Scorpius?"

"I'm fine." Pretty sure my voice squeaked. Very confident. Extremely attractive. "Not overwhelmed at all."

It takes several more breaths, chest still tight, for me to realize that Albus is standing with me. Of course he is; one of his hands cradles the side of my neck, thumb leaving blisters in its wake as it strokes my jaw. I think I might simply die.

His other hand is near my hip, mostly clutching my robes. I know because I'm looking at it. And I really, truly think an early demise is the latest possibility for me today.

I'm nervous, still. Obviously, I'm nervous.

But I work up the courage to lift my head, to look my best friend in the eyes while my heart makes a valiant attempt at strangling me.

"I was already planning on taking you on a date for your birthday." Al's voice is low, quiet. It's got gravel in it, more debris for my stalled gears. "Was there anything else you wanted?"

I don't totally mean to gasp, and it's a tiny thing, but Albus is putting moves on me and it's working really, really well. The backs of my legs hit the sofa arm.

On reflex, I reach for him so that I don't stumble back. It was definitely a reflex. Indisputably. And it most certainly wasn't an attempt to line our bodies up. That was just a pleasant coincidence.

And a watershed, apparently.

Because Albus leans forward and plants his mouth on mine.

My gears still aren't working quite right because I do literally nothing in response. I don't move, don't even close my eyes. I just learn from a curious close-up what Albus's brow line does when he kisses someone.

Then his eyes open, too. And we're simply standing there, mouths touching in a way I wouldn't exactly call kissing. I've bungled this horribly.

He starts to pull back, probably because this is terribly, life-alteringly awkward. But the threat of that potentially being it, as in, the only kiss I might ever get with him, burns through me like fiendfyre.

I make a highly undignified noise as I wrap my arms around his shoulders, squeeze us together with all my limited strength, and actually engage in kissing him.

My brain shuts off; all I can do is feel.

I feel Al's lips on mine, his hands in my hair, the smooth plane of his chest.

I feel heat blooming, growing, spiraling. Then there are hips canting, teeth clacking, and throats groaning.

I feel like the wait was worth it. So, so worth it.

I have a whole new slew of evidence at the ready.

Point of evidence number one: Al's hands are greedy, grabbing. From my hair to my neck to my ribs to my hips. He's pulling me against him, rocking into me. My legs are about as structurally sound as a jelly slug. Which is to say, only the sofa arm and Al's hands are holding me up.

Point of evidence number two: when I drag my hands down his chest, he makes the most wonderful groaning sound. I test it, prodding at buttons, finding skin, and determined, just as greedily as he is, to prove that I'm not alone in how overwhelmingly wonderful it is to have his mouth on me.

Point of evidence number three, and probably the most important one, all things considered: he casts a new stasis charm on the takeaway box and drags me to his bed instead.