Author's Note: For Amber/Cheeky Slytherin Lass, for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza! Theo/Blaise was the only pairing I'm properly familiar with, so I hope that's okay, and I hope you enjoy this! Rated T for some suggestive themes and swearing. Despite what the title says, there aren't actually any needles in this.

Disclaimer: Neither the world of Harry Potter, nor the characters, belong to me.

Word Count: 5868


On the inside of Blaise's wrist, where the veins are prominent and the skin is a little lighter than the rest of him, there is a compass etched in silver ink. It stands out so starkly. He has other pictures too, like the hazy patch on his temple and the pattern of stars stained on his left thigh, but the compass is the one that captures his attention the most. He comes back to it often.

Mother catches him running a forefinger over the silver ink and laughs softly. She takes his hand and gently unfurls his fingers. When they are splayed, palm facing upward, she traces a circle over his wrist until he giggles. At five, he hasn't quite learned the cool, blank façade that will become his legacy. He has not perfected his sneer. At five, he laughs freely and softly, like his mother does behind the walls of their grand home.

"There is something silly about soulmates, I always thought," Mother tells him. "You don't need ink to know when someone is important to you. But this might help you find them a little easier, hmm?"

"You're silly, Ma," Blaise says. "I found you already. That was bad hiding."

Mother gathers him up and kisses his face until he giggles again. On the rug of their living room, with her croissant abandoned on the desk and her silk dressing gown pooling at her feet, Blaise thinks she looks like a Queen. A lady of the Manor, kneeling at her own ball, her skirts forming lagoons of silk and tulle. She has a dainty way of kissing, and her lips are bare of gloss, leaving no mark on his temple apart from the one that was already printed there in silver ink.

"Not me, love. You'll never need to search for me."


Mrs Zabini is well-known in many circles, though perhaps not for all the right reasons. The parties she hosts are always delicate affairs, rife with scandal and tension that lingers in the foyer like a hastily-concealed smoking habit. The husbands she buries always speak of her very fondly in the months before their death. Some people think that she wears silver lipstick to stand out, but Blaise knows that it is ink, and that it came into being when she held her newborn son for the first time and kissed his temple with trembling lips.

She teaches him a lot about love. She teaches him how to spot it in the eyes of others, and how to wield it if he wishes. Then she moves on to nicer lessons, such as how to return it, though she tells him that he was born with it inside him and would never have cause to doubt it, not if she had anything to say about it.

"Love sounds stupid," Blaise declares, eight years old and full of bold righteousness, standing on the coffee table with his hands on his hips. "I'm not going to deal with it."

"Oh?" Mother looks up from her book, a box of half-eaten, gold-dusted truffles glinting in the candlelight beside her. "You don't love me anymore, then?"

"I mean the gross kind of love."

"Mm. And what will you do instead, then, if you're not going to deal with love?"

"I don't know." Blaise deflates slightly, shaking his weary head. "Probably I'll just do math or something. Or be a glovemaker."

"You've been reading those tragic romances again, haven't you?"

"It's the only thing Pansy's Grandmother keeps around to read, and you keep dropping me off there, so it's the only thing I can read! And it's stupid. They always die and everyone spends ages being sad about not loving each other until the very end, where they realise they do love each other, and then they die."

Mother laughs into the pages of her book, patting the cushion beside her. "Come here and read to me," she says, ignoring his dramatics. "Come on, the love in this book is much more sensible. You'll like it, I promise."

The book is much better than Mrs Parkinson's novels, but Blaise still thinks love is hardly worth dealing with.


The food at Hogwarts is terrible. Blaise grew up with flavour in every meal. Every night he slid down the banister at home and walked the cherry-wood floors, inhaling the scent of a warm, home-cooked meal, heavy with spices. It drifted through the halls and sunk deeply into the walls, seasoning the beams.

"Yes, yes, we know," Pansy snaps, ladling peas onto her plate. "Pass the gravy boat down the table and stop complaining, will you? Merlin's beard, it's only the second dinner of the term and you're already blathering on."

"He is right, though," Daphne says. "The food certainly could be improved on."

Pansy snorts. Draco mutters something unsavoury about the Gryffindor table under his breath, barely paying them any attention. Blaise passes the gravy boat down the table and pretends not to notice how it spills on Pansy's skirt, smiling sweetly when she curses him out. Daphne rolls her eyes, far too aloof to stoop to their level.

At thirteen, their roles should not be so easily cemented, and yet they play them with aplomb.

The only one that doesn't really have a part in it all is Theo Nott. He sits diagonally across from Blaise, one hand holding a book up to his nose while the other stirs a bowl of soup, lackadaisical to the last. Blaise has almost mastered the cool, calculated aura that he wants to portray, but Theo has a lack of concern down to an art. He's very thin, and plain, and quite bland, if Blaise is honest. Of all of them, he attracts the least attention. He sticks to the edge of the group and doesn't bother to interact with them unless it's necessary. Blaise might think he was being looked down on, but after three years, he thinks it might be because Theo just genuinely doesn't care about anything enough to show it.

Perhaps aware of Blaise's eyes on him, Theo glances up from his book. He doesn't put it down, or lower it, or even stop stirring his soup.

"I think it's all mixed in by now," Blaise says helpfully.

Theo blinks at him slowly.

"Your soup, I mean. Unless you're trying to churn it? I think there's a spell for that, if you want thicker soup."

The silence persists.

"I don't know why you bother," Pansy says, still fussing over her skirt. She shoots Theo a nasty look. "It's like talking to a wall."

Blaise turns away from Theo with a careless shrug, but he can't help but think it's not quite an accurate description.

After all, in their world, some walls talk back.


Theo has juniper berries dripping down the back of his neck. Blaise spies them during a heatwave, somewhere in their fifth year. He's lounging on the bed, dutifully reading his mother's latest letter, when Theo comes storming into the room. He spares Blaise a glance so brief that he almost feels wounded.

"Something's got your wand in a knot," Blaise says.

"The weather," Theo says, startling him with a response. "It's disgusting."

Blaise sits up on his elbows, the letter landing on his abdomen. "It really must be, if you're showing emotion."

Theo, predictably, has nothing to say to that. Blaise has always thrived in the hot weather, but he admits that he's been feeling a little warm in class lately. That's why he's barely worn anything more than a thin white shirt in the day. Theo seems to have missed the memo on how to keep cool, and Blaise watches with unabashed curiosity as Theo tears off his robes and throws them in a pile on the end of his bed.

They've shared a dormitory for four years now, and Blaise can honestly say he's never seen Theo get changed before. Not that he's looking, or anything. But usually Theo runs off to the bathroom to put on his pyjamas, or get dressed for the day. Now that he's stripping off with abandon, Blaise finds himself uncharacteristically flustered and unable to look away for more than a few seconds at a time.

"Malfoy got a fancy camera for his last birthday," Theo says, still facing away from Blaise. "He wouldn't stop peacocking about it."

"Yeah?"

Blaise honestly couldn't care less about what Draco got for his birthday, not when Theo unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall on the floor, reaching for a thinner, short-sleeved top. And right there, at the nape of his neck, is a spiky, sharp-toothed sprig, each thorn elegantly sketched in fine navy ink. There are berries there too. Not many, admittedly, but the ones he does have are clustered along the branch. One breaks away while Blaise watches, and drifts down towards the small of his back.

"Yeah," Theo says, bringing him back down to earth with a jolt. "If you'd like, I'm sure he wouldn't mind you borrowing it to take a picture. Since you seem to enjoy looking so much."

Blaise makes a small noise, barely stifling his surprise in time. He looks away as Theo pulls on a top, obscuring the ink that paints his back so sweetly. His tongue feels heavy. There are words he wants to say, but Theo is hardly the first person he can have a conversation with. He picks up mother's letter instead, going back a paragraph to fully immerse himself in the thrills of her trip through Europe. He purposefully doesn't glance up as Theo strides towards the door.

"Mine's a compass," Blaise offers, still skimming through the letter.

Theo pauses at the door, his hand hovering above the handle. "What?"

Carefully, Blaise tips his wrist to show the silver compass printed there. "It's no juniper berry, but I think it suits me." He glances over the top of his letter. "Don't you think?"

Theo's jaw goes taut. "You know what they are?"

Blaise opens his mouth to ask what he means again, and snaps it shut again quite quickly.

"The berries?" Theo presses. "You know what they are?"

Truthfully, Blaise shouldn't know what they are. He has never picked up a book on botany in his life. The only berries he can identify on sight are the ones he likes to eat with fresh cream and meringue. He's never seen juniper berries before. Perhaps it's a bit of a leap, but Blaise is smart enough to realise what that means; Theo looks like he'd rather hear anything but the truth.

"I'm more than my looks, Theodore," Blaise says, arching a brow. "Did you not know they were juniper berries? It seems very obvious to me. You should pay a little more attention in Herbology."

Theo leaves quickly after that, but not before Blaise catches the tension seeping out of his shoulders, the unmistakable relief of a dodged bullet.


As if to punish Blaise, the universe decides to throw him and Theo together. He's not sure if you can be rejected without actually confessing something first, but if it's possible, then he's certain that's what happened between them. Somehow, that hurts more. Theo rejected the mere concept of having Blaise as a soulmate.

But the universe doesn't particularly care about whether that's a sore subject or not, and they get paired together in Flitwick's class. Despite his somewhat clumsy, airheaded mannerisms, Flitwick is one of the few Professors that Blaise can actually stand. Needless to say, the betrayal cuts deep.

Theo doesn't bother with pleasantries or small talk. Blaise barely has his arse in the seat when Theo directs him to the right page in the textbook, and begins to scratch out a schedule for them to hit the library. He seems determined not to look Blaise in the eye.

That's fine. He leans back, projecting an air of boredom. If Theo doesn't want to look, then Blaise will look enough for the both of them.

Blaise looks at dinner, paying special attention to the title of Theo's book, and the way his thin fingers move the pages with infinite care. It takes him about three days to read a book from cover to cover, and he never dog-ears a page.

Blaise looks in the common room, when Theo is curled in a leather armchair with an essay propped up on his knee. He writes diligently, but sometimes the warmth of the crackling fire lures him in, and he falls asleep mid-paragraph, trailing ink along the parchment. His neck is very elegant, even when craned at an awkward angle.

Blaise looks in the library. Theo sets up a rigid schedule to get their paired assignment over with quickly, and it involves a lot of silent scribbling in the library. Theo has this uncanny ability to make himself look at ease anywhere, despite being wound tight, but Blaise has found that he truly, genuinely relaxes in the library. He looks comfortable among the books and shelves and floating candles. Even the hard-backed chairs and Madam Pince's furious hissing doesn't seem to bother him.

"She'll kill you," Theo says idly, one such study evening.

Blaise jolts a little, unused to making conversation during these little pre-planned slots. He leans forward over the table, brows raised.

"Come again?"

Theo doesn't even bother glancing up. "You're eating chocolate," he says. "Hiding them under the table won't do you any good. Madam Pince will rip your head off."

"Why, Theodore. You almost sound concerned about me."

"I don't want you to bleed all over our assignment."

He sounds so bland and serious about it that Blaise has to chuckle. Just lightly, genuinely amused. He catches Theo peering up at him from beneath his lashes, the quill nib pausing in its endless journey across the parchment.

"I'll be sure to aim my fatal wounds elsewhere, if she catches me," Blaise says. "I'm afraid I can't be persuaded to stop though. These aren't just chocolates. They're the finest truffles the world has to offer, made by my mother. Want one?"

"Are they poisoned?"

Blaise scoffs, easing the box out from under the table. "Why would I poison the best truffles on earth? Why would I poison you?"

"You've been watching me a lot lately," Theo points out. "The only reason I can think of is that you're planning something. Like poison."

Blaise opens his mouth, and closes it again. On his wrist, the needle of his compass spins wildly. He has been watching Theo, and honestly he hadn't cared too much about being subtle, but he thought Theo would have said something if it was bothering him. He certainly did the first time.

Unless it isn't bothering him. The thought feels vaguely victorious.

"Perhaps I just find you lovely to look at," Blaise says.

Theo's suspicion doesn't fade, but he does reach out, cheeks burning faintly, and takes a chocolate truffle.


It gets a little easier after that. Blaise doesn't really stop looking, but rather than to be petty, he looks because sometimes Theo will look back, brows raised or rolling his eyes, and it's nice. Slytherins don't really do nice, but that's what it is. And it's fun, sometimes, to rile him up. But Blaise finds he really just likes looking. He likes it even more when Theo breaks the silence with small questions, or little comments. He likes it when he earns one of those small, tentative smiles, and it feels far more than nice.

Blaise pays little attention to his compass, though he can't help but notice that it never seems to point North unless Theo is standing in the way. It keeps on spinning, and quivers to a halt when Theo is near. Theo never mentions his juniper berries. They don't speak of the almost-rejection. But the weeks pass by and the term ends and a new one begins, and Blaise can feel them settling into something comfortable and new.


Something changes in their Sixth Year. Perhaps it shouldn't. Perhaps they should let it lie. But the tension that has steadily been winding up between them grows taut no matter how much Blaise scolds himself silently; Blaise's heart stops resembling organ matter and starts looking more and more like a juniper berry, grown too large and trussed up in fishing wire. With every beat, the wire pulls tighter, digging in.

Theo never really indulges in the Slytherin crowd, and they all prefer it that way. But if Blaise is in the common room, he'll sit with him or slow his pace to share a book blurb or a sly joke in his ear, making him grin secretively in the shadows cast by green firelight. He's aware of the looks they get, but he doesn't let it bother him, not even when Daphne fixes him with a curious stare one morning.

"I heard a rumour that you were out late last night," Daphne murmurs across the breakfast table. "A little birdy told me that you weren't alone."

Be it bird or badger, Daphne has friends everywhere. Not eyes, she insists, or connections. Friends.

He was out late last night, accompanying Theo on an in sanctioned excursion to the greenhouse. They crept in to steal a few herbs for a restricted potion, and when Blaise was almost strangled by a Tentacular, Theo caught him and held him close and laughed until he was breathless, and it made Blaise breathless in turn. He can't believe he ever thought Theo was plain, or bland.

He doesn't say any of that, though.

Instead, Blaise bites into an apple slice, feeling strangely smug, and meets Daphne's gaze head-on. "The gossip mill never stops churning, does it?"


Dark things are happening in the background. Blaise is not a fool. He knows that there's a war brewing. The theory is that the longer tea steeps, the stronger it grows, but the same cannot be said for old-fashioned notions of blood purity and pride. Perhaps they grow strong, but they don't always win out. Sometimes the tea is left to go cold and the leaves are filtered out, gritty and unwanted. He's not so bold as to join the light side, but he isn't foolish enough to mark his skin with something other than silver ink either. It is never sensible to put all your coins in one purse.

Besides, grey has always looked very striking on him.

One night, Theo whips open Blaise's bed-curtains and climbs in. It's new. With the curtains drawn behind him, trapping them together, the warmth quickly becomes stifling. Blaise makes no move to put an end to it. Theo taps a brick on the wall behind the headboard, and it glows, giving them enough light to see each other by.

"Things are getting tense," Theo says.

Blaise quite agrees, breathless just from looking at Theo in his bed. Theo scowls like he knows where Blaise's mind is going, and kicks him not-so-gently. Blaise tugs him down and tries to get a few good kicks in himself, but Theo is wily and built like a rake, so he squirms easily out of Blaise's grip. They end up sprawled all over the pillows, with Blaise barely breathing as he resists the urge to reach out and touch.

"I meant the war," Theo clarifies, despite the fact that Blaise never even made his dirty joke. "I didn't think it would come to the school. Call me foolish, but I thought it might stay outside the walls."

Blaise agrees, privately, that it's foolish, but he keeps the thought to himself. They fall asleep together, talking of nothing and everything, and when Malfoy looks at him with distracted exasperation in the morning, bordering on irritation, Blaise flips him off and walks on air for the rest of the day.


It keeps happening. Theo keeps crawling into Blaise's bed and Blaise keeps letting him. He joins Theo in the library and cajoles him into speaking at meal times, and things fall into place with the satisfying click of puzzle pieces conjoining. At night, it's just the two of them, speaking into the space between them that narrows with each passing hour.

Soon, the space is gone, and in its place is something else.

It's heady, kissing Theo. One minute. Blaise is murmuring something about an incident in Charms class, trying to get Theo to laugh, and the next, Theo's grey eyes are glinting right in front of him. He shuffles closer, pressing one palm to Blaise's chest. He must be able to feel the vicious beat of it, the hummingbird thrum of his anticipation. He doesn't lean in, but Blaise does. Blaise leans in and kisses the gasp right out of his mouth, tasting warmth and shared chocolate truffles and divinity.

"I don't know why I did that," Theo murmurs, pulling away with a shaky inhale. "We shouldn't have…"

"Don't think about it," Blaise urges him.

If he thinks about it, even for a moment, Theo will run.

There is a moment of hesitation. Only a moment. And then Theo presses closer, and Blaise kisses him once more.


They do this a lot now. They spend their evenings and nights together, curled up in Blaise's bed, only touching with the very tips of their fingers, seeking each other out where nobody can see them. It doesn't feel like a dirty secret, but it certainly isn't something to flaunt. It's something for them, and only them.

"Juniper berries have many meanings," Blaise says, tracing a forefinger over the nape of Theo's neck, where the ink is dark and sharp. "I did a little research."

Theo shivers. "Oh?"

"Mm. People used to use them in all sorts of rituals, you know. For good health and healing." Blaise leans and lets his lips brush against one of the berries, almost tasting tart sweetness. "But they have other meanings too. Secrets, and strength." He pauses, grinning wickedly in the dark. "Aphrodisiacs."

Theo's dry, raspy laughter fills the bed, blooming all around them. Blaise ghosts his smile all over the mark.

"Anything else?" Theo asks. "I suppose they mean good stamina and a lack of gag reflex too."

Blaise can't help his laughter, sliding up to press a kiss to Theo's hair, throwing an arm around his waist to pull him close. He refuses to call it cuddling, even in the privacy of his own mind, but the weight and warmth of Theo curled up to his chest settles the ever-spinning dial on Blaise's wrist. He doesn't have to look at it to know where it points.

"They do mean something else," Blaise says.

He says it quietly. Almost regretfully.

"Blaise?" Theo asks, sounding unsure, his voice echoing slightly.

"They can mean love and protection too," Blaise murmurs.

He is fairly sure that in the morning, Theo will be gone. There will be distance between them. It's a risk to even hint that Blaise might like him, let alone be falling for him. Theo is an expert at constructing walls, and Blaise isn't too sure that he's well-versed in climbing them yet. But whether it's a risk or not, it's worth it for the way his fruit-heart swells and the wire snaps free, the way it feels like he can breathe now that the truth is out.

"You don't have to say anything," Blaise says, speaking quietly into Theo's hair. "Enjoy this, for now. Hmm?"

Theo slowly unspools from his rigid, stiff shock. He curls back against Blaise's chest properly, pressing against him and siphoning the warmth out of him. He doesn't speak, but he does link their hands together, unseen in the dark.


At eighteen, Blaise is sharp as a tack and twice as likely to leave you bleeding. He uses words instead of weapons, cutting deeply where it hurts most. There are precisely two people that he softens his edge for, and one of them has been missing for two weeks. The other watches him pace the kitchen with pity in her eyes.

"This boy of yours," Mother begins.

"Not my boy," Blaise reiterates.

"He's the one who hurt you so badly last year?"

A year. It's been a year since Blaise said the word love and Theo bolted. A whole year of strained conversation and lingering looks, a year of Theo getting close and skittering away again before they could make contact. Every time Blaise made Theo laugh, his chest would swell with giddy triumph, and then Theo's face would fall and the blank mask would paste itself smoothly back over his expression.

"I thought I hid it better," Blaise says, pausing in the middle of the kitchen.

Mother beckons him over, pressing her silver mouth to Blaise's temple, where the matching mark of their souls lingers.

"I've loved you the longest, dear one. I know what it looks like in your eyes. You cannot hide love from me."

Blaise closes his eyes, overcome for a moment. It is love, even if he tries to pretend it isn't. Even if he ignores it in favour of letting Theo believe that he's off the hook, that he doesn't have to see affection and wonder in Blaise's gaze whenever he looks over. It's still love, and it's still there.

"Has your compass moved at all?" Mother asks.

"A few times," Blaise admits. "It pointed at Daphne for a while, and then at a Ravenclaw girl that I don't know very well. I don't care to know her, either. It always goes back to him, in the end."

He points his wrist upward, his heart aching at the silver stained there.

"It knows where your True North is," Mother says. "But love is not always about who you want the most. It is about who you are willing to put the effort in for. And it goes both ways. If he doesn't come to you, I don't want you to linger on it for longer than you need to. It might hurt to let go, but…"

Blaise nods. He's already half-resigned to Theo running away for the rest of their not-relationship. He's not so self-sabotaging that he's willing to wait forever, but letting go of even the possibility of something starting seems like sabotage in itself.

"I know," Blaise says. "I know, but I don't want to just give up. It's hard to know what he wants, but I think he's just nervous."

"Well, you won't know for sure unless you ask."

Blaise sighs, falling back against his chair. "That might be easier if he wasn't missing. It's been two weeks, and I haven't heard a word from him."

"The Battle of Hogwarts might be over, but to the rest of the world, that won't mean much yet. War is messy. There is still plenty of tidying up to do." Mother frowns delicately. "I know his father. Nott wouldn't have given in easily. Perhaps young Theodore is laying low until the worst blows over."

"I hope so," Blaise says. "If he's not, I'll hunt him down and—"

A heavy knock rolls through the house like thunder. Their door is spelled to alert them of visitors no matter where in the house they are. Mother shoos him away to deal with it, helping herself to a cream tea while he slouches through the halls, not bothering to fix his hair or straighten his shirt before he throws open the front door.

"Unless you're selling husband number seventeen," Blaise says, "I'm afraid we simply aren't in the market—"

He cuts himself off abruptly, standing stock-still in the doorway.

Theo smiles weakly. "Seventeen, huh? You've been busy these last few weeks."

Blaise reaches out a hand and grasps Theo by the shirt, dragging him inside the house. Once the door shuts, he simply looks at him. Just looks, the way he's been doing since they were young and his curiosity was stronger than his sense of self-preservation. Theo doesn't move away from his hand, still tangled in his shirt. He looks tired and thin, and his clothes are a ragged mess, but he isn't bruised.

"I was laying low," Theo explains quietly. "I meant to come by sooner, but I wasn't sure you'd want to see me. Not after the mess last year. I know we're—we're friends, I think, but I—have a habit of ruining things, and I only hope I didn't ruin you. Or this, I suppose, since I'm not sure you can ruin a person."

Blaise has never heard Theo ramble before, and in fairness, this is far from passionate Gryffindor-ish fumbling, but it's still shocking enough that Blaise almost swallows his tongue. He doesn't even make a lewd remark about ruining him. He reels Theo in and hugs him quickly, tightly, barely letting himself hold on for more than a moment but holding on tighter than he ever has before. Then he pulls Theo through the house until they reach his room.

"Shower," Blaise orders him, pushing him towards the en-suite. "Shower and put on something comfortable. You're staying here for a while."

"Is that so?" Theo says, arching an eyebrow.

"It is." Blaise gives him a sharp grin. "You can either take the towel and get in there yourself, or I can hose you down out here and ruin this lovely rug. Your choice."

Theo scrunches up his nose, his grey eyes flashing with irritation. "I'm not even dirty."

"Will you please, for the love of fucking Merlin, let me take care of you?" Blaise demands, exasperated. He drags a hand over his head and steps back. "I'm going to fetch some food. Help yourself to my wardrobe."

He stalks out before he can fully comprehend the raw, stunned look on Theo's face, but his heart beats at triple the pace all the same.


Theo comes out of the shower with damp hair, pink skin, and a tired, but comfortable look on his face. Blaise brings him a bowl of black bean chili and more tea than anyone could drink in a lifetime. Mother leaves them alone, but she tells Blaise to be careful and wishes him luck, Apparating to her friend's house while they talk. Or not talk. Blaise isn't really sure what the plan is, but he can't quite focus with Theo looking sleepy and rosy in Blaise's pyjamas. The shoulder of his shirt is too broad, slipping down.

After the food is gone and the plates have been Vanished, to be dealt with later, they sit on the bed in silence. It isn't oppressive, but it does feel heavy with unsaid words. Too many things have gone unspoken for far too long between them, and now there's a weight that Blaise doesn't like.

"You're not hurt?" Blaise asks.

"No, I'm not hurt. I was… avoiding my father, mostly." Theo looks at him briefly, and then looks away again. "I didn't mean to avoid you too, but I wasn't sure if I'd be welcome."

"You thought I wouldn't want to see you," Blaise says.

"We didn't exactly leave things on good terms before the war really kicked in."

"Didn't we?" Blaise touches the quilt underneath him, mostly just to give his fingers something to do that isn't skating the line of Theo's jaw. "I thought we left it as friends. Slightly awkward, tense friends, but friends nonetheless."

Theo shakes his head, strands of hair clinging to his temple.

"You and I both know that there was more than friendship there."

Blaise lets the words sink into his skin. He inhales slowly and steadily. He's been waiting for over a year for this.

"You're admitting that we had something?"

There isn't an answer for a while. Theo fiddles with the hem of his stolen pyjamas, his throat bobbing as he swallows down words that he doesn't want Blaise to hear yet. Just as Blaise is getting fed up, ready to sigh and retreat, Theo speaks up.

"The things you said before," Theo says, in a quiet rush. "The things about protection and love. They felt almost too good to be true. There was a war coming, and protection would only put you in danger, and love is… love is even more dangerous." He sighs, tipping his head down. "It's not an excuse. But it felt like too much to deal with. We weren't very old. We still aren't very old, really."

"The war is over," Blaise points out mildly. "As for the other things, I'm not sure there's an age requirement on love. Even babies know what love is. They climb out into the world and start loving people left and right."

Theo huffs to himself. "That's dependence. I'm not implying that we were too young to feel it, or that it wasn't real. But I didn't want you to say those things in the heat of the moment, and have you not mean them later on."

Theo picks at his fingers, his eloquence stripped away. Blaise watches him, torn between kissing him and calling him an idiot.

"When I was younger, I told my mother that love was stupid, and I wasn't going to deal with it," Blaise says, filling up the silence. "I stuck by that promise for a long time. And then you came along."

"Don't," Theo says softly, but Blaise shakes his head.

"Mm, no. A promise between a mother and son is very serious. I never break them lightly. I've thought about this, Theo."

The sound of his name seems to startle him, and he reaches over almost on instinct and grabs Blaise's hand, gripping his fingers tightly.

"It's not a whim," Blaise promises him. "It's not the heat of the moment, or a passing fancy. I've thought about it."

"And you want me to… what?"

"I'd like you to think about it too. You don't get to just make me love you, then walk away. Not without at least giving it a second's thought. That's impolite, you know."

Theo puts his head in his free hand, laughing. He keeps holding onto Blaise's fingers.

"That wasn't a joke," Blaise says, watching him with his own thread of amusement. "I understand that I'm generally the life and soul of the party, but I wasn't joking."

"I'm not laughing because you're being funny. I'm laughing because you're an idiot. You think I haven't thought about this?" Theo squeezes his fingers for emphasis. "It feels like that's all I think about. Even when I should be thinking about other things."

It sends Blaise's heart briefly soaring. He can't help but lean in, bringing Theo's hand up to his lips.

"Tell me about some of those thoughts," Blaise urges.

There is no talk of juniper berries or compasses that have stilled their spinning. Those things are for later, when they know where they sit with each other, when they have a good grasp on a love that bloomed quite without a nib to ink it into place.

"Well, I was mostly thinking that I love you," Theo says, with this fragile little crack to his voice that smooths over when Blaise inhales sharply, leaning in to kiss him with more softness than all their memories combined. "So you're just going to have to learn to deal with it."