Assignment 8, Notable Witches and Wizards: Write about an event with an unexpected ending.
Love in Motion: DudleyPiers
Word Count: 905
Warnings: some homophobic language
He scrapes his jagged, badly chewed fingernail over the mouth of the bottle, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes the faint, metallic tang of blood.
"Something wrong?" Dudley asks, popping the top off another bottle of beer and letting it clatter noisily to the floor. He fits his thin lips around the brown bottle, and Piers feels suddenly envious of an inanimate object.
Piers doesn't answer. Instead, he presses his own bottle to his lips. "Cheers, mate," he mutters before tilting the bottle back and chugging its contents quickly with the learned skill of a future alcoholic.
He knows he shouldn't drink. While he isn't actually opposed to it and has come to terms with the fact that his life will be spent staring down at the bottom of a bottle, he's all too aware that drinking around Dudley is dangerous. It would be easy to slip up and tell Dudley the truth, and then Piers' life will be over. He'll be another queer-turne- punching bag, another target, another victim.
How many times has Piers stood by Dudley's side, slinging slurs with the same skill that Dudley throws punches? How many boys have his slender hands held down while Dudley's knuckles painted their skin with bruises? Opening his mouth, admitting his feelings, will lead to a world of pain. Piers isn't ready for that; he doesn't think he ever will be.
And yet he's taking that risk with every sip he takes. Alcohol gives him courage, but he thinks it would be wiser to remain a coward where his feelings for Dudley Dursley are concerned.
"You look like you're gonna puke," Dudley notes with a smirk. "Too much, too fast?"
"Nah. Just thinking."
"About?" Dudley asks, raising his brows. He sets his newly empty bottle to the side and pushes a hand through his tidy blond hair, leaving it ruffled.
Piers is painfully aware that he's staring, but it's hard not to. There's always been something about Dudley that he finds attractive. Now that the baby fat has melted away, and his body has more tone and definition from boxing, he is damn near irresistible.
Piers takes another deep drink. The faint burn of the amber liquid eases his restless mind, if only for a moment. The words stick in the back of his throat, threatening to spill from his lips. Another drink, but it doesn't force the words back, and Piers feels like he's choking.
He can't do this. Telling Dudley will ruin everything. He's spent too many years building his reputation. Piers has earned respect—or, at the very least, fear—from the other boys, and he refuses to give that up. Maybe he could survive on his own for a while, but he's just a bit too scrawny, and the blossoms of acne that mar his milky skin will make him an easy target.
"I—" He drains the dregs of his beer and reaches for another. The words no longer feel like they're choking him. They've snaked their way up his throat and seem to rest on the back of his tongue. Piers opens the new bottle, taking a long sip, praying that it will drown his desires. "I love you."
The silence that hangs between them is tense, and Piers takes a step back, trembling. Dudley's brows knit together, his forehead creasing as he seems to lose himself in thought. Piers wonders if he can run, but he doubts it. His legs feel like gelatin, and he doesn't know if it's from fear or from too many beers. Maybe both.
"Like… As friends?" Dudley asks finally, folding his arms over his chest and studying Piers with an unreadable expression.
Yes, Piers wants to say. It's a lie, but it can keep him safe; it can prevent the inevitable fallout, and Piers can live another day without knowing what it feels like to be on the receiving end of his best friend's outbursts.
"No." He wants to kick himself. "More than that."
He is so fucked, and there's nothing he can do about it.
Dudley takes a step closer, and Piers feels his heart pound painfully in his chest, like it wants to burst from his skin. This is it. His reputation will be destroyed, and he'll get his ass kicked twice—here, then by his father when he gets home, because Polkiss men aren't supposed to lose fights.
Dudley lifts his hand, and Piers thinks he might faint. He can't stop trembling, and his lungs seem to have forgotten how to work. Dudley's hand moves closer, and Piers doesn't understand why the movements are so slow, or why his hands aren't clenched into fists.
His fingers tangle in Piers' dark hair, and Piers feels a flicker of something that's a cross between panic and hope. Before Piers can question it, Dudley pulls him closer, and their lips meet.
This is not what Piers imagined his first kiss with a bloke would be like. It is sloppy and drunken—more teeth than tongue. But it is better than the beating he had expected, and he finds himself melting into it.
"Good," Dudley says when he breaks the kiss. A small smile plays at his lips.
"Good," Piers echoes, relief rushing through him.
He sets the nearly full bottle aside, unable to fight the grin. He has found a new sense of bliss, and, for once, it doesn't involve even a drop of alcohol.