Chapter Text
Albus Potter’s love language is words of affirmation. Or, more specifically, reassurance.
Gentle taps on his knee when he’s among a huge crowd of people so he knows he is still being seen, he is still being noticed. Text messages when he gets home from a trip to the cinema with one of his friends telling him they had a lovely evening, and that they shouldn’t leave it so long to hang out again next time. Saying I promise, I swear and meaning it. Being told his occasional bursts of insecurity are valid and understandable, and they are something that can be worked through together. Reassurance in both loud and quiet ways, just so he knows that even if his boat strays a little far from the shore sometimes, there is always an anchor stopping him from getting lost in the abyss.
Albus blames two specific circumstances in his life for his sheer need for reassurance. Firstly, and most predictably, his middle child syndrome. Albus isn’t sure how anyone can spend a lifetime trapped between the shadows of a horrifically attractive and successful sporting superstar older brother and an enigmatic and intelligent younger sister without succumbing to some mild insecurities.
The thing is, it’s not even as if Albus has ever felt less loved or appreciated than James and Lily. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. He has felt nothing but constant love and appreciation from his parents, and even if there were moments of subconscious favouritism towards his siblings, Albus didn’t mind. His middle child syndrome seemed to manifest from a purely psychological viewpoint. He just knew, in his heart, that whatever big monumental occasion he was celebrating, he wouldn’t be the first in the family to do so and he definitely wouldn’t be the last. He would always be sandwiched between two bookends marking the start and end of Harry and Ginny’s timeline as parents. Every big occasion starts with James and ends with Lily, and Albus is somewhere getting lost in the middle. It’s complicated; Albus can’t really explain it.
The second circumstance Albus blames is his dreadfully awful love life. His friends call him ‘unlucky in love’, but Albus just calls it sheer incompetence on his behalf. He is only twenty-two, which is plenty young enough for him to not have had a serious relationship and to still be faffing about in the middle of the dating pool, but it also still feels plenty old enough for him to have acquired a basic understanding of how to maintain a relationship.
Albus didn’t date in primary or secondary school (all part and parcel of being a closeted kid in a not very liberal town); in fact, the closest he ever got to a meaningful ‘relationship’ between the ages of eleven and eighteen was his assigned pen-pal he was given in French class. He still has some of the letters they exchanged in a memory box under his bed, and when he’s feeling particularly lonely after hearing about one of his friends getting engaged he will peel open the envelopes and reminisce over his fleeting romance with je t’aime, Julien until he remembers what it feels like to mean something to someone.
So, Albus didn’t date in secondary school. He didn’t date at all until he came out to his entire extended family in a group e-mail on the eve of his nineteenth birthday, and he then proceeded to spend the next three years making up for lost time, it seemed. And dating en-masse is absolutely brilliant (free meals, invites to fancy work dos and Christmas parties, being showered in compliments for his different coloured eyes while someone has an arm around his waist), until the couplings fall apart and Albus finds himself falling deeper and deeper into a pit of certain loneliness that he can’t seem to climb himself out of.
He garnered a reputation as a hopeless romantic among his peers, and Albus would be damned if he didn’t use that to his advantage. He read Creative Writing at an esteemed university in London, and his final project in his third year had been a poetry collection titled A Sonnet for Every Boy Who’s Broken My Heart. Pages upon pages of poetry detailing the intricacies of his fleeting romances with every different type of guy in the capital city, and some from abroad whenever they came to study for a semester on campus.
Albus graduated with a first class, of course. After all, who can resist a bit of hopeless romantic poetry?
But the moral of the story is that Albus hasn’t had an easy go with romance, or with life at all. And he has the lovely honour of being the common denominator in the failings of all his half-there attempts at ‘relationships’. He’s heard every excuse under the sun, but one thing every former flame had in common was highlighting the fact that Albus seemed to be the root of the problem. Asking for too much validation, not being available enough for last minute dates, spending too much time with his friends getting drunk by the canal, not liking the same music as they did.
Perhaps some of their excuses were cruel, bordering on unnecessary insults. But the fact still stands that it has always been Albus who causes his own heartbreak. Albus who doesn’t know how to navigate the complex nuances of romance and love. Albus who has missed out on so much, and doesn’t quite know where to get the help he needs to catch up to everyone else.
So, sue him for wanting reassurance every now and again. Sue him for wanting, just once, someone to look at him and say that he’s worth it; worth the time and energy it takes to make a relationship work. Sue him for wanting someone to walk up to him in the evening, trace their finger over the collar of his shirt, and say that there’s nobody else in the world they ever want to be with.
Albus Potter’s love language is reassurance, which probably explains why he’s never felt truly loved.
⚡
The first person Albus meets when he moves to London as a fresh-faced eighteen year old is Yann Fredericks. Albus walks into the kitchen of his student accommodation just past eleven in the evening to get a packet of biscuits for comfort and is greeted with the sight of a mousy-haired boy scraping a spatula over a frying pan, the charred remains of what Albus thinks is scrambled egg falling onto his burnt toast.
“I think you’ve done something wrong there, mate,” is what Albus says.
Yann looks up at him; his face is soft and perfectly shaped, high rosy red cheeks and an intimidating curved mouth that winds up at the edges upon hearing Albus’ declaration. Yann’s jumper, a very expensive looking Ralph Lauren one, is tucked into his jeans, the sleeves pushed up to the bend in his elbows. He somehow looks perfectly put together despite the smoky mess surrounding him; Albus knows at once this is someone he is going to get along with.
“Yeah,” Yann says, a flicker of a French accent appearing in the way he speaks. “I guess you could say that.”
“Do you need a hand?”
Yann blinks. “If you’re free, then I would love a hand.”
“I’m Albus.”
Yann holds out a hand. Albus takes it in his own. “I’m Yann.”
“Well, Yann,” Albus says, pointing to the kettle. “Get some water boiled so we can soak the pan, and I’ll teach you how to make scrambled egg safe for human consumption.”
⚡
Yann, somehow, is an economics student. Albus had pinned him down as a humanities and social sciences student, personally. Something about the quiff in his hair and the glasses that perch low on his nose had Albus convinced he would be studying history. But, no.
By the end of their first evening together in their flat, two empty bottles on wine on Albus’ carpet and his speaker playing low tones of jazz, Albus knows the majority of Yann’s life story: he was born into an architecture dynasty to wealthy parents in Marseille, and spent the majority of his childhood flying from place to place to celebrate the openings of new buildings his family had designed or his grandfather had helped fund. His parents only allowed him to come to London to study under the promise he would do a degree centred around helping him flourish in the family business; after all, it was expected he would take over the business in the future, so he had no time to waste in learning how to do exactly that.
But Yann doesn’t want to be an architect. In fact, and Albus quotes, Yann would rather streak through the centre of London playing loud music on a speaker glued to my backside so everyone watches and have to walk over burning hot stones at the end of the road than ever become an architect.
“So, what do you want to do?”
“Model,” Yann says. “But it’s kinda hard to make it in that profession. I quite like making pottery, though. So maybe I’ll start a ceramics business.”
Albus nods.
“What about you?” Yann asks, leaning over to Albus’ laptop to change the playlist to some French music. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to be a poet.”
Yann looks at him and blinks a few times. “Sounds cool,” he says. “If all else fails, I’ll let you buy shares of my ceramics company.”
⚡
Albus meets Polly Chapman in the Tate Britain.
He has taken to visiting art galleries when he needs to find a muse to write about, for there always seems to be a pretty boy either in the paintings or looking at the paintings, and that is better than running on empty. His favourite painting is also hung in this gallery, so he uses any old excuse to come and sit in the hall and stare at it for a few hours.
Ophelia by John Everett Millais.
Albus knows a lot of words – and he’s pretty confident he is good at using words to describe things – but none of them come close to explaining how much this painting moves him. He’s a sucker for Shakespeare on the best of days (after all, he does spend hours every day writing sonnets, how could he not love Shakespeare?), but looking at this painting lights something inside him. It’s almost symbolic of the power literature can have. Of the power words can have.
Millais read Hamlet, and found himself so moved by the death of Ophelia that he took it upon himself to paint nothing short of a masterpiece depicting the scene. He took Shakespeare’s words and created this object of beauty. Colours and shapes and tones and themes all because of a few words someone wrote in a play.
Albus stares at this painting and feels an almost burning desire to have the same impact. He wants to write words so beautiful people feel like they have no choice but to paint because of them. He wants to move people, inspire people. He wants an Ophelia of his own.
“It’s really not that great, is it?”
Albus looks up from his moleskin at the sound of a sharp voice in front of him. He is greeted with the backs of two girls; a red-head wearing flared jeans and a blonde wearing glittery tights and a plaid skirt cut high above her knee. The blonde has her head tilted the side, and she is moving her finger millimetres away from the surface of Ophelia as she speaks to her companion.
“I mean, it’s a beautiful painting and the skill is great, but come on, man. How many depictions of dead women are we supposed to look at before the concept gets old?”
Albus tries to stop himself. He does. But he’s a cocky bastard sometimes, and this day is one of those times.
“That painting is regarded as one of the most beautiful in this entire gallery,” Albus says. His voice bounces off the walls, and the two girls turn to look at him over their shoulders. “I think it’s quite reductive to say it isn’t great when it’s potentially one of the most revolutionary and influential pieces hanging on these walls.”
The blonde cocks her eyebrow at him. “Are people not allowed to have opinions?”
“You weren’t stating that sentence as an opinion, though,” Albus says. “If you’d said I think it’s not really that great, then we’d be fine.”
“Go on, then,” she continues, stepping to the side and gesturing at the painting. “Convince me.”
“Convince you?” Albus asks.
She smiles. “Convince me that this painting is pretty great.”
Albus clears his throat as he stands up. His shoes squeak on the floor when he walks over to the frame, to the picture he knows so well, and he points with the corner of his moleskin as he works his way through the finer details of why this painting is more than great.
“This painting is pretty great for several reasons. The first being the fact that it is depicting a scene that doesn’t even occur in the play. We never see Ophelia dead on stage, we’re only told about her death through dialogue. So Millais has crafted such a vivid scene purely from his interpretation of words, which is a pretty great and magnificent skill,” Albus begins. “Secondly, he said fuck tradition when he was painting it. People back then weren’t a fan of landscapes, and most paintings didn’t have a lot of detail in that particular regard. But he painted the landscape first, and paid a lot of attention to symbolism when he did so.
“The flowers, for example,” he continues, pointing to the different flora in the painting. “Weeping willow representing forsaken love. Crow flowers symbolising ingratitude and childishness. The nettles showing pain, violets showing faithfulness, chastity, and death in the young. The detail and thought is impeccable. He uses flowers mentioned in the play and ones that aren’t, but are still meaningful in their own regard. You said in your criticism that you’re sick of seeing depictions of dead women, which I do appreciate is overused and ridiculous sometimes, but she isn’t a glorified or sensationalised painting of a dead lady. She is at peace. If you didn’t know she was meant to be dead she would look like she’s floating, like she’s singing and bathing in the lake. She is elegant and beautiful, and is given the respect in death that she was never permitted in her life. Millais inspired a fuck tonne of people with this painting, and pretty much every interpretation we have of Ophelia is thanks to this work. He did so much with such little source material, and because of that, and more, I think it’s a pretty great painting.”
The blonde girl stares at him. Nobody speaks for a few minutes; they step out of the way as some tourists come by to snap a photo of the painting, footsteps fading away until it is only the three of them left in the room.
“Are you an English student?” She asks.
Albus blinks: not the response he was expecting, if he’s being honest. “No,” he says. “I’m a Creative Writing student.”
“Ah,” she says. “Makes sense. Only someone who reads books a lot could make up that much bullshit on the spot.”
Albus glares at her.
“I think Waterhouse’s Ophelia in 1889 is a much nicer representation of her,” she continues. “Forgive me for preferring a painting where the lady is alive and singing and looking happy.”
“Will you at least admit that this one is pretty decent, too?”
The girl refuses to break eye contact. “I will if you buy me a drink.”
“I don’t play for your team.”
“Bummer,” she sighs. “Your eyes really are rather gorgeous.”
Albus blinks. “I’ll buy you a coffee from the café downstairs if you say this painting is nice.”
The girls weighs up her options, looking to her friend for validation before responding. “Deal,” she says. “I’m Polly, by the way.”
“Albus.”
“Well, Albus,” Polly – her name definitely matches her vibe, Albus thinks – says. “Ophelia is a really brilliant painting, and I take my coffee with milk and two sugars.”
⚡
Albus loves his cousin most of the time.
“You need to cut your hair before this date, Al,” Rose says, her voice crackly through his laptop speakers. “Looks at bit too much like an 18th century Romantic poet mixed with a poor man’s Oscar Wilde for my liking.”
Today is not one of the days he loves her.
“Don’t be rude, Rosie,” Yann says, leaning over to rest his head on Albus’ shoulder. “You’re meant to hype up your cousin, you know.”
Rose rolls her eyes. “I hype him up all the time. Just not when he has a date tomorrow evening but looks like the poster child for some gothic underground band about to release their debut album.”
“Sounds like my kind of music.” Albus says.
Both Rose and Yann scoff.
“Don’t lie to yourself.” Yann says.
“I could be a goth if I wanted.”
Yann stares at him.
“I could.”
“Anyway,” Rose says, chewing on a pencil. “As lovely as this conversation has been, I have an exam in three days, and I’d rather like to pass it. So I shall love you and leave you both. Text me when you get home tomorrow, Al.”
“If he gets home–”
Albus kicks Yann’s shin under the table. “Will do, Rosie,” he says, waving as she blows him a kiss and shuts off the video call. “You’re annoying, Yann Fredericks.”
“And I’ll get the hair scissors, Albus Potter.”
Rose is studying Law at a university in central London. She’s only a thirty minute tube ride away whenever he needs her, but sometimes it still feels like she’s light years away. The three of them – and Polly, too – have formed a tight unit over the last few months of their first year as students. Albus prides himself in being the thread that holds them together, though it does fill him with joy whenever any of the other three hang out and send a photo to their groupchat of whatever their activity for the day is.
It’s a quiet reassurance that he has friends; that he has company who enjoy him and are grateful for him. It’s all he’s really ever wanted, if he’s honest.
⚡
Albus meets Karl Jenkins on what is potentially the worst first date he has ever experienced in his life. The clock has barely hit eight in the evening and he has mentally already written out over half of the inevitable sonnet he’s going to write about this poor boy.
Because that’s the thing, none of this is Karl’s fault.
His friend in his grammar class set him up on the date with Karl, and if it hadn’t been for the fact Albus had burnt through his student loan and only had a pack of instant noodles in his cupboard for dinner he probably would have said no. But he was feeling quite sorry for himself, and really did fancy some nice lasagne from an Italian restaurant way out of his budget, so he said yes, and that is how he had found himself downing his third glass of wine before said damn lasagne had even been served to him.
A comedy of errors have occurred so far this evening, and not a single one of them could have been avoided, no matter how hard either of them tried.
First, as the two of them greeted each other outside the restaurant, a bus drove past and soaked them head to toe in stagnant rain water puddled in a pothole in the road. They then proceeded to spend twenty minutes in the bathroom taking it in turns underneath the hand dryer to sort themselves out. Second, the restaurant apparently didn’t have the Jenkins reservation, and they had to stand outside, again in the rain, while they waited for a table. Third, the waiter slipped on said rain water that had been walked into the restaurant by patrons coming and going, and dropped Albus’ first glass of wine over his fancy white shirt. Fourth, Karl has a celery allergy, and nobody told him that the prawn and monkfish soup starter he ordered contained exactly that ingredient.
And that’s how Albus finds himself in the back of an ambulance, red wine stain on his shirt, used EpiPen in his lap, watching the late night skyline of London passing by out of the back window. The paramedics are busy with Karl, the sweet boy that he is, asking about any past attacks and checking his symptoms every few minutes. Albus’ phone keeps buzzing in his pocket – admittedly he shouldn’t have texted Yann omw to hospital might be back late dont lock the door thx without an explanation, but Albus lives for the dramatics – and he really wonders how on Earth his life has turned into some dreadful sitcom.
“So before your boyfriend ordered the starter–”
It takes Albus a solid thirty seconds to realise the paramedic is talking to him. “Oh – he. Um, well. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh,” the paramedic says, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry about that.”
“Yeah.” Albus says. He glances at Karl, who looks back with a smile and a shrug.
“Before your date ordered the starter, neither of you knew celery would be in the meal?”
“No,” Albus says. “But in my defence, I didn’t even know he had a celery allergy. So even if I was aware of the specific soup recipe, I wouldn’t have said anything anyway.”
“You didn’t know about the allergy?” The other paramedic asks.
Albus shakes his head. “I feel like this is a good time to say that this is literally our first date.”
The paramedics let out a low whistle.
“I swear I’m normally a much better date,” Karl says. “I’m good at looking pretty and saying the right things when the universe isn’t trying to fuck everything up.”
Albus smiles. “You know, I actually believe you,” he says. “But, no offence, I don’t think we’ll be seeing a second date.”
And, thankfully, Karl laughs. “Unfortunate, but I agree.”
“However, there’s no way you’re walking out of my life after this,” Albus continues, reaching over to fist bump Karl. “I think we’re going to be very good friends, Karl Jenkins.”
⚡
Albus meets them all in different places. They all weave their way into his life in the most bizarre of fashions, but by the end of their final year as students he can’t quite believe there was ever a day they were strangers. That there had been a time Polly and Karl didn’t go to the gym together every morning at half past six. That he ever lived alone, without the warm figure of Yann making him tea in the evenings, the two of them sometimes falling asleep in each other’s beds after binge watching some awful comedy show on their laptops.
Albus can’t imagine living without Polly Chapman constantly sending him photos of poetry she finds on social media, captioning them ‘thought you’d like this’ and ‘reminds me of ur sonnet about the chem student from italy’. Without Rose saying he’s the funniest guy she’s ever met, and that the last three years have brought out the best in him. Without Karl commenting on how wonderful it is to see Albus’ smile whenever he arrives for Sunday night board game time. Without Yann Fredericks saying Albus has made his life feel complete. Without these little reassurances that he has best friends for life.
Albus graduates from university with a degree in Creative Writing and a job lined up at the Natural History Museum, but he leaves his student accommodation with more life experience than he thought possible.
He moves his entire life from one shitty flat in East London to another shitty flat in East London, except this time Karl Jenkins lives across from him, there isn’t an elevator to their front door on the eighth floor, and the washing machine actually cleans their clothes properly.
“Smell it,” Yann says, throwing a freshly washed pillowcase into Albus’ open hands. “I’m lost for words.”
Floral. Fruity. Soft. Clean. Albus can’t believe it.
“This must be what adulthood feels like.” Albus says. “I never thought I’d be this ecstatic about clean laundry in my entire life.”
“I cleaned your work uniform, too,” Yann says, his jumper hitching up everytime he reaches into the barrel to pull out the clumps of clean clothes. “You have a shift tomorrow, right?”
Albus smiles. “I do,” he says. “How do you know that?”
Yann shrugs. “I’m not sure. I think I synched our phone calendars so I know your shifts.”
“Aw, babe,” Albus laughs. “If anyone else heard that they’d think we were dating.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Unfortunately for you.”
Yann throws a wet towel at Albus’ head. “Don’t be irritating, Potter,” he laughs, gesturing for Albus to go to the bathroom. “Grab me the clothes airer from the cupboard, will you? Oh, and make sure the blow up mattress is sorted. I’m pretty sure Pol and Rose are staying over after dinner tonight.”
Albus salutes to Yann. “Whatever you say, captain.”
Albus picks up the towel and heads into the bathroom. He stares at his reflection in the mirror – his ruffled hair, his one green and one brown eye – and sees a shadow of the person he was when he first moved to this city as an eighteen year old.
His love language is still reassurance, and he still hasn’t quite got the knack of managing a relationship. But he has platonic soulmates around him, friends who keep his boat from capsizing and who remind him on a daily basis that he provides value to their life. That he is desired and loved and important. And, sure, perhaps it would be nice to have someone to kiss in the evenings and someone who pushes their hand into his back pocket as they walk home from a restaurant. Sue him for still being a hopeless romantic.
But he’s only twenty-two, and he has the rest of his life ahead of him. Except now, his best friend outside in their living room and the rest of the people he loves most in the world working their way to their neon yellow front door, he has a pretty good feeling about his future.
⚡
Among a cascade of things that have changed in the space of a year, one thing that remains is the unbounding devotion the five of them feel for each other.
The colours of Albus and Yann’s flat walls change about four times. Albus has no say in the matter, of course, Yann just appears home from whatever ceramics fair he’s been at for the day with a can of paint and two large brushes and both of them spend the weakening hours of daylight lathering the new pigment over their walls. Which they shouldn’t be doing at all. They’re renters, and Albus explicitly told Yann the first time around that their lease forbids them from doing anything with the walls. Yann had just put his headphones on and ignored him.
Karl carousels through five different flatmates and has begun an art installation in his living room of different bits and pieces all of them left behind before moving out. He pins them all on the wall – again, something he definitely shouldn’t be doing – to frame the television stand, creating almost a bunting out of fragments from these people’s lives. A scarf his amateur footballer flatmate left behind, angel wings from the Halloween costume of his other flatmate who, if Albus remembers correctly, had been a trainee teacher. If Albus is honest, he never particularly liked any of Karl’s flatmates anyway, so he can’t say he complained all too much when they moved out.
(By that, he means they complained when Albus would barge in for eggs at six in the morning. Which, okay, was possibly pushing his luck a little too much, but they didn’t have to throw every curse word under the sun at him until he left.)
Rose lives in a boxy little place across the street where the walls are shaded lilac and the carpet has a pattern of the solar system repeating in beige tones all over the floor. It’s definitely below her budget, and Albus has told her time and time again to rent somewhere better, somewhere that has actual hot water and doesn’t have a working band living in the flat opposite, but Rose insists she likes it there. She likes the closeness to Yann and Albus and Karl; that alone, she says, is worth the other little flaws.
Polly, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about living close by. She treks to their little flats from Tottenham, a tote bag always over her shoulder and a paintbrush always tucked behind her ear. Albus had been shocked to find out after their first conversation in the Tate Britain that Polly was studying art conservation and restoration with the aim of becoming a portrait restoration artist. He choked on his tea in the café beneath the gallery when she told him, but immediately it made sense in his head. But, anyway. She doesn’t live nearby. She much prefers the closeness to her workshop, and makes the most of her commute to East London by spending the minutes sketching on the back of her iced coffee receipt.
And Albus… well. Albus is pretty much the same, if he’s honest. He’s still working at the Museum, still filling moleskin notebooks at a terrifying rate with poetry about people he sees on the streets, still struggling to make any meaningful relationships outside of the ones he has with his friends. He can cook up a storm in any kitchen, and is pretty sure he wears clothes that make him look stylish these days, but beneath all that he is still a clueless twenty-three year old shuffling his way through an over-crowded life, simply trying to find somewhere to fit in.
And it’s fine. He’s fine. He has plenty of time to figure it all out.
⚡
Their life is a cliché. A living, breathing cliché.
Albus pulls out his earbuds as he shoulders open to the door to Thanks a Latte! Coffee Shop. He heads straight to the counter to pick up a mug of tea and a milky coffee with three sugars, balancing everything in his arms while walking over to the two sofas arranged by the window of the café. They face each other, these two green upholstered three-seaters, with a dark grain low table sandwiched between them.
“Al!” Polly looks up from her book and wraps her arms around Albus’ waist, pulling him onto the seat next to her. She kisses his cheek, breathes in the scent of his hair, positively wraps herself up his warmth as he tries to process what just happened. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“You saw me two days ago.”
“Two days without your best friend feels like a lifetime,” Polly says. She nudges her nose against Albus’ cheek one last time, picking up her coffee from the table once she is finished with her affection. “Besides, it’s been a hellish week. Someone came into the workshop on Monday with a painting that had been slashed with a knife.”
Albus grimaces. “Yikes.”
“I know, right?” Polly continues. “So we’ve had to spend the last few days restoring the canvas and trying to thread the hole shut. Did that, pricked myself about a million times while doing it, but whatever. Then I told this new trainee to fix me up a basic skin tone palette, but as they were bringing the paints to me they tripped on something and smeared a huge streak of black paint over the canvas.”
“Yikes, again.”
“I could’ve cried,” Polly says, pausing as she sips her drink. “Actually, no. I did cry.”
Albus lovingly pets her hair, scratching some dried paint off the ends of the strands with his nail. “But you fixed it, right?”
Polly sighs dramatically. “Just about. Probably sped up my aging process about twenty years, but it’s fine. I’m sure I’ll look pretty with grey hair,” she says, turning her attention fully to Albus. “Anyway, you look fit.”
Albus looks himself up and down; his black polo-shirt with ‘NHM’ embroidered across the heart, his Hi! I’m ALBUS pin badge, his blue jeans that are technically breaking uniform regulations but his manager likes him too much to reprimand him again. “Um, thanks?” Albus says, scratching the side of his nose. “Personally I don’t think this is my best look, but hey. Whatever works.”
“You always look fit,” Yann’s voice appears behind him. Then Yann’s lips press a kiss to his head. Then Yann squeezes next to him on the sofa even though there definitely isn’t space for three people. “Not as fit as when you wear that navy Hawaiian-looking shirt, but pretty close.”
Polly grimaces. “Of all the outfits in his wardrobe, you’re daring to say his Hawaiian shirt is his best one?”
“Yes, Pol,” Yann says, reaching over Albus to gently poke her nose. Polly flushes. “Do you disagree?”
“I think his black t-shirt tucked in blue jeans with his dad’s old plaid jacket on is a million times better than the shirt.”
“Ah, shit. Yeah, you’re right,” Yann says, nodding to nobody in particular. “That one is his best.”
Albus rolls his eyes. He forces his way out of Yann and Polly’s grip to pick up his cooling mug of tea. “If only the entire male population of London agreed with you, perhaps I’d have a date on this Friday evening instead of being the filling in a Polly-Yann sandwich.”
“The entire male population of London does agree with us,” Polly mutters, whisking her spoon in her coffee when she uncharacteristically adds another sugar. “You’re just too blind to see it.”
“Doesn’t Karl have a date this evening?” Yann asks.
Albus nods. “Yeah,” he says, kicking his legs up on the low table as he settles back into the cushions. “I think they’re going to a Thai restaurant.”
“Ugh, I’m jealous,” Polly murmurs, resting her head in the crook of Albus’ neck. He loops his arm around her shoulders, gently dragging his fingertips up and down the seam of her shirt’s long sleeve. “Thai food sounds so good.”
“All we can provide is frozen nuggets or fish and chips from the place around the corner.” Yann says.
Polly hums. “I could go for fish and chips.”
“Should we get something for Rosie, too?” Albus asks.
“I highly doubt the fish and chips place will offer a vegan option.” Polly murmurs.
“A portion of chips should surely be vegan, right?” Yann muses.
Albus shrugs. “No idea.”
“Well,” Yann says, groaning as he forces himself to his feet. “If she ends up not wanting them, then it’ll be an extra portion for us.”
⚡
blind date’s number: yo im not sure about this guy
the ying to my yann: wdym???
blind date’s number: idk he’s just giving off weird vibes
cousin rosie: like serial killer vibes?
jolly polly rancher: oi rose where are you? we got fish&chips it’s going cold
Own Number: karl if ur worried about him I can ring and pretend to be someone important to get u out of there?
blind date’s number: hes just a bit odd like he spent the first twenty minutes talking about different types of potatoes and wondering which ones this restaurant will be using
the ying to my yann: maybe he’s nervous?
cousin rosie: sorry guys I bumped into an old friend who is in a bit of a state can I bring him to ur place? He’s super nice al you have met him
jolly polly rancher: sure ro
blind date’s number: right hes gone to the bathroom im gonna leave
Own Number: do you want us to go get you something from the fish and chips shop?
blind date’s number: plz
⚡
Albus has his head in Karl’s lap as they eat their slightly cold fish and chips and watch a documentary about flamingos on a random channel on TV. Yann and Polly spread out on the floor, though Polly seems to spend more time watching Yann than she does watching the TV show.
“Your eyes really are so pretty.”
Albus flicks his gaze from the screen to look at Karl. “Come again?”
“I feel like I say it at least once a week,” Karl says, flicking some of Albus’ hair out of his face. “But your eyes… they’re very pretty.”
“I see what you’re doing,” Albus says, snuggling further into Karl’s lap and into the blanket he’s pulled over him. “Your date flopped so you’re flirting with me to try and get laid. Not gonna work, Jenkins.”
“Bummer,” Karl sighs. “You’ve ruined my plans, can’t believe you saw right through me.”
Albus chuckles and kisses Karl’s knee.
“Who d’you reckon Rose bumped into?” Polly asks. “She said you’ll know them, Al. Any ideas?”
Albus shakes his head. “Nope. Rose has a lot of old friends. I don’t even know whether she means old as in, like, childhood or as in university. She’s far too social for me to keep up with.”
Polly hums. “I wonder what they were in a state about.”
“So nosey, Chapman.” Yann teases.
“Nobody asked you, Fredericks.”
The door opens at that specific moment. All four of them turn immediately to watch as the prim and proper figure of Rose walks through the door, quickly followed by someone dressed in a ridiculously fancy suit. Pinstripe trousers, a green satin tie pinned perfectly in place. Albus slowly drags his eyes further up the guy until–
“Sorry, guys,” Rose says. She sets her bag on the table and grabs the guy by his hand, pulling him into the flat and in front of the screen. “This is my old friend, Scorpius.”
Scorpius. Scorpius Greengrass. Or Scorpius Malfoy, depending on his mood of the day. Rose had been correct, Albus does know this boy. He knows everything and nothing about him in some explicably painful way.
“Um, hey,” Scorpius says, addressing the entire group but his eyes glued to Albus. “I’m sorry to barge in on your evening. This isn’t my finest day, if I’m honest.”
“No worries, Scorpius,” Yann speaks first, holding out his hand for Scorpius to shake. Scorpius takes it, their slender fingers intertwining. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Scorpius nods to him. “You, too.”
“So that’s Yann. Polly is sat next to him. Karl is the one sitting up on the sofa,” Rose explains, pausing as Scorpius navigates his way across the narrow space to shake hands with everyone else. “And that’s Albus. But you’ve met him.”
They stare at each other. Albus looks up, Scorpius looks down. Albus suddenly feels so foolish, feels his past mistakes surrounding this boy rising in his throat like bile. Scorpius goes to put out a hand, but stops at the last moment. His fingers shiver by his side, then he steps back.
“It’s nice to see you again Albus.”
Albus. He pronounces it the same way sober as he does tipsy, it seems. “You too.” Albus says. He can feel Yann staring at him without even having to look. There are two definite holes being burned into the side of his head right now, but Albus refuses to be the first to look away.
“Your chips, Rose,” Yann breaks the odd silence that has bloomed in the room. Scorpius looks away, and Albus finally looks to Yann. “We also got an extra portion in case your friend was hungry.”
Scorpius smiles. “That’s so very kind,” he says. “Thank you.”
Albus excuses himself from the living area under the guise of getting everyone drinks, but makes sure to give a lingering look to Yann as a way of communicating that he expects to be followed the second he leaves the room.
Their kitchen is almost pitifully tiny. A tiny U-shaped cut-out to the side of their front door. There’s a window at the furthest end with the sink directly beneath the sill. To the left sits the fridge and freezer, to the right is the oven and a single cabinet filled with their tableware. The tiles on the walls are a sickly green colour – not even a nice green, like jade or fern – and the floor is carpeted, for some godforsaken reason. Albus leans against the sink as he flicks on the kettle and waits for Yann to dutifully arrive, and he settles ever so slightly as he sees Yann’s shadow appear on the front door.
“The fuck are you being so weird for?” Yann asks, holding out his tub of remaining chips as he hops onto the counter and stares at Albus.
“I wrote a sonnet about that guy and submitted it as part of my final year project.”
Yann chokes on a chip. “You did what?”
“And I told him I was going to write a poem about him,” Albus continues. “He knows I’ve written a poem about him, too.”
“So did you date him, or something? Because if your ex-boyfriend is someone Rose refers to as an old friend then god am I going to interrogate the hell out of her later.”
Albus rolls his eyes. “No, I didn’t date him.”
“Sleep with him?”
“Will you shut up and let me explain?”
⚡
Albus hates the rain.
He hates the rain even more when he has spent a good hour sorting out his hair so it curls in the right direction and frames his eyes in a way that makes sure people will look at them and tell him he looks nice. Albus holds his blazer above his head as he and Rose stand on the dock – the god damn dock – with the Thames lapping lazily to their side and the distant jazz music from on board the boat they’re queueing to step onto filling the air with sweet melodic thrums. Rose holds a small umbrella above her, and Albus is mildly offended she hasn’t offered him a spot underneath it, but he’d rather not start off the evening with a pointless fight so he just stays quiet.
Law Society. Law Soc. Law.
Albus doesn’t know anything about law, but he knows that Law Soc balls are often the social event of the season, so he had been more than happy to say yes when Rose mentioned she had an extra ticket to this year’s Freshers Week ball (even though she herself is now in her third and final year).
“Are you going to ditch me for your smart law friends the second we get inside?” Albus asks, speaking a little louder to combat the pounding of the rain on his blazer and Rose’s umbrella.
“What? No,” Rose says. “I wouldn’t bring you somewhere just to abandon you immediately. And, anyway, who’s to say I didn’t plan on hanging out with you and my friends?”
Albus scoffs. “You say that as if your law friends don’t hate me.”
“They don’t, Al!”
Albus stares at her.
Rose sighs. “Okay, fine, maybe a few of them aren’t keen but,” she says, grabbing onto Albus’ arm as the queue begins to dwindle and they move closer to the front. “But that’s only because you slept with one of them and then ghosted him afterwards.”
“Yeah, I know, and I can’t believe he’s still holding that grudge when it’s been over a year since it happened.”
“So you’re saying if, let’s think, one of Polly’s friends showed up, slept with Yann, then ghosted him completely, you wouldn’t hold a grudge?”
Albus flicks her cheek. “I think you gravely underestimate the type of relationship I have with Yann Fredericks if you think I would do anything except take the piss out of him for days if that happened.”
“You’re a horrible person.”
“I learn from the best,” Albus shrugs. “It’s impossible to be Polly Chapman’s best friend without being horrible at least thirty percent of the time.”
Rose rolls her eyes. They hand the tickets over to the bouncer guarding the door, showing their IDs before being permitted to board the boat. “You’re annoying,” she says, guiding the two of them through the clusters of well-dressed students to arrive at the bar. “Just, for me, please ask anyone you may find attractive whether or not they know who I am before you go in for the kill. I’d rather not be partnered with someone this year to find out my bastard of a cousin–”
“Okay, Rosie. I’ll make sure to do that,” he says. “I promise I’ll ask that question, only if you promise not to abandon me.”
“Fine,” Rose says, holding out her pinky finger. “I promise.”
⚡
Rose breaks her promise after approximately five minutes. One minute she is next to him, twirling her tiny paper umbrella around her cocktail, and the next minute she has dissolved into nothingness, and Albus is left by himself. He would be angry if he hadn’t known this exact predicament would’ve occurred; he knows Rose Granger-Weasley like the back of his hand, if someone comes up to her and starts being nice, she without a doubt forgets whoever she is already with and disappears to bathe in the endless shower of compliments for the rest of the night.
Which, honestly, Albus understands. He would do the same if he was pinned down as the next great lawyer in his cohort and is known for being top in all of his classes.
So, rather than being annoyed, Albus finds himself deflated. How odd of a sensation it is to feel isolated and lonely in a room bursting at the seams with interesting people. Albus just isn’t good at this sort of stuff. He thrives off lower capacity parties, where you can look away for one moment and when your gaze returns to its original position the people are still the same and nothing has changed. He enjoys going out with his friends and having the security net of them to catch him if his evening goes off track and he finds himself needing a safe hand to take him back home.
He doesn’t really get on with this. Fancy dresses and flutes of champagne. A live band and photographers all over the place snapping people when they toss their heads back in laughter or gently trace their fingers down the cheeks of the person they’re dancing with. This isn’t Albus’ scene, per se. But he would be a fool to ever refuse an open bar.
Albus pushes himself off the wall and tries to meander his way through the clusters of students to get to the bar. He catches fragments of conversations happening between people, smiling to himself at obvious flirtatious undertones of some and the shockingly mundane laughter that vibrates from others. Law students are confusing to him, but he imagines he would be as equally confusing to them, too.
The band begins to play a jazz song. Birds do it, bees do it.
Then something hard hits his face, and Albus realises he has knocked into someone and is now on his knees, on the floor. He presses his hand to his lip – which is stinging a lot, by the way, since he must have bitten it upon colliding with the other person – and is relieved when he pulls it away to the sight of no blood. He takes a moment to recollect himself (perhaps that one drink has already had has gone straight to his head), rubbing his hands over his face and clearing his throat as he gains his composure again.
Albus looks at the person he bumped into, and sees at once the face of someone who he would definitely let break his heart a thousand times over. Bright blue eyes, streaky white blonde hair perfectly parted just off the middle of his head and curling gorgeously around his complexion. Elegant fingers being offered to Albus to hold. Peachy lips glistening from a layer of sticky alcohol glossed over them.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” the guy says. His voice is both sandpaper and honey at the same time. He keeps one hand out for Albus to hold, offering him a drink with the other. “For you, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“I feel like the first thing you get taught when you turn eighteen is never take a cup of alcohol from someone you have met in a club.” Albus says, though he gratefully takes the strangers hand as he is helped up from the floor.
The guy shrugs. “We aren’t in a club right now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You really want me to take this drink, huh?” Albus laughs. “Famous last words from me, I guess.”
“Your eyes,” the guy says, changing the topic with effortless ease. He raises the hand holding the cup, lifting his index finger off his plastic cup to gesture between Albus’ eyes. “They’re gorgeous.”
Albus swallows. “Thank you.” he says. “They’re definitely my best feature.”
“I’m Scorpius,” the guy says. “Scorpius Greengrass.”
“My name is Albus.”
Scorpius nods. “So… you study law?”
Albus shakes his head. He picks up his own drink from the bar this time, making sure to look directly at Scorpius as he takes the first sip. “No. I’m a creative writing student at a different uni,” he explains, pausing as he considers for a moment whether or not to continue with this conversation. “I’m here with my cousin. She studies law. Her name is Rose? Rose Granger-Weasley? You might know her.”
Scorpius tilts his head to the side, and a few strands of his hair follow suit. They flick in front of his face, tickling the bridge of his nose and hiding his eyes from Albus’ sight. “Rose? Hm.”
“She’s tall, kinda. Really pretty brown hair. Has a chunk missing out her left eyebrow?” Albus lists off descriptors, leaning closer and closer to Scorpius with each one that rolls off his tongue.
“I think it’d be more surprising if I do know who she was than if I don’t.” Scorpius says.
Albus frowns. “Why on Earth is that?”
“Because I also don’t study law.”
Albus gently shoves Scorpius back with his knuckles. “Gosh, you’re annoying.”
“But you’re still talking to me,” Scorpius smiles. “I’m kidding, by the way. I do know who Rose is. I don’t study Law, but I’m part of the society because I’m very interested in it. And it’s impossible to not know Rose if you have anything to do with the law department at this place.”
Albus stares into his drink; he watches the ice cubes bob up and down, feels the condensation running between his fingers and dripping down his wrist bone. He takes a long drink, then looks back to Scorpius. “I’m going to get some air.” He declares.
Scorpius cocks an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”
“It’s a statement,” Albus says. “Illustrating my intent to you.”
Albus gently pushes past Scorpius and heads towards the doors. He looks back over his shoulder, pausing until Scorpius meets his gaze and follows him out to the stern. Albus leans against the railings and watches the late night scenery of London glide past him. A kaleidoscope of yellow box lights and streaky white and grey flight trails reflect in the murky Thames water. The gentle breeze whips through Albus’ air and seeps through his clothes to chill him to his bones. The rain has stopped, and the floor is drying, though the clouds remain as daunting as they have been the entire day thus far.
Scorpius arrives moments later, leaning his back on the railing and looking into the party instead of out at the world. Albus glances at him out of the corner of his eye; gazes as he takes in the sharp curve of Scorpius’ jaw and the bump in the end of his nose. How he scrunches up his face every now and again, occasionally lifting a hand to delicately swat some flyaway hairs out of his way. His posture is perfect, his drink is perfectly balanced between his fingertips; he is a walking gentlemen’s handbook, Albus thinks.
“It’s quite fun being a stranger at this ball, isn’t it?” Scorpius says.
Albus turns to look at him, elbow on the railing, drink hanging scarily over the edge of the boat. “Really?” He asks. “You enjoy not knowing anyone?”
Scorpius shrugs. “Enjoy isn’t the word I’d use. But I’ve been to my fair share of fancy get togethers like this, and I firmly believe that being the stranger is better than being the one who is constantly the centre of attention.”
“Wow, I had no idea I have been blessed with the presence of the God of Popularity and Fame.” Albus chuckles.
“When your parents are rich as fuck and familiarise themselves with the types of people who throw extravagant parties, you have no choice but to be the God of Popularity sometimes.”
“Wow,” Albus repeats himself. “I also didn’t know I was talking to someone with enough generational wealth they could be my sugar daddy.”
“I’m probably younger than you.” Scorpius snipes.
Albus rolls his eyes. “You radiate far too much Virgo energy to be younger than me, my friend.”
“And you’re, what, a Capricorn?”
“Scorpio.”
Scorpius grins. “Incredible.”
“Anyway,” Albus clears his throat. “I guess I should’ve expected you to be a trust fund baby. I mean, nobody is that comfortable in an expensive suit unless they know they can afford to replace it if they spill wine on it.”
Scorpius’ eyes roll. When they meet Albus’ again he is momentarily startled by the pleasant iciness to them. They shock him; they seem to communicate everything he is feeling, and he doesn’t appear to want to hide anything, either.
“I’m going to ignore that.”
“Only because you know it’s true.”
Scorpius flicks a strand of his hair out of his face. “Are you aware your shoelace is undone?”
Albus looks down. “I was not aware,” he says, lowering himself to his knees as he weaves the laces back into a bow. From his spot on the ground he looks up at Scorpius. “Thanks.”
Scorpius holds out a hand to help Albus back up again. Albus stares at his palm as if it is burning when Scorpius lets him go. God, he can feel the heartbreak poetry writing itself. “Just thought you’d want to tie them,” Scorpius says, oddly so. “Wouldn’t want you falling for anyone else this evening.”
“God,” Albus laughs, turning away from Scorpius as a way to compose himself. “That was such a line. Wow, you really thought that was going to impress me?”
Scorpius crosses his arms over his chest. “Who says I was trying to impress you?”
“I say.”
Scorpius nods. “Keep thinking that.”
“Ouch,” Albus says, pressing his hand to his heart in faux devastation. “Break my heart anymore and I’ll write a poem about you.”
Someone drops a glass back inside, and the entire party is stunned to silence for a few moments. The music picks back up soon after, and the entire escapade slips away faster than time seems to allow.
“So you write poems about all the people you meet?” Scorpius asks, suddenly very close. Close enough Albus can smell the alcohol on his breath.
Albus shakes his head. “Only about the boys who tear my heart in two.”
“Fax me a copy when you finish it,” Scorpius smiles. “Malfoy Antiques, Brighton. I’m already excited.”
Albus blinks a few times. “Malfoy? You said your name was Greengrass.”
“It’s both.”
Albus nods slowly. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be sure to send it your way.”
⚡
“Holy fuck,” Yann says. “How didn’t you get laid after that?”
Albus shrugs. “I don’t even know. I spent literally the entire evening with him – and the conversation rarely stopped being like that. I swear, I’ve never flirted with someone so much without it actually going anywhere in my entire life,” he says, pouring boiling water in an array of different mugs once the kettle finishes boiling. “But that’s beside the point. Do you see why I would rather not be in a room with him?”
“Well, yeah. I imagine it’s pretty embarrassing to come face to face again with a guy you were drooling over for an entire evening,” Yann says, flinching when Albus flicks a boiling tea bag at him. “Fucking ouch, you bastard. I’m just repeating what you’re implying.”
“I wasn’t drooling over him.”
“You just said you wanted to sleep with him.”
“That doesn’t mean I was drooling.”
Yann rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. “But at least he won’t be around long, I guess? You’ll just have to writhe about with your embarrassment for the evening and he’ll be out the picture soon enough.”
“What’s taking you two so long?” Karl arrives in the kitchen. He throws the empty fish and chips wrappers in the bin and pours himself a fresh glass of wine. Albus reaches over to gently pat the back of his neck; Karl only drinks wine when he’s had a bad day.
“Nothing.” Yann says.
“Is Rose’s friend still here?”
“Scorpius?” Karl asks. Yann and Albus nod. “Yeah, he’s staying over at my place this evening.”
Albus blinks. “What? Why?”
Karl looks at him with an odd expression. “He has nowhere to stay and, as Rose said in the groupchat, is in a bit of a sticky situation. So I said he could stay with me for the evening and we’re gonna help him figure things out tomorrow.”
“Did he explain what the sticky situation is?” Yann asks. Albus crouches underneath the sink to grab a fresh bottle of dish soap.
“Oh, yeah,” Karl says, drink swirling in his glass. “It was his stag party this evening and he ran away when his friends went to get drinks because he realised he doesn’t want to get married.”
“Jesus ouch,” Albus whines, hands gripping the back of his head which he just banged off the top of the cabinet after flinching in response to Karl’s explanation. He spins on his heels, still holding onto the spot of his throbbing head, and stares at his friend. “He was engaged?”
Karl’s expression clouds into further confusion. He looks to Yann for some sort of indication as to what is wrong with Albus, but Yann merely shrugs and acts as if he is none the wiser. “Um, yes? Having a stag party sort of implies that there’s an engagement. What on Earth is wrong with you?”
Albus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Nothing, I’m fine,” he lies. “Surely being engaged kinda insinuates he is in a long-term relationship, right?” He asks, looking to Yann mostly.
“Why do you care so much?” Karl asks.
“Am I looking at you Karl?” Albus questions.
Karl pauses. “No.”
“Then I’m not talking to you,” Albus concludes, never looking away from Yann. “Engagement does insinuate that, right?”
Yann shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, to answer the question you’re actually asking, I would assume this is a relationship that existed when he was twenty-one, yes.”
“Twenty–”
“Karl.” Both Albus and Yann say.
Karl throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, weirdos,” he says, topping up his glass once more. “But I swear if you don’t tell me by the end of tomorrow what’s going on I’ll cry.”
“I promise I’ll tell you tomorrow.” Albus says.
Karl nods. “Good,” he murmurs. “Are you done fucking about in here? The others are wondering what you’re up to.”
⚡
“Why are you so glum, buttercup?” Polly asks, slotting herself between Albus’ open legs where he lies on the sofa, resting her chin on his chest and staring up at him with her bold puppy dog eyes.
“Ugh, why are you so pretty?” Albus says, playfully flicking her nose.
Polly rolls her eyes. “I’d be more than happy to discuss how beautiful I am on any other day,” she murmurs. “But you’ve had a rotten face on for the last hour or so, and I find it impossible to be happy when I know you aren’t.”
“God, you’re being a bit soft this evening. Who are you and what have you done with Polly Chapman?”
“Albus,” Polly whines. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Albus looks over at where Scorpius sits on the floor, his eyes glued to his phone but his lips moving in response to Rose’s question. They sit opposite each other, Rose evidently offering some advice from the way she is gesturing wildly with her hands while Scorpius seemingly scrolls through his text messages. Scorpius is still one of the prettiest boys Albus thinks he’s ever seen in his life, even if he is potentially a dickhead.
“Nothing.” Albus lies.
“There’s no way you think you’re going to lie to me and I’m not going to see right through it.”
Albus groans. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”
“If you don’t tell me I’ll only go and ask Yann,” she says. “And Yann is the easiest person to get a secret out of.”
“It’s not a secret, Pol,” Albus murmurs, gently brushing his fingers through Polly’s hair to tuck her fringe out of her face. “It’s just… something odd.”
Polly sighs. “Fine,” she says, rolling over so she is still tucked between Albus’ legs, but so she can see the television screen, too. “I love you.”
Albus kisses the top of her head. “I love you, too.”
⚡
Albus is leaning over a sizzling frying pan, scraping eggs around so they don’t stick to the bottom, when the door to Karl’s spare room opens and Scorpius comes shuffling out into the early morning chill. For a moment it is just the three of them: Albus, Scorpius, and the pan of cooking eggs.
Then Scorpius sneezes.
“Bless you.” Albus says.
Scorpius nods to him. He sits on one of the chairs set next to the kitchen island, spinning idly on it while Albus cooks the eggs. They look at each other a couple of times; Albus’ gaze is a daring one, Scorpius’ is just plain lost.
“Do you want some eggs?” Albus asks, gesturing with his spatula to the pan of eggs. “I’ve been told I make the best scrambled eggs within a five mile radius, just in case you were curious.”
The corner of Scorpius’ mouth hitches into a smile. “That’s quite high praise.”
“Praise you’ll understand is true when you try my eggs.”
Scorpius chuckles. “Okay,” he says. “I would love some. Thank you for the offer.”
Albus nods to him. Scorpius watches while Albus pops bread into the toaster and pulls out Karl’s half empty – or, as Karl would probably say, half full – bottle of orange juice. He pours some out into two glasses, keeping the pan on the hob just in case any of his other friends wake up soon and want food themselves, too.
Albus pushes one plate and glass towards Scorpius, and the two of them begin to eat in an unsettling silence. An early morning ambulance siren rockets past outside the window, a blackbird calls from some tree lining the road. Their knives scrape over their plates, their eyes stay downcast throughout it all.
“So,” Albus says. Scorpius looks up at him, forkful of scrambled egg hovering centimetres away from his mouth. “Apparently the stag party wasn’t quite your vibe?”
Scorpius freezes. Only for a moment, his composure slipping for a couple of seconds, but he freezes. “I take it Karl isn’t good at keeping secrets?”
“If Karl didn’t spill it, then Rose or Polly would’ve done so, too.” Albus shrugs.
Scorpius nods slowly. His fingers wrap around the cold glass of orange juice, the tips leaving finger painting-esque dots within the condensation clouding the outside. “Good to know,” he says. “But, no. It wasn’t just the stag party that wasn’t my vibe. The whole concept of marriage started to feel claustrophobic.”
“Poor guy.”
Scorpius raises an eyebrow. “Me?”
“God, no,” Albus laughs. “Your fiancé, dude. Probably waking up this morning to a shit ton of texts saying oh, bro, we can’t find Scorpius anywhere.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “He’ll live,” he says. “It was never his idea to get married in the first place. I’m sure he’ll love the fact he’s free.”
“Never pinned you down as the type to propose.”
“Well, you don’t know me at all.”
“Obviously.”
Scorpius clears his throat. “It was our third anniversary, we were about a month out from graduating uni. It made sense in my head to do it then.”
“Third anniversary?” Albus asks.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“Wow, your poor fiancé.” Albus repeats.
Scorpius sips his orange juice, then looks right back at him. “Why now?”
“Imagine being with a guy for two and a bit years, only then the guy goes to a Law Society ball on a boat and spends the entire evening following someone else around, never actually mentioning to the person he’s following that he’s in a really committed relationship,” Albus deadpans. “I’d be utterly mortified.”
Scorpius blinks. “Would the fact I was seeing someone have changed any of our conversation from that night?”
Albus chuckles. “Seriously?” He asks. Scorpius nods. “Well, for starters, I definitely wouldn’t have reciprocated your flirting.”
“I wasn’t flirting with you,” Scorpius says. “You, however, were definitely flirting with me.”
“You used a fucking pick-up line on me.”
Scorpius tilts his head to the side. The orange juice is glossy on his lips, and Albus is in half a mind to ask him to wipe it away with a napkin. “When did I do that?”
“When you told me to tie my shoe laces,” Albus reminds him. “It was a blatant pick-up line.”
Scorpius hums. “You know, you never did fax me the poem you said you were going to write about me.”
“Nice, changing the subject because you know I’m right.”
“No,” Scorpius asserts. His knife makes the most awful sound on his plate as he cuts through a piece of his toast, and he is silent for a few moments while he chews through a new mouthful. “You reciting the conversation made me remember that part about the poem. And how you never actually gave me said poem.”
“Look me up online, my friend,” Albus murmurs. “The poem made it into my final project for my degree. Read the whole thing and let me know which one you think is about you.”
Scorpius stays silent for a moment. “I agree,” he says. Albus drags his eyebrows together. “Your eggs are definitely the best within a five mile radius.”
“You are aware that my current impression of you is that you’re a dick, right?”
Scorpius nods. “I am aware,” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin when he finishes his food. “And I hope to change that at some point.”
Albus smiles at him; a half there kind of smile, where he isn’t actually happy but he isn’t sad, either. “Well,” Albus drags out the word. “I look forward to seeing you try.”