Contact.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Gay and Lesbian  |  House: Booksie Classic
Perceval Elton rather likes Peter. There's not much to like about Peter, but he still did. And when Perceval rather likes someone, he gets rather annoying and rather persistent in his efforts to get them to rather like him back.

Peter Kenton doesn't usually take to Perceval's affections with any enthusiasm whatsoever, but he likes poetry, and he likes the sound of Perceval's voice as he recites it to him.

(Set in the Potterverse.)

Submitted: September 03, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 03, 2015

A A A

A A A


CONTACT.

 

“You read it!”

“I didn’t,”

“I saw you reading!”

“Your eyes must have deceived you. A trick of the light, perhaps.”

There was a pause, accompanied by a slight upwards twitch of pale lips, completely unfazed at shamelessly lying his way past perfectly veracious accusations. It was quite thoroughly obvious that the darker boy didn’t believe a single word that came from his mouth (force of habit, maybe), but it was just as perfectly obvious that Perceval had quickly picked up the virtue of not minding in the least. Really, all it did was incite him to lie as dauntlessly as he wanted. Peter really ought to know better by now.

The silence was filled with the bubbling of Peter’s embarrassment, with the sweet tinge to his face that made him resemble a caramel apple, with Perceval’s quiet obnoxiousness that he knew full well made Peter squirm. Some might grow bored of doing the same thing again and again, of irritating the same person day after day, but not him. He liked to memorise all of Peter’s expressions, he liked to be able to trace all of the lines of the boy's face on the back of his eyelids when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t lively or exciting, but it was far from monotonous – Perceval personally made sure of that.

It seemed that Peter, red faced as he was, was adamant about not breaking the silence – perhaps under the false illusion that if he was quiet enough Perceval would leave (a rather naïve thought) – so the Ravenclaw took it upon himself to carry out the deed. After a couple of seconds more of standing innocently by Peter’s side as the other boy cradled his journal in his arms protectively, as if he really thought that by doing so he would be able to keep Perceval out.

A single, lonely thought escaped him then and the blonde allowed himself another second to humour his curiosity, wondering if – were he to snatch the journal cleanly out of Peter’s hands and read right through it – he would find his name etched into the paper with that hideous pen’s ink.

He felt that he would rather like to see his name scribbled in Peter’s handwriting. He would orchestrate a situation requiring it, later. But for now, there were more important things to attend to.

“So,” he began, one hand absently fingering the ribbon around his neck, “you like poetry, then.” It wasn’t a question, it was an affirmation. He knew the answer to it already – he had had time to see it, to deduce it, taking evidence from the verses he had just casually seemed to have stumbled upon, the little treasures that had been conveniently left unburied for him to plunder.

Peter’s face snapped to look at him with such a sharp angle that Perceval was willing to bet it was painful. Everything about him screamed ‘Perceval, you’ve been found guilty! Guilty!’ even if the Ravenclaw couldn’t possibly look more placid at that moment. His smile broadened.

“So you did read it! You liar,” And now Peter reached out a hand quickly to hit him in the chest – not nearly as gently as Perceval would have liked, by the looks of it, so in self-preservation he trapped the hand in his own, squeezing until their fingers were interlaced. It didn’t matter if Peter was trying to shake him off. He liked the feel of skin on skin, the feeling of the smoothness of Peter’s hands slightly roughened by something or other that didn’t make them lovely but, somehow, still appealing, still important.

How could they not be? They were Peter’s.

“Let go of me,” Peter commanded sternly, relentless in his efforts to try and pry his hand out of Perceval’s clutches while at the same time attempting to keep the journal well out of reach.

Perceval!”

Perhaps it was the surprise at hearing Peter call out his name so eloquently (for all the wrong reasons, which he conveniently chose to ignore) or perhaps it was a sudden burst of obedience, but he obliged. Peter clearly hadn’t been expecting such an immediate response, but he wasted no time in drawing his hand back into his chest, giving Perceval a look through narrowed eyes. But Perceval wasn’t really looking at him. His eyes were fixed on his own hand, ever so slightly flexed, not quite comprehending the dejection at no longer seeing another five fingers pressing into his knuckles.

When he abruptly looked up again, expression once again a winning smile of having never committed a misdeed in his life, Peter took half a step back, which Perceval decided against dwelling on, smartly making up for the distance by stepping closer. He saw a look of mild alarm flitter over Peter’s features, or perhaps he imagined it, because then the boy was going even redder and he was really too close to see anything that he didn’t want to see, pressing a kiss to the Hufflepuff’s cheek on impulse, aiming for the mouth but falling shy at the last second.

He supposed it didn’t matter, just as long as there was contact.

And by the time that he left Peter alone in that secluded little corner of the Courtyard, already far too late for students to be outside in the cold and vulnerable to the autumn hounds, Perceval was already thinking of another way to achieve his new goal, pleasantly humming to himself as he mentally delighted at the redness on Peter’s skin.

 

 

He was clever. Memorising a bunch of words was no challenge to him. But they had to be perfect – said in the correct order, with the correct rhythm, the correct intonation, the correct volume. He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t put time into this – making an uncanny amount of effort for something quite as trivial would have probably never even crossed his mind, but he had a goal in mind. An important goal. Things didn’t seem so fastidious when you were doing them to achieve something that truly mattered. And this mattered, Perceval decided, because he wanted to feel the smooth roughness of Peter’s hands again, he wanted to kiss that foul scar on Peter’s cheek again. It was all about contact.

It seemed to him that the Hufflepuff he longed to meet was, in essence, avoiding him at all costs, perhaps unaware of the fact that just that fact alone made Perceval more zealous in his endeavour. Or perhaps Peter did know and it was what he wanted from the start. He didn’t know. The boy’s head was such an odd place to try to make sense of – Perceval liked that everything felt inside-out and upside-down when it came to him. It was an interesting change.

Things would have been easier if there had been classes today. He would have been able to wait for Peter outside of his classroom or seek him out in the corridors, eyes trained to scope out his face from within the indistinguishable crowd. But there weren’t classes today, and even if it was Saturday he knew that – if Peter truly was serious about avoiding him – his hopes for a date that evening would most likely be dashed. Peter was getting gradually more popular, gradually changing. His clients were only human; humans were attracted to change, they couldn’t help it. They liked what was new, what was bizarre, and the lack of constant scowls and glowers from Peter would probably fall into that category. It did make Perceval feel something comparable to pride, but this emotion was presently overpowered by his disappointment.

He would have to wait out the whole day and try to catch Peter after he was done with his clients.

The Ravenclaw resigned himself to this fate, but it still didn’t keep him from seeking the older boy out whenever he could, keeping hawkish eyes trained for the signs of a particularly plain and unsmiling boy, or his known associates (these being a certain princely Hufflepuff and sweet little Madam Mary). He did catch sight of Simone once or twice, but when the older boy caught him looking and returned the stare without so much as blinking Perceval would jerk his gaze away and fix it elsewhere. He didn’t really want to sit through another of Simone’s lectures to let him be – it seemed that Perceval couldn’t get it into his head that he didn’t actually want anything from him, but from a person that was irritatingly always hovering around him.

And thus the hours passed, filled with his sighs and unenthusiastic expressions, occasionally paired with a few mumbled words that he was scared might slip his mind when he most needed them to stand true. Eventually, night rolled in, and with it all the liveliness that Perceval had been storing away during the day. He all but skipped up the steps of the staircases, aims set on the seventh floor, checking the time every now and again to ensure that he wouldn’t be too late by even a second, not wanting to give Peter the chance to escape. He couldn’t help the curve of his mouth that lit up his face for a moment as he huddled into a corner, all but holding his breath as he strained his ears.

Moments turned to seconds and seconds turned into minutes, and then the doors to the Room of Requirement were opening and there was light chattering filtering out. Little boy, redhead, Hufflepuff 1, Morgan – these passed without noticing Perceval or being noticed in return, him being too busy skulking his way into the Room to really care who he was leaving behind. The last two inside were – unsurprisingly – Simone and Peter. Which was just perfect. A time where he could get to be with Peter and at the same time annoy Simone was a time that he certainly cherished.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just dropping by to see Peter, Simone,”

“There’s not a day where you’ll stay away, is there?”

Perceval grinned.

“It would certainly be a very odd day, I dare say.”

Now Simone cast a glance at Peter, everyone seemingly used to Perceval and his shenanigans – but not enough to stop inquiring what he was doing there, apparently – and Peter sighed, rolling his eyes heavenwards before nodding. “Go on without me. It’ll just be a moment.”

The grin that Perceval shot Simone was utterly and shamelessly victorious, stressing it further by magically closing the door after the older boy had left. That alone was all but worth having been waiting all day.

“You have an obsession with me,” Peter commented, drily, patiently. It took all he had for Perceval to not jump and try to shatter this patience – he had an agenda and he was rather set on sticking to it. “You make it sound so negative,” He said back, comfortably walking towards him until he was certain that he was within Peter’s personal space bubble. The other boy scoffed.

“That’s because it is.”

Perceval begged to differ, but he decided against saying it out loud.

Instead, he pulled out a carefully folded piece of parchment, covered in his writing – he had made an effort to keep it as neat as he possibly could – and he now offered it to the Hufflepuff, urging him to take it with his eyes. Suspicion angled Peter’s brow, but after a couple of seconds of further prompting he took it, eyes briefly running over the words, slowly raising in surprise.

“This isn’t yours.”

Perceval huffed, always so quick to accuse.

“I never said it was, I just wanted you to have it. It’s by my favourite writer,”

“Oscar Wilde?”

And now, Perceval beamed, because whether he had realised it or not Peter had just given himself away: why would he remember such a detail if he harboured no fondness for Perceval whatsoever? He might not want to admit it, but they both knew that Peter did have a soft spot for him. Perceval had decided that it was about time to turn this to his advantage. “Yes. Look, I have itmemorisedforyou,” This seemed to catch Peter’s attention, so he basked in it for a second longer than necessary, clearing his throat and theatrically preparing himself, before green irises met brown and didn’t sway from there for a second.

 

“And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.”

 

Peter’s face had gone slightly red throughout it, perhaps enchanted by the fragment of the poet’s poem, perhaps enchanted by Perceval’s voice reciting it – all the blonde knew was that at the end he had taken a hold of Peter’s hands, slowly travelling up and up, till they were one at either side of his face and he was murmuring the last word against Peter’s lips, parted, as if to welcome it, and Peter’s arms were weaving around him; torso, arms, neck, hair.

And then, contact


© Copyright 2018 Willoughby Blair. All rights reserved.

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