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The bathroom tiles are cool beneath Albus’s legs, on the sides of his crossed knees, and the scent of the candle burning on the windowsill is soft and soothing around him.
Scorpius’s fingers are not.
“Ow, bloody fuck, mate.” Albus tries to pull his head away again. “Are you cutting it, or just gonna yank it out?”
“Shh.” Scorpius pulls at the tangle in Albus’s hair one last time, then drops his comb with a flourish. It clatters loudly against the floor. “There. All brushed. Combed. Whatever. Well done, you almost sat still for a full seven minutes.” Scorpius sighs, then pats Albus on the head with two hands, both patronising and adoring at the same time. “If this were a proper hairdresser’s you’d get a jelly bean as a reward and all.”
“S’not, though.”
“Nope. It’s my dad’s ensuite and those are kitchen scissors.” Scorpius bumps the item in question with his toe, gently knocking the small ashtray and the remnants of the joint they shared in the process. Albus hums. He’s sat on the floor, with Scorpius perched on the edge of the bathtub, and it’s not uncomfortable. Well, it is on his arse ― he should have got a pillow, Scorpius was right about that ― but Scorpius is nice to lean against, and the bathroom smells lovely, courtesy of one of Scorpius’s dad’s posh candles.
“Don’t much like jelly beans, anyway.” Albus traces the seam of his jeans and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Are kitchen scissors very different to,” Albus wrinkles his nose as he thinks, “like, non-kitchen scissors?”
“Um. I mean, I doubt it?” Scorpius doesn’t sound sure, but Albus shrugs anyway. If his hair ends up looking like the back end of a cooked chicken, then so be it. He trusts Scorpius to do a good job. Well. He trusts Scorpius to tell him honestly how bad his hair looks and then help him book a proper hair appointment in the event that he looks like he’s had his hair hacked up with kitchen shears while sitting on the floor next to a loo and a bathtub so fancy it’s got golden Hippogriff feet.
Albus snorts. God, but the Malfoys are posh.
Albus stretches his legs again and prods the scissors with one finger. “Bet you’ve got top of the line kitchen utensils.” He bites his lip. “All custom made, by goblin artisans. Like, in France or something. No, Venice! Only Venetian craftsmen can be responsible for the Malfoy fork collection.”
“Albus Potter.” Scorpius smoothes the hair down and over Albus’s forehead. He pushes it obnoxiously into Albus’s eyes for a moment before sweeping it all back again. His knees tighten around Albus’s shoulders, his voice low and warm. “Are you being snide right now? About my cutlery?”
Albus giggles because, yeah, he kind of is. Scorpius tugs on his hair playfully in reply.
“You know I saw your dad’s face on a pair of salad tongs once.”
“You bloody did not.” Albus tries to twist around to see Scorpius’s face, but he can’t quite be bothered enough to do it properly.
“I did. On the handle. Little hand painted portrait of his face. Was in a very pricey boutique, too.” Scorpius sounds like he’s grinning. He’s got a good grin when he’s like this, lazy and happy and always a little bit smug. Albus still can’t be arsed twisting around properly to look. He flicks Scorpius’s toe instead.
“You’re making this up.”
“M’not. Just saying, Al.” Albus can feel the smugness radiating from Scorpius like warmth. “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw forks.”
Albus is laughing again, frowning at the opposite wall. “Thinks it’s rocks, Scorp.” He sniffs, settling himself against Scorpius’s legs. “You never saw my dad on some tongs.”
Scorpius just hums. His fingers curl around a handful of Albus’s hair as he pulls it up into a rough fist. It keeps falling down and into Albus’s eyes, spilling out of Scorpius’s loose fingers. It feels even longer now that it’s been combed, the slack curls brushed out into thick waves. A proper mop of hair.
“You’re all combed and ready,” Scorpius says again, as if to himself this time, as he continues to try and pile as much of Albus’s hair as he can onto the top of Albus’s head.
Albus stifles a slow laugh. He can feel his hair getting tangled again. It doesn’t take much, really. “Uh huh. I’m all combed.”
“Mm.”
“And you’re just messing it right up again, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” Scorpius agrees. And doesn’t stop. Albus doesn’t try and stifle his laugh this time. He pulls his knees up to his chest instead, rests his forearms on them and then his chin on his arms. He’s a bit ready for a nap. He’s a bit trashed, truth be told.
Not for the first time does it occur to him that getting stoned and then asking Scorpius to give him a haircut might not have been the best order of events. Possibly, he should have done things the other way around. Very possibly, he is going to end up bald, or with a bleeding ear, or, given the way things are proceeding, with a bun on the top of his head to rival that of Madam Pince.
Maybe if he goes back to Hogwarts for a day visit with his hair like this, she’ll let him borrow her glasses too, to complete the look. He always quite fancied them.
Behind him, Scorpius sighs again, and the sound is contented and warm. So are Scorpius’s knees as they press against Albus’s shoulders. Everything in this bathroom is so nice. Well, the comb is a bastard wanker and Albus never wants to see it again, but, y’know. He pokes it with his toe, then flicks it across the room. Goodbye, bastard wanker comb. Your memory will live on forever, as will the pieces of plastic that’ve snapped off in my hair. Albus nods his head solemnly, then tips it back until it knocks against Scorpius’s knees. When he looks up, Scorpius is smiling down at him. His hands are still in Albus’s hair, but it’s possible they, like the comb teeth, with be stuck there forever now. It really is a bit messy. Scorpius doesn’t look all that bothered.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Albus grins back. “So, you gonna give me a haircut now or what?”
“Mm. About that.” Scorpius taps his fingers against Albus’s temple, smallest to largest, and then largest to smallest. He blinks, slow and lazy. “I think you should know. That I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Albus is grinning so wide his cheeks feel a bit tight. His neck is definitely getting sore, but he really can’t be arsed moving.
“That’s not very encouraging, Scorp.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.” Scorpius runs his fingers through Albus’s hair, following the same path as the comb did, and Albus hums at the feeling. His scalp hurts a little, from the rough scrape of the comb’s teeth and from Scorpius’s slow yet hard pull through Albus’s hair. It’s not that curly, it just tangles like yarn. Albus opens his mouth, trying to figure out if he wants to yawn or crack his jaw. He can’t decide in the end, so he just smacks his lips together, still peering up at Scorpius’s hazy grey eyes. They’re a little bloodshot, red-rimmed, and his cheeks are flushed. He looks a bit awful, truth be told, too pale to pull of a flush like that. Albus likes it. He’s pretty sure he looks just as bad.
They definitely should not have gotten stoned before doing this.
“Albus.” Scorpius’s voice is solemn, his fingers soft on his jaw as he pulls Albus’s hair down as long as he can.
“Mm?” Albus licks his lips. They’re annoyingly dry.
“Has your hair always been this…” Scorpius lets go of his hair, smiling when it springs up slightly into a loose wave. He doesn’t say anything more, just smiles down at Albus’s hair for long enough that Albus is pretty sure Scorpius has forgotten what he was talking about.
“Scorpius.”
“Huh?” Scorpius blinks down at him blankly.
“My hair.” Albus laughs, once, then sits up properly. It takes a lot of effort, and he nearly knocks Scorpius off balance and into the empty bathtub, but his neck is killing him. He grabs Scorpius’s ankle to steady him on the lip of the tub. Scorpius leans down, snaking his arms around Albus’s shoulders, then his neck. And then nearly ends up on top of him as he slides off the tub to awkwardly slot behind Albus.
Albus huffs, Scorpius squished between him and the side of the bath. “You got enough room there, mate?”
“Yeah. Comfy.” Scorpius sighs, his lips almost against Albus’s ear before he lets his forehead drop to his shoulder. “‘M a bit high.”
Albus huffs. “I noticed.” His hand is still on Scorpius’s ankle, and he pats it gently, then runs his fingers along the bumps of it. He should possibly move it, has no reason to leave it there, but then again, there’s no reason for them to be squashed up against the bathtub right now considering this ensuite is the size of, like. The Prefect’s bathroom, or something. Albus runs his fingers along the soft indent of Scorpius's ankle, lets his nails trail lightly down to his toes and then back up. He watches them curl a little, feels Scorpius shiver behind him.
He likes Scorpius likes this, warm and pliant and close. He gets it often enough ― Scorpius is easy with his affection, the first with a hug or a kiss and always up for a cuddle ― but Albus still likes to savour it when he gets it. He’s not his boyfriend, they don’t do that, exactly. But they do this sometimes, curl up close enough that Albus feels ready to overheat and like he’d rather combust than put an inch of space between them. He wonders sometimes if they’re building up to something, if Scorpius’s arms slung around his waist right now and his hands resting low on Albus’s belly means something more than best mates, or if it’s just an extension of that. Sometimes Albus thinks that there might not be a difference between the two after all. They’ve kissed a few times, or more than a few, and slept in each other’s beds with a frequency which hasn’t been sexual yet, but has always been more than entirely platonic. There’s something there, Albus isn’t dim enough to pretend he hasn’t noticed it. It seems inevitable that one day they’ll end up like this, and then more. Inevitable, but not urgent.
Albus kind of likes it that way.
Albus rests his head back against Scorpius’s shoulder. “What were you saying about my hair?”
“Don’t remember.” Scorpius traces a pattern over Albus’s stomach, a figure 8 maybe, an infinity loop. Could even be a dodgy snake. Scorpius is crap at art.
“I have this feeling.” Albus breathes in deeply, then lets it all out in a deep and satisfying exhale. He shuts his eyes, turning his head to the side and letting it loll back on Scorpius’s shoulder. “I have this feeling that maybe we should not introduce the scissors into this. Like.” He stretches one leg out in the direction he thinks the scissors are in. If he tilted his head down he could see, but he doesn’t want to, so. Stalemate. “Like, we’re gonna chop my ear off, aren’t we?”
“Van Gogh,” Scorpius mumbles, then laughs once. “No. I really don’t think we should cut your hair.” Scorpius’s voice is muffled against his shoulders, his breath hot through Albus’s top.
“”Cause we’re compromised,” Albus affirms.
“Yeah.” Albus can feel when Scorpius lifts his head, feel the rush of cool air on the previously warm spot on his top and the tickle of Scorpius’s hair over his ear. Albus isn't even sure what his own hair is doing right now. “And also I just don’t think we should cut it,” Scorpius mumbles against his cheek.
“No?” Albus swallows, eyes sliding shut. “Why’s that now?” Albus lets the words fall out slow and lazy. He’s so warm. If he tries, he can imagine he can feel Scorpius’s heart beating against his back, through the cotton of their t-shirts and their skin. He can’t, but if he wants to, he can imagine it.
“Because it’s lovely,” Scorpius says after it’s been just long enough or Albus to slightly lose the thread of the conversation. He smiles when he catches it again.
“It’s a fucking mess.”
“No, lovely mess. I like it.” Scorpius nose is against Albus’s cheek, his lips almost touching his jaw. “Should keep growing it. Maybe down to your shoulders. Or your bum. Then we can cut it.”
“Why?” Albus scoffs, but the sound comes out sleepy and rough.
“Dunno.” Scorpius doesn’t sound much brighter, really, and his breathing is slow and measured. Albus can feel it against his back. “Could make a wig.”
“Mm. Could do. Could wear that over my new haircut, then.”
“Yeah.” Albus can feel Scorpius grin against his cheek. He thinks if Scorpius leant a little closer, he could feel the scrape of teeth and then lips. He thinks he might like to, and the little kick of heat in his gut is a surprise to him. That hasn’t happened before, not as strongly. Inevitable, he thinks again, sluggish and happy. Inevitable, and still not urgent.
Albus shuts his eyes, still smiling at nothing, and then jumps when Scorpius’s lips do land on his cheek with a smack. He blows a raspberry against Albus's skin, loud and horsey and wet, and Albus curls up reflexively. He’s laughing before he even notices it.
“What the fuck,” he stammers out, giggling and squirming as Scorpius does the same. There’s spit on his cheek now, and slow warmth in his belly replacing the kick of heat that had been before. Albus likes all of it, as he rubs at his wet cheek and then tries to wipe it on Scorpius’s grinning mouth.
“Slobbery dickhead,” he mutters, doubling down on his efforts to get Scorpius back.
“You love me.” Scorpius is grinning like mad, his hair floppy against his forehead and his expression still hazy.
Albus doesn’t even have to answer that one.
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