Work Text:
Perhaps this is not the best idea Kingsley ever had, he realises as he stands outside the Muggle restaurant. The restaurant's windows cast little squares of soft light upon the dark, frozen street. A door opens somewhere, and the crisp winter air mingles with the scent of stew and roast and spices. The sound of laughter reaches him, fading, disappearing, as the door closes again. It is as if the cold night suddenly makes it possible for him to think; makes it possible to see through the exhaustion and the weeks with far too little sleep, clouding his mind.
Somehow he sees the accidental meeting with Neville Longbottom in a clearer light.
Somehow he thought, just for a moment, that Neville Longbottom was...
No.
Kingsley shakes his head slowly. He doesn't know whether it is because he finds himself to be an old fool, or because he wants to deny the entire situation. Inviting Neville out (Neville, not Professor Longbottom) is perhaps the most rushed, unthinkable, unreasonable thing Kingsley has done for ages, not that he keeps himself back from doing rushed, unthinkable, unreasonable things - he became an Auror, a rebel, a Minister of Magic, didn't he?
But somehow, just for a moment, he thought that, perhaps...
No!
But then the small restaurant's golden lights flicker again, reminding Kingsley of Neville's smile: bright and refreshing and soothing at the same time, and no becomes perhaps and perhaps - just perhaps - he will get through this evening without doing something even more abundantly foolish than becoming Minister.
Like admitting that Neville's smile is more than just soothing and cooling and warm and wonderful.
Caught in the abyss between yes and no, Kingsley is just standing there, lost in decision, when Neville arrives. And his smile is exactly as attractive as Kingsley thought it would be. Strange how impressions can change: it seems as only yesterday that Neville was a chubby, lionhearted boy, whirled into a relentless, cruel war by his own quiet, strange bravery. Now he's a man, Kingsley realises. The boy is long gone.
'Good evening, Minister.' Neville's hand that clasps Kingsley's is strong and hard, callused and dry, warm and safe.
'Not here,' Kingsley says, and reciprocates, touch for touch, smile for smile. 'Here, I'm just Kingsley.'
The food is delicious, and Kingsley relaxes for the first time in ... longer than he cares to remember. Neville is surprisingly easy to talk to. Somehow this odd Brotherhood of Sleepless Warriors and the secrecy of the Muggle restaurant let Kingsley forget about long, cold nights and about being Minister, about pressure and pain. His appetite, however, hasn't suffered, and he helps himself to a second helping of roast and gravy and battered potatoes.
'No wonder you got so big,' Neville says, the trace of a cheeky grin flashing as he pushes his plate away with a satisfied groan. 'Good lord, I'm full!' There is a bit of Yorkshire pudding left on the plate.
Kingsley eyes Neville's muscular arms appreciatively. He hesitates for a moment. 'You didn't turn out too bad yourself,' he says, tryingly, not certain how the compliment will be received. However, it is true: Neville Longbottom did develop nicely, although he is still short, compared to Kingsley's impressive height. Herbology is not just science, it is hard work - and it shows.
'Thanks... I...' An expression of slight confusion rests for a moment in Neville's eyes, before his mouth forms a perfect "O". Then it seems as if the sun has suddenly decided to rise in the dark evening: a smile, honest and happy, blooms like a perfect rose on Neville's lips. 'Thanks,' he repeats softly, making Kingsley let out a breath he wasn't aware that he'd been holding on to.
A little later, Kingsley orders pudding: a rich pear crumble that makes his mouth water. Neville is turning a glass of port between his fingers, watching Kingsley eat. He sips, clearly enjoying the sweetness.
'Are you sure you don't want any?' Kingsley asks. 'It is really delicious.' The custard is soft and smooth and fat, and the pears sweet. 'At least taste it.'
'There is only one spoon,' Neville says. He looks at the long spoon in Kingsley's hand. 'But it looks good.'
'Do you mind?' Kingsley raises the spoon. Somehow the idea of breathing is becoming increasingly foreign.
Neville blushes. 'I- no. I suppose not.'
Kingsley digs into the pear crumble and holds the spoon up, full; the custard topping the golden pears, not letting Neville take it himself.
Neville Longbottom has indeed become a man. Kingsley watches as Neville, his eyes locked with Kingsley's, takes the titbit from Kingsley's hand, almost suggestively swallowing; a pink tip of a tongue showing before he lets the spoon slip away. Kingsley is no Legilimens, but he knows, just knows, that they both think the same: that in the future, perhaps, the nights might become lighter and sleep easier.
They sit there, two wounded men with only silence and seconds ticking away between them, before Kingsley finally lets out the sigh he's been keeping in. 'Oh.' He looks away, then back at Neville, wondering what has changed.
Kingsley is enchanted, it is as simple as that. Attracted, enchanted, curious.
He smiles; white, perfect teeth, as he takes another spoonful, licking the custard off it, deliberately slow.
Neville laughs. 'Kingsley, really!'
Kingsley laughs too, the dark, deep voice making one or two other patrons turn and look at the handsome man. 'Bit too obvious, was it?'
Laughter still bubbles in Neville's eyes. 'Can't see how you got that idea,' he grins. 'And if you want to share spoons with me in the future you can just say so.'
'Yeah,' Kingsley says, suddenly serious. 'That'd be nice.' Kingsley quickly decides that it certainly wasn't without reason that Longbottom was sorted into Gryffindor. Not that he ever was in doubt.
Kingsley pays for their dinner, and outside, in the dark, both men wrapped in heavy winter coats, Kingsley looks at Neville, again letting the silence wash over them. He knows this is the way to disaster. Neville is too young, they are too hurt, Kingsley is Minister, Neville a respected Herbology professor, recently divorced. Disaster indeed.
But despite the looming disasters and the many I shouldn't do this-es, somehow, in the course of a few hours, perhaps fleetingly passed maybe and turned into probably, finally settling on definitely.
'I want to see you again,' Kingsley says, not caring about rejection or another perhaps. He knows what he wants now, and he is not going to beat around the bush with it. 'Before you get back to Hogwarts.'
Neville's smile is the only answer Kingsley has been looking for.