Work Text:
Valentines’ day, in Arthur’s opinion, is a colossal waste of time.
The excessive chocolates that idiot students will inevitably think a fine idea to spike with love potions, the odious flowers that make his nose itch and wilt away within days to leave sad petals strewn all over the floors, the singing cards and their mulishly determined dwarven messengers that could - and would - break down doors to get the godforsaken things to their intended recipients. Hogwarts was a bloody circus for the entirety of February 14th and nothing ever got done. (No, Francis, it was not because he was a bitter old man, it’s just - Francis! GET BACK HERE!)
See, he was just looking out for the students. How were the little idiots supposed to pass their OWLs or NEWTs with so many distractions? (Nevermind that he was teaching the younger years exclusively, after what he and Francis had affectionately termed the Great Lemming Disaster a few years before. The faculty had collectively agreed to never speak of it again.)
And if Valentines’ day was slightly more unbearable this time, well, Arthur certainly wasn't going to admit it. Because it wasn't. Not in the slightest. Even if he’d had to spend the entire time watching giggling students nudge each other furtively before approaching a certain Defense professor with garish pink boxes shaped like hearts, with roses and ribbons and stars in their eyes.
Red, green, yellow, blue. Their robes were trimmed with all sorts of colours. Arthur was… grudgingly impressed by this show of inter-House solidarity. Clearly, the charms of a dashing young American professor could overcome even the most ingrained of prejudices, as evident in the absolute mountain of offerings he’d received during breakfast alone. (Alfred had had to levitate everything back to the staffroom before dashing off to his first class.) It had been sickening and he wasn't even allowed to be grumpy about it because these were all children and Arthur, contrary to all appearances during exam-time, did not actually hate children.
But adults who should all know better on the other hand.
Arthur hunches further over his desk and curses how the layout of the staffroom means that he has the perfect view of Alfred rubbing the back of his head bashfully as he accepts a veritable bouquet from Lili. It’s a pretty thing; the flowers must've come from her own greenhouses. Now, Arthur actually likes Lili and he knows full well that she doesn't care much for relationships, but that still isn't helping him unclench his fingers from around his quill. Especially when Alfred beams and then presents a small, delicately wrapped bundle of probably-chocolate to her, this holiday was like a plague -
“ Mon cheri , I must ask, are you grading that essay or pouring an inkwell on it?”
...and here came the one person who could actually make his day worse. Lovely.
Arthur lowers his quill. “Francis,” he acknowledges, very deliberately not looking up. Seeing the stupid frog’s stupid smirk was only going make his mood worse and Arthur really didn't need any help raising his blood pressure today. He grits his teeth when Francis doesn't take the hint, (predictable but still annoying ) and parks his arse on the corner of Arthur’s desk, leaning over to peer at his papers until his hair almost brushes Arthur’s cheek.
It’s swatted away irritably; Arthur wrinkling his nose at the waft of lavender perfume it’s accompanied by, but Francis isn't even the slightest bit perturbed. His head is tilted to read the essay that - yes, fine, Arthur may have gone a bit overboard in marking and his insipid smile is already becoming a knowing one.
“Not a word,” Arthur tells him preemptively and Francis smiles, slow and wide and wicked in a way that makes Arthur wince in dread.
“Oh, but darling , is it not my duty - as your confidant, your loyal friend, the only one who could put up with you for the better part of a decade - to attend to you in your time of distress?”
Arthur puts his face in his hands. Francis goes on, relentless but decent enough to keep his volume low enough only for them to hear, which is the only reason Arthur hasn't hexed him. Yet. “Your bosom companion, the witness to all your drunken ramblings of how you would let - I quote, ‘that bloody beautiful man, with his stupid smile and his stupid muscles and his stupid accent’ bend you over a-”
“Francis,” Arthur says into his palms. “I implore you to shut the hell up. ”
He was feeling terribly hot under the collar and struggling not to think about - Francis leans in too close and Arthur’s too distracted to shove him away even when his disgusting froggy lips brush his ear. “I think,” murmurs the worst friend Arthur has ever had the misfortune of making, “another visit to the bar might be in order. After all, you haven't told me all about how it felt finally having him between your legs -”
“ Francis !” Arthur screeches, cheeks heating. He does shove the damned frog this time, right off the desk and into a yelping heap on the floor but it’s poor consolation for how his own traitorous mind has already eagerly produced the fleeting memory of wide blue eyes - too close - and the sensation of warm arms wrapping around him even as his face is pressed into a broad, firm chest. Deliciously firm, in fact, even if the memory itself is a jumbled haze of the sort he has come to associate with the mornings after full moons. He’d made a right twat of himself, hurling himself at the poor lad and - Arthur can feel his flush rising - curling around him like some sort of a wretched octopus.
And he couldn't even pretend that Francis, damn him to hell and back, didn't have a point about the - that last part , because, in full possession of his mental facilities or not, it had been nice to wrap his legs around that trim waist, to press himself so close. Intimately close, to an annoying, loudmouthed nuisance of an American that had knocked Arthur’s tea right onto his lap at the first staff meeting of the year and then proceeded to worm his way into Arthur’s affections in the following months, one charming obnoxious laugh at a time. With his golden hair and that ridiculous cowlick; how dreadfully unprofessional - Arthur had caught himself actually reaching out, as if to smooth the damned thing down on no less than two occasions. (He hadn't, of course. Even though Alfred’s hair looked so soft. )
His robes hid most of his figure, but that was to be expected of wizarding dress and Arthur had already been unwittingly close enough to verify that, yes, Alfred was terribly fit in a way that wasn't helping his childish crush in the least and proved that the one sweltering summer afternoon when the staffroom cooling charms had malfunctioned and Alfred had actually stripped down to a muggle shirt and shorts had not been a mass hallucination on everyone’s part. Or almost everyone; Francis had been very bitter about having to miss it. Being the Charms professor, he’d been tasked with repairing the misbehaving charms and had thus been absent for the entire spectacle. (And it had been a spectacle; Elizabeta had knocked a stack of scrolls right off her desk, Vash had glowered with his hands cupped protectively over Lili’s eyes and Arthur himself had nearly inhaled a lungful of scalding tea.) (And no, he feels justified in defending himself, it wasn't an overreaction. Those clothes had been indecent and given the heat, clung to every sweat-slick curve so well that Alfred might as well had been naked - don't think about him naked! )
And that wasn't even the worst thing.
No, the most abhorrent part was that he might actually like Alfred F. Jones for - and Arthur cringes - his personality . It was positively ghastly. Arthur found his lips twitching at the most idiotic jokes, the asinine quips that the man saw fit to slip into every conversation. He liked the way Alfred talked about his family (a twin brother in Canada and more aunts and uncles and cousins than anyone could reasonably keep track of), about thanksgiving dinners and Christmas celebrations filled with shrieking children and amusing mishaps, so unlike Arthur’s own formal upbringing. His peculiar education as well - wizarding lessons balanced on top of curriculum from an American muggle school. (Arthur had found himself reluctantly intrigued when Alfred admitted sheepishly that he hadn't actually attended Hogwarts and so didn't have a House.)
And, god help him, with the way Alfred beamed , flashing dimples and straight white teeth, that sunshine smile not the slightest bit diminished even in the face of Arthur’s half-awake grimace in the mornings at the breakfast table, waving frantically towards the seat he’d saved for him as if anyone in the entire hall with a working set of eyes wasn't already looking in his direction.
...He had looked delicious that morning; that tight, tight shirt stretched taut over his chest and showing off his biceps, the too-loose tracksuit bottoms that had hung off his narrow hips and clung tantalisingly to his thighs. But he’d smelled even better ; none of the usual leather, unfortunately, not without the bomber jacket that he was always sneaking under his robes. None of the ever-present richness of coffee either, just salt and sweat and mmm . Enough to make Arthur heady, rubbing his cheek against the curve where neck met shoulder and feeling Alfred’s pulse pick up, the bob of his throat as he swallowed just begging for Arthur to lean forward and-
The tip of his quill snaps off.
Odd. Arthur certainly can't imagine why it would (terribly breakable things, quills) but regardless, there is a rapidly spreading pool of red ink soaking into an essay he doesn't remember a thing about and also an entire room staring at him. Bollocks.
More to the point, Alfred was staring at him and Arthur desperately hopes the blush on his pasty skin isn't obvious as he parts his lips defensively to deliver a retort that would hopefully remind all of them to stop being bloody busybodies ( couldn't a man push his sometimes-friend off a table and then stare off blankly with a broken quill in peace -)
And nearly gets his head taken off by a flying box.
“Fuck!” Arthur catches it reflexively and then winces at the sting. He glares at the damned frog, who’d already escaped halfway across the room and was half-hiding behind his desk. He must have used a spell to propel it, because the only place that Francis could even be said to be halfway physically competent was the bedroom (not that Arthur could attest to, seeing as he didn't much care for frog germs all over his person). “What the bloody-”
“ Joyeuse saint Valentin , YOU VICIOUS LITTLE ENGLISHMAN ,” Francis hollers at an entirely unnecessary volume, considering that they are in an enclosed room and he knows full well lycanthropy comes with enhanced hearing. Damn him.
But ringing ears aside, a response was needed for their traditional it’s-not-poisoned-absolutely-no-definitely-not valentines’ chocolates. Arthur flips him a two-fingered salute distractedly, forcing himself
not
to look in Alfred’s direction by bending to fish his own offering out of his desk drawer. Unlike Francis’ stupid package with its pale violet wrapping paper- liberally coated in ever-lasting glitter and positively reeking of lavender (his nose
itched
and the glitter was going to take
forever
to get rid of,
fuck
that petty bastard)
-Arthur’s was as offensively bland as he could manage. Partly to emphasise how much he simply did not care (Francis thrived off shiny things and attention) and mostly because he wanted to see the meddling frog’s reaction to getting Valentines’ chocolates wrapped in last week’s newspaper. It had been an excellent article, very informative - an opinion piece from some frog-eating enthusiast. There were pictures of frogs in various stages of dismemberment, a few arranged very tastefully over plates or simply skewered on sticks. (Arthur had been half-tempted to charm the pictures into movement, but finally decided that it might have been a bit too morbid.)
He’d transfigured the eye-searingly neon yellow ribbon wrapped around it as an afterthought - yellow clashed with purple, right? At least, he’d never seen Francis wearing it, so it seemed safe to assume so.
Well, no matter. Arthur winds up and chucks it at the actual frog’s big head with no fanfare save a snapped “I hope you choke on it.”
“Oh, I can think of other things I’d rather choke on, mon loup .” Francis catches it with infuriating ease and eyes the images of his dead brethren with a raised brow and twitching lips. “Although with such interesting visuals… I cannot help but wonder, darling, could this be a message? You know that you're welcome to partake at any time…”
“Fuck. Off.”
The innuendo is second nature by now, neither of them spare much thought to it. Francis is already picking at the wrapping, pausing now and then to snicker at a few lines, the ribbon lying discarded on his desk. Arthur is already going back to his grading, absently planning several diagnostic charms to run on his own suspect chocolates once back in his chambers.
(Neither of them - or well, Arthur doesn't, at least- notice Alfred’s smile slip, dimming for the briefest moment as he watches them before he recovers and goes on chatting amicably with Lili.)