Chapter Text
Albus comes home from work to find a caramelised sugar smell wafting through the air and three loaves of banana bread sitting on the side in the kitchen. Scorpius appears on the stairs, wearing teal sweatpants and an oversized black jumper of Albus’s and looking a little harassed.
His hair is mint green, which it definitely wasn’t this morning.
‘Love the hair,’ Albus says, a little perturbed, trying to gauge the situation. ‘The cake smells nice.’
‘You should have some. It’s delicious,’ Scorpius says, somewhat aggressively. ‘Best I’ve ever made. Definitely a day well spent.’
‘Er –’
And before Albus has even taken off his cloak, he finds himself accepting an enormous piece of banana bread and assuring Scorpius it is, in fact, delicious, while Scorpius watches him in a positively hawk-like manner, all while feeling that the whole thing might be some sort of trick.
‘You feeling okay?’ he asks tentatively, attempting to refuse the second piece of cake Scorpius seems determined to force on him before he’s even finished the first one.
‘Peachy,’ Scorpius insists, stalking back into the kitchen to retrieve a fourth tin of banana bread from the oven.
The previous day, a letter had arrived for Albus from Scorpius’s flatmates, Grace and Zabini.
Sending Malfoy your way. You know how to handle him. Don’t mention you-know-what. Best of luck.
Privately, he’d rolled his eyes and thought they were overreacting just a bit. Sure, Scorpius was having a weird week, but he’d just handed in his thesis and sat his final exams, and was anxiously – or, not at all anxiously, as he kept reminding everyone – awaiting his results. How hard could it be to cut him a bit of slack?
But as Albus reassures Scorpius that four loaves is definitely the optimal amount of banana bread to make and a fifth one would just be overkill, he’s starting to think Grace and Zabini may have had a point.
The next morning, Albus tugs on his work robes and pads downstairs in a state of mild apprehension. He can hear Scorpius clattering around already. He’s in the kitchen, still in his pyjamas, hands on his hips as he squints down at a copy of The Cleaner’s Compendium that Albus’s grandma had optimistically given him when he moved here and which, truth be told, he’s barely opened in three years.
‘Morning,’ Albus says cautiously, grabbing his lunch from the fridge and an apple from the fruit bowl.
‘Just a bit of spring cleaning,’ Scorpius announces, answering a question Albus hadn’t really asked, waving a hand at the rag rubbing circles of grime across the window over the sink and the mop spinning in a jerky little dance at the far end of the room.
‘Right. Thank you? I mean, I really appreciate it, but you know you don’t have to do anything –’
‘I’ll sort out the back garden too,’ Scorpius adds. ‘The gate needs fixing. Re-pot a few of the plants. You’ve really been neglecting the begonias, Al.’
Albus clears his throat and says weakly, ‘Well, have a nice day,’ before heading to work and wondering what state he’ll find Scorpius – and his house and garden – in when he returns.
When Albus wakes up for the third day in a row to find Scorpius’s side of the bed empty, he’s forced to conclude that his ‘ignore it and it’ll be fine’ policy isn’t working out that well. He sits up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, grabs his glasses from the bedside table and reluctantly gets out of bed.
Downstairs in the living room, Scorpius has stripped the cushion covers off the sofa and appears to be cleaning them. Or, attempting to. Albus stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, blinking sleepily as Scorpius mutters charms at a strip of fabric as though his life depends on it.
‘You okay there?’ he asks eventually.
‘Do you have any idea how often you’re meant to clean upholstery like this?’ Scorpius demands, gesturing somewhat wildly at the couch before him.
‘Um. No?’
‘When’s the last time you washed these? Have they ever been washed?’
Albus stares at him.
‘You’re meant to be the responsible one here, Al. You’re meant to remember about washing cushions. What sort of mess will we be in if I’m the one who’s meant to remember stuff like that? What if –’
‘Scorpius.’ Albus places firm hands on his broad shoulders. ‘It’s seven a.m. On a Sunday. Please go back to bed. I’m going to put the kettle on. All right?’
‘But –’
‘All right?’
Scorpius narrows his eyes, but then he sighs and obediently slinks away upstairs, leaving Albus’s living room covered in stray sofa cushions.
Five minutes later, when Albus returns to the bedroom with a mug of tea steaming in each hand, Scorpius is sitting up in bed and looks marginally more relaxed.
‘So there’s a chance I had the dream again.’
‘Oh?’ Albus says, sipping his tea (English breakfast, nothing fancy, because Scorpius wouldn’t drink it otherwise).
Telling Scorpius that dreaming about failing his degree is not the same as actually failing it isn’t going to get him anywhere. Rationally, Scorpius is aware that he hasn’t become a seer overnight and isn’t prophesying his own academic doom.
‘What if they hate my thesis and think it’s terrible? What if it is terrible, objectively? This is the only proper thing I’ve done since Hogwarts. I have no marketable skills. I’m never going to get a job. What if the past four years have been for nothing –’
‘Have a biscuit,’ Albus interrupts, thrusting a pack of chocolate digestives at him.
Scorpius takes a bite of one and attempts to talk through it, but Albus speaks over him.
He isn’t very practised at this. Of the pair of them, it’s usually Scorpius talking sense into Albus after he’s got himself worked up over something or other. Scorpius is generally much more laid-back, and it takes something serious to make him flap. So Albus tries to channel his inner Scorpius and say the right words that will return his boyfriend to a state of semi-calm.
He reminds Scorpius that he is a capable – nay, talented student and all round excellent human being. He’s damned good at what he does. He knows more about wandlore and obscure twelfth century wandmakers than it should be possible for any human to know. He’s a Ravenclaw through and through. (And also, Scorpius’s supervisor had been very supportive of his work and would probably have given him more of a heads up if he was on track to completely fail his degree.)
By the time the mugs of tea are empty, Scorpius is a little cheerier, has devoured half the packet of biscuits, and is willing to acknowledge that, perhaps, panic-cleaning early on a Sunday morning wasn’t the best way to approach life’s problems.
Whereas shuffling back under the blankets, curling himself around Albus and letting Albus pet his hair? That might be a more enjoyable coping mechanism, all in all.
*
‘So, how’s Malfoy holding up?’ Molly asks, as they dodge a large puddle on the path. Cicero the boxer-collie mix – a recent addition to Molly’s life – happily bounds right through it, wagging his tail and casting murky water in spurts around him. ‘Grace says he was cleaning everything in their flat, except he’s terrible with household spells, so she had to go around cleaning up after his cleaning.’
‘He’s fine,’ Albus says, a little high-pitched, as though Scorpius hadn’t just started cleaning things in Albus’s house, too, and producing enormous amounts of baked goods, and Albus had decided his only option was to find it charming.
Albus had tried to persuade him to come on this walk with Molly and Cicero, but Scorpius had purchased an obscene number of avocados and was apparently going to use them to make brownies, and Albus hadn’t had the will to argue.
‘The idea of stressed Scorpius is a bit unnerving,’ Molly says. ‘He’s the mellow one. You can’t both be highly-strung.’
‘I am not highly-strung,’ Albus begins, indignant, but Molly shoots him such an amused look that he swallows the rest of his sentence.
‘You’re a cat,’ she says matter-of-factly, ‘and he’s a puppy.’
Albus stares at her, but apparently she doesn’t feel the need to qualify her statement any further, instead tugging Cicero away from a combative-looking chihuahua across the path. They’re on their preferred route along the River Ouse, heading towards Rowntree Park, and there are plenty of other canines for Cicero to try and befriend, and even one guy with a couple of ferrets on leads. There are also squirrels to be chased, puddles to be jumped into and piles of muddy leaves to sniff, despite all of Molly’s commands to the contrary.
Albus pulls his cloak a little more tightly around himself. There’s something he’s been wanting to talk about with Molly, because he’s pretty sure he’s never made a serious life decision without consulting her first, and now seems like a good opportunity. But suddenly he feels a little silly bringing it up.
‘Cats and puppies can cohabit well enough, can’t they?’ he says breezily. ‘If they’re used to each other. You know, if you raise them together, and if you train them to –’
‘I suspect this is going somewhere, Albus.’
‘So I was thinking of asking Scorpius to move in with me,’ Albus clarifies.
He’s been thinking about it for a while. Scorpius’s clothes are in the wardrobe, his shampoo in the shower, his brand of coffee on the side in the kitchen. The flat he shares with Grace and Zabini in London is impractically small. He already stays at Albus’s house in York a few nights a week. It doesn’t seem like too much of a leap, really.
‘Oh,’ Molly says. He glances at her. She might actually be smiling.
‘Oh?’
‘You know I don’t approve of emotion,’ Molly says briskly, ‘but that is rather exciting. Good for you, Albus.’
‘You don’t think it’s a bad idea?’
‘Why would I?’
‘I can usually rely on you to point out the flaws in a plan.’
Molly raises her chin. ‘I shall take that as a compliment. Cicero, no,’ she barks, stumbling forwards as Cicero makes a mad dash for the river.
*
Albus hangs his cloak in the hallway and is mildly reassured that he can’t see Scorpius anywhere downstairs. That rules out a few of his favourite cleaning spots.
‘Scorpius?’ he calls to the empty rooms. There’s a chance he’s gone home. Though there’s also a chance that Grace and Zabini would send him right back to Albus again.
He heads upstairs and, in his bedroom, sees Scorpius flopped down on the bed. A little tentatively, as one might approach an animal that’s easily spooked, Albus sits down on the edge of the bed.
‘How was your walk?’ Scorpius asks, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Albus.
‘Good. Just went down by the river. Cicero was on form. He might be the only creature on earth who doesn’t instinctively obey Molly. It’s amazing.’
He looks down at Scorpius, who gazes up at him with his pretty grey eyes. Albus can’t quite work out his expression. He wonders if the I-am-an-academic-failure dream has been attacking him in his waking moments, too.
‘Everything … er … everything okay here?’
Scorpius lets his head flop back down onto the bed and says ruefully, ‘There’s a chance my jeans don’t fit.’
Albus glances down at his lower half. ‘What? These?’ He tugs at the belt loop of the jeans Scorpius is wearing. The button is fastened and the zip is all the way up, which is more success than Albus has with some of his jeans, sometimes. But now Albus looks closer, they do look rather tight, even while he’s lying down, digging in at his hips and giving him the slightest suggestion of a muffin top, which isn’t something Albus ever imagined he would see on Scorpius.
Scorpius is hot. Obviously Albus thinks this – believes it rather vehemently, in fact – but Scorpius is generally attractive enough in a conventional enough way that a lot of other, less biased people definitely think this too.
For one thing, Scorpius is just genetically blessed – Albus has seen his father and his grandmother (not to mention various portraits of other Malfoys from across the centuries), and at the risk of sounding creepy, that is one hell of a gene pool. But for another, Scorpius is one of those strange people who actually enjoys working out, who thinks that swimming for an hour before breakfast is a fantastic way to start the day and who looked ecstatic when Zabini asked if anyone fancied joining a spin class with him.
(Grace had looked a little green at the suggestion. Albus had assumed the question was not directed at him. Molly had earnestly recommended her own spin instructor, declaring that Nathaniel was ‘a complete tyrant, but in a good way’.)
He’s got a swimmer’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, arms with a nice amount of definition, and strong thighs that even more loosely cut trousers can’t seem to resist showing off. And even in these jeans that seem to be causing him a certain amount of discomfort, he looks impossibly hot. But Albus endeavours to stay on track and focus on the matter at hand.
‘Technically, they do fit,’ he says noncommittally.
Scorpius raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think I should wear clothes on a technicality, Al.’
He stands up, shucks the jeans off and stands in his boxers, checking the label in the waistband for the size.
‘Do you want me to stretch them for you? I’m, er, something of an expert.’ Albus twirls his wand in one hand, pats his own ample stomach with the other. ‘Or we can go shopping tomorrow, if you like? Get you some new ones.’
‘Sure.’
Albus watches him. This is a decidedly unfamiliar situation for the pair of them. Albus is the one who outgrows his clothes and gets stressed about his weight. Which, in his defence, hasn’t happened much lately. Partly because Scorpius is so good at reassuring him when he does get stressed about something. So it’s important that Albus gets this right, now, for him.
But he also can’t tell whether this is really about the jeans. He suspects it isn’t.
Either way, he determines that the best approach is to stand up, take the jeans out of Scorpius’s hands and to kiss him. His hands sneak up Scorpius’s t-shirt, resting gently on either side of his waist. Scorpius makes a brief sound of protest, as if keen to prove he isn’t so cliché as to be distracted by a kiss, but he leans into it easily enough, resting his hands on Albus’s stomach where it pushes between them.
Scorpius touches Albus’s belly a lot. After a year of dating, Albus is almost used to this sort of thing. Almost. It’s a stark contrast to everyone else Albus has ever dated, who were, without exception, very keen to ignore the fact he has a gut and love handles and he’s on his way to a proper double chin and all the rest of it.
It’s still mind-blowing to him sometimes that Scorpius will tell him he looks fantastic as though it’s the most obvious truth in the world, and that Albus can actually bring himself to believe it, sometimes, when the words come from Scorpius. There’s no You look good, but or Despite or Even though with him. It’s just You look great, Al. No caveats.
Glancing down at Scorpius’s hands on his midsection, Albus decides to risk a joke. ‘Is this me having a bad influence on you?’
Scorpius gives Albus’s midriff an affectionate rub. ‘Maybe. Git. But it’s also too many late nights in the library and skipping the gym and the fact that Marya’s pastries are just right there at work all the time.’
Scorpius’s boss does make exceptionally delicious pastries. Albus is rather partial to the pecan and apricot knots. And the cinnamon sugar doughnuts. And the Victoria sponge isn’t bad either.
‘Am I going to have to put you on a diet?’ Albus raises an eyebrow, teasing. ‘Bit of a role reversal, isn’t it?’
‘Like I’ve ever tried to put you on a diet,’ Scorpius says, his cheeks going a little pink. ‘You know I wouldn’t.’
And just like that, Scorpius seems on his way back to his usual cheery self. He pulls on some sweatpants and cracks a joke about borrowing Albus’s clothes (which Albus is forced to point out he does already, all the time, without permission). Albus pats himself on the back for handling the situation in a suitably serious manner (to show he appreciates that Scorpius’s feelings are valid) and yet not too serious a manner (to emphasise that this really isn’t a big deal).
But then ten minutes later they’re in the kitchen, Albus checking the sell-by date on some mackerel that’s been sitting in the fridge a while, and suddenly Scorpius says, ‘You don’t mind, right?’
‘What?’ Albus says absently, deeming the mackerel to be edible but realising the milk in the door looks a little suspect. He picks it up and sniffs it cautiously.
‘You don’t mind that I’ve… You don’t mind how I look?’
Albus looks up from the milk. ‘How you – what? Are you serious?’
Alarmingly, Scorpius’s expression does actually suggest he might be serious. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, looking about as small and sheepish as his broad-shouldered six-foot self could get.
‘Of course I like the way you look. Of course.’ He sets the milk down, closes the fridge door and pulls Scorpius towards him.
Truth be told, Albus probably compliments Scorpius on his appearance much less than Scorpius compliments him. It’s been this way since the start. For one thing, Scorpius is the romantic of the pair of them and more likely to come out with sweet comments in general, whereas Albus retreats into sarcasm whenever possible.
For another, Scorpius is so obviously attractive that it seems almost rude to point it out. He would never want Scorpius to think that he’s only interested in him for the whole face-of-an-angel, body-of-a-Greek-hero thing he’s got going on. It’s a perk, certainly, but it’s far from the only reason that Albus’s heart – soppy old thing that it is – gives a little flutter whenever Scorpius walks into a room.
There are still moments, even a year on, where it feels to Albus like the universe must surely be playing some sort of trick on him. Because him snagging a boyfriend who looks as incredible as Scorpius does – who is adorably goofy and a massive history nerd and who throws himself into everything he does with an infectious, boundless enthusiasm – and who somehow thinks that Albus is something to write home about? That just seems too unlikely.
And Albus still doesn’t think this is really about his weight or about the jeans. But if there’s any part of it that is – if there’s any part of Scorpius that is genuinely unsure about how Albus feels – then Albus really needs to rectify that immediately.
‘Scorpius,’ he says, ‘you look amazing. Obviously you do. Okay, so you’ve gained a bit of weight – which is sort of my thing, and maybe I should feel threatened that you’re encroaching on my territory?’ That earns him a quick quirk of the lips from Scorpius. ‘But you know it’s not much, don’t you? Not much at all.’
Until witnessing the jeans situation, Albus hadn’t really noticed Scorpius looked any different. (Perhaps Albus is just unobservant. But noticing people’s weight is Scorpius’s little predilection, not his.)
He barely does look different. His waist is a tiny bit thicker, Albus supposes, now that he’s looking, now that Scorpius is forcing him to think about it. But he certainly isn’t giving Albus a run for his money, or anything.
‘And even if it was,’ he continues, ‘that would be okay. You do know that, right?’ he asks, because if he’s been giving off the impression that he’s only interested in Scorpius for his abs, then this relationship probably isn’t going as well as Albus had thought it was.
‘Yeah,’ Scorpius says, a little too heartily. ‘I just thought I should check. We all know you’re a shallow prick, Al.’
Albus rolls his eyes. ‘Such a charmer.’
Scorpius grins, and it looks enough like his usual bright-eyed, lights-up-his-whole-face grin that Albus is reassured. He leans forward to give Albus a quick kiss and says, ‘Gonna go for a run.’
‘Okay. Run fast. Or, far. Or, um, whatever kind of running you enjoy doing.’
*
When Scorpius gets back from his run, Albus is waiting for him in the living room. Not that he’s planned this, or anything. He’s great at spontaneity. Feels really easy and natural. Doesn’t make him stressed at all.
He puts down his book, fixes his gaze on Scorpius and throws him what he’s confident is a cool, casual and maybe even suave sort of look.
‘You look sweaty,’ he informs him.
‘Funny, that.’ Scorpius summons a glass of water and takes several large gulps, running a hand through his green hair. He glances at Albus, a little suspicious, when he realises Albus is still watching him. ‘Are you all right?’
Albus suggests, ‘You could use a shower.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘I, too, could use a shower.’
Scorpius raises an eyebrow. He sets down his glass of water.
‘I think there’s a solution that would be great for my water bill and for the environment.’
‘Are you trying to seduce me, Potter?’
‘Excuse me, I am seducing you. Very successfully.’
The corners of Scorpius’s mouth twitch. ‘Are you sure? I seem to have missed that part.’
Albus slips his arms around Scorpius’s neck and Scorpius’s hands rest, familiar and comfortable, on Albus’s hips. He gives the softness there a gentle squeeze. Albus takes a firmer hold of Scorpius’s shoulders and directs him so he’s pushed back against the wall, meeting his lips in a messy, insistent kiss.
Scorpius makes throaty little grunts of appreciation, tugging Albus’s hips more firmly towards him. He nudges the hem of Albus’s t-shirt up until it sits under his soft chest and Scorpius can run his hands over the pale, stretchmarked expanse of Albus’s belly the way he likes. A way that once would have made Albus cringe and start babbling disclaimers about too many mince pies at Christmas or you should start dragging me to the gym with you, huh. A way that now he recognises as an easy show of affection from Scorpius, something he doesn’t think twice about doing, something he just wants in the same way that Albus wants to touch him in all his lean, lithe, preternatural gorgeousness.
‘Scorpius,’ Albus mutters, ‘you look so fucking good.’
He can feel Scorpius’s smile against his lips. ‘Ditto.’
‘And I mostly tolerate you, you know.’
‘I mostly tolerate you, too.’
‘So – so we’re going upstairs, yeah?’
‘Fuck yes.’
*
‘So congratulations are in order, I take it?’ Molly says matter-of-factly, as Albus tries to stop himself vibrating with tension, thinking he might actually implode if Scorpius doesn’t say something soon.
Scorpius is still staring down at the scroll of parchment in his hands as though struggling to comprehend its contents. Albus peers over his shoulder and breathes a sigh of relief.
‘First class degree in History of Magic and Wandlore. Not too shabby, Malfoy.’
He wraps his arms around Scorpius’s waist for a celebratory hug, while Scorpius allows himself a smile.
‘Well thank fuck for that,’ he finally says. ‘I – I was a bit nervous about it all, just for a moment there.’
‘You were?’ Albus asks, all innocence.
Scorpius elbows him. ‘Excuse me. We’re all allowed to be stressed every now and then. Remember that week with the spaniel in the floo system? You were unbearable. I’m entitled to a bit of payback.’
‘You were truly awful,’ Molly agrees helpfully.
‘It took my entire team to catch it,’ Albus says, not at all shrill and high-pitched at the memory. ‘It could have died. The paperwork alone –’
Molly pats him on the shoulder in a way that means please shut up, Albus.
Right. This is not a moment for Albus and the spaniel. This is very much Scorpius’s moment. So he says, ‘I mean, this just confirms that you’re a genius, which we all knew all along, but still. Cup of tea to celebrate? And maybe actual dinner and drinks tonight?’
Scorpius beams, grabbing a quill and parchment so he can inform Grace and Zabini.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Albus says. ‘Anyone for banana bread? Or an avocado brownie? They’re nicer than they sound. I’ve got all sorts in my kitchen right now. No idea where it all came from...’
‘Al,’ Scorpius protests, but he’s grinning broadly, his smile firmly in place for the rest of the day.