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It’s two days since moving in to their small Muggle home, in the middle of a quiet dinner, that Voldemort has a realization.
His eyes widened a fraction from where they stared off into space and he set his half-full bowl of strange “canned soup” down gently on the table, spoon clacking loudly against it. To the noise Quirrell brought his head up from his own bowl, raising his eyebrows in confusion.
“What’s the matter, Voldemort?” he asked cautiously, his spoon still held in mid-air, some of the soup slowly dripping from it.
Voldemort didn’t answer immediately, though the question did shake him from his reverie. He looked back at Quirrell, briefly meeting his gaze before his eyes drifted down past his shoulder and stuck. He shook his head, cleared his throat, waved his hand dismissively in front of his face. “It’s - I mean, it’s nothing. I just… I was thinking, you know, about…” He paused, drew up his face in deliberation, then in his frustration, idly pushed his spoon around the bowl, eliciting a nasty scratching noise that Voldemort seemed almost unaware of as Quirrell dropped his own spoon and covered his ears with his hands in annoyance.
“About what? Can you - Voldemort, stop that,” Quirrell complained, shooting him a nasty look. Realizing then, Voldemort appeared surprised as his hand came to a stop, then dropped back into his lap. Quirrell’s hands slowly fell from his ears, but the look on his face remained.
“Sorry,” Voldemort said thoughtlessly. He shifted in his seat, apparently still pondering on his words, but made no further move to speak.
This, in turn, agitated Quirrell further as he continued to stare him down. With an impatient sigh, he leaned over the table, elbows resting on it. “Are you going to explain or not? Because I’d really like to finish my dinner before it gets colder.”
Voldemort met his eyes again, daring to appear affronted by the question. “Of course I’m going to explain, Quirrell! I’m simply trying to… find the words for it. That’s all.” He crossed his arms, and Quirrell thought he looked very much like a pouty child, the thought drawing a small chuckle from him.
“I think you’re being dramatic. It’s just me, you know that. You don’t have to overthink it, okay?” Quirrell attempted to reassure him, taking that moment to eat more of his soup. He was right - it was going cold. His sips became a bit quicker.
Across from him, Voldemort shifted in his seat once more, seemingly unable to keep still as his arms dropped, picked at his soup, rested back on the table, then to his lap, the back of his neck, the sides of his chair, and the table again. “I - I know it’s just you. It’s - you don’t get it - that’s what makes it harder,” he admitted with a sigh, his body finally coming to rest for longer than a few seconds.
He refused to meet Quirrell’s eyes, but in contrast, Quirrell’s never left his. “How so?” Quirrell asked slowly, pausing his dining yet again in his renewed curiosity. The gears in his brain began to spin; what could Voldemort possibly have to say to Quirrell that would be difficult because it’s to him, specifically? Him, of all people? It wasn’t like they had much privacy between them anymore; being forced to use a toilet and shower and dress in the same body for a year had succinctly removed that barrier.
Voldemort bit nervously at his lip, staring down at a particularly interesting mark in the wood of the table. “Because. It’s about you. Us, I guess.” He recoiled visibly, making an almost comically disgusted face. “Eugh, that came out so - that sounds - this is stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid. What about us, Voldemort?” Quirrell pressed on, and shoved his bowl back a smidge to lean his arms on the table. He knew by now that, sometimes, Voldemort just needed a good push to get something out of him. And in that moment, Quirrell was very much willing to push.
If Voldemort was aware that was what Quirrell was doing, he didn’t show it. He suddenly seemed much more vulnerable, physically drawing in on himself. “Well… I… It’s just that… Since we reunited, we never did really… clarify things. You know. Where, um - where we stand, now.” He coughed into his fist, nervously flexing his fingers, still staring intently at the table.
The admission was not quite what Quirrell had expected, yet at the same time, it made complete sense. It also astounded him just how stupid Voldemort was - or maybe, Quirrell thought a bit smugly, that guilt was eating at him and rendering him blind to reality. Obviously he’d forgiven Voldemort for all of That Which Shall Not Be Named, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t find it satisfying to think the man still felt bad for it. He should feel bad.
Regardless, that wasn’t the point. Quirrell leaned back in his chair, watching Voldemort’s movements closely. “Where do you think we stand?” he mused, attempting to keep his tone light. He didn’t want that to come out interrogatory and cause him to shy back further, or worse, lie about it.
It worked enough, as Voldemort didn’t seem to tense up further. “I assumed… well, I made it pretty clear I can’t really function without you at my side, so…” He trailed off, daring a glance up in Quirrell’s direction. He was smiling fondly back at him, eyes both warm and simultaneously alight with mischief.
“Obviously. I’m your newest horcrux, right? So you’d die without me. But that’s not only what you mean by that, is it, Voldemort?” Quirrell asked innocently, raising his eyebrows. He relished in the embarrassment that spread across Voldemort’s face, fully aware that he would rather eat his foot than admit to any of his real feelings - while sober, at the very least.
Sure enough, Voldemort was silent for a moment, fidgeting again as he tried to get the words out. After a minute of struggle, he let out an irritated growl, then snapped, “Quirrell, you know exactly what I meant! I don’t - that’s not the point, anyway!”
Quirrell let out an amused laugh, provoking a deep glare from Voldemort. “Yes, of course I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.” A wicked thought crossed his mind then, and he continued on, dropping his voice, “After all, getting me sent away to Azkaban for so long for your crime, well, you practically owe it to me.”
Hook, line, and sinker; Voldemort immediately looked panicked, apology strewn across his face. “Listen, I - Quirrell, please, you know I didn’t mean for that, I-”
“Oh, my, you are really too easy,” Quirrell cackled, shaking his head. “I’m messing with you, I promise. Voldemort, I’ve long forgiven you for that, I know it was Bellatrix’s influence.” He laughed a little again, wiping at his eyes. “Seriously, you’re too gullible. You know I’m not that pathetic, right?”
“I guess I do now," Voldemort replied sourly, but he did seem relieved regardless. “It’s not my fault to think you’d still be all - all hurt and sensitive, I mean, you’re so frail and - and flower-y, come on-”
“Oh, stereotypes and underestimating me all at once! Well, don’t I feel loved,” Quirrell huffed dramatically, turning up his chin to top it off.
“Hey, no! That’s not fair, of course I love you!” Voldemort shot back, then froze in his spot when he realized what exactly he’d just said.
Quirrell, in contrast, grinned in triumph. “Now, was that so hard? I love you too, you absolute moron,” he said easily, the sweetness in his tone negating the insult. Voldemort still looked utterly shell-shocked, his brain desperately trying to catch up with what had just unfolded in the course of about thirty seconds.
Soon enough, he seemed to regain control over his body, and he croaked out, “Really?” Across from him, Quirrell was still highly amused, agitating him to no end.
With a nod, Quirrell said, “Of course. Really, Voldemort, if I didn’t, would I have offered to find a house for the both of us to live in? And willingly continued to sleep in the same bed as you, even though, with us separate, we don’t really need to?”
“I - well, you put it that way…” Voldemort wasn’t that dense - obviously he considered the possibility, knew it could very well be possible, because like Quirrell said, it made no logical sense to go through all of that, especially with him, if there wasn’t something going on there. But, the guilty, self-hating part of his brain insisted relentlessly that there was some other explanation for it all, because surely he didn’t deserve the reality.
“So,” Quirrell started again, tone no longer teasing. “Does that answer your question?” He took another sip of his soup, then frowned as it had grown completely cold. He rolled his eyes at it and set his spoon back down in defeat.
Voldemort nodded slowly. “Yeah. It does,” he murmured, contemplative. Then, he looked up at Quirrell, his nervousness from before slipping away. “That means we’re a couple now, right?”
“Um, I assumed - if you want to, then sure,” Quirrell replied, a bit perplexed. He raised his hands, scooting back in his chair. “Actually, let me just - to be clear, yes, this all means that we are together, you are allowed to kiss me if you want, and… so on, and yes, we can do whatever sappy couple stuff you’d like. Okay? Did I miss anything?”
Now still in his seat, his cheeks flushing a little red, Voldemort shook his head. “No, that’s… you got it all, that - um. I can kiss you now?”
“Well, yes, I did - that is what I said,” Quirrell affirmed quickly, now growing slightly flustered himself. Of course he’d thought about that before, but saying it, he hadn’t really thought about it, and now the realization that it was indeed a real possibility was hitting him at about the same time as it was Voldemort.
He stood up suddenly, gripping his bowl. “I’m going to - it’s cold, I’m done eating, so-” Quirrell nodded to end off his stammering and quickly moved to the kitchen, pouring out the remains of his soup and dropping it carelessly into the sink. Voldemort had stood up as well, watching him from where he remained in place.
With a bit of apprehension, Quirrell made his way back to the dining area, stopping in front of Voldemort. There was a brief moment of awkwardness between them as neither knew how to proceed; then, Voldemort gently rested a hand on Quirrell’s shoulder, the other drawing up to cup his cheek. He looked thoroughly flustered and unsure of himself, which was actually somewhat of a comfort to Quirrell.
Another awkward, silent moment passed without movement, until finally Voldemort made to close the gap - at the same time as Quirrell figured he’d do it himself, causing their foreheads to bump painfully.
“Ow, shit!” Quirrell hissed, stumbling backwards, hand flying up to massage his forehead. Voldemort was in a similar state, his hands retreating away from Quirrell. The sudden lack of contact added to his growing annoyance. “That was so stupid,” he muttered.
“Yeah, kinda,” Voldemort agreed, except he laughed afterward. He didn’t seem distraught by the mistake at all, the bastard. “You want to try again?”
“Do I want to - obviously I do, you-” Quirrell cut himself off and surged forward, pressing his lips to Voldemort’s, his hands coming up to rest on his cheeks. It was off at first, with Voldemort taken off guard and Quirrell sadly lacking in experience being driven only by fierce insistence, but Voldemort quickly regained his bearings and kissed back, gently guiding the other man. One hand moved to the back of Quirrell’s neck, the other wrapping around his torso, and he pressed them closer together, delighting in the little noises of surprise Quirrell made. He relaxed into it finally, his hands dropping down, arms coming up over Voldemort’s shoulders.
They soon broke away, Voldemort placing a small kiss to Quirrell’s nose as they did. A wild grin was on Quirrell’s face, his cheeks flushed and almost as red as his lips. Voldemort smiled back, laughing a little.
“What?” Quirrell demanded, attempting to look interrogative, but he was still far too elated for it to really work.
“I’ve been dreaming of doing that since the second I got my body back,” Voldemort confessed, eyes half-lidded. In response, Quirrell’s expression grew flustered, and he buried his face in the other man’s neck.
“Stupid,” he breathed, his arms tightening around Voldemort, holding him closer. Voldemort carded his fingers through Quirrell’s hair absently, planting a kiss to his temple.
With a soft exhale, Quirrell lifted his head up and smiled gently at Voldemort before detangling himself from him. “I’m glad we got that worked out, so I’m going to do dishes now. Are you done with your soup?”
“Yeah,” Voldemort answered absently, watching Quirrell move with unabashed adoration. Quirrell smacked his arm lightly and took his bowl back to the sink, pouring it out like he did before. “I love you,” Voldemort blurted out again, leaning back on the dining table.
Quirrell snorted and turned on the sink, washing out a bowl. “I love you too,” he called back over the sound of the rushing water.
A grin still remaining on his face, Voldemort settled down on the couch, resting his head back against it. After some time, Quirrell sat down next to him, curling up against his side, and in that moment, a fog finally lifted from his heart.