Work Text:
Victoire is standing in front of the mirror in their room when Teddy slips inside, long, thin fingers wound through the ends of their long hair. The two of them have been together long enough that Teddy knows exactly what’s on Victoire’s mind and he changes his face before they even turn to look at him.
Victoire’s hand drops to their side. Biting their lip as they take in the sight of their closest friend. Teddy’s face is their face, but different. He’s got the same gentle sloping nose, same high cheekbones decorated with a familiar spatter of freckles. But his jaw is strong and angular more like his own than the one Victoire would see if they turned back to the mirror. His hair is cropped short but it’s the same Weasley red that Victoire’s fingers had been tangled in moments before.
Tears prick at the corner of Victoire’s eyes, they’re not quite sure what they did to deserve someone like Teddy, who understands them so completely. Victoire smiles and steps closer to Teddy watching, his face, their face? Mirror their expression.
Teddy leans down to place a kiss on Victoire’s forehead, Victoire responds with a kiss pressed to his lips. Their lips? Victoire raises an eyebrow as they pull back, and Teddy nods.
“Thank you.” Victoire whispers into his chest. Their hands slide up, nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons holding Teddy’s shirt closed before pushing it down his arms and letting it crumple on the floor at their feet. Victoire’s hands dance along Teddy’s freckled shoulders, and down his sides, tracing the sharp angles of his body where there are soft curves on theirs.
Teddy sucks in a breath and his eyes flutter closed when Victoire deftly removes his belt, pops open the button on his jeans, tugs them down over slim hips. Teddy can feel Victoire drinking him in, drinking in the body he wishes he could truly give over to them. It’s not the first time Teddy has wished that it was Victoire who was the metamorphmagus, and he’s sure that the thought has crossed their mind a thousand times over.
Victoire places a kiss against the smooth plane of Teddy’s stomach and breathes in deep. The smell is so familiar it might as well be their own. Their hands drift down over muscled thighs, trace the curve where knee turns to calf. Teddy steps out of his jeans and Victoire circles his ankle with one finger.
Eyes closed, Victoire sighs softly. It’s a sound of content Teddy thinks as he joins them on the floor. He brings a hand up to play with the ends of their hair, the way they’d been doing when he’d arrived.
“I wish,” he pauses to find the words.
“I know,” Victoire says.