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Bill is different.
Charlie knows, because he watches Bill like no one else ever does. Everyone else is impressed when Bill does something impressive. Charlie is always watching when everyone else stops being interested.
He’s home for Christmas, his first time coming home since he’d left for Romania. The feeling of being back home, crammed into that little room where he’s too big for the furniture and too energetic for the walls, is stifling nearly at once. Mum and Dad are subdued, between the inquiry Dad’s facing at work from his flying car, and all the others deciding to stay at school over break, while Mum sobs that they’re all going to be killed by Slytherin’s monster. Bill consoles her, but his heart doesn’t seem into it.
Because Bill is different this year.
There’s something drawn and quiet about him, but vibrating, some odd energy that no one else is picking up. Charlie looks over when no one else is looking, and sees Bill staring at him, his gaze so intense it makes Charlie flush hot under his collar.
Charlie’s first night at home had been normal. They’d laughed, promised Mum that everything and everyone would be fine, Charlie had been exhausted from the long flight and passed out early. Bill had been the same.
Now, a day later, Bill is different.
Mum has put him in Percy’s room. It feels wrong. He’d shared a room with Bill until Bill had gone to Hogwarts. They’d been relieved, he thought, that the eldest boys weren’t demanding their own rooms. Percy had, by the age of six. Ron had, just as early. There had never been a question of Ginny having to share. But the Burrow had been smaller, when Charlie was little, and there had been so little time to spare, with the war and Dad always at work, and it was never important enough, because Charlie wants to room with Bill, and Bill lets Charlie room with him.
That’s how it’s always been. Charlie wants; Bill allows.
Whatever Bill allows, Charlie wants.
Charlie wants Bill, so much it aches inside him, so much it beats like his heart does, so much it makes his throat close up convulsively whenever Bill looks at him. Charlie wants, wants danger and food and sex and pain. Charlie wants, wants freedom and Bill. He’s got freedom.
And sometimes, if the stars line up and Mum doesn’t need anything and he’s not too tired and Charlie has been perfect and Charlie has been desperate for what Bill deems ‘long enough,’ Bill allows.
Bill throbs in Charlie like a wound. Charlie tries to find something to say to make Bill drop his guard and take him. He tries to find some limit he hasn’t let anyone else push, just so he can give it to Bill. Every depravity he can think of, he wants to offer it to Bill on a plate, to make Bill a gift of his innocence, to beg Bill for every violation.
Bill is careful. Bill is reliable. Bill is dependable. Bill is responsible. Bill almost never allows Charlie to want him. Every time, Charlie begs. Every time, Bill finds something to deny him.
Bill has never sucked his cock. Ever. He just smiles, and shakes his head, because he knows that drives Charlie out of his mind with wanting.
Bill likes to edge him. Charlie hates it, and pretends he loves it. Bill likes to tighten him up just to force him open. Bill likes to wait for months, years between, just so he can pretend there’s nothing really unusual between them. That Charlie’s heart doesn’t only beat when Bill’s looking at him.
Bill likes girls. Charlie loves Bill.
Charlie’s head snaps up when the door opens. He’s bent double over his Comet 260, carefully buffing out a little scratch on one side where he’d scraped against a Swedish Short-Snout. Bill is tall in the doorway, rumpled from an impromptu nap on the living room sofa. His face is unreadable, and he shuts the door behind him.
Charlie swallows. There’s something very intentional about the way Bill is staring at him, and he forces himself to stay still, not simply drop everything, fall to his knees, and beg for cock. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice casual. He’ll have to make the first move eventually, if he wants Bill this week. He does - Bill is the reason he’d come home for Christmas, the thought of maybe getting to lose himself in Bill’s arms has brought him here, to fly over Hungary, Austria, Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium, and the Channel, December air blistering every bit of his exposed skin under his gloves and balaclava.
He was thirteen, the first time. He’d just gotten his Captain’s badge in the post, ready to start his third year, and had felt reckless, bold, and had finally asked, will you ever do more than kiss me, Bill?
He’d crawled into Bill’s bed, taken O.W.L. prep work for Arithmancy out of Bill’s hands, burrowed under the covers, and sucked Bill’s cock, inexpert and determined, feeling long-fingered hands thread through his too-short hair, hearing Bill’s breathing hitch and stutter, his perfect, tightly-controlled brother coming apart under his touch.
Every time, he’s got to make the first move. Even if Bill wants him, Charlie always has to be the one who takes that step. In his darkest moments, Charlie thinks that’s because he wants Bill more than Bill wants him. Most of the time, he knows it’s because Bill is trying to be better, trying to hold himself back, because he wants better for Charlie.
Like he doesn't realizes that there’s nothing better for Charlie.
He’s considering his angle of attack, wondering if Bill wants him aggressive or pleading and docile, when Bill takes three long strides and kisses him hard.
Charlie drops his broom. Seeker reflexes catch it before it hits the ground, but he still lets out a strangled little gasp against Bill’s mouth, dumbfounded. In a decade of messing around, Bill has never, ever kissed him first, not once. He must look outstandingly gormless as Bill pulls back, cupping his face, staring down at him like Charlie’s something precious. Something he doesn’t want to lose.
Unbidden, Charlie feels tears prickle at his eyes, and he blinks furiously, face hot. “Well. That’s…a hell of a welcome home.”
“How long have you wanted me to do that?” Bill asks, a little frown creasing his brows.
Charlie shrugs.There’s really no way to answer that that doesn’t sound pathetic. “Nice that you did it, though.”
“You should’ve said.”
One ginger eyebrow raises. “That I want you to kiss me?” Charlie snorts, stashing his broom carefully, “Beg you for it all the time, don’t I?”
“Well - you never seem serious about it. Thought you just liked begging.”
“Who likes begging?” Charlie snaps, annoyed now, and to his surprise, Bill flushes red.
“You always sound like you like it.”
“Of course I do.” Charlie stands, grabbing for his wand, tossing up Imperturbable Charms on every wall. Dad’s at work and Mum’s doing a last minute round at the shops, but they can’t be too careful, and Bill and Charlie are always careful. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, but if Bill is going to start it - “What else am I supposed to say, huh? If there’s a single fucking thing you want to hear that I haven’t given you, it’s just because I don’t know it! Merlin’s beard, Bill, I’ve never refused you anything, have I?”
“No, of course not - “
“Why’s it of course not?” Charlie demands, a long-fused, hot-tempered anger flaring in his chest. Usually, he only shouts about Quidditch, but this has been building for years, and he’d never intended to bring any of it up. “How come you act like it’s fine, like it’s all right for you to turn me down all the time, push me away, because you know I’ll come crawling back over and over again? And you treat that like it’s fine, like I should just be grateful for what I get? The crumbs of you that you save for me?”
He’s expecting surprise on Bill’s face. Instead, inflaming him even further, he sees guilt. So. Bill does know exactly what it is he’s doing to Charlie, all those times. Charlie lets out a disgusted little snort at himself, grabbing for his broom. “Merlin, I’m so stupid. I just keep running back and begging for it, and you’re trying to get away the whole time, then. Well, you’ll get your wish for Christmas, I’ll leave you alone - “
“No!”
“It’s not easy for me!” The words feel as though they’re tearing themselves out of Charlie’s chest, as if they’ve been lodged in there for as long as he can remember. “You say you love me the same way, that you want me just as much, but I’m the one taking all the risks, aren’t I? I’m the one taking all your rejections!”
“They’re not rejections, I’ve never rejected you - “
Charlie lets out a snarl, surging forward, and has the grim satisfaction of watching Bill’s face go pale when Charlie is suddenly on him, shoving Bill back against the door. Bill’s strong - Charlie’s stronger. Bill’s fast - Charlie’s faster. He’s also heavier, rougher, and a lot less worried about getting hurt. “You do! All the time! You stay quiet, you make me make the first move, always, you dangle your damned approval just out of my reach, every time! You know I want it, I tell you how bad I want it, and you just sit there waiting, and sometimes you send me to bed without even a kiss! Are we lovers, Bill? Or are we nothing? I’m so sick of not knowing!”
“Don’t!” Bill’s voice cracks like a whip, his eyes flashing, as if he’s not being pinned against the wall. “Don’t you dare. Not nothing, never nothing.”
“Then what? Damn it, Bill - I could’ve just taken it, I would have, let you walk all over me and do whatever you like forever, but don’t you dare act like that’s not what you’re doing!”
Bill moves, and suddenly, Charlie’s back hits the wall. “Why?” Bill demands, his eyes wild. There’s something in there Charlie’s never seen before, some strange, aching pain that makes his gut squirm. “You don’t let other men walk all over you! You don’t let anyone! Why do you let me? Why don’t you just - tell me to fuck off? Tell me to treat you right for once?”
Charlie stares at him, dumbfounded. “Would you?”
“Try it and see.”
But last time, Charlie wants to say, frustrated longing burning in his chest. “I don’t think,” he says, his jaw set, his shoulders hunched, ready to lunge at Bill and do his best to beat the tar out of his older brother if he acts like it’s no big deal, “that we need to run away, just because we’ve played around.”
There is a spark of recognition in Bill’s eyes, and more guilt. Charlie pushes, grabs Bill by the collar, gives him a shake. “You remember.”
Bill nods stiffly. “Never forgot.”
“So is it just playing around to you, then?” Charlie demands, giving him a little shake. “It never was to me. But you - it’s so easy for you to walk away, huh? I heard Dad teasing you about that girl in Egypt - “ To his fury, his voice breaks on something like a sob. He’d done such a good job last year, when they’d visited him in Romania, such a good job sitting across from his parents and smiling while they teased Bill about a pretty local girl that he’d written home about.
Bill grabs his shoulders, and even if Charlie’s bigger, Bill’s strong, too. He manhandles Charlie back to sit on the bed, and honestly, Charlie doesn’t fight him much, because he wants to be wrong, wants Bill to be happy, wants Bill to tell him nice things that wipe out the months and years in between of stress and struggle and yearning. “I shouldn’t have said that,” Bill says, and Charlie’s head snaps up. Bill doesn’t usually admit being wrong, about anything. “And you’re going to listen to me, because I’ve come a really long way just to say this.”
“Romania’s just as far as Egypt,” Charlie mutters rebelliously.
“I don’t mean Egypt.” Bill’s voice is firm, and he gives Charlie a little shake, as if to make sure he’s listening. Whatever he sees in Charlie’s face must satisfy him, because he lets go of his shoulders, sitting next to him on the bed and sucking in a huge breath, like he’s getting ready to dive into an icy lake. “All those times you asked me, and I pretended like I wasn’t paying attention, or I thought you weren’t being serious, I knew. I heard you. I’ve always known. Since I was about twelve and you were ten, yeah? I’ve known. That you wouldn’t - you wouldn’t ever look at anyone like you look at me. No, I’m not done!”
His voice cracks with such sudden authority that Charlie subsides from where he’d been about to shout, forcing himself back down with the greatest of effort.
Bill bites his lower lip, a habit he’d trained himself out of by the time he got to Hogwarts. His breathing is heavier. This means something to him, Charlie realizes, maybe more than he’d thought. “I thought I could fix us. You know me, always assuming I can do everything. Thought - I could keep it to just, just occasional, just casual, that’s not even right, I tried not to, at all, because I knew - do you know how awful it is, to know at twelve that you’re never going to find anything else in the world like - “
“Yes,” Charlie says, and Bill doesn’t tell him to shut up this time. He gives Bill an awkward half-shrug. “Of course I know what that’s like.”
Bill’s eyes are haunted. Charlie wishes he knew what he was haunted by. But Bill doesn’t share his fears, because that would mean admitting he has them. “Thought if I could just keep us…doing the right things. Or close enough. If I could date girls, push you towards some more, more appropriate, like Kevin, or that Giacomo in Romania, then we could - we could carry on, and it wouldn’t be awful for us, and we might find something that was almost as good, and we wouldn’t feel so hollow whenever we’re apart, and we could maybe have real families someday, and come home for holidays and not always feel like we’re out of place.”
Charlie snorts. “Yeah, because Mum really wouldn’t think I was out of place if I brought Giacomo home.” Not that he would. Giacomo isn’t the kind of man anyone would bring home to meet their mother, not if they have any sense.
“Charlie.” Bill shakes him again, just a little, as if it’s for emphasis. “I was wrong. I’m…I’m older, now, I…there isn’t anything almost as good as you. There’s nothing close. Not for me. There never could be.”
They’ve never fought over this, before. They’ve fought. Charlie’s fought with all his brothers. Fred and George have gotten on his bad side for teasing him about failing his Apparition test. Percy’s taken his broom for practice and twisted a few of the twigs the wrong way round. Ron whines. He’s gotten on Bill’s nerves for following him around at school, for spilling ink on his best robes, for playing too rough with the younger boys. He’s told Bill off for ignoring Ginny and making her cry, for leaving a weird stain in his cauldron, for missing one of his games. They’ve rowed about normal stuff, but never about this, this thing between them, this thing that threatens to dominate both of their lives that they never, ever talk about, until tonight. It’s terrifying. Charlie never pushes, because Bill could stop at any time, and Charlie knows he can’t. He doesn’t have Bill’s self-control. He can’t be near Bill, and not want, not need, not give in. All he can do is leave.
It’s frightening. But they’ve never been this honest, either.
“It’s not fair,” Charlie says, and he’s surprised by how casual his own voice sounds. “That I could find the person I’m meant to be with, and it’s my brother. Tell me how that’s fair.”
“It’s not. I’ve been asking myself that question for…”
Charlie’s eyes narrow. Bill is different. He’s seen it, noticed a few times that Bill’s sounded a bit odd, and it’s nothing he could have missed. He doesn’t miss anything about looking at Bill. He opens his mouth, but before he can, Bill holds up a hand and lies to him.
“I knew you’d notice. Last week at work, in the catacombs, I got in the way of an old spell trap. You remember that old story of Numptatious Brine and the Ghouls?”
“Uh huh.”
Bill spreads his hands. “Guess that’s based on a real old spell. Where you get to see your future, but you wake up in time to still be able to change it. And I saw my life without you, if I…if I choose not to…” He gestures vaguely between the two of them. That’s fine. Charlie doesn’t know what to call it, either. “And I won’t have it. I don’t want it. I want you more than I want any of that.”
Charlie eyes him. Bill stares right back. “All right,” Charlie finally says, folding his arms over his chest. “Is it that you don’t think I’ll believe the real story, or that you come across worse in it?”
Bill’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“I mean, that’s an obvious lie.”
“But - “ Bill looks more offended at being caught than anything. “You can never tell when I’m lying.”
Charlie laughs, and takes pity on him, because he looks so genuinely stunned. “Billy. I can always tell. But if I tell you I can’t, you usually feel bad and tell me the truth. And I’m not telling you what your tell is, or you’ll change it.”
Bill gapes at him. “You…what, always?”
Charlie shrugs. “So what’s the real story?”
Bill stares at him for a long moment, then shakes his head. “Can’t tell you. Trust me. That’s…as close to it as I can get. But - anyway. Now you know. I had a vision of what life would be like if I didn’t…make you a priority, and it’s not something I want any part of. Will you let me do that?”
“Yes.” The word is out before Charlie can think it over. Then again, if he took a hundred years to ponder, it would be the same.
Bill looks as though he hardly dared to hope. Idiot. “Really? You’d…I don’t know, run away with me?”
“Yes.”
Bill still looks like he can’t quite believe it. Whatever Dream Charlie had done to him, that fellow was a wanker. “I’ve got…sort of an idea. Well, more than sort of, and I’m confident I can pull it off.”
“What is it? I’ll do it.”
Bill smiles at him, so breathtakingly genuine and happy that Charlie’s heart does a little flip. “You know the rumors that Gringotts has dragons? It’s not just a rumor, it’s true. And I’ve thought of a good way to completely re-imagine their program. The goblins will listen to me. They respect wizards who take the time to learn Gobbledegook, it’s not easy.”
“When did you learn Gobble–”
“Not important. But - you’d do it? Move back here, work with dragons, really change the lives of a few of them for the better?”
Charlie huffs out a laugh. “I’d do it if you asked me to be the rag-and-bone man, you numpty.”
“But you love Romania,” Bill says earnestly, reaching almost shyly for Charlie’s hand, twining their fingers together. Charlie’s heart aches, it’s so full. “I don’t want to ask you to leave somewhere you really…fit.”
“I don’t, though.” Charlie shrugs. “I don’t fit anywhere. Never have.” That doesn’t say nearly as much as he could, but it’s more than he wants to admit. He doesn’t exactly want to tell Bill that a lot of the time, he feels as though he’s living the life someone else had been born to, like what’s inside him doesn’t match up to his whole existence, like that’s why he’s always throwing himself at danger, at pain, at some bright spark of feeling to burst through the day to day of existence.
Bill grips his hand, brings it to his mouth, and kisses his fingertips. “You fit with me.”