entanglements | d.m.

60.bonfireheart

March '99 | H E R

"Is that a—a bite mark?"

Devyn swats her best friend's hand away, pinching him in the side when he tries to get another look.

Curling like a shrimp, he wheezes, "A bitemark on your jaw?"

Yes. She feels the sting of it having been touched. In her hurry to get out the door this morning, because as it turns out, routine and punctuality mean nish to two hormone-drunk, insatiably horny, lovesick teens, Devyn had not put any mind to checking for blemishes that marinated overnight and would need a desperate cover-up charm. She can count herself lucky that she got all the shampoo rinsed out in the shower before she ran to breakfast right here.

Pointing her wand at the left side of her face, casting a wordless obscuring charm, she counters, "I am very sorry for your dry sex life but jealousy is not something that fares well between the two of us," she waves the wand between herself and Tarq, "so reign it in."

He gapes, "Dry sex—" scoffs, "—dry—" gapes again, "—you're one to talk, really. Putting yourself in self-mandated celibacy when you could have fucked your wizard all along."

Your wizard.

The term only briefly distracts her from the dig and his avoidance.

"You're not answering my question," she points out, indignant and knowing. Of what, don't ask.

She knows nothing.

"There never was a question."

Damn it.

"Are you and Pansy sleeping together?"

"In the same room, yes," he replies, smartly.

"In one another?" she clarifies. "As in, you stick your willy inside her—don't make me explain basic biology to you."

His nose scrunches. "Don't say willy."

"Yeah, never doing that again," she grimaces, taking her usual morning green tea. "Are you now?"

"No."

Devyn holds the cup before her lips, the question bursting, "Then what is happening with you two?"

He spoons blue cereal into his mouth, milk dripping down his chin that he quickly catches. "Nothing."

"Tarq."

"Dev."

Her head tilts. "Don't be like that."

His mouth tugs up on one end. "If there was anything worth mentioning, I promise you're the first to know."

"I'm not trying to be nosy," she says, quieter to keep it between them while surrounded by their friends. "Okay, maybe a little because she is a smoke show and you two are clearly attracted to one another, but I'm just saying you can and you should confide in me like I do in you."

For a moment, his eyes soften, along with his frame, shoulders curving, spoon falling into the bowl. Then his eyes drop, briefly, and when they pick up again, they're closed in. His smile is not quite reaching his eyes and falls a bit too quickly. "There is nothing I want to talk about."

He almost got her. The reassuring, comforting tone, he has perfected it, but it takes more than that to convince his best friend. The person who sees the times he tenses at the topic of Terry Boot, the flight mode his body kicks in, and how his eyes cast over when mentioning his partner and roommate, either defeated or glum.

And the word play—he may not want to talk about it, but there are things needing to be discussed, or just needing to be heard.

"Are you sure?" she presses.