Where Were You In The Morning?

Talking About Breakfast

"Oh, darling, no," Pansy says, a disturbed look crossing her face as she listens to Blaise retell the story of his escapades.

She's shaking her head when he tells her about Ron randomly popping into the shop.

"Blaise," she sets a delicate, manicured hand over his. "Boys need to be spoken to in syllables. Break it down for him, if you must."

"That's entirely stupid," Blaise groans.

Pansy takes a dainty sip from her cup, grins when the breeze tosses her bangs about. "I agree. Not everyone can read between the lines. Especially not Gryffindors."

His best friend has blossomed over the years. Her face no longer carries any malice, no trace of a sneer or a malignant smirk. And her hair has to show for it. No longer do the straight black strands shape her face in wicked shadows, but perk up at odd angles. Like her bangs. Slightly longer at the edges and fluffy, and the hair around her head is no longer all straight and in a line, but in layers and occasional short waves. And her wardrobe has been switched out from dark hues to bright pastels and florals. She looks relaxed and free, just like her spirit.

Blaise grins at her softly. "Speaking of Gryffindors," he waggles his eyebrows at her over his cuppa. "How's it going with Longbottom?"

She makes a face, tilting her head to the corner and pulling her lips to one side. "It's odd, actually. He's fit, ridiculously fit. And I find him ridiculously attractive, but every time we flirt, it feels like banter. So I suppose a friendship is what's required in this situation."

"Pansy Parkinson accepting friendship over sex," Blaise laughs and dodges a sugar cube. "The world must be coming to an end."

"It's not that," she reasons, swirling her teaspoon around her cuppa for no reason at all except for something to do with her hands. "It's unnecessary. Searching for something that isn't there. We both work better platonically, and if we surpassed the line of friendship, there might not be a way back. And I like being his friend. I find Gryffindors rather endearing."

"You and I both, Pansy," they clink cuppas and share a secret smile. "You and I both."

*******

The next time Blaise comes face to face with Ron Weasley is a fortnight after his rendezvous with Pansy. It was a quiet few days, like usual, with a scarce amount of customers coming in to have their time devices looked at.

Blaise is patting Mrs. Berkeley's hand when the bell chimes above the door, but when Blaise goes to greet his guest, the lady takes his chin.

"Such handsome features. Beautiful eyes, too. Your beloved is a lucky one," she grins at him toothily and pats his cheek.

"Oh," Blaise chuckles. "No, Madame. I don't have a beloved."

The lady looks properly displaced for a moment. "Oh, no. You need to find someone before it's too late, dearie."

"I'll keep that in mind, Madame. Thank you for coming, you have a wonderful evening."

He waves at her through his window before laying his forehead on the door. Then he bangs his head on it a couple of times.

And suddenly there's a warm hand encasing his forehead and Blaise starts, jumping and turning to find icy blue eyes with a wrinkle between them.

"Why are you hitting yourself?"

"I...don't know," Blaise frowns, looking between Ron's blue eyes in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I...don't know," Ron seems puzzled himself, his eyes darting from his feet to Blaise's eyes to the wood of the door. "I just. I couldn't stop thinking about what you said. About people paying attention to me and listening to what I say."

Blaise exhales through his nose and thunks his head back on the door, only it doesn't get to because Ron's hand is still there. It pillows his head, and Blaise's breath catches in his throat when Ron moves his hand down to the curve of his neck.

It's suddenly clear how close they're standing to each other, and he seems to notice it at the same time Ron does because Ron gasps. Their eyes meet and Blaise is positive his own darken from their close proximity.

"And?"

"And?" Ron echoes breathily.

"And what answer did you come to?"

"Why would you, of all people, pay attention to me?"

"I'd ask the same question."

"I asked first."

Blaise chuckles, shakes his head against the wood of the door and tries to ignore when Ron's thumb caresses the skin behind his ear. "When everything has been taken from you, and you have nothing else to lose, and you know what rejection feels like, it's not that far-fetched to go for what you want."

"And what do you want?"

The Slytherin pulls his lip between his teeth to stop from grinning. Because he can see that Ron already knows the answer to his own question--terrible habit of his--and his eyes are focused only on the pillowy skin of Blaise's lips.

He spares a glance at the redhead through his lashes and reaches up to take Ron's Auror robes in his hands before pulling him flush against his body.

Ron grunts a little through his nose and he has to crane his neck down to look directly down at Blaise, but he doesn't make a single move to back away. Instead, he fixes his forearm to lay flat against the door and his other arm snakes around Blaise's waist.

"Why do you want me," he whispers, slotting his nose next to Blaise's and closing his eyes. "Why me?"

"You saved my life," Blaise mumbles, lost in the absurd amount of heat Ron's body provides. "And you see me. You're not afraid to kick my ass or tell me I'm wrong. You're not afraid of me."

"Little thing like you?" Ron teases, moving his arm from around Blaise and pushing him further against the wall instead.

"This won't be a one-off, Weasley," Blaise exhales, his whole body relaxing from having Ron so close to him. "Let me show you what you deserve to be treated like. What you deserve to feel."

"I don't," Ron hesitates to continue, instead purses his lips and leans his forehead on Blaise's. "I don't know how to live like...like you. Like a pure-blood. I don't have..."

"Where there's a will, there's a way," the Slytherin closes his eyes. "You can always learn."

"The press?"

"I am a public figure."

"My parents," Ron blurts desperately, holding Blaise's hip for dear life.

"Your brother is a werewolf married to a veela and your father is sickeningly intrigued by muggles. I think I'll pass the test."

"There's one other thing," the redhead breathes, seemingly having an interior battle with himself as he alternates between running his nose across Blaise's cheekbone and dragging his fingers up his side. "I'm not very...experienced. With boys."

Blaise's eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'm versatile."

The Gryffindor chuckles low in his throat, his mouth watering at Blaise's hands sliding down the seams of his robes. "Good."

"Will you kiss me, now?"

"During business hours," Ron tuts his tongue. "How unprofessional."

Blaise quickly reaches behind him and flips the sign, which activates the wards on the door. "Well?"