Hi, Lira! Samy is posting this for me so I'm keeping the note short. Things I couldn't fit into the fic: - Slytherin!Midousuji and his weird friendship with that puffiest of Hufflepuffs, Onoda - Ravenclaw Prefect Imaizumi who has the biggest crush ever on Kinjou - Arakita is a truly vicious Beater
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The fireplace crackled softly, throwing glints of gold into Makishima’s hair as he reclined in an armchair and thumbed through his Transfiguration textbook languidly. The chair next to him creaked and he glanced up. Kinjou’s dark gaze made Makishima reflexively straighten up, taking his long legs off the arm of the chair and sitting properly.
“Kinjou,” he said, Transfiguration tome lying open and forgotten on his lap.
“Makishima,” Kinjou answered. The fire spluttered and without looking, Kinjou reached over to prod it with the poker. The flames leapt up, then settled once again into a slow simmer that warmed the Common Room. “How was the Slug Club dinner?”
“Awful.” Small talk had never been Makishima’s skill and neither was social climbing. His family status as an old, rich pureblood family meant that he had to be invited but he attended only reluctantly. “You should have come with me.”
“I wasn’t invited,” Kinjou reminded Makishima gently. “You can represent House Hufflepuff well enough on your own.”
“They’re going to think Hufflepuff is full of quiet weirdoes if I’m supposed to represent it,” Makishima said, the corners of his mouth crooking downwards.
“Let them underestimate us. We’ll show them the error of their ways once the points come in.” Gryffindor might be flashy, Slytherin sly and Ravenclaw the best at racking up points through academics but Hufflepuff was diligent. Slowly, steadily, their Hourglass kept filling up.
“Yeah.” Makishima shifted uncomfortably in his chair, gaze flickering down to the book and then back up to Kinjou. “You heard about Herbology?”
“That we lost twenty points because a first year confused your hair for a Flitterbloom and you nearly strangled her with it when she cut it?” Kinjou’s arched eyebrow was enough to make Makishima draw in on himself a little.
“I didn’t – I was experimenting with having tentacles covered in fur instead of hair. It hurt when she cut it. The other tentacles reacted before I could stop them.” The explanation was muttered in a low tone, Makishima reaching back to wind one of the long, green tendrils of hair around his fingers and stroke it soothingly with his thumb.
“I thought it must be something like that.” The calmness of Kinjou’s tone made Makishima look up just as the Prefect leaned in and caught a strand of Makishima’s hair loosely in his hand. He drew his thumb over the lock of hair, mimicking Makishima, and a small, barely perceptible shudder ran through Makishima.
“It’s not tentacles anymore,” Makishima said, utterly unnecessarily for the sake of something to distract himself with. “It looks like dreadlocks when it’s tentacles. It’s just hair now. No more extra nerve endings.”
Kinjou nodded but didn’t let go of Makishima’s hair, continuing to let the silky hair pile in his hair and then pool through his fingers. The flickering light of the fire picked out the red highlights, burnishing them to a brilliant crimson.
“I wonder what the Gryffindors and Slytherins thought of you going to the dinner with their colors together in your hair,” Kinjou said, a slight smile touching his lips. “I can imagine Fukutomi wasn’t pleased.”
“Good.” Makishima’s fingers dug into the textbook. He made himself let go, then twisted so he could reach over to Kinjou’s leg, tracing his fingertips over the outline of Kinjou’s thigh under the robes. The hard muscle had no give to it, no sign of weakness, but Makishima flattened his palm over the curve of Kinjou’s thigh and squeezed anyway. For all that it had been months and Madam Pomfrey was an excellent healer, Makishima still couldn’t forget the sight of Kinjou lying on the Quidditch pitch, pale and bloodied with his leg sticking out at an unnatural angle.
He didn’t even care if there was anyone in the Common Room to see.
“Makishima.” The warning in Kinjou’s tone made Makishima pause, then draw his hand away reluctantly. When he smiled up at Kinjou, it was a baring of shark teeth, triangular and sharp.
“We’ll get him next time. The Slytherins won’t get the Quidditch Cup or the House Cup this year.” They’d teach Fukutomi to deliberately yank their Seeker off his broom. No matter how much Fukutomi apologized or how contrite he seemed to be, Makishima wouldn’t forgive Fukutomi that.
Kinjou could’ve died.
As always, the thought made something tighten in his chest, uncomfortably akin to a fist squeezing every last drop of blood out of his heart. If he ever met a Dementor, he knew what memory it would evoke.
“We will,” Kinjou affirmed, the quiet confidence in his voice giving Makishima the strength to meet his Prefect’s eyes again. They shared a smile then, by the dying light of the fire, secure and solid on Kinjou’s part, crooked and sharp on Makishima’s.
“It’s getting late, Yusuke. You should go to bed.” Kinjou let go of Makishima’s hair and stood, his shadow falling over Makishima as the fire silhouetted him in light. Makishima took a moment to enjoy the sight of his Prefect haloed in gold, then shut his textbook with a decisive snap and slid fluidly to his feet.
He glanced swiftly around the room. The little third year, Onoda, had been studying in a corner earlier but it was empty now. Kinjou must’ve sent him off to bed before coming to talk to Makishima.
Good.
Makishima threaded his fingers through Kinjou’s, holding his hand, then leaned in. He let his lips just barely brush against Kinjou’s. Anything more and the portraits on the walls would start wolf-whistling and cheering. They were better monitors than the Prefects, really.
“I hope you mean your bed, Shingo,” Makishima purred against Kinjou’s mouth.
no subject
- Slytherin!Midousuji and his weird friendship with that puffiest of Hufflepuffs, Onoda
- Ravenclaw Prefect Imaizumi who has the biggest crush ever on Kinjou
- Arakita is a truly vicious Beater
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The fireplace crackled softly, throwing glints of gold into Makishima’s hair as he reclined in an armchair and thumbed through his Transfiguration textbook languidly. The chair next to him creaked and he glanced up. Kinjou’s dark gaze made Makishima reflexively straighten up, taking his long legs off the arm of the chair and sitting properly.
“Kinjou,” he said, Transfiguration tome lying open and forgotten on his lap.
“Makishima,” Kinjou answered. The fire spluttered and without looking, Kinjou reached over to prod it with the poker. The flames leapt up, then settled once again into a slow simmer that warmed the Common Room. “How was the Slug Club dinner?”
“Awful.” Small talk had never been Makishima’s skill and neither was social climbing. His family status as an old, rich pureblood family meant that he had to be invited but he attended only reluctantly. “You should have come with me.”
“I wasn’t invited,” Kinjou reminded Makishima gently. “You can represent House Hufflepuff well enough on your own.”
“They’re going to think Hufflepuff is full of quiet weirdoes if I’m supposed to represent it,” Makishima said, the corners of his mouth crooking downwards.
“Let them underestimate us. We’ll show them the error of their ways once the points come in.” Gryffindor might be flashy, Slytherin sly and Ravenclaw the best at racking up points through academics but Hufflepuff was diligent. Slowly, steadily, their Hourglass kept filling up.
“Yeah.” Makishima shifted uncomfortably in his chair, gaze flickering down to the book and then back up to Kinjou. “You heard about Herbology?”
“That we lost twenty points because a first year confused your hair for a Flitterbloom and you nearly strangled her with it when she cut it?” Kinjou’s arched eyebrow was enough to make Makishima draw in on himself a little.
“I didn’t – I was experimenting with having tentacles covered in fur instead of hair. It hurt when she cut it. The other tentacles reacted before I could stop them.” The explanation was muttered in a low tone, Makishima reaching back to wind one of the long, green tendrils of hair around his fingers and stroke it soothingly with his thumb.
“I thought it must be something like that.” The calmness of Kinjou’s tone made Makishima look up just as the Prefect leaned in and caught a strand of Makishima’s hair loosely in his hand. He drew his thumb over the lock of hair, mimicking Makishima, and a small, barely perceptible shudder ran through Makishima.
“It’s not tentacles anymore,” Makishima said, utterly unnecessarily for the sake of something to distract himself with. “It looks like dreadlocks when it’s tentacles. It’s just hair now. No more extra nerve endings.”
Kinjou nodded but didn’t let go of Makishima’s hair, continuing to let the silky hair pile in his hair and then pool through his fingers. The flickering light of the fire picked out the red highlights, burnishing them to a brilliant crimson.
“I wonder what the Gryffindors and Slytherins thought of you going to the dinner with their colors together in your hair,” Kinjou said, a slight smile touching his lips. “I can imagine Fukutomi wasn’t pleased.”
“Good.” Makishima’s fingers dug into the textbook. He made himself let go, then twisted so he could reach over to Kinjou’s leg, tracing his fingertips over the outline of Kinjou’s thigh under the robes. The hard muscle had no give to it, no sign of weakness, but Makishima flattened his palm over the curve of Kinjou’s thigh and squeezed anyway. For all that it had been months and Madam Pomfrey was an excellent healer, Makishima still couldn’t forget the sight of Kinjou lying on the Quidditch pitch, pale and bloodied with his leg sticking out at an unnatural angle.
He didn’t even care if there was anyone in the Common Room to see.
“Makishima.” The warning in Kinjou’s tone made Makishima pause, then draw his hand away reluctantly. When he smiled up at Kinjou, it was a baring of shark teeth, triangular and sharp.
“We’ll get him next time. The Slytherins won’t get the Quidditch Cup or the House Cup this year.” They’d teach Fukutomi to deliberately yank their Seeker off his broom. No matter how much Fukutomi apologized or how contrite he seemed to be, Makishima wouldn’t forgive Fukutomi that.
Kinjou could’ve died.
As always, the thought made something tighten in his chest, uncomfortably akin to a fist squeezing every last drop of blood out of his heart. If he ever met a Dementor, he knew what memory it would evoke.
“We will,” Kinjou affirmed, the quiet confidence in his voice giving Makishima the strength to meet his Prefect’s eyes again. They shared a smile then, by the dying light of the fire, secure and solid on Kinjou’s part, crooked and sharp on Makishima’s.
“It’s getting late, Yusuke. You should go to bed.” Kinjou let go of Makishima’s hair and stood, his shadow falling over Makishima as the fire silhouetted him in light. Makishima took a moment to enjoy the sight of his Prefect haloed in gold, then shut his textbook with a decisive snap and slid fluidly to his feet.
He glanced swiftly around the room. The little third year, Onoda, had been studying in a corner earlier but it was empty now. Kinjou must’ve sent him off to bed before coming to talk to Makishima.
Good.
Makishima threaded his fingers through Kinjou’s, holding his hand, then leaned in. He let his lips just barely brush against Kinjou’s. Anything more and the portraits on the walls would start wolf-whistling and cheering. They were better monitors than the Prefects, really.
“I hope you mean your bed, Shingo,” Makishima purred against Kinjou’s mouth.
Kinjou’s smile was answer enough.