FIC: Pepper and Plum in the Dead of Winter (Charlie/Viktor, R) Title: Pepper and Plum In the Dead of Winter Author:mindabbles Established pairing(s): Viktor/OFC Infidelity pairing(s): Charlie/Viktor Rating: R Genre: Angst, romance (of a sort) Word Count: 7,900 Warnings: None other than infidelity, but that's not a warning here. Right? Summary: It's a physical pull, an ache, looking at him and knowing what it is like to be held against that chest, to have those arms about you, and yet to watch him stand a room and a world away. A/N: Tremendous thanks to elizassecret for nudging me to this pairing of all the fabulous ones in the request and for helping to give the story shape, and also to magnetic_pole and gryffindor_j for the super quick, thorough beta work. Originally written for westwardlee at the 2009 charlieficathon
Snow falls thick and fast, obscuring the small buildings of the dragon keepers' camp. Viktor pulls his travelling cloak more tightly around himself.
A shadow of a person appears. The indistinct shape takes form as it approaches—a man, who could as easily have been a bear from this distance—in a huge overcoat.
Romania has become a second home to the team since training for the World Cup began. The training centre here is second to none, and it helps that one their former Chasers lives nearby, working with dragons. Training would be a dreary, miserable task if not for the hospitality of those generous dragon keepers who are always ready with a warm fire and warmer drink.
"Hello, you lot," shouts the bear, who turns out to be Charlie Weasley. "We thought you'd be ‘round yesterday. Well, come on up. The food is hot and it's a bugger of a night out here."
Charlie's voice heats him through. It holds the promise of hearty food and pleasant company on an exhausting and bone-chilling day.
That's all it is, the only reason his blood suddenly flows warmer through his veins.
The Bulgarians are a raucous bunch when they get to drinking. Seeing as it's dark by about four o'clock in the middle of winter and dead quiet with most of the dragons hibernating, Charlie is more than pleased to have the bright, loud presence of Krum and his team to liven up the long evenings.
He summons another bottle of tuicã and sends it to fill Krum's nearly empty glass. He likes the way the peppery brandy brings colour to Viktor's cheeks and a lopsided tilt to his smile. He also likes the way that Viktor's gaze lingers on him more and more with each sip.
Dinner's long finished, the mulled wine drunk, and conversation narrowed down to best moves in a match and improbable sexual conquests. Every time the latter topic rolls around to Viktor, he glances at Charlie and tells one tale or another of his prowess on the field or brings up the growing pure blood movement in Eastern Europe.
"We have had much graffiti, the old symbols, even young people getting tattoos," Viktor says, to much eye rolling from his teammates. "Have you seen the same here?"
"The trends in the cities usually take about a year to wend their way out here," Charlie says.
"Give it a rest, Viktor. Anyone for the pub?" Neil, the English Healer for the Bulgarian team asks. He rarely has much to add to these conversations and seems to be on a constant quest to gather stories for his repertoire. "Have a look at the local talent?"
"Don't know why you need to go round to a pub," says Charlie. Viktor shrugs and shakes his head and Charlie smiles at him. For the first time this evening, Viktor doesn't look away when Charlie catches his eye. "Plenty of drink and idle chatter right here. And you're already home when you're inevitably too pissed to Apparate."
"What you say is true," slurs the Bulgarian Keeper, a fierce woman who Charlie would always prefer to have on his side in a match. Or a fight. "But I have seen all the men there are to see here."
"Aye, but you haven't seen all of the men there are here," chuckles Duncan. He is Charlie's oldest friend at the reserve and a notorious slag who somehow hasn't managed to charm any of the Bulgarian team into his bed, yet seems to remain ever hopeful.
"Careful," Charlie mutters under his breath. "She's likely to eat you after."
Viktor laughs, a rich, warm sound, and Charlie grins. Viktor's gaze lingers over him, and there is something that looks like desire on his face when he blinks slowly and licks over his bottom lip.
"Who's for it, then?" asks Neil. A dog with a bone every time they visit, that one is.
"Not me," Charlie says, lifting the bottle again. His glass is empty. So is Viktor's. "Any poof from this village worth his salt does a runner the minute he turns seventeen. Those that don't, I want nothing to do with."
"I will stay," Viktor says, dropping his gaze to his drink where Charlie has filled it again.
Charlie doesn't even bother trying to suppress the grin that forms on his lips.
"Of course you will," the Keeper says. "It is no good for you. Can't have more gossip in the paper for that pretty wife of yours to see. No women for you, poor man."
"Well, that leaves more for me," chimes in Alicia. Charlie always forgets that she went to Hogwarts before she was recruited to the Bulgarian team—until she speaks.
A blast of cold air dusted with snow swirls in as most of the team and several of the staff of the reserve head off into the blustery night. The others make their excuses and slowly drift off to warm beds.
"Another belt?" Charlie asks, sending the bottle to tip into Viktor's glass before he has a chance to answer.
Viktor drains the fiery drink in one gulp. "Why do you not go with the others?"
"I said," Charlie says. He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms across the back, kicking his legs out in front in a stretch. "The men in that village don't interest me."
"And where are the men who interest you?" Viktor asks. Charlie can see from across the table that his breath is coming fast and he looks as if he's about to leap from a cliff.
"You're pissed." Charlie stands. The fire is still blazing and the room is becoming almost too warm. He moves away from the fire, nearer to where Viktor is still sitting, his hands gripping the table as if he is poised to run.
"My father used to say, if two people say you're drunk, go to bed," Viktor says, blinking as he rises to his feet. "I am drunk." He takes a step toward the door and looks almost surprised to find that his path is blocked.
"There are two reasons a man drinks that much when he is so far away from home," Charlie says. He steps closer to Viktor. Viktor does not step back.
"What?" Viktor asks. His face glows and he suddenly looks more nervous and less drunk.
"To forget about home," Charlie murmurs. His fingers itch to run along Viktor's arm, touch his chest. "And to build up nerve. Sometimes those are the same." He reaches out with his hand, and stops just short of touching. "I know what it is with you, and why you didn't go with the others."
"Why is that, Weasley?"
"I think you wonder what it's like," Charlie whispers. His lips nearly brush Viktor's cheek and Viktor shudders as Charlie's warm breath ghosts across his cheek. "I think you've probably always wondered, but never let yourself find out."
"Are you the one to show me?" Viktor's voice is so soft and Charlie listens to his breath hitch when he circles Viktor's wrist with his fingers.
"Do you remember?" Charlie asks. "Do you remember at Hogwarts those years ago?" It had been one kiss. One kiss in the shadow of the place where Hogwarts grounds met the Forbidden Forest. One drunken stumble against each other on the way back from Hogsmeade after the first task. "I would have shown you then."
Charlie can see the memory, perhaps long stamped down, forming on Viktor's face. He leans forward and Charlie can taste the pepper and plum of the tuicã on his breath. Charlie closes the remaining inch, pressing alcohol-warmed lips to Viktor's open mouth. Viktor moans and curls his tongue around Charlie's, pushing against him with the urgency of the very drunk. Viktor is wiry and strong, and Charlie can feel his erection already pressing into his hip. His hands are greedy, moving over Charlie's back, and he is very, very drunk, and reportedly straight, and married.
Charlie places one hand on Viktor's shoulder and pushes him back, breaking the kiss and the delicious contact between their bodies.
"Not tonight, Viktor," Charlie says. "When you can get up the nerve without any help, you know where I am."
*
From the state of his head, Charlie had more to drink last night than he remembered. After leaving Viktor, he finished off the better part of a bottle of whisky, wanked, and passed out.
The dining hall is deserted now, except for Viktor, already in his Quidditch robes, sitting in front of an untouched plate of eggs and bacon.
"Thank you," Viktor says, nodding at Charlie. Charlie sits down across from him and fills a plate. "It is not what I would have said last night, but thank you for thinking. I was not." He pours the last of the mulled wine, cold and thick with bits of cinnamon and stems of cloves, into a goblet and throws it back, with a grimace and a shake of his head.
"What the hell are you drinking that for?" Charlie pours a cup of strong coffee and lifts it to his nose to quell a wave of nausea.
"Hair of the dog, my father used to say," Viktor says, rubbing his creased forehead.
"Ugh, there's hair of the dog, then there's hair of the dog's arse," Charlie says. "Have some coffee, a damn sight better for what ails you than that."
"We go today," says Viktor, casting a sideways glance at Charlie. "But we will be back next week. Just me and the reserve Seekers. We will have several Seekers ready for the Cup. You will be here?"
"Erm, yeah," Charlie says, feeling a bit like a Quaffle, being sent back and forth across the pitch. "I do live here."
From his vantage point, high on the cliff outside the Hungarian Horntail's nesting cave, Charlie can see the small group of Seekers arrive, four of them trailing after Viktor like ducklings. Viktor strides into the reserve and stops. He looks around as if he expected someone to be there to greet him. Charlie mounts his broom and kicks off, diving down and skimming the cliff face just as the expectant mum rears and shoots a ten metre long curl of blue and purple flame into the air.
He lands gracefully in front of the team and swings off his broom.
"Hello," Viktor says, keeping his eyes trained somewhere about Charlie's knees. "If you are free this afternoon, we could use your help."
Charlie was good. He's never believed in false modesty. He was damned good once upon a time. But that was a long time ago, and professional Seekers at the premiere training centre in Europe do not need his help. Besides, he's bloody busy. He's three new trainees himself, the log books are all behind, and the Fireball's been looking a bit peaky.
"Be pleased to help," he says.
The Romanian trainer, Sorin, has them running drills—half a dozen Snitches zipping around the pitch with the second, and third, and fourth string Seekers in hot pursuit while Charlie and Viktor race them for it. Looking at number three and four, Charlie realises just how good he was...is. Or how mediocre they are, not really sure. Either way, Bulgaria and all of her Wizarding population had better drink to Viktor Krum's good health.
Charlie's tailing number three. It's bloody cold and the air is stinging his eyes, making them water. Viktor's pushing number one to greater speeds and shouting that he must be willing to sacrifice his body, must be willing to fall or crash and never, never take his eye off the Snitch. Charlie leans down on his broom and he's shoulder to shoulder with number three. The bloke looks over his shoulder and it costs him his slim lead. Charlie never looks back, always willing to fall if it means the win—that's what had always made the difference. The delicate Snitch flutters in his hand.
Sorin shakes his head in disgust and mutters that if Weasley would consider it, he'd make a couple of replacements on the team. Charlie's body is humming with adrenalin as he hands Sorin the Snitch. Merlin, but he misses it sometimes.
"I’ll arrange for tea and maybe something stronger to take off the chill," says Charlie, nodding at Sorin. "Ten minutes."
"I'm not finished with them," he says, gesturing to the others, who are standing looking red-faced and irritated on the sodden pitch.
"I'll keep it warm for you," Charlie chuckles. He smiles sympathetically at the pathetic group. His trainees probably look the same way at him behind his back.
*
The fire in the dining hall is already dancing merrily, banishing the winter chill. Pots of tea and cakes and a fragrant cauldron of mulled wine are spread on the sideboard. Viktor is sitting at the table, still in his cloak, drinking deeply from a large goblet. He turns to the creak of Charlie closing the door. He looks Charlie over, shuttered eyes and nervous fingers combing through his hair. He faces the fireplace, raising the goblet again to his lips.
"You look like a man trying to work up his nerve," Charlie says. He moves to stand behind Viktor and reaches over his shoulder to pull the goblet of wine from his hand.
Viktor jerks his head around as if he's only just realised that Charlie is in the room. Charlie lifts the goblet to his lips and drains it.
"I have my nerve," Viktor says. He stands and Charlie doesn't step back to give him room.
He is taller than Charlie realised and Charlie likes the feeling of having to tilt his head and stretch up to press his lips to Viktor's. He likes the way Viktor's lanky body curls around his and the sound of Viktor's moans as he runs his broad hands over that body. He wraps his arms around Viktor and Apparates them to his bed before Viktor has a chance to catch his breath and change his mind.
It has been a very long time since Charlie showed a man the pleasure of being slowly and thoroughly taken by another man for the first time, and he's never had a man so experienced in other ways, yet so new to this. The combination is breathtaking and Charlie lies on the bed, panting and dizzy while Viktor lies next to him, eyes closed and trembling.
Charlie takes to making dinner in his cottage at least one of the nights that the team is staying. Usually, Viktor joins him.
Sometimes Viktor shows up without the rest of his team when there's no session scheduled at the training centre. Charlie doesn't ask. He sees no need to question. He never knows when Viktor will arrive, but he's not going anywhere. He doesn't complain when more and more often his nights are filled with the sharp pleasure of Viktor exploring Charlie's body, and rediscovering his own. They wake in the morning, have quiet conversations over toast, and pretend it is nothing more than a shag.
The late afternoon is clear and crisp, the crunch of three-day-old snow giving way to boots with each step they take. Small houses with thatched roofs release curls of smoke against the pale blue sky. There was a rumour that Cook planned her special cabbage rolls for the evening meal. Charlie has heard that they are excellent, but the smell of the simmering cabbage lingers in the air for days after she makes them and clings to Charlie’s hair and skin, and as many years as he's been here, he's never tried them.
The village pub serves a fantastic stew with dark brown bread on the side—hearty enough to see him through the coming night, and a much preferable smell. They share their meal in a silence that has become comfortable over the months, punctuated by talk about the team and the dragons.
By the time they leave the pub, the crescent moon is rising over the rooftops and a dozen stars are shining in the indigo sky. Their shoulders bump as they walk through the quiet streets. Viktor looks at him and smiles, a small, private smile full of anticipation. Then he frowns and says something Charlie doesn't understand, but can only be an expletive.
"Look at that," he says, and Charlie turns. On the ancient stone wall that lines the village high street is a version of the Dark Mark, two snakes instead of one.
"It can't have been a year," Charlie says. His stomach turns at the sight of the skull and snakes crudely scratched into the wall. "Stupid little wankers have no clue what they're playing at."
They walk the rest of the way back to Charlie's house with enough distance between them that their shoulders don't bump and their fingers don't brush, and Charlie would have to turn his head to see the smile that he is sure is no longer there.
He doesn't know how long they have this time, or when Viktor will be back, and if there is one thing he learned during the last war, it is that forgoing pleasure when you find it does nothing to advance your cause. He takes Viktor's hand and leads him to the bed, undressing him slowly and kissing each new patch of skin as it is revealed.
"You lost your brother," Viktor says, his tongue laving a path from Charlie's collar bone to his jaw.
"We all lost a lot," says Charlie. He runs his hands up Viktor's thighs. "We would have lost more if no one had been willing to fight."
"My wife's twin sister was killed, murdered when she wouldn't teach the hatred to school children," Viktor says, and ice runs in Charlie's veins. "It can't happen again."
He stills, his lips on Viktor's stomach, and feels Viktor freeze beneath him.
"I didn't—" Viktor begins.
"You didn't say anything that isn't true," Charlie says. He moves up the bed and flops back on his pillow.
"It was not the time," Viktor says. "I am sorry."
But Charlie can't help but wonder if it is the time, if Viktor is reminding them both of what exactly this is. He closes his eyes and his joints suddenly ache with the cold. He feels the bed dip as Viktor shifts and moves. He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't particularly want to watch Viktor leave.
"I am sorry," Viktor whispers and Charlie feels his warm breath, and then a kiss, on his thigh. He opens his eyes and watches as Viktor slides his hot, wet mouth over his cock, gripping his hips with hard fingers, as if he is afraid that Charlie is going to get up and leave him here alone.
By the time Viktor settles himself against Charlie's chest with a sigh and Charlie closes his eyes again, grey light is filtering through the flimsy curtains. The sun is barely making an effort to break through the low clouds. Charlie is exhausted and sore and sticky and he falls into a sated, dreamless sleep.
Charlie springs from his bed and is half-way across the room before he realises he's awake. His feet are so fucking cold on the bare floor that they hurt. He glances out the window and the position of the half-moon places it at about two in the morning. Whoever saw fit to wake him pounds again at the door and says his name, somewhere between a shout and a whisper.
"Viktor." Charlie steps aside and shivers as cold air and Viktor's heated gaze sweep over his naked torso.
"May I—" Viktor begins. Something open and broken in his eyes stills Charlie.
Charlie steps aside and beckons Viktor in. He pulls the heavy coat from Viktor's shoulders and pushes him toward the fire, conjuring two snifters and brandy and warming it near the flame.
"What's happened?" Charlie asks, his voice like he's talking to a trainee who's been burned for the first time.
"I don't know what to do."
"About what?" Charlie asks. And he knows what's coming and he braces himself for it—for the confession that he loves his wife, or he doesn't; for the revelation that this is what has always been missing, or that it was the biggest mistake of his life and he's realised he really is straight.
"I miss you when I am gone," Viktor says. "I never expected that."
As it turns out, I will be travelling to the New Year's Eve match in Prague on my own. This was unexpected and leaves an empty box seat and a vacant hotel booking. You have helped the team a great deal of late and you should attend the match. I have enclosed the address of the hotel. It is safe to Apparate into the lobby.
Best,
~V
*
The "hotel booking" is the other half of the gigantic bed in Viktor's room. The match is spectacular. Charlie's adrenalin rushes as if he were the one swooping about the pitch, his heart in his throat each time Viktor pulls into a daring dive. The Bulgarians edge out the Czechs when Viktor makes an unbelievable catch and the match is over well before midnight.
Charlie watches the team come together in one jubilant bunch and then dashes down the stands to meet Viktor. There is a moment when he thinks Viktor will pull him into his arms in front of everyone, and he stops it with a hearty clap on Viktor's shoulder and a shouted, "Well done. That was bloody brilliant. All of you."
The team surges into the hotel bar. Fans looking to increase their share of the thrill of the win hang on, buying drinks and throwing sloppy arms around any player they think may have looked their way.
Viktor weaves his way through the crowd. A tall dark-haired woman, stunning in a way that makes her look unreal, stops him with a hand on his shoulder. She leans and whispers in his ear, and Charlie feels his stomach twist at the smile that springs to Viktor's lips. He stands and watches as Viktor shakes his head and moves away, stopped next by a willowy young man with long blond hair.
When Viktor finally makes it to the table, two drinks in hand, Charlie runs his finger across the back of Viktor's hand. "Let's get out of here," Charlie says, loud enough to be heard over the din, but soft enough that it is only for Viktor's ears. "It's too fucking crowded."
"I agree," Viktor says. He leans to say the words into Charlie's ear, his hand heavy on Charlie's shoulder. "I want to kiss you at midnight, but without so much audience."
"Blimey. You're not being romantic are you?" Charlie asks. He chances a brush of his hand on Viktor's hip and grins when Viktor grabs his hand, stopping it on its journey to his arse.
"Not at all." Viktor says, squeezing Charlie's fingers so hard that one of his knuckles cracks.
"That's good to hear, because that would be a bit like the Chinese Fireball having a go at cuddling."
"Cuddling is not what I had in mind," Viktor says, smiling and gesturing across the room as if he's pointing out some long lost friend to Charlie.
"Right. Get out of here?"
Viktor nods and his hand goes to the small of Charlie's back. He leans to give his apologies to his closest teammate, and the way the man looks at him and then glances at Charlie says that he knows. And Charlie doesn't quite know what to do with that, so he ignores it in favour of anticipating an entire weekend in a luxury hotel with Viktor.
"You're really slumming it when you stay with us," Charlie says as they step into the room. It has ceilings high enough for two rooms and more floor space than Charlie's entire cottage. The sofa is covered in a rich fabric that shimmers in the light of the stained glass lamps. The bed is so high, mattress so thick, that the hotel provides a step stool.
"Not how I see it," says Viktor. He pushes Charlie against the door and kisses him, tang of sweat and alcohol, rush of victory and desire.
From the hotel lobby, voices are suddenly raised in salutations. Charlie pushes back, sliding his tongue past Viktor's lips and pulling him close enough to grind against him as the clock in the square strikes twelve.
*
"You don't have to again so soon." Viktor squirms as Charlie licks over his hip bone. "We have all the weekend," Viktor says, stretching out on top of the feather-light but unbelievably warm eider-down duvet. He is languid and boneless, all of the tension of the match and the high of the win vanished by Charlie's hands and lips and cock.
"I want to," Charlie says. Viktor's skin is salty and hot under his tongue. His mouth seeks the spots—behind the ear, the hollow between his collar bones—that make him shiver, while his fingers tease his slowly hardening cock. He can't stop touching.
"I'm not expected back until Monday," Viktor says, turning to face Charlie. He trails his hand from Charlie's shoulder, down his arm, and twines their fingers together.
It's code for 'the wife won't ask questions,' and Charlie feels for a second as if an alarm clock has gone off in the middle of a fabulous dream.
"Then let's not waste time." Charlie rolls them over until his is on top of Viktor, pressing him into the expensive, thick mattress.
*
They draw out the weekend to its absolute outer limit, chatting while they sip coffees on the settee, Viktor's legs still slung across Charlie's ten minutes before the hotel's check-out time.
It reminds Charlie of the one long family vacation he went on as a kid. He knew his parents had put a bit away each week for well over two years—ever since Ginny was out of nappies—to take the family to the seaside for a full week and Dad had surprised Mum by taking them to Ayr, where she had gone as a girl. That last Sunday they had sat on the beach, travelling rugs over their legs against the rapidly cooling air, as the sun sank into the sea. Fred and George had been building a sand castle nearly as big as the Burrow, Ron and Ginny were paddling and looking for crabs, and Bill and Percy were playing chess. Charlie was reading, sitting next to Mum and Dad. He remembers the way they looked at each other and when the sun finally disappeared over the horizon, Dad's sigh and Mum's whispered, "That's that then."
It was the first time Charlie had ever realised that, perhaps, their everyday lives were anything less than perfect.
Viktor hoists his legs off Charlie's and stands. Their bags are by the door and everything from the breakfast tray has been devoured.
"There's nothing for it, then, eh?" Charlie says, shrugging his rucksack onto his shoulder.
The weekend in Prague was a blur of sex and good food and, unaccountably, talking that seemed more intimate than any of the shagging they had done.
He hasn't heard a word from Viktor since. Until today.
It's not so much a word as an appearance. An appearance on his bloody doorstep—looking chilled and nervous, looking eager and sexy as hell—snow dusting his tall fur hat.
"We will be here for the coming week," Viktor says. He rolls up onto the balls of his feet and looks past Charlie into the main room of the small house.
The table is set for one, the wireless playing low, and a book Bill sent is propped against a flagon of mead. Viktor smiles as if this tells him all he needs to know. He turns his deep brown eyes on Charlie and Charlie has a completely foreign impulse to object. He shakes his head to rid himself of the image of him shouting that he is not just here for Viktor to fuck then leave, and slamming the door in Viktor's face.
He smiles back at Viktor, broad and friendly and says, "Just sitting down to tea. I've enough for two."
During the dead of winter, Charlie keeps a cauldron of soup simmering over his fire, full of all the vegetables he preserved during the summer and barley and whatever meat the village butcher has on sale. He ladles a hearty, steaming bowl for Viktor.
"Thank you," Viktor says, leaning forward so the curls of steam envelope his face. He pauses and a line appears between his brows. "Have you heard any more from the new generation Death Eaters? Any more graffiti or anything like that?"
"No," Charlie says, blowing on the scalding soup.
"There have been problems near me," Viktor says. His frown deepens and he puts down his spoon. "Harassing of Muggles. And mumblings in some places that there should be rules against, what do they say, mixed marriages."
Charlie swallows quickly. He seems to remember that Viktor's wife was Muggle-born. "Well, we're both pure-bloods, so no worries there."
"This is not for joking," he says. "People are frightened."
"Sorry," Charlie says, biting his tongue. He and Viktor don't talk about anything except Quidditch, sex, and occasionally dragons. Except during that weekend, and that is over. "I'm not really up for a serious discussion right now. Stay the night, and we can talk about it in the morning. I'll even write Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry and see if they've heard any of these rumblings. All right? I know it's not a joke."
"So I give you sex and in exchange you talk about Death Eaters?" Viktor asks, the smile creeping back onto his face. He shifts his chair closer to Charlie. "Isn't that blackmail?"
"And whatever gave you the idea that I was above blackmail?" Charlie drops his hand to Viktor's thigh and runs it up until he can grip his hip, pulling Viktor even closer. The heavy chair makes a scraping sound on the floor that almost drowns out Viktor's low chuckle.
*
Viktor pads back across the room from the loo. The sight of him, stark naked and relaxed, easing his way back into Charlie's bed, sends a rush of heat through his body and he curls his toes into the mattress.
Viktor's skin is cool now and Charlie smoothes his hands over his hips and thighs. He pulls Viktor back against him, back to chest, knee to knee. Charlie rolls his hips, gently pressing against Viktor's arse.
"I have to go," Viktor mumbles, and his muscles tense under Charlie's hands.
Charlie nuzzles his neck, kissing the soft spot beneath where his hair brushes his collar. "I thought you were staying the night?"
"I need to get back to the centre," Viktor says, rolling on to his back.
"You could stay the weekend," Charlie says softly. "It's not Prague, but we could have the weekend." He leans up on his elbow and looks down in time to see a look of sheer panic cross Viktor's long face.
"What are you trying to make this into?" Viktor snaps. He sits abruptly.
A tight fist clenches in Charlie's chest. "What's the matter with you?"
"I love my wife, Weasley," Viktor says, harsh as an insult. He has the look of an animal in a trap, eyes darting about the room.
"Go and get her to fuck you, then," Charlie shouts, and the fist squeezes painfully.
Charlie leaps to standing, fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs. Viktor's mouth opens and closes again, and they stare at each other, anger burning in Viktor's eyes and that traitorous hurt that Charlie thought he'd left behind for good years ago, stinging his throat.
"I was fine you know," Charlie blurts out, and he regrets the words the moment he hears them.
"I was fine," Viktor says, he teeth grinding together as he glares at Charlie.
"You've a fucking ridiculous way of showing it," Charlie said, balling his fists at his side. "Cock a little too good? Got you scared shitless. Fucking coward."
Viktor looks at Charlie as if he has hexed him from behind, or as if he wants to hex Charlie. He turns, flinging the door open and leaving it swinging, banging against the wall as he Disapparates.
Charlie spends the next day on the sofa. And the next. He's earned enough time off that no one questions him taking a bit to himself. He wonders how long he can sit here—certainly until the dining hall no longer rings with the raucous sounds of the Bulgarians from dinner to late in the evening.
"Weasley," Duncan calls through the window. "The Bulgarians are wanting a match and we're short a couple of players. Get your arse in your kit and come and play Seeker. I want to kick some arse."
Charlie rolls his eyes and heaves himself reluctantly off his comfortable chair. He doesn't particularly want to see Viktor right now, but moping has never suited him and he's crossed the line and taken up residence.
"They are professionals, you idiot," Charlie says. "I highly doubt theirs will be the arses kicked."
Duncan regards him with indignant horror. "What sort of an attitude is that? You could have played professional."
"I could have, but I'm not the only one on the side," Charlie mutters, pulling on his boots.
The training pitch is dark and cold, like everything else around here. They are, however, professionals, so two minutes after everyone is assembled, there are flood lights and, while it is still bloody freezing, the wind is blocked by a series of powerful charms.
Charlie rises into the air, his broom quivering beneath him, and his pulse races. There are still days he wonders if he made the right choice.
The Golden Snitch will stand out against the grey sky and snow-covered ground. He can hover and swoop and let the cold air rush past him and clear his head. The game is on and his side isn't doing too badly against the professionals. Dodging claws and teeth and jets of flame has its advantages when it comes to Quidditch.
Then he sees it. Halfway down the pitch, just behind one of the Bulgarian Beaters, a flash of gold. He leans down on his broom and he is off. The wind whistles in his ears and he can hear Viktor closing in. The Snitch darts left and Charlie turns on a knut, banking hard enough that he nearly slips from his broom. He reaches out one hand and is spun around by a harsh impact. He turns to see Viktor, adjusting to regain his balance and grimacing.
"Bastard," he spits out and turns to scan the pitch again.
The Bulgarians score three more times before he sees it. He takes off, circling this time, trying to throw Viktor off its trail while keeping his eye on it. He goes into a dive when the Snitch plummets to the ground and pain shoots through his arm as a Bludger connects with his elbow, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to make him pull out of the dive to catch his breath. He reaches out with his other hand and snatches the Bludger out of the air and lobs it back at Krum. Krum charges at it and kicks it back at Charlie, clipping the handle of his broom and Charlie is close enough to the ground that he manages to jump off before the broom goes into a tailspin.
"Oi, Krum," Duncan shouts. "You're not the bloody beater."
"That's enough. Showers!" bellows the Bulgarian Captain, and the team swoops to the ground, some casting irritated looks at Viktor.
"Been off his game past couple days," the actual Beater mutters as she trots to the showers.
Charlie leaps to his feet. Wet snow stings his face as he strides toward Viktor's retreating back. He grabs Viktor's shoulder, fingers digging into hard muscle, and spins him around.
"If you want a fight, I'll give you a fight," he growls, nose to nose with Viktor's enraged face. "And whatever the fuck is going on with you, it is not my fucking fault. Not my fault you want something other than your pretty wife."
"Yes," Viktor hisses, eyes blazing. "It is."
Charlie lifts his hand, and even he doesn't know if he intends to shove the bastard into the snow or pull him close and kiss him senseless. He never finds out.
Viktor grips his arm hard enough to bruise and Charlie feels the sickening pull of Apparition. They land with a thud in Charlie's kitchen. Charlie stumbles, disoriented from the lack of warning, and Viktor presses his advantage, pushing Charlie further off-balance. Charlie is not going down without him. He grabs the front of Viktor's cloak and they crash to the floor. Charlie's head slams into the floor and he is dizzy from the pain, and dizzier from the way Viktor's mouth presses against his.
"It is all your fault," Viktor groans, moving over Charlie and grinding their hips together.
"Damn you." Charlie's head throbs and his cock swells, and the ache in his chest subsides as he gathers all of his strength to show Viktor he is not just going to be pushed about. He shoves and writhes until he flips Viktor over, pressing him into the floor, kissing him as he stretches out over him.
Viktor shudders and opens his mouth and Charlie is certain he was about to say his name, the Ch-- cut short by a gasp. Charlie pulls back, disentangles their mouths so he can watch, so he can see this force of a man crumble, tremble to pieces, under no one's hands but his.
It has been three months, without a word or an owl, since Viktor wiped himself up off Charlie's kitchen floor and Disapparated.
"I must go home," he'd muttered, a challenge.
As if Charlie had tried to stop him.
"Come back to bed," Duncan calls, soft and seductive.
Charlie turns from the window, where he must have been standing, staring for several minutes now. He thinks he heard a noise, but no one is out there. Duncan's long, muscular body, toned with the work of the reserve, scattered with burns and tattoos, is stretched out over Charlie's bed. He is gorgeous and the glow of the recent orgasm stills lingers on his skin.
"It's your turn." Duncan smiles and leisurely strokes his cock.
Charlie slides into the bed behind him, pressing against his back and replacing Duncan's hand with his own on Duncan's half-hard cock. Duncan pushes his firm, lovely arse back against Charlie, eager and game. All the times they've done this, it has always been fun and friendly and hot as hell. It's not a regular thing, and only when neither is seeing someone else, but it is always good. Charlie moves, rubbing against Duncan, who is making delicious, encouraging sounds, and for all it's doing for Charlie, he may as well be kissing Aunt Muriel.
"What's with y-" Duncan grumbles over his shoulder at Charlie, stopping as the door flies open and they hear a swallowed fuck and the crack of Disapparition.
Charlie is at the door in a flash, looking into the darkness, although he knows he won't find anyone, and if he does, he shouldn't meet them half-naked. He takes a step back and his foot lands on a length of parchment that is lying on his doorstep.
Dear Viktor,
Always good to hear from you, but wish it was under more pleasant circumstances. We were alarmed to hear that you have seen an increase in Death Eater-like activity. Kingsley had a talk with your Minister and they agreed we should send a team to consult. Apparently, he didn't want just Aurors, but Dumbledore's people. I wondered if you had something to do with that. I'd love to see you, so I offered. He is still making the final arrangements, so I won't say who else will be there until I am sure.
We'll arrive in a fortnight next Tuesday.
Best,
Harry
"What is it?" Duncan asks, so close it makes Charlie jump. He has roused himself from the bed and dressed.
"Nothing," Charlie says, pushing down the thoughts about what Viktor has just seen. It is no concern of his. "Where you going?"
"Charlie," Duncan says. "We're friends and I think we should cut our losses before it gets odd. I've too many offers to waste an evening on someone who's thinking about someone else, no matter how brilliant a fuck they are." He leans and kisses Charlie on the cheek. "Whoever he is, I hope he knows what he's done."
*
The owl from Kingsley arrives the next morning. At the request of the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, he says, he is sending Harry, Hermione, Bill, and Fleur. They also want someone local and wonder if Charlie will go along, the letter says.
Charlie reads the second to last sentence of the letter three times. The Minister has pulled in Viktor Krum, among others in his inner circle. I remember that he was close to Karkaroff, but Harry says you and he are friends, so I trust he can be counted upon.
Harry can still cause a stir in an empty room. Charlie stands aside and watches his famous in-laws impress the Bulgarian Who's-Who. Sometimes, in a certain light, he can see them at thirteen.
Bill arrived early at Charlie's and has spent the past two days hovering and asking Charlie if he's all right. It's touching in a way that makes Charlie want to strangle him.
"Hiya," Bill says, sidling up to Charlie and looking very big-brotherly. He's holding two drinks that seem to be giving off tendrils of smoke. "You—"
"If you ask me if I'm all right, I'm going to thump you."
"—want a drink?"
"Sorry," Charlie says sheepishly, taking the drink from Bill's hand.
Across the room, Viktor breaks away from the Minister. He turns and glowers in Charlie's direction for a moment and then strides purposefully toward him. Charlie tightens his grip on his glass and searches for some terribly interesting topic of conversation to strike up with Bill.
"What are you doing here?" Viktor says through gritted teeth.
Charlie squares his shoulders and takes half a step toward Viktor. "I was asked here."
"You didn't tell me you were coming," Viktor says, and Charlie is nearly certain the tone changes form combative to distressed.
"I didn't come to see you, I came to help."
"You should be pleased," Viktor sneers, his lip curled in disdain. "Many men here you have never met before."
"You all right?" Bill asks, moving as if he is going to step between them.
"Bloody brilliant," says Charlie, his eyes fixed on Viktor. "Excuse us." He grabs Viktor by the elbow and steers him out of the meeting room and into the hallway. He is shocked that Viktor allows himself to be steered.
"And what of it?" He snaps the second they are out of earshot of everyone else. "I'm free to fuck whoever I want. I am not the one who's married."
"Is that who that was in your bed?" Viktor asks, his face flushing red. "Whoever you want?"
"Well bugger me," Charlie says slowly. "You're jealous."
"You're mad," Viktor says. His eyes are burning and his fingers twitch toward his wand, and all Charlie can think is how much he's missed him.
"Tell me you're not queer," Charlie says, moving so his chest presses against Viktor's arm. "Tell me you love your wife, because when I love someone I don't fuck around on them and lie about it."
"You fucked around on me." The words sound stilted in his heavy accent.
Charlie watches Harry stumble to the door of the room he and Charlie are sharing, and pull it open. "Hi, Viktor," he says, blinking owlishly without his glasses.
Charlie knows who it is before Harry speaks. He doesn't move from where he is reclining on the bed nearest the window. Harry steps to the side and Charlie can see Viktor, his gaze raking Charlie's bare chest and searching his face. Viktor's hands clench at his sides, and Charlie makes no move to ease his discomfort. Viktor takes a deep breath as if preparing for a speech and his chest heaves. Every muscle in Charlie's body tenses.
It's a physical pull, an ache, looking at him and knowing what it is like to be held against that chest, to have those arms about you, and yet to watch him stand a room and a world away.
Charlie still doesn't move. He stares, and Viktor stares, and Harry looks back and forth between them as if he is watching a Quaffle zip across a pitch.
"Right. Yeah. I'll make myself scarce," Harry says, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table and his cloak from the hook by the door and darting from the room.
Viktor pushes the door closed. Charlie's mouth goes dry and he forces his body to stay plastered to the bed.
"It was not my place—" Viktor begins, hovering near the door as if he is uncertain whether he's been invited in.
Charlie stands and Viktor closes his eyes. Charlie crosses the small room in two strides and when Viktor opens his eyes, he is within arm's reach.
"You're fucking right it's not," Charlie says. Viktor's lips are parted and Charlie suppresses the urge to trace them with his finger.
Viktor shifts from one foot to the other, fingers twisting in his robes, pressing them against his thigh. "I think about you, about being with you," Viktor says, training his eyes on Charlie's bare feet. "When I should not."
"I've done nothing but try not to think about you." Charlie hooks a finger under Viktor's chin and lifts, forcing him to look, forcing himself to risk seeing what is in Viktor's eyes. "So what's it going to be, Viktor?"
Viktor's hands fall to Charlie's waist. Charlie's every nerve ending tingles, standing so close again, and his muscles twitch with the memory of Viktor's hands and wicked tongue on his skin.
"I never knew that I wanted this, but I do, and I don't know what it can—"
Viktor speaks, his voice halting and uncertain, and his eyes dart from Charlie's eyes to his lips. Charlie doesn't want to hear that Viktor doesn't know what they can have, doesn't want promises of forever, or to hear that it is best to end it. He stops him, hand moving from his chin to curve around his neck and tangle in the hair at the nape. He thinks for a moment that Viktor is going to speak again, his brows creased in a frown, but his eyes gentle with tenderness.
Viktor's lips are warm and soft when Charlie presses his to them in a firm kiss. He pulls him forward, holding him close. Viktor melts into Charlie as he has since that first day, and Charlie draws Viktor's tongue into his mouth, stealing his words.
Charlie walks him backward to the bed. He pushes Viktor down, pins him, wrists pulled above his head in clenched hands. He fits against Charlie, stretched out under him, pressed into the mattress. Charlie knows Viktor can barely move, and he doesn't try. Charlie moves against him, rolling his hips and leaning to nip at his throat until they are both breathless.
Viktor murmurs his name and Charlie pulls back to look, waiting for what he might say. They stare at each other to the sounds of their ragged breathing, and no one whispers, "Stay."