Brian Finkley (thefink) wrote in caged, @ 2013-09-08 19:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 97-09, [ log ], brian finkley, ursula flint |
WHO: Brian Finkley and Ursula Flint
WHEN: September 8th.
WHERE: Hallways
SUMMARY: Brian apologizes without actually apologizing.
RATING: PG-13 for mild language.
STATUS: Complete
Brian could be rather thick, but he liked to think it was usually by choice. He had upset Ursula in the journals, there was no denying that. He was rather irritated by it all. If she didn’t want his opinion then she knew he wasn’t the person to talk to. He didn’t believe in coddling, especially with people he respected. Lying to them wasn’t doing them any favors. If she wanted to be overly emotional about it then that was her prerogative. Except that it had been a couple of days and she was still cross with him. He wasn’t going to apologize when he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he was tired of letting the situation stew. He wanted his friend back. She was one of the few people in the entire school he could be bothered to talk to. It was easier to make amends with her than pretend to tolerate someone new. He nicked a few biscuits at lunch, wrapping them in a napkin as he went to chase her down. “Oi, Flint,” he called, knowing it wouldn’t take much to chase her down but refusing to give her the satisfaction of the effort. “A peace offering. You’re not nearly as cute when you’re being sour with me,” he teased, offering his best apologetic smile. It had been more of an effort than she’d expected, pretending to forget the blond lout who shared a common room and her usual haunts; there’d been a spot open next to him at breakfast just a few hours before and though probably deliberately left for her, Ursula had slid down to the end of the table instead, cramming in next to June and spending the morning meal talking about books and bears. Now, though, she couldn’t ignore him. She’d known what he was about the second she heard him call her name - wasn’t sorry, just tired of not talking to her. Without stopping to think, she breathed a heavy sigh, stopping flat out in the middle of the hallway; just as he knew that making him chase her down would give her great amusement, she knew that he wouldn’t do it for exactly that reason. Her options were to stop or to resign herself to another few days of silence between the two of them, after which she would be the one to give in. When he did catch up to her, all ten and a half feet of him, and offer the napkin full of some sweet or another, she raised her eyebrows, letting the tense moment sit just long enough that he might start to doubt whether she’d give in - then, with a scowl and an air of announcing something, “I resent that remark.” A mocking tone had crept into her voice by the next sentence, smile lines creasing at her eyes even as she maintained the scowl. “I’m cute all the time.” “Pretty cute,” he agreed, never afraid to put on the charm, especially if the recipient was mad at him. “Cuter when you smile.” Brian took this as a very good sign. If she was extremely cross with him she would have pretended not to hear him. One of the good things about being friends with someone for so long is that you can usually tell their moods. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself. I have been wasting away without your plate to steal from. I bet you can feel ribs,” he said seriously, his smirk betraying him. “We really can’t afford to waste this precious time together. Soon you’ll be off doing whatever quidditch things you’re going to be doing and I’ll never see you.” It wasn’t an apology, but maybe talking up her quidditch potential would earn him a few points. Likelihood was that it would be true, but he’d rather not think on that at the moment. Why she liked that sport was beyond him. He would bet her broom was taller than she was. “So stop avoiding me, yeah?” She stood, hopelessly short and hopelessly amused at his attempts to smooth things over: he knew her well, better, she admitted to herself, than she expected or recalled. Better than she liked, truthfully. Flatter her, call her cute, insist she’d be on the team. Though she recognized what he was employing, saw the manipulation for what it was, a warm blush suffused her from head to toes at the attention, the flattery, but mostly at the hint that it might not all be just to get back into her good graces. That was the part she couldn’t stand - the part that could have been either. “You’re such a prat,” was her only response, shoving at his side as ineffectually as a slight sixteen year old girl trying to bully her oversized mate could possibly be. Then as if a barrier had been lifted by her acknowledgement, she snatched the napkin out of his hands, reaching into its depths and darkly mumbling, “Bloody well do this just so I’ll get furious, don’t you?” Her hand came out with a biscuit and she bit a piece off as she started walking again - only the fact that she offered him the other half, via lifting it as high as she could reach toward his mouth, indicated her forgiveness. “I know,” he grinned, barely moving from her shove. He kept from laughing which he felt was an accomplishment. Not only was he tall, but he was fairly solid. She also didn’t seem to be trying too hard. “It’s all part of my diabolical plot. I love it when you get angry, it does things to me,” he teased, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It was a slightly awkward angle, but far from uncomfortable. “I thought for sure I had you fooled. I’ll just have to try harder in the future.” He followed her as she walked, arm still slung lazily over her. When she reached up with the biscuit he bent down to take a bite, even though he wasn’t actually interested. He had made her peace offering and now she had accepted. He felt better about it already. “Maybe this is my way of inspiring you to quidditch greatness. The angrier you are the better you’ll be. Really, you should be thanking me.” Her cheeks heating up again, her voice was equally hot and indignant when she retorted with a very original, “Shut up, Brian. Merlin.” Lifting one hand, she pressed the back of it to her face as if to stave off the embarrassment even as she struggled for her composure. Tartly came her answer, heavily sarcastic and delayed by more than a few moments, “I can’t help it that you’ve been attracted to me since second year. How do you control yourself?” In the same spirit her half-hearted shove had been in, she pushed her shoulder against him even as he pulled her in with an arm about her shoulders. “I think if anger was the element that made for good playing,” she noted dryly, “the Falcons would be ranked higher by this point.” Then, as if she knew he had no idea and couldn’t care less what place the Falcons were in, she went on abruptly, straining her eyes up to meet his and trying in vain to hide the hopefulness in her voice, “Are you coming to watch me try out?” Brian did laugh now, watching as the blush spread across her face. “Hey, there was a reason I allowed you to be my first kiss,” he pointed out with a wink, enjoying the chance to tease her. “How do I control myself? Primarily moping, the occasional pining, a few other things I would describe to you if not for fear that your head would actually explode.” He was teasing, but she didn’t need to know that. Sure, he was a teenage boy and he had noticed that one of his best friends was hot, but he also respected her enough not to completely objectify her. Not intentionally anyways. The push with her shoulder earned her a pinch to the side, not hard enough to actually hurt. “I know you want me, but not to throw yourself at me. It’s getting embarrassing.” He almost replied with an abrupt no, but she looked so damn hopeful. It was entirely unfair. “I’ll see what I can do. ” Then, remembering that he was trying to not-apologize, he conceded. “Yes, I’m going to watch. Don’t suck.” “You do not,” came the immediate exclamation, looking at him aghast at the implication that Brian Finkley, blond giant that he was, was spending his evenings behind his curtains wanking to thoughts of her. With cheeks so bright red she thought very well that she may actually be in danger of overheating, she ducked her head against his side so that she didn’t have to look at him, determined not to react any further lest he make any other confessions, deliberately taking a huge bite of the second biscuit so as to have an excuse for her silence. When she did finally answer, it was with a quiet, grateful little, “Thank you.” Despite how regularly surprised she was by how well he knew her, she knew as well that his automatic answer was of course he wasn’t going to spend his afternoon watching all the fools from his House fly about on brooms and try to hit balls or catch balls or throw balls. It was a testament to him, she thought, that he didn’t even protest. Maybe a testament to their friendship. “You’re right, I don’t. Or do I? Don’t worry, your virtue and innocence are safe from me. I promise.” Her blush grew and he smiled despite himself. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it. He tightened his hold around her, ruffling her hair with his free hand so that she knew he was only messing with her. As hot as she was, and he could recognize how attractive she was, he was far more interested in her friendship. It suited them. Besides, he would be a terrible boyfriend. “Don’t mention it. To anyone. I wouldn’t want people to think I’ve finally started to like the bloody sport. Merlin, once you’re on the team I’ll have to go to games. I hope you realize how much you owe me, because I assure you I will be keeping track.” There were few enough people who could even get close enough to her for the opportunity to make her blush - Ursula Flint, opportunistic and deliberately distant, was capable of shrugging anything off in the right circumstances. Brian made a game of seeing how far that went, a mixture of previously involved and currently indifferent that kept her on her toes, such that assertions like those he’d made in the last few minutes left her feeling unsteady. Yelping when he ruffled her hair with a giant hand, she ducked underneath his ministrations, then indignantly reached up to run her hands over it, quipping, “I swear, you are the worst mate.” True to her nature, Ursula hadn’t considered anything past that with Brian Finkley since they were ickle second years, still fascinated by handholding; though his teasing made her suspect, to some idle degree, that there was something untapped, she took it all in stride, not one to question a good thing. “Tell you what,” she said sarcastically. “You make a tallymark of every game and practice you attend as moral support, and I’ll make a tallymark of every comment you make that I’d normally get ticked about and instead let pass me by, and we’ll see who wins by the end of the year.” “Probably, but I’m nicer to you than anyone else. That should count for something.” Maybe he wasn’t nicer to her, but he was far more considerate. The sad truth was he liked more people than they let on, but they all had their moments of complete idiocy and for that he resented them a fair bit. Ursula was one of the few people he thought charming despite their annoying traits. At times she was like another sister, at times he checked her out and remembered she was definitely not a sister. Mostly she was someone who got his quirks, and for that he was grateful. Not that he’d ever admit it. “Practice? Bloody hell, you want me at practices? The only thing worse than watching the sport is watching it broken down. You ask too much of me.” Maybe he could get some homework done. People were less likely to bother him in the stands. Then again, he’d have to contend with the wind. “However, your deal seems fair. I still think you’re getting the better end of things, but I’ll be sure to save my points for a rather spectacular fuck up.” “Oh,” she said, already mocking, “I threw the rest of these people off a bridge, Ursula, but I only cut off your arm, that should count for something.” Shoving her less than hefty weight at him again, she followed up with wrapping her arm around the small of his back (the only part of him she could reach - shoulders were far out of the question) to show that she didn’t particularly mind; at least most of the time. She too had a grateful element to their relationship: always with the need to be liked, always with the need to be wanted. There was never any fear with him, anymore. It was comfortable, knowing that. Objectively, she retorted, “Tryouts are a practice, prat. And I thought you’d be grateful for the opportunity to watch my glorious capabilities.” Then, as an afterthought, with a hint of humility, “Should I actually make the team, that is.” Raising her eyes to his - and having to tilt her head back to do it, bloody hell - she said mildly, “I expect it to be a fuck up of epic proportions. Bloodshed, lives ruined, babies crying.” “Exactly. I’m glad you understand.” Brian pretended to be moved by her shove, if only to appease her. He rolled his eyes as she talked about tryouts, but the gesture was without any malice. “Tryouts are a bit more complicated than that. Why can’t I watch your glorious capabilities on the ground? They’re just as thrilling. You know, if I were a smarter man I’d be sabotaging you. If you get on the team now you’ll end up going pro and I’ll have to endure years of this.” He paused for a moment, making a low humming sound as if to indicate he was thinking. “Or maybe I’m already sabotaging you. Fattening you up with biscuits. Granted, that’s a fairly poor plan. It would take you ages to fatten up.” “You’ll make the team,” he added, no sense of doubt in his voice. “If not, maybe I can trip a few people down the stairs to open up a spot. For the right price.” He was mostly joking. There were plenty of people he would push down the stairs for free. “My glorious capabilities on the ground, otherwise known as Midget Ravenclaws Reads for Free,” came the heavily sarcastic voice, not at all fooled nor appeased by his apparent faltered step after she shoved at him; it was more for reactionary purposes than for her own ego. She was well aware she weighed only maybe half of what the taller Ravenclaw did; she ignored the comment about how she might go pro despite the fact that he mentioned it without prompting sending nervous (and grateful) butterflies dancing in her middle. “I’ve got a pudge,” she added, emphatically sticking out the small and decidedly not pudgy swell of her belly as she did so to exaggerate it. “You’re well on your way to keeping me off sports forever,” she said, looking up at him with eyes bright and teasing. “Gosh, you’d do that for me?” Her tone said she was mockingly flattered, but despite her sarcasm, there was something in the confidence with which he said the words that did, actually, make her miss a step. Wishing she had the same assurance, probably. “Yes, you’re a real lardass,” he said dryly, rolling his eyes. “You know I don’t play those games. No one likes a girl desperate for reassurance. I thought all you quidditch birds were supposed to be cocky as sin.” She wasn’t fat and she knew it. “Am I? By Merlin, you actually listen to me? I need to mark this day on a calendar. Years from now I will mark this date as the moment I began conquering the world. Or at the very least the day I got myself out of attending any major sporting events.” “You’re supposed to trip others, not yourself,” he pointed out, smirking at her misstep. “Although O for effort. I’m sure you could knock down a small child with that move.” Rolling her eyes, she replied tartly, “There’s just no pleasing you, is there? I say I’m lean and fit and going to make the team and you complain that you’ll have to attend my games: I say I’m pudgy and I’m playing games. Which is it you want,” she challenged, “cocky or in need of reassurance?” She dug her fingernails into his arm as she clutched at it, said earnestly in response to his comment about attending major sporting events, “I’m still shocked I have the power to make you do anything. I thought you were untamable, Finkley.” “I don’t think it has anything to do with being tamed, Flint. It’s more a matter of being immovable. I believe some people call it conviction. I hear it’s a good thing.” He swung his arm a bit, trying to dislodge her claws from his arm, not that she was actually hurting him. “I don’t like either of those choices, by the way. Be self-confident. Cocky people are making up for something and no one likes a bloated peacock. No one likes having to reassure someone all the time either, especially when they’re only doing it so someone will tell them how wonderful they are. Or you can rest easy in the fact that I’ve liked you well enough up to this point, so minus a drastic change from you we should be fine.” “So what you’re saying is I subvert your conviction,” she teased, finally removing her nails from his arm in favor of holding his hand loosely in her own, in a way that wasn’t intimate but friendly, still walking side by side. “If the immovable object that is Brian Finkley moves for me, I must be doing something right,” came the musing sentence, as if she were truly considering whether or not to make some drastic change. “Although I half think it’s nostalgia - you just like having someone nearby who hasn’t changed at all since second year.” Here she wrinkled her nose. “At least in terms of height.” “Is it that I’m moving or I’m secretly lowering your expectations? We may never know.” He didn’t bat an eye when she grabbed his hand. They had been doing it since they were kids and there was no hidden meaning behind it. “In terms of height. Maturity. Fashion sense. Although to be fair the knees socks weren’t your idea.” They were back to their usual teasing and it was a relief to know that this fight at least was over. He was sure it would only be a matter of days before he pissed her off again, but he could deal with that later. “Probably some of both,” came her quip, not lacking in warmth but decidedly prickly nonetheless. It was their typical state: him deliberately driving up her hackles, and her deliberately sniping at him. For them it felt comfortable. Normal. As much part of their dynamic as their joined hands, regardless of the fact that both of them earned the pair questioning glances that they shrugged off. “I’m thinking of going all nostalgic on you again,” she added, scrunching her face up at him. “Pigtails and knee socks and pretending to get lost on my way to the Great Hall.” “Right, if you’re getting sentimental on me that’s my cue to leave you. I need to do some actual studying at some point today.” He squeezed her hand once, removing his hand from her grasp to ruffle her hair one last time. “Try not to cry in your pillow remember the old days when I was your height. They’re gone and they’re never coming back. Talk to you later, Flint.” With a wave and a smirk he began walking away, accepting that he had gone completely out of his way in order to talk to her. No matter, the library wasn’t too far away. |