RP Log: Edgar & Caradoc
Who: Edgar Bones and Caradoc Dearborn When: Spring 1959 Where: Hogwarts, in the Quidditch locker rooms What: Edgar and Caradoc share ~*a moment*~ that their wives will ride them for the rest of their lives. Rating: PG Status: Complete
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"To the victor..."
It was the first time since that expertly aimed Bludger had careened across the pitch to smash against the bridge of his nose that Edgar was able to communicate in anything other than thick grunts and incomprehensible, monosyllabic words. Though his own blood still coloured the blues of his Quidditch robes in a dull spatter of rust-red, a professor bedecked in similar hues had mended the shattered bones of his nose -- just enough so that he could breathe without the risk of inhaling a shard of bone; a trip to the infirmary was, however, imminent in his near future -- thus returning the power of intelligible speech to Edgar as he commiserated Ravenclaw's near-win with the rest of his (equally bloodied) teammates. The name, integrity, and skill of Gryffindor was questioned, spat upon, and slandered with the voracity only seven adrenalin-pumped, irate adolescents were capable of, Edgar's voice booming out the loudest before the promise of the feast awaiting the team back in their House's common room lured them back into the castle.
Edgar, however, had remained, peeling his gloves off as he listened for the fading thump of heavy footsteps, and, when they had dimmed away entirely, reaching into his locker to exchange those soiled mitts for a bottle of something more potent -- and satisfying -- than the losing team's grumbling.
"... the spoils!" was a shout directed across the partition which served to keep the two playing teams separate. He pushed open the door, spying the red and gold swathes of discarded team banners and uniforms, and lifted the prize bottle of Ogden's finest. The fiery liquid caught the light as he gave it a shake, then tossed it to the one other person there with the hard precision of a (maligned) chaser.
In direct opposition to Edgar Bones's past hour, Caradoc Dearborn had been nearly jubilant in the fullness of Gryffindor's victory (better served after, in the last quarter, as their star chaser had been taken out with the precision of his beater's bat), carousing his fellows and accepting a plethora of slaps on the back and promises of kegs of butter beer when the next Hogsmeade weekend wound about.
But as his friends began to fade away (their showered bodies and shining eyes much more fit for the celebration waiting in Gryffindor Tower), he heard the less thickened voice of his opponent and grinned as he slithered his sticky torso into a clean t-shirt.
"To the vanquished ...?" he countered, finally crossing the divide to catch the much treasured bottle of alcohol in one sure fist. A cocky, crooked grin lit upon his face as he took a few steps forward before taking a long pull off the bottle. His eyes narrowed -- "A more devil-may-care countenance."
"More devil-may..." A snort cut short his words, and it, in turn, was interrupted by a throb of pain that spread down the bridge of his nose. Edgar jabbed a finger in Caradoc's direction, but for all that the motion was accusing, his tone remained dryly good-natured. "-- you broke my nose, you old cock, and I lost our wager, which means I'm showing up empty handed for my evening with Evie tonight." That last was said with a significant note hanging behind the words, and his hand twisted so that his palm was now upwards. "Liquid courage is what I need."
Edgar got a snort for his troubles -- "It was a nose that begged to be broken. Anyway, it's better to show up empty handed with Evie to fill those hands with her -- uh -- magnificent breasts." A grin. "And liquid courage is what you shall get," he replied, putting on his best mock of Edgar's upper crust accent as he stepped forward with arm bent and heels clicked together. "Your courage, sir. Thusly bottled and ready for quick consumption."
"Much obliged, Red." Thusly bottled and ready for quick consumption, the bottle was reclaimed and drawn from with all the hasty greed of adolescence, a satisfied sigh accompanying a wide grin after he topped that first pull with a second, and then a third. And because Ogden's Finest was certainly a fine example of liquid fire, his voice emerged scratchier then before as he continued, "Though I'm not sure I'm ready to discuss her breasts with you yet." A splash of liquid hitting glass as he thrust the bottle back at Caradoc. "Drink."
In that, Caradoc was obedient and he took several greedy pulls from the bottle as well (not withstanding the moisture that tinted the corners of his eyes) before wiping the excess alcohol from his lips with the back of his hand. He laughed as he thrust the bottle back toward Edgar -- "You're not ready to be discussing her breasts because you haven't so much as seen the things. Have you."
There was a challenge in Caradoc's tone, one which Edgar wasn't entirely sure he liked, and for all that thinking about the girl in question's breasts was far from being unpleasant, there was some displeasure inherent in his swipe at the bottle. The pungent liquid was allowed to wash a sharp reply away from the tip of his tongue before he pulled himself over the partition and dropped down to sit on a bench bearing the debris of a Gryffindor victory. He took another long swallow, then wiped his lips on the blue fabric that gathered in a crease at the crook of his elbow.
But this was Caradoc, not some casual acquaintance of his, and the whisky was already doing wonderful things to his tongue and mind. "Oh, I've seen them. I don't only want to be doing any plain seeing them tonight, if you gather my meaning. Of course, after this, maybe I'll lay low tonight. No girl likes a loser."
" -- you're welcome," he responded, giving a nod of his head as he moved to stand in front of Edgar, fists resting firmly upon his hips. "If you don't take the fucking opportunity for fucking that I have handed you -- on a silver platter, no less -- I am going to be very put out. You're injured, Edgar. Play it up."
Which got a burst of laughter from him, followed by a shrewd look over the body of the bottle as Edgar once again raised it to his lips. "A pity fuck, courtesy of my best mate," he mused aloud as he passed it back to Caradoc. "I am insulted twice over."
"Take what you can get, Bones. That tight old upper-crust arse needs some loosening," he joked, leaning forward to slap Edgar on the shoulder. "Pussy is pussy. And a pity fuck can lead to many beautiful things ..."
And... there. A step too far, a word too crass taken in the context of a girl with rosy cheeks, a wide smile, and, as far as he was (currently) concerned, the most beautiful pair of breasts he'd ever seen. His hand dashed out to gather a rough fistful of Caradoc's t-shirt, a jerk with his arm meant to bring the other youth stumbling closer. "I know you speak from experience, but don't be a dog about her, Irish."
The jerk at his collar upset the precarious balance which was only saved by a hand on the wall by Edgar's temple. His face, milimetres away from the other boy's, was slack with shock (and a little bit of envy). For what had he ever had that rivalled everything that encompassed Edgar Bones's world? His eyes roamed the angular cheekbone, the golden flecks within the dark irises and the whispered word -- "Sorry," fanned across the bridge of his nose.
Edgar held him for one moment longer than necessary, making as close a study of Caradoc as he did of him. It wasn't purely anger that had roiled up in him and caused him to strike, but a great build up of frustration that had started in his chest and now sunk to his gut. Caradoc's easy manner, which was usually so refreshing after the stuffiness of a great many people in his life, was something he had never been able to emulate without coming across as a complete fool; and now, with his great plans of victory laid to waste, that charming bastard air of his had brought him to a rapid bristle.
He set the bottle down beside him before bringing his hand to Caradoc's face, palm delivering a firm, hard pat across his cheek before settling to grip his jaw. "Don't forget."
Gaze lowered to the thin swell in Edgar's lips as he spoke, Caradoc's eyes closed briefly as the palm slid from the wall to grip his best friend's shoulder. "Right -- " he breathed, unaware of the trajectory of his hand around the corded muscle tying the column of his neck to his shoulder. "Don't forget. I won't."
A rumbling laugh had half risen in his throat as a sort of reassurance that he wasn't being all serious, but it remained caught behind an abrupt tension when the weight of Caradoc's hand was accompanied by the warmth triggered by alcohol-flushed skin. Suddenly, without his having realized it, he was being kept in place with as firm a grip with which he held Caradoc to a standstill. From this enforced viewpoint, Edgar found that he could follow the trail of freckles that mantled the pale slopes of his cheeks.
A blink, and then he made an attempt to rise, the surge of lightheadedness instantly telling him that it would be better to remain seated. And so he tightened his grip on Caradoc's shirt, closed his eyes before, with a shake of his head, glanced back up at him. "Say it, then," he said, and now the syllables of his words were clearly smearing together. "You won't talk about Evie, Evie's breasts, and what I'm supposed to do with Evie's pussy."
"Only -- " he began, the tips of his fingers digging into Edgar's shoulder as he fought to maintain his balance (one knee falling against the edge of the bench). He grinned, tilting his chin to bring his lips within a hair's breadth of Edgar's. The scent of sweat, soap and the clean thrill of the air stll hung around Edgar like a veil. "Only everything that I would do."
The alcohol was sharp in the hot breath that fanned across his mouth as Caradoc spoke. "I told you," he began, his hand growing heavy for all that it remained firmly fisted around the fabric of the other boy's collar. "I don't-- stop talking about--" His brows snapped together as he jerked himself closer, aiming for an imposing loom that would get Caradoc to shut that mouth of his, and getting a crush of his lips against his instead, a deep press of air sliding from between his teeth as he failed to suppress the sound of surprise that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
The surprise that roiled through Caradoc's body made itself manifest in the the hard grip on his shoulder and the open mouth that received Edgar's lips. Not being a creature of marvelous scruples, however, the softness of his friend's lips -- when juxtaposed with their hard masculinity -- gave him leave to fall into a deeper kiss, teasing with a few bites only assauged by the softness of his own lips.
What was most discomfiting about this was not his own confusion -- that Caradoc was returning what had been, really, a clumsy misstep manifesting as a clumsier kiss with an insistence that was intentional -- but his own physical response to this. Nerves already made sensitive from on-pitch injuries and the repeated, graphic mention of Evie now flared with what he would later shrug off as dumb, drunken, misplaced desire; but here, now, Edgar could only grip the hard line of Caradoc's jaw as he pushed back against him.
Arm slung around Edgar's neck, he lowered himself onto the boy's lap and let the kiss ease out in a grin pressed to the eyes, the bridge of his nose, the prominence of the cheekbones -- "This is what you do to Evie," he finally said, his tone a gravelly whisper in the recesses of Edgar's ear. "Make her yours."
"-- get off." It was a sudden and rough grunt, two syllables that Edgar bit out as something clicked in his mind. This was Caradoc, his best mate. Not some girl -- not the girl -- that he wanted on his lap, pushed against him just right as he did exactly what Caradoc was whispering to him now.
An abrupt shove freed him of him, and Edgar found himself swaying to his feet, his hand closing around the neck of the bottle as he took a staggered step away from him. "Enough."
Tumbling back, catching himself with a well played hand against the locker, Caradoc had enough swagger in him to still appear unaffected and cavalier. He nodded -- eyebrow arched, wondering if the blood he felt blossoming in his cheeks would echo as naivete in Evie's porcelain face. She was too doll-like for him, anyway. Too much sweetness -- too much perfection -- better for someone like Edgar. Someone with the airs that girl needed except for these moments, when he was brought down into the grime of humanity.
"You're welcome."
"I'm not thanking you for anything." That step he'd taken to put some distance between them was now relegated to a shuffle along the bench, upon which he sank back down. The fingers of his free hand were brought up to rake sweat-soaked locks of hair back from his forehead, and then the fabric of his sleeve was smeared across his mouth. Evie... the thought of her withered into nothing as he, for a long beat of silence, sat hunkered down and staring at the floor -- and then, after raising the bottle up for a shaky pull, he thrust his arm to the side, offering it to Caradoc.
"Just... be quiet. Drink. Just drink."
But Caradoc wasn't particularly good at doing what he was told -- he chuckled, deep in his throat -- and took the bottle, having a sip before he sat it back between them. "If you start acting weird, I'll just beat you until you're normal again."
Edgar snorted, and if there was any pain to it anymore, the alcohol blunted it to a comfortable numbness. His spine hit the wall as he leaned back, fingers curling over the edge of the bench in order to stabilize himself against the dangers of gravity. "You beating me probably made me un-normal in the first place."
"Probably," he agreed, letting his leg curl between them on the bench as he turned to face Edgar, his brow arched. "But you still have the facade of normalcy. You'll still -- for all my best efforts -- going to end up fabulously normal, with some normal girl like Evie, having a passel of normal brats. I'll be crazy Uncle Caradoc. They'll lose their first teeth with me, come to me when they want to know about sex and alcohol." A sly grin. "But I promise I won't teach them anything I didn't first teach you."
"I swear to Merlin, crazy Uncle Caradoc..." Finally lifting his gaze, he let it slide around to meet Caradoc's distinctly more devious gaze. A brow arched. "If you bounce my passel of normal daughters on your lap when they want to know about sex..." The threat, whatever it was, went unspoken. "Anyway, I don't want normal. Don't want your levels of insanity either, but bugger normal."
"Yeah, uh -- daughters. Will be left to your hands. And the toys I'll buy them!" That was his promise, one hand thrown between them as if to prove his very innocence before he winked and let his shoulder rest against the locker. His voice, when finally he spoke, was softer. " -- you're a good one, Bonesy. You know I'm just having my fun. You're my best mate."
"Right." And finally, a grin flashed, wide and white, across his expression. Bending at the waist, he leaned forward and draped a heavy arm across Caradoc's shoulders, other hand reaching blindly for the almost depleted bottle so that he could present it to him, dangling between two fingers. "And you're mine. Now you're still too, too sober for my liking, and this is yours, so. Victor. Spoils. Finish."