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FIC: Five Things That Roger Davies Never Did (Roger/Blaise, PG)
Title: Five Things That Roger Davies Never Did
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Blaise
Rating: PG
Word Count: 525
Summary: See title. :|
Additional Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ccharlotte, and written also for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fanfic100, under the prompt If.
If he’d asked.
The quiet boy with the carefully combed hair and black-rimmed glasses frowns, cocks his head to the side, but Roger refuses to explain the reasons behind his question, and Terry Boot shrugs his answer, going back to his History of Magic reading when the older boy leaves, only vaguely curious.
Roger rolls the name on his tongue, contemplating it during practice, in class, as he catches glimpses of avoidant olive-green eyes across the Great Hall, along dungeon corridors and Hogsmeade weekends.
One day he walks by, brooding best friend in tow, and he doesn’t hesitate.
“Morning, Blaise.”
*
If he’d wooed.
There’s a serving of lime sherbet that appears on Blaise’s table for lunch one day, when desserts for everyone else had only been pudding, and Pansy tries to grab a spoonful but he moves it away greedily.
“You’re meant to share,” she pouts, sulking prettily.
“You’re only jealous because the elves don’t like you,” he replies cheerfully, giving her some lime sherbet while discreetly, he slips the note that comes with the bowl, catching Roger’s eye from across the Hall.
The quiet boy with the carefully combed hair and black-rimmed glasses has been very helpful, Roger decides.
*
If he’d tried.
Tracey Davis eyes him with interest before she remembers to eye him with suspicion, eyebrow raised in appreciation (appraisal, she means) as she looks him over. “Did you need anything?” she asks, intending for her voice to be cold though it hitches and comes out in a throaty murmur.
Pansy Parkinson shoots her a glare, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. “We’re a bit busy,” she says curtly.
Theodore Nott, tall and imposing and quiet, glares possessively.
Blaise Zabini is a difficult boy to know.
“Wanted to speak with him,” Roger announces. It’s not a request.
*
If he’d said.
The echoes of club music buzz in their ears, tequila and vodka and double their doses still intoxicating the senses, with the crisp air of autumn dying to winter hanging over them.
Blaise leans against a lamppost, hands deep in his pockets to keep them warm, stopping for a minute to catch his breath, regain the balance in his steps. He looks too tired, too old for twenty-four.
“Fag?”
He shakes his head. “I just want to go home.”
“To what?”
Blaise looks stricken, eyes pleading for Roger to be kind.
“Come home to mine,” Roger whispers.
*
If he’d stayed.
Mickey Harrison guzzles down his beer like water and calls him mate with heavily accented English, eyes huge and face wider than it is long.
“There’s no offer like that anywhere else, mate,” he says, watching Roger read the contract.
He’s right, but Mickey Harrison looks like a koala, and Roger reconsiders the appeal of hanging around koalas and kangaroos in the dessert.
“I’m not going to Australia,” he says when Blaise opens the door.
“Didn’t know you were going.”
“That’s because I’m not,” he replies, grinning when he pushes Blaise against the wall and kisses him.
*
For all that he refuses to apologise, to look back and wonder what could have been, Blaise Zabini remains to be Roger Davies’ only regret.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Blaise
Rating: PG
Word Count: 525
Summary: See title. :|
Additional Notes: Written for
ccharlotte, and written also for fanfic100, under the prompt If.If he’d asked.
The quiet boy with the carefully combed hair and black-rimmed glasses frowns, cocks his head to the side, but Roger refuses to explain the reasons behind his question, and Terry Boot shrugs his answer, going back to his History of Magic reading when the older boy leaves, only vaguely curious.
Roger rolls the name on his tongue, contemplating it during practice, in class, as he catches glimpses of avoidant olive-green eyes across the Great Hall, along dungeon corridors and Hogsmeade weekends.
One day he walks by, brooding best friend in tow, and he doesn’t hesitate.
“Morning, Blaise.”
If he’d wooed.
There’s a serving of lime sherbet that appears on Blaise’s table for lunch one day, when desserts for everyone else had only been pudding, and Pansy tries to grab a spoonful but he moves it away greedily.
“You’re meant to share,” she pouts, sulking prettily.
“You’re only jealous because the elves don’t like you,” he replies cheerfully, giving her some lime sherbet while discreetly, he slips the note that comes with the bowl, catching Roger’s eye from across the Hall.
The quiet boy with the carefully combed hair and black-rimmed glasses has been very helpful, Roger decides.
If he’d tried.
Tracey Davis eyes him with interest before she remembers to eye him with suspicion, eyebrow raised in appreciation (appraisal, she means) as she looks him over. “Did you need anything?” she asks, intending for her voice to be cold though it hitches and comes out in a throaty murmur.
Pansy Parkinson shoots her a glare, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. “We’re a bit busy,” she says curtly.
Theodore Nott, tall and imposing and quiet, glares possessively.
Blaise Zabini is a difficult boy to know.
“Wanted to speak with him,” Roger announces. It’s not a request.
If he’d said.
The echoes of club music buzz in their ears, tequila and vodka and double their doses still intoxicating the senses, with the crisp air of autumn dying to winter hanging over them.
Blaise leans against a lamppost, hands deep in his pockets to keep them warm, stopping for a minute to catch his breath, regain the balance in his steps. He looks too tired, too old for twenty-four.
“Fag?”
He shakes his head. “I just want to go home.”
“To what?”
Blaise looks stricken, eyes pleading for Roger to be kind.
“Come home to mine,” Roger whispers.
If he’d stayed.
Mickey Harrison guzzles down his beer like water and calls him mate with heavily accented English, eyes huge and face wider than it is long.
“There’s no offer like that anywhere else, mate,” he says, watching Roger read the contract.
He’s right, but Mickey Harrison looks like a koala, and Roger reconsiders the appeal of hanging around koalas and kangaroos in the dessert.
“I’m not going to Australia,” he says when Blaise opens the door.
“Didn’t know you were going.”
“That’s because I’m not,” he replies, grinning when he pushes Blaise against the wall and kisses him.
For all that he refuses to apologise, to look back and wonder what could have been, Blaise Zabini remains to be Roger Davies’ only regret.