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It’s the end of term, N.E.W.T.s are over, and the sun is shining.
Blaise can’t remember being this happy before in his life.
They’re outside by the lake, playing a chaotic game of pick-up Quidditch to which no-one seems to understand the rules. He, Greg, Theo and Draco have been joined, somehow, by Potter, two Weasleys, and Longbottom, with Granger and Pansy on the ground underneath them dipping their toes in the water. Draco and Potter seem to be playing a completely different game to the rest of them, ducking and diving through the air so close to each other that one wrong move would have them mounting each others’ brooms.
His team are probably losing, but no-one’s really keeping score, least of all Blaise. He’s not even watching the Quaffle.
He’s watching Greg.
They’ve all changed into Muggle clothing for the game, and Greg is wearing a black t-shirt so tight Blaise can see his nipples from across the makeshift pitch and grey joggers that show exactly how hard his thighs are working to steer his broom.
He’s also the main reason none of them know what the rules are. They hadn’t really assigned clear positions to everyone, but Draco and Potter had released a Snitch and then taken off after it before anyone could comment, and the boy Weasley had handed Beater’s bats to Greg and Longbottom and released a Bludger before taking off with the Quaffle, so Blaise had assumed the two of them would play as Beaters and he, Theo, and the Weasleys would try to Chase and Keep at the same time.
Greg seems to have assumed differently.
He’s hitting the Quaffle about as often as he’s hitting the Bludger, his biceps straining with the power of his swings. His accuracy and power are impressive, though, having hit both Bludger and Quaffle clean through the shimmering rings they’d drawn in the sky in place of hoops at least once.
Blaise has been half-hard since he walked out of the dorm in those clothes, and painfully hard since the first time he smacked the Quaffle so hard with the bat Longbottom still has a red mark on the side of his face.
Greg still says and does stupid things – he’s not become a different person overnight – but he also routinely pretends to do stupid things now just because he knows how much it drives him wild. He can’t actually tell which is happening right now, but it doesn’t matter; it’s almost more of a turn-on when he knows he’s doing it deliberately. The fact that Greg is so secure in himself that he routinely makes fun of Blaise being attracted to his stupidity is one of the things he likes most about him.
There’s a lot of things he likes most about Greg.
Blaise had always foreseen his adult life as being full of politics, his major choices strategic rather than emotional, his pleasures coming mainly from power and success and the occasional random, anonymous hookup. He’d never imagined a relationship so full of laughter, imagined feeling so cared for as he has these last few months. It’s not even about the sex, mind-blowing as that still is every time – Greg is sweet and attentive outside of the bedroom, too, and Blaise feels so safe with him they’ve had conversations that he hadn’t previously dared to have even with himself. Somehow, it’s allowed him to confront all the other expectations he’d had of his life, how uncomfortable he’s maybe always been with some of them, and choose a new path.
He’s been accepted into Healer training in the fall, assuming he’s passed his N.E.W.T.s. He wants to succeed by doing something, not just putting his mother’s ill-gotten Galleons in the right pockets and whispering in the right ears at parties. There’s a general air among all of them that in this new world, anything is possible.
It feels somehow wrong, to have benefitted so profoundly from the end of a war he had so arrogantly refused to be involved in. He’d apologised separately to both Draco and Potter for it, and been strongly rebuffed on both counts: Draco had insisted he would have refused his support if it had been offered, and Potter had positively beamed at him and told him that this was exactly the world they’d been fighting for, where everyone could choose what they wanted to be, separated from the prejudices and expectations their families had carried for generations.
Potter and Greg seem to have forged an unexpectedly wholesome friendship out of it all since he and Draco started seeing each other. Potter’s hand-written letter of recommendation had been instrumental in Greg getting the job he starts in two weeks, training to be a bodyguard so he can keep protecting people the way he’s protected Draco most of his life.
It’s probably lucky, then, that Potter’s attention is completely consumed by trying to outfly Draco, and he’s not looking when Greg smacks a Bludger clean through the conjured goal hoop for the second time, and then looks back at Blaise with a pleased, expectant little grin.
He’s actually relieved when they finally call the game and come back to land. He’s caught himself a few times unconsciously rubbing himself against the broomstick, and the Glamour Greg has cast over his own crotch – the grey joggers and tight shirt less forgiving than Blaise’s loose top and shorts – is more for politeness than discretion at this point, surely not fooling anyone. When they land beside each other and Blaise can’t resist pulling him in for a heated kiss he can feel everything.
“I’ve been nominated by the group to ask you to please not involve us in your foreplay ever again,” Draco says, landing next to them looking faintly nauseated.
Blaise sees Greg open his mouth out of the corner of his eye and rushes to get there first, a little afraid of what his answer would have been. “What, like whatever you and Potter were doing with that Snitch wasn’t foreplay,” he retorts, earning a tinge of pink on Draco’s high cheekbones.
Greg folds his arms stubbornly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, anyway,” he says, and Blaise resists the urge to put his head in his hands as Draco arches a scathing eyebrow at him.
“We played on the house team together for two years, Greg,” Draco says levelly. “Even Blaise knows you know which ball you’re aiming for.”
Greg’s face falls. Blaise doesn’t know whether to laugh or kiss him. “Oh,” he says sheepishly, his dark eyes skittering from Draco to Blaise, a grin forcing its way past the contrite expression. “Yeah, I didn’t think about that.”
“Fuck me,” Blaise murmurs under his breath, glancing down to check his oversized t-shirt still covers his erection. It’s touch and go, honestly. “Come with me,” he says to Greg abruptly, grabbing his arm and dragging him in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. “Don’t follow us,” he throws back at Draco over his shoulder.
“Definitely wasn’t planning to,” drifts back in his wake.
They’re on each other as soon as the changing room door swings shut behind them, the sounds of their footsteps and their clothes rustling together and the wet, smacking sound of their lips meeting echoing lewdly off the tiles.
They’ve done this a hundred times now, from slow and sweet to quick and dirty, and yet it still surprises him how easy it is every time. Blaise reaches for Greg and he’s there, meeting him halfway, pressing him into the changing room wall with one hand behind his head to protect it from hitting the tile. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide how hard he is already, how desperate for it, because he knows Greg likes it when he loses control.
He grinds his cock into Greg’s hip with a pathetic whining noise, earning a low groan in response. Greg’s big hand slips under the waistband of his shorts and grips his arse, pulling him in tighter. He can feel his lips curving up into an indulgent smile.
“The wrong ball thing really did it for you, huh,” Greg murmurs against his mouth.
Blaise snorts. “It’s a little bit that,” he admits, pulling back far enough to give him an appraising sort of look. “And a little bit this.” He plucks a handful of the tight black t-shirt away from his skin playfully, lifting an appreciative eyebrow when it snaps back into place. “And a little bit these,” he adds after a moment, hooking two fingers into the waistband of Greg’s joggers. “Not a lot left to the imagination under here.”
“Then you have some catching up to do,” Greg growls, tugging at the hem of Blaise’s t-shirt.
They strip quickly, because Greg knows him well enough by now to know that he’s done being teased, leaving a trail of clothing across the changing room to the shower block. The hot water takes his breath away as they rinse themselves off, hands and mouths roaming across wet skin until Greg crowds him against the wall of the shower and grinds their cocks together with a low groan.
Blaise’s answering groan is higher, punched out of him by force. “Did you really forget you were on the Quidditch team,” he asks breathlessly, hooking one leg over Greg’s hip to pull him closer.
Greg chuckles into his neck. “I didn’t forget,” he says, more amused than indignant. He wraps one of his big hands around both their cocks and strokes, pressing Blaise harder against the stall door, anticipating the way his knees buckle at the sensation. “I just… didn’t connect that with the idea that they’d know I was pretending not to know the rules.”
Blaise moans openly, hips bucking up into Greg’s hand. He’s so close already, the blinding pressure building in his navel, and while with anyone else he might be embarrassed he knows he doesn’t have to be, with Greg. He likes him maybe even more when he’s falling apart than he does when he’s perfectly put together. “Does it bother you?” he asks, even though he knows he wouldn’t do it if it did. “That they know you put it on for me?”
“Why would it bother me?” Greg says, dancing his thumb over the tip of Blaise’s cock and making him whimper. “That they can see you like me just as much as I like you?”
“I do like you,” Blaise gasps helplessly, fingernails clutching at Greg’s back as his hips buck out of control.
It’s not love, he doesn’t think, not yet. But it feels like a question of when, not if. They’ve decided not to move in together over the summer, Greg having found a flat to share with Draco and Pansy and Blaise still being enough of a snob to want his own place and enough of a spoiled brat that his mother had bought him one when he’d asked – he’s trying to be a better person, not a different one altogether – but they’re already talking about whose place they’ll stay at on a given night rather than whether they’ll spend it together. Blaise suspects it won’t be too long before Draco moves in with Harry, and that they won’t spend much time at Greg’s flat if Draco isn’t there.
It’s the fact that he can see their life together unfolding before his eyes that tips him over the edge, just as much as it’s Greg’s teeth in his neck and the twist of his big hand on his cock. He throws his head back and screams Greg’s name as he comes, letting him take all his weight as he gives himself up to it because he knows Greg’s got him.
His knees are weak when it’s over, and he doesn’t fight it, lets Greg hold him steady as he sinks to the floor. He looks up and meets the bottomless warmth of his eyes. Greg smiles fondly down at him, still holding his hand, the other arm propping him against the shower wall. His prick twitches insistently in Blaise’s face, so he takes pity on it, taking one indulgent little lick of the head before swallowing as much of it as he can.
“Oh, fuck,” Greg grunts out, dropping onto his elbow against the wall, sounding surprised somehow even though he must have known that’s why Blaise had dropped to his knees. “Merlin, your mouth. Not gonna last long.”
Blaise moans around him. As a general rule, not gonna last long is not a problem Greg has often, not compared to the veritable hair-trigger Blaise seems to have when they’re together. It’s not uncommon for Greg to coax Blaise through two or even three orgasms before he succumbs to his own. But as much as he loves that, Blaise has a special soft spot for the times when Greg is so worked up he follows him straight over the edge. It makes him feel powerful, that he can have that effect on someone so stoic. More evidence, if he needed any, that this isn’t just him being a weirdo with a crush on a hot moron.
He drops Greg’s hand in favour of digging his nails into his arse, pulling him in closer. Greg takes advantage of his free hand to smooth it over Blaise’s head, settling on the base of his skull, his hips twitching forwards like he can’t contain himself. He does his best to relax his throat; he’s not good at this yet, not with Greg’s size, but it seems the idea and the effort is enough, the head of Greg’s cock nudging against the back of his throat once before he’s groaning out a warning and shooting down Blaise’s throat. He’s half-hard again already with the idea of all the time they have together to practice until he can take it all.
“Does it bother you?” Greg asks, after they’ve showered, when they’ve given their clothes a quick Scourgify and pulled them back on. “That they all know you like it when I’m a bit thick?”
Blaise looks at him. It’s not often that Greg gets insecure any more, but they both have their moments still where they remember how different they are, how unlikely it is that it should be so good between them. “When?” he asks lightly, grinning.
He cups Greg’s jaw and pulls him in for a quick kiss, sweet, reassuring. “Of course not, my clever boy,” he tells him in as soft a voice as he can manage. “They see that you like me just as much as I like you, and how happy I am about it,” he says, parroting Greg’s answer. “And you know I love it when other people are jealous of me.”
Greg laughs and leans in for another kiss, apparently satisfied. Blaise feels like his chest is swelling, like if he’s not careful it might explode.
Maybe it is love, after all.