FIC: Much More Serious Than That [2/3]
Apr. 12th, 2010 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leashy_bebesTitle: Much More Serious Than That [2/3]
Pairing: James II/Scorpius
Rating: Hard R. Sexual activity and lots of swearing.
Summary: In which rivals become teammates. Because as Bill Shankly (almost) said, "Some people think Quidditch is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that."
Notes: The threatened second part, because when someone makes a new year's resolution on your behalf, it'd be churlish not to, right?
Words: 8500
Part 1
James is realistic enough to acknowledge that while he's talented, he probably wouldn't have got his reserve Keeper position at Puddlemere so quickly without his last name. Admittedly, his record as house captain at school was good - that one loss to Malfoy the only real blemish on his score-sheet, and that was largely cancelled out by the tightly fought victory in James's final year - but people usually don't get a first reserve position purely on the basis of their school record, with a lot of players spending a year, or two, at one of the academies in places like Skaistgirys and Treignac before making it onto a team.
James's offer had come through almost as soon as his schooling ended, before his NEWT results were released, and while the thought that some of his success is down to his name rather than his abilities is annoying on one level, most of the time James is too caught up in being surprised and amazed and thrilled that he's a proper Quidditch player - training with the professionals and actually being paid for it - to care how he got there. Anyway, he fully intends to make sure everyone knows soon enough that he'd have made it name notwithstanding.
Given the frankly ridiculous number of war-heroes in the family, James is used to having a lot to prove and he thrives on it. He trains hard with the team, and then requests extra solo-training exercises to do on his own time. Together with his godbrother and his dad, James sets up a full set of practice hoops in the back garden of his parents' house, and charms up to four Quaffles at a time to attack the posts in synchrony. His efforts pay off and he's able to push himself harder and harder in every match he plays, quickly making a name for himself at Puddlemere as a strong, determined player, open to criticism and willing to work. It's only four months after joining the squad - shockingly sudden even to James's mind - that the first team keeper goes down with Dragon Pox, and James is thrust into his first match for the starting seven.
In the twenty four hours before the match, James is sick four times, and he starts to seriously wonder if he'll be able to play. However, as soon as he gets on his broom and gets up in front of the goalposts, it's just like always, his body thrumming with the complete certainty that he's exactly where he's supposed to be. He's never been able to satisfactorily explain it to anyone, but flying feels so much more natural than walking. He does things while twenty feet in the air that make people watching him wince - or in his mother's and sister's cases, actually shriek with terror a few of times - and he doesn't even pause to consider it. It's easier than walking, even. Free and light and perfect, like he's weightless and riding on a gust of wind rather than a broom.
Puddlemere win James's debut match, and not by a slim margin, either. James has a wobbly start, letting in four goals in quick succession, but he manages to ignore the rising panic and fights back, saving shot after shot from the Tornados' admirable trio of Chasers. By the time the Puddlemere Seeker catches the Snitch James is in his element, not quite showing off, but making bold saves, taking daring risks, and loving every second of it. He almost wishes the Snitch hadn't been caught, wants that debut match to go on forever.
The first team Keeper, Adams, reclaims his place once the Dragon Pox subsides, but he takes James aside one afternoon after training and confides that the fight for his place had been a hell of a lot tougher than he was anticipating. Sensible of the compliment from such an experienced player, James forces down his disappointment at losing the first team place and starts learning the toughest, most important lesson of pro-Quidditch: you win some, you lose some, both as a team and on a personal level. It's still hard to accept with good grace though, and James has to work on not letting his frustration show, knowing that it's much easier to lose a good reputation than it is to build one up again.
James gets a few more first team matches that year, when Adams picks up a minor injury, or when the manager has chosen to rest him. He'd be lying if he said he was thrilled to be playing reserve matches, but at least he's playing. Puddlmere Reserves do well that season, finishing second in the league of reserve teams, behind only the Magpies. The weirdest part of it all for James is that he finds his name in the newspapers for reasons other than his parentage. Sports reporters are always keen to keep an eye on the reserve squads, because everyone wants to be the one who picked out a budding talent before they made a big splash.
Summer rolls around, and the season ends. Training continues, of course, albeit at a reduced level. The majority of matches are between the first team and the reserves, and they play a few friendlies with the local non-league teams. Although he's still playing and training, James finds himself at a bit of a loss. It's then that he starts to realise just how much he thrives on the sense of competition that comes with the pro-season.
The close-season is usually the time for teams to make new purchases and James has a few moments of dread, because Malfoy is trying out with various teams, and James thinks it would be just his sodding luck to end up on the same team as the pointy little bastard. Of course, he knows that in terms of the team, Malfoy would definitely be an asset. He is undeniably good. At school, people talked about Malfoy the same way they used to talk about James's dad. Whenever a team played Slytherin, it was generally accepted as a matter of when not if Malfoy would catch the snitch. Playing Slytherin was like starting with a 150 point handicap, and James knows it wouldn't be that extreme in the big leagues, but still. A Seeker like Malfoy, reserve or no, can only add to the potential of any team.
But on a personal level... On a personal level, James would be happy never to see the little shit again. There is something about the kid, something he does or says, some way he carries himself, which is just perfectly geared to get under James's skin. The way they were at school - sworn rivals who, apparently, were unable to keep their hands off each other - still confuses James. He doesn't consider that he was ever particularly attracted to Malfoy. He's pretty enough, of course, but James doesn't really go for pretty. And besides, the delicate looks that others raved about were usually twisted in disdain whenever he looked at James.
In the end, James's worrying is all for nothing, because Malfoy gets snapped up by a Bulgarian team, which is pretty fucking high praise considering the calibre of their home-grown talents in recent years, almost all coached at the Academy Krum founded in Popintsi. James tries not to think about the fact that he's vaguely disappointed he won't get to play against Malfoy. And beat him. Obviously.
Malfoy goes down a storm in Europe, and that's all James hears of him for the next few years, just that he's tearing up the Bulgarian leagues, that he's one of those hot properties that clubs want because yeah, he's only one player, but just like school, he can change the fortunes of the entire team, change the direction of a game. And he still catches the Snitch more often than he misses it.
James himself moves from Puddlemere to the Tornados in search of regular first team games the following summer. The Tornados team rotates on a different system from the one Puddlemere use, so James finds himself playing first team Quidditch at least once every couple of months. It's good, but it's still not enough, and after a couple of successful seasons there, James is a big enough part of the team to attract the notice of some of the more successful teams. He's genuinely surprised to find himself the subject of a bidding war between the Magpies and the Arrows.
The Arrows win the bidding war in the end, and sign James on as their first team Keeper. It feels a bit like fate, because Kerry Finnigan is also playing there as Seeker, trying to make inroads into the first team from the reserves. Their dads are old friends, but Kerry's a few years younger than James. She was a Ravenclaw at school, and didn't make the House team in time for them to ever play against each other competitively, but they've been playing five-a-side games in the summer holidays since they were kids.
After a few seasons, James thinks he finally feels secure. They have finished in the top two every year since he joined the team, and James doesn't think it's big-headed to feel proud that it's at least partly down to him. Of course, the rest of the team is hugely important, and James feels like he's settled in well with them, with a group of people who are almost family after a couple of intense years. The older members of the team seem to treat him and Kerry as though they need keeping an eye on at all times, and while it can be a bit stifling, it at least reassures James they don't resent him for being young and relatively inexperienced.
And then everything changes during James's fourth season with the Arrows. A couple of the older players announce their retirement at the end of the season, and Kerry tearfully leaves for the Harpies, where she's been guaranteed regular first team starts, in a surprise mid-season transfer. The last match of the season, against The Cannons is distinctly weird. Although they win, and guarantee second place at the expense of arch-rivals the Wimbourne Wasps, the atmosphere in the changing room afterwards is decidedly downbeat. Everyone knows that the team is going to be different now, that several new players will be brought in over the summer, and the likelihood of finding the same balance of camaraderie and professionalism again will be difficult.
Of course, James has no idea how difficult, until the list of close-season purchases is circulated among the players. And right there, at the top of the list, S. Malfoy (Seeker) from Vrasta Vultures.
Fucking. Hell.
***
He's still good. He's still really good, and one part of James's mind is already getting excited about the team's prospects with a Seeker like Malfoy. At school he was good in comparison to other schoolboys, but now, after those years in Bulgaria, he is brilliant. There's simply no other word for it. His posture is impeccable, the upright stance actually what counts for relaxed as a Seeker. He moves effortlessly around and between the other players, ducking Bludgers and rarely getting in anyone's way at all. Occasionally he will perform some showcase bit of flying, and when James manages to quiet the voice inside him that's insisting Malfoy is nothing but a bloody show off, he has to admit it's absolutely thrilling to watch.
Malfoy's first team in Bulgaria was SK Lyaskovets, who are solid but unexceptional, usually finishing in the upper half of the top Bulgarian league, but never even making a convincing run at the top three. James remembers reading that Malfoy was sought out by the Vultures, because of his flamboyant, daring style. When he'd moved on to the Vultures, famous for giving unlikely players a chance, he'd made a massive impact, helping them to win the league twice, and get to the final stage of the European cup once. There is no denying that Malfoy is an excellent player and will make a huge contribution to the team.
However, a much larger part of James's mind is occupied with worrying. This is the first full-squad practice with all the new players, and the first time James has seen Malfoy since school. Malfoy has barely spared James a glance, but that's only to be expected. Keeper and Seeker rarely have much contact over the course of a match, and James is more than content to keep it that way. Still, there is an underlying buzz of anxiety, because what if Malfoy's careful distance is covering a less neutral emotion? What if he still hates James too, what if the toxic atmosphere between them that had festered for most of James's seven years at Hogwarts hasn't died? What if it returns full-force and well and truly fucks up the reputation James has worked so hard to build? He was never able to keep his head around Malfoy, and given that only half an hour into practice, James is giving by far his worst performance in a year, that doesn't seem to have changed.
Bracing himself for the inevitable bollocking from the head coach after practice, James deliberately turns away from the sight of Malfoy sitting perfectly balanced on his broom, scanning the skies for a glimpse of the fluttering gold snitch. For the next hour, James works hard to pull himself together, and manages to deliver a passable enough performance for the rest of training, good enough that the bollocking is fairly mild when it does come. Still, even a mild telling off from Penrith Kneen is pretty terrifying. His family are legendary in the sport, and Kneen has been Beater for the best clubs in Britain and Europe, as well as playing in the famous England world cup victory of 2018.
James remembers watching that match from a box in the stadium and then watching it again and again on the Omnioculars, studying play after play. It was that game more than any other than made James understand the beauty of Quidditch, the perfect connectedness of a brilliant team in full flow. It was a madly visceral, emotional reaction, and memories of nights spent watching those perfect plays with strange a tightness in his throat are never far away.
In the end, after a relatively mild talking to on Kneen's part, and a sincere apology on James's, James ducks into a shower stall only fifteen minutes after the rest of the team left the pitch. As he washes hastily, blinking water out of his eyes, he listens to the usual exuberant shouts and jokes of a Quidditch locker room after a training session. He can't hear Malfoy's voice, and everyone else seems to be in a rush to leave. James finds himself lingering under the hot spray, deep in thought. He has to work out a way to deal with this whole Malfoy thing. He can't let schoolboy stupidity ruin everything, so he has to stop feeling angry and sick and just wrong every time he so much as looks at the pointy little twerp.
It wouldn't be so bad if Malfoy wasn't one of six new signings, three each in the first team and reserves. If it was just Malfoy, James thinks he could safely ignore him, leave some other members of the team to help him fit in. As it is, if they don't all learn to get along, the team will fall flat on its arse. There are so many new faces, and everyone has to learn to get along with everyone else. This season is going to be tough as it is, so there's no way James can exacerbate that by going to pieces every time Malfoy's around. James ducks under the shower again, rinsing suds from his hair before he shuts the water off and retrieves his wand from the shelf, casting a quick drying charm on himself.
Out in the deserted changing room he dresses quickly in jeans and an Arrows t-shirt before going through the rest of his stuff more systematically. The strings on his gloves could do with replacing, and maybe the gloves themselves could use a wax and an oiling where the leather is cracked and worn. James turns the gloves over in his hands, brushing his thumb over one of the seams, checking the evenness of the stitching. Still fine.
"Well, well," a voice drawls, and James closes his eyes. Damn it. "Isn't this tense?"
"Malfoy."
"Potter."
James grabs the last of his things from his locker and closes it carefully, resisting the urge to slam it. He wouldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction.
"Is that it?" Malfoy asks archly. "No welcome-to-the-team chat?"
"Welcome to the team," James says shortly. "Let's just keep a healthy distance, yeah?"
Malfoy actually laughs, and it's almost enough to make James turn around. Then Malfoy says, "Dear lord, Potter. Did I ruin you for other men?"
"What?" James asks, and he's distantly shocked that Malfoy would bring that crap up so blatantly.
"Well it's the only thing I can think of to explain the lingering bitterness," Malfoy says coolly.
"You wish, Malfoy," James says, and then realises he's getting caught up in conversation with the sneaky Slytherin bastard. It always happens like this. Not this time, James resolves. "Bye."
He steps towards the door of the changing rooms, deliberately not meeting Malfoy's eyes.
"Wait," Malfoy says, and James finds himself stopping for no reason he can think of. "We need to at least be able to be civil again."
"What do you mean again?" James demands, reluctantly turning to look at Malfoy at last, if only to better register his incredulity. "We were never civil."
"Well, no," Malfoy admits. "But we were never team mates before."
Much as he hates it, James knows Malfoy is right (professional as well as skilful, the little git), and he nods curtly. "Okay. I can do civil."
"Good. Everyone's going to the bar. Be civil and come with us, hmm?"
James grits his teeth, but he nods, supposing he can always ensure there are at least three people between him and Malfoy at any one time. As usual, the team find themselves in The Broken Arrow, which proudly boasts of being Appleby's premier wizarding pub. In reality, it's Appleby's only wizarding pub. There's a better scene across the estuary in Hull, but after a long practice, they're usually content to settle for the Arrow's cheap drinks and relative privacy. Local wizards and witches are so used to seeing Arrows players celebrating a victory or drowning their sorrows after a defeat, that they rarely get approached these days.
As the first team and most of the reserves, along with the magi-physio and a couple of the junior coaches all pile into the pub and order drinks, James finds himself relaxing. There are enough little groups of people getting to know each other that James is unlikely to be forced into contact with Malfoy. His relief doesn't last though, and half an hour in, James realises he can't stop staring. He's aware whenever Malfoy's eyes rest on him – which isn't all that often actually; he's busy getting to know the rest of the team, apparently charming them with consummate ease – but even more worryingly, he's aware of...just...Malfoy. Where he is, what he's doing, how he's standing.
Fuck.
Deciding that he needs something stronger than the weak Muggle-style beers that have become so fashionable recently, James starts winding his way to the bar, only to be waylaid by an arm slung around his shoulders. It's Micky Dunleavy, one of the Beaters, and probably James's best friend on the team, so James can't exactly just shrug him off and leave. Which is a damn shame, considering that Malfoy is part of the group Micky is standing with. Micky, who wasn't at Hogwarts, starts to introduce James to Malfoy.
"Yeah, we know each other already," Malfoy interrupts. "Don't we, James?"
"Well enough," James says shortly.
Micky is obviously interested. "Oh?"
"We were only a year apart at school," Malfoy says, glancing over at James.
"Oh, did you play together?" someone asks, and Malfoy gets the beginnings of a wicked grin on his face so James answers quickly.
"Against, actually."
"Mm-hmm," Malfoy nods. "We're continuing family tradition, aren't we? Hated each other's guts, didn't we?"
"We did," James says as pleasantly as he can manage.
There's a little bit of awkward laughter and then Micky launches into another of his endless stories about the girls and the clubs and whatever else he gets up to. And this, James reflects as he takes a drink, is why Micky is his friend at the club, and not outside it. James does encounter the odd bloke and less frequent – but much, much scarier, and more determined – girl, who tries to pursue him, but he's learned the art of gentle rejection by now. He avoids the worst of it because he can't stand the party scene, photographers outside the doors of nightclubs and all the rest. Micky, on the other hand, laps it up.
James mostly tunes the conversation out, keeping half an ear open enough to laugh or roll his eyes at appropriate times. And then the conversation turns, and James tunes back in fast when he hears someone turn to Malfoy and ask,
"What about you, Scorpius? Got a girl?"
"No, I'm gay," Scorpius says, and James tries not to choke on his beer. Scorpius looks around at the suddenly silent group, and James can read the building irritation clearly on his face, wonders that no one else can see it.
Eventually, James gives in to the looks the others are giving him and clears his throat. "Talk to PR, yeah? They'll handle it."
"What d'you mean, handle it?" Scorpius asks, frowning.
"I mean, handle it," James says flatly. "Another drink, anyone?"
A couple of people make non-committal noises and drift off, obviously wanting to gloss over the awkwardness. Micky and a couple of others nod and call out their requests. Malfoy just looks at James wordlessly. James buys him a beer anyway, because it will look too weird otherwise. Malfoy looks surprised when he takes it, and as soon as James can, he wanders off on the pretext of asking somebody else a question about the upcoming season.
People gradually start leaving the pub, and James decides to walk home. It's almost two miles, but James could use the fresh air, and the silence. He says his goodbyes to Micky and one or two others before ducking into the loos. He's washing his hands when the door opens, and James sees an unmistakeable flash of white blond hair out of the corner of his eyes.
Bloody hell.
"Potter! What the hell were you talking about back there?"
James doesn't even pretend to understand, not wanting to prolong their interaction. "Like I said, talk to PR."
"And exactly why is my sexuality a matter for the PR department?" Malfoy asks coolly, as though it's James's fault.
James bites his tongue and takes his hands out from under the water, waving them over the charmed drying pad. "Look, just – fucking hell. Have this conversation with someone else, yeah?"
"Oh, by all means," Malfoy scoffs, folding his arms and looking at James like he's an idiot. "Point me in the direction of another poof on the team and I'll be right out of your hair."
James throws his hands in the air and turns to face Malfoy, saying in a low voice, "Fine. Listen. Being gay is not going to stop you playing. But you have to consider the press, okay? You have to realise that they're interested in your private life and you have to be ready for how they're going to dig around for information. So PR will decide how to handle it. Simple."
When he finally stops, James thinks it's the first time he's ever seen Malfoy look less than composed.
"Wh – what do you mean, dig around?"
"Got some guilty secrets, Malfoy?" James asks, but it's more a reflexive piss-taking than anything else. He never expected to have to exchange this many words with Malfoy, especially not on a topic in which, James is forced to admit, they both have a vested interest. Not to mention a topic that pisses James off like no other. His own coming out had been only semi-voluntary, a carefully stage-managed affair that had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He never wanted to be a role model gay Quidditch player, just any old Quidditch player. The furore has mostly died down, in the face of James's relatively quiet private life, and James admittedly isn't the first, but still... It's a less than ideal situation.
"You – are you serious?" Malfoy asks, dragging James away from his thoughts. "The press will really – "
"Yes, Malfoy, the press will really make your life miserable, and make it very difficult for you to get laid with any kind of discretion. Get used to it. Do they not have press intrusion in Bulgaria?" James demands, anxious to get the conversation over with as soon as possible.
"Not – not like that. Not about that. No one really cares what players do off the pitch."
"Well, they do here. You're a celebrity now," James says, and his smile feels brittle even to himself.
"I'm – just a Quidditch player."
If only, James thinks grimly. "Wrong. Now, do you mind? I came in here for a slash, and unless you've got some really guilty secrets, there's no need for you to stay, is there?"
Malfoy scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Oh, get lost, Potter."
"No, that's your job," James says, turning away. He has to suppress a sigh of relief when he hears the door close behind Malfoy. He washes his hands again, to kill time, and splashes some cold water in his face just for good measure. He glares at himself in the mirror and shakes his head, muttering, "Come on, Jamie. Fuck's sake."
Back out in the pub, people are heading for the Floo or Apparating away. James grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and slips out into the crisp evening air. When he first moved to Appleby from Puddlemere, he'd been shocked by how much colder it was this far north. Now he's used to it, and content to laugh at his brother and sister when they visit him and wear Gran's Christmas jumpers voluntarily for the first time since they were about four. It's an easy walk home, just a couple of fairly steep hills along the way, and James lets his mind go blank as he walks. Appleby's a quiet little town, and he only sees a couple of cars, and no one else on foot.
He tries to convince himself that today wasn't a complete disaster, but he's too used to being honest with himself about his performance for the lie to take hold. He hasn't played so badly in ages, and he knows he is going to have to get a lot better at ignoring Malfoy's presence if the season is going to work out.
***
James's plan of ignoring Malfoy works, to a degree. Off the pitch, it works like a dream, actually. They nod if they pass each other, smile and exchange a word if there are other people around, and that's the extent of it. It sends cool relief through James, because they can manage to be, if not exactly civil, then quietly frosty with each other. And off the pitch...off the pitch, that is fine.
On the pitch, it's less than brilliant. Their determination not to engage with each other seems to spill over, and James finds that whenever the Snitch brings Malfoy near his goalposts, they are both rendered hopeless. Every time he moves, Malfoy is there, fucking up his plan to dive for this hoop, or dodge that Bludger, and it makes the blood pound in James's temples.
Exactly a fortnight before the season starts, they are finishing training by playing a full game against the reserves. An hour into the match, James makes a sharp left, leaning along the length of his broom to slap the Quaffle away from his third post. At least that's the plan, anyway. In reality, as soon as he turns he collides with Malfoy, and his patience snaps.
"Fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Me?" Malfoy demands, shoulders squared and a sneer firmly in place. "Why don't you try getting out of my way once in a while?"
"Try looking where you're going!" James spits back.
"If you had half an idea – " Malfoy starts.
James raises his voice to speak over him. "You're not the most important player on the team – "
"Nor are you! Why should we all have to manoeuvre around your clumsy arse?" Malfoy demands, his hands white-knuckled on his broom.
"Don't make me laugh! You couldn't manoeuvre your way out of a wet paper bag!"
James doesn't realise how much they've been squaring up to each other until a Shield Charm erupts between them, buffeting them both back a little on their brooms. Kneen appears a second later, red faced and furious, glaring at them both like they're idiotic children.
All he says is, "On the ground. Right now."
Malfoy glares at James like this is all his fault, and swoops down to the ground. James follows a little more slowly and once he reaches the ground, he stands next to Malfoy without looking at him. Kneen looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment, and then shakes his head in obvious disgust.
"I don't know what the hell is wrong with you two – "
"I – " James starts.
At the same moment, Malfoy says, "He – "
"And I do not care," Kneen says, raising his voice to drown them out. "Neither one of you are too big for a spell in the reserves, and if this whatever the fuck it is costs us a decent league position this season, it'll also cost you your jobs."
"But – "
"One more word, Potter. Just one."
James bites his tongue.
"Sorry, Coach," Malfoy says stiffly.
James nods. "Yeah. Sorry, Coach."
"Thirty laps each. Potter, you're at thirty feet, Malfoy, you at seventy. I don't want to hear a word out of either of you. And I don't care how you do it, but once you've done your laps, you are going to sort this out."
"I – " Malfoy starts.
"Honestly. Fight. Fuck. Whatever. Just do it, and do it fast, because this pathetic teenage drama is not going to carry on much longer. Do you both understand?"
James opens his mouth to reply and Kneen just shakes his head, lifting a hand to his forehead.
"Just nod, both of you. I'm sick of the sound of your voices."
James nods miserably, and takes his broom off up to thirty feet without sparing Malfoy a glance. Flying laps might not sound like the most awful thing in the world, but James knows from experience that it's a lot worse than it sounds. Kneen sets spells to detect instability in the broomstick, and only a completely level lap will produce the chime needed for it to count towards the thirty. It requires a careful balance between speed and stability, and as James sets off on his first lap, he is aware of Kneen dismissing the rest of the team.
After a few missed laps, it's getting dark by the time James finally completes his thirty and heads for the ground. He takes it as something of a victory when realises he's done before Malfoy. Still, James hasn't made it as far as the changing rooms before he hears the bright chime of Malfoy's final lap and then a thud as Malfoy lands, close behind him.
"Potter, wait – "
"I need a shower," James says without breaking stride. He almost manages to slip through the door alone before Malfoy shoves James's shoulder and follows him into the changing room, letting the door swing shut behind them.
"Potter, for crying out loud!"
James turns to face him and tries not to flinch when he realises how close that leaves them. "What?"
"You know what! I don't want to throw my career down the drain, and I'm sure you don't either. So Kneen's right. This needs sorting."
"Yeah," James says, using the pretext of unlacing his gloves and the rest of his protective gear to step away from Malfoy a bit. "You need to learn some consideration for the players around you."
Malfoy's mouth twists like he's biting down a sharp retort. "You don't have this problem with any other players," he says eventually. "And neither do I. I think we both know this has very little to do with Quidditch."
"Don't start – "
"I mean it! You're so determined to ignore me that it spills onto the pitch, and you can ignore me all you want, but you can't ignore your team's Seeker."
Lectures on professionalism from Scorpius sodding Malfoy. The day couldn't get much worse, really, James reflects dully. The hell of it all is that James knows Malfoy is right. Unfortunately, you can't really play well with someone unless you're willing to know them, how they move, how they play. And James just does not want to know. He doesn't trust himself to look too closely, doesn't like the tight clench of his stomach every time he meets Malfoy's eye.
James knows what people would say if they knew. It seems so obvious. Someone you used to mess around with (albeit in an angry, conflicted kind of way) shows up in your life again, and you completely go to pieces. It doesn't take a genius to work out why. But James is sure it isn't that. It's more that Malfoy has seen a side of James that he himself isn't keen on. For James, sex has always been about affection, or at the very least, about fun. It's not about proving a point, or shutting someone up, and James knows most of what he feels around Malfoy is a sick sense of shame for the behaviour they seem to draw out of each other. James likes to see himself as an easygoing, calm, friendly bloke off the pitch, and Malfoy makes him wonder if that's all a lie.
"Fine," James says, aware that the silence is dragging on. He finishes pulling off his gloves and turns away to leave them in his locker until he's done in the shower, along with his outer robes. The space between them lets him breathe, and James feels powerfully relieved until he realises Malfoy has followed him, is leaning against his own locker three along from James's, looking at him coolly. "Fine," James says again. "What do you suggest?"
Malfoy arches an eyebrow. "Well, I know Kneen said fight or fuck – "
"Yeah, I think he was joking," James interrupts hastily. "Only poofs on the team and all that, we naturally must want in each other's pants."
"Yes, I'm sure that's where he drew the inference from," Malfoy says, deadpan, and James eyes him suspiciously.
"So what, then?" James asks. "What do you suggest we do?"
"Not quick, are you, Potter?" Malfoy asks, and then his hands are on James's cheeks, cool fingers bracketing his face before he leans in and kisses James hard.
For someone accused of being not quick, James thinks he moves pretty damn fast. He shoves Malfoy away from him and backs up several steps. As Malfoy looks at him, unsurprised and unruffled, James lifts a hand to his mouth and wipes the taste of Malfoy from his lips.
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"
Malfoy shrugs and says, "Sorting it." He doesn't take his eyes off James as he steps close and James raises a hand to keep him at a distance.
"I'm warning you – "
"Of what?" Malfoy asks.
"I – "
Malfoy reaches out, lightning fast Seeker-reflexes at play, and grabs James's wrist, pulling his hand down to his side.
"Don't – " James says, and Malfoy laughs, low and darkly amused, right in his face.
"Coward."
James tightens his jaw and pulls his hand away from Malfoy, only to have it grabbed again, forced against the growing hardness in his own breeches that he's been trying so hard to ignore since Malfoy's mouth slammed onto his.
"Still nothing more than a – " Malfoy starts, and James sees red. He's never understood the expression before but his vision really does seem to waver and flush, a roaring noise takes up residence in his head, and he grabs a handful of Malfoy's hair in his free hand, hauling him close and bypassing his mouth in favour of biting at the corner of his jaw.
Malfoy seems surprised for a moment before he lets go of James's wrist and turns his head to press his mouth against James's, more pressure than kiss, and they stumble together, already yanking at clothes, their own and each other's. James is shirtless and his breeches are open, threatening to slide from his hips by the time he feels the cold tiled wall at his back.
Even though they're older and their bodies are harder and larger, it is exactly like school. Malfoy crowds him up against the wall, squeezing his shoulders and pressing him into tile like he wants to push James straight through to the next room. Malfoy's mouth and his kiss are the same biting, treacherous things they always were, and it feels good to be able to fight back, to grab and pull and squeeze with abandon.
But then Malfoy goes to his knees, and James's brain shuts down altogether, because that is nothing like school. Malfoy would never have conceded the upper hand so readily. For that matter, neither would James have done.
"Cat got your tongue, Potter?" Malfoy asks, a pleased smirk in his voice.
"Hurry up if you're going to," James says, his voice full of bravado, and maybe a little brusque, but Malfoy doesn't seem to care. He just pushes James's legs further apart before trailing his mouth over the inside of James's thigh, soft lips and then a hard bite. James swallows a groan and lets his head fall back against the tiles, squeezing his eyes shut. He can already tell that bite will leave a mark, a little smudge that will fade from purple to grey to yellow over the days.
Malfoy wastes no time at all, stroking James firmly for the scant seconds it takes to get him completely hard. As soon as he is, Malfoy's lips fit themselves around the head of James's dick and his hot mouth sinks down determinedly. James can't help letting out his breath in a hiss of pleasure, and Malfoy moans. Fucking loves it, doesn't he, James thinks fleetingly, but then further thought is impossible as Malfoy starts bobbing his head industriously, meeting the circle of his fist where he's still jerking the base of James's shaft.
The hand disappears and Malfoy starts taking him deeper. James can't stop the shallow roll of his hips but Malfoy doesn't protest or even seem to register the movement, so James does it again, and then again. Malfoy lets out a groan that sounds distinctly pleased, and James twines his fingers through Malfoy's hair, briefly holding him down with James's dick deep in his mouth, nudging the back of his throat. When James lets him go, Malfoy takes a few ragged breaths but he still doesn't complain, and James wonders just exactly what he's prepared to take.
The thought is almost enough to finish James off and as soon as Malfoy's mouth descends on him again he's coming, so lost in the hot wet pleasure of it that he barely notices Malfoy's hand stroking his slick length, coaxing yet more stuttering waves of relief out of him. James lets his head fall back against the wall again. He can feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his overheated skin tingling against the cool tiles. He hardly notices Malfoy getting to his feet until he guides James's hand between his legs. James is too wrung-out to even think about arguing and he jerks Malfoy in slow, smooth motions. There's a noise of protest and James works him harder, faster, until Malfoy slams a hot, musky kiss onto James's mouth to muffle a shout as he spills himself over James's hand.
James falls still and lets Malfoy's slumped weight hold him up against the wall. Their breathing gradually slows, and James lets his head drop back, staring up at the ceiling.
"For fuck's sake," he mutters, more annoyed at himself than anything else. Malfoy moves away without saying anything and James does the same. The silence is just too much, and James turns away without breaking it.
He thinks he sets the world record for quickest shower ever, but Malfoy is still waiting for him in the main changing rooms, sitting on one of the benches with his back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him. James groans in despair at the sight of him.
"What now?"
"Now, we sort things."
"I thought – "
Malfoy shrugs. "That was just to shut you up for five minutes. I do have an idea."
"Right," James says warily, turning away to his locker and quickly sorting through his stuff. "Well?" he asks.
"I was thinking of some moves we had to do at Vrasta," Malfoy says. "Not plays, but just...oh, I don't know. Sort of complex manoeuvres like the Beaters practice sometimes, but closer together. Krum used to make us do that instead of flying laps if certain players weren't gelling."
In spite of himself, James feels his interest piqued. He met Viktor Krum a few times as a child, and once he got over the mute hero-worship, had harangued the man with Quidditch questions until his parents had demanded he stop. But a few hours talking classic games over tea is nothing compared to training under the man for several seasons. Having packed everything away, he turns and leans against the lockers, looking over at Malfoy.
"What was he like?"
"Krum?"
James nods. "Uh-huh."
Malfoy tips his head back and looks up at the ceiling. "Amazing. Terrifying. We all loved him, but we'd never have stepped out of line. But he's fair, you know? Very fair. When he came to see me at Lyaskovets, I could hardly believe he wanted to give a starting team place to some skinny English kid."
James laughs in spite of himself and fidgets with the strap on his bag. "So. What are these moves, then?"
"Oh, they – it's not so easy to explain. I'll put together some charts and we can try them out tomorrow after training?"
Spending time with Malfoy is the last thing James wants to do after today, but he knows that Kneen was serious about the threat of ending up in the reserves. If James wants to avert that, then his only option is to work with Malfoy, to show Kneen that the effort to smooth things over is mutual.
He nods and hefts his bag. "Yeah. Alright."
***
The moves Malfoy shows him are just as complex as he promised. When James looks over the charts, movements inked in Malfoy's flowing script, his first thought is that it looks more like something the cheering squad would do, or one of those poncy 'air dances' that you see from time to time. He bites down on the comment though, and notices Kneen watching them from pitch-side as they start working through the complex, tight loops and parallel dives. The moves are awkward as hell at first, but they work hard at it, and after a little while, James feels like they're making a bit of progress.
When they finally stumble from the pitch, an hour and a half after everyone else has left, Malfoy pushes James up against the wall of the changing room and kisses him. They leave a trail of clothes to a shower stall, and bring each other off under the hot water, gasping and clutching and barely meeting one another's eyes.
They run through the moves Malfoy learned at Vrasta every day, and both make the starting line-up for the first match of the season. Kneen takes them aside afterwards and quietly says that he is impressed by the effort they have made. Praise from a legend, a hero of a player, feels great, and James can't deny that Malfoy is probably to thank for the progress, and therefore the praise. Still doesn't mean he likes the bloke.
And that's...it's weird, but that's how things are, for a while. They might be able to fly together better, and the collisions on the pitch might be a thing of the past, but the strained atmosphere still ratchets up over time. James feels more and more tense just because of Malfoy's sodding proximity all the time and then his skin starts to feel too tight and then... Yeah. Then they find time or make time and they get off together. It's convenient.
It's still weird as hell but it's convenient, and it keeps James on a fairly even keel. It even starts to feel almost normal until the day when Malfoy gives James a long, assessing look in response to his covert suggestions and says, "No."
James blinks in honest surprise. "What?"
"I said, 'no'," Malfoy replies tightly, undoing the spelled clasp on his robes and folding them into his locker before sitting down on one of the benches and looking up at James seriously. "I'm not going to do this anymore."
"Oh. Er...why not?" James asks tentatively, taken aback all over again by Malfoy's carefully blank tone.
"Because you don't like me," he says simply.
James laughs. "What? But – that's daft! You don't like me either," he points out.
"Yes, I do," Malfoy says in that same inflectionless tone of voice. "Of course I do."
"Oh," James says. His instinct is to leave, but... How can he? How can he walk out on a statement like that? Warily, he sits on the bench opposite Malfoy's. "I – thought you didn't."
Malfoy rolls his eyes and says, "Well, I do. And I'm not twisted enough to do this indefinitely with someone who doesn't like me."
James wonders if that's a criticism, and forces himself not to rise to the bait. "No?" he asks, for want of anything else to say.
"No," Malfoy says with a tight little smile. "Doesn't exactly do much for one's self-esteem."
Self-esteem? Merlin's beard... James never imagined that what they do would have any impact on Malfoy beyond the heat of the moment.
"I don't – I don't know what you expect me to say."
Malfoy shrugs. "Nothing. Or...actually...why is it that – how did this start?"
James isn't entirely clear what Malfoy's talking about and he clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. "What's 'this'?"
"Does it all really come back to Quidditch?" Malfoy asks, like he's just thinking aloud. "Are you that angry when someone beats you? I mean – it was years ago, but I was the only one at school who came close to you, wasn't I?"
Uncomfortable, James just shrugs and fiddles with the torn knee of the jeans he'd pulled on after his shower.
"Does being the best matter that much to you?"
"I don't know what you – " James starts defensively.
Malfoy holds his hands up calmingly. "It's not a criticism. I'm just curious. Doesn't seem a very Gryffindor trait. I thought you lot were all about doing your best, not reaching the top no matter what."
James doesn't want to admit that Malfoy's words have struck a chord with him and he looks away, his jaw tightening. "You have no idea what I'm all about."
"Apparently not."
There's a long, long silence, and James thinks he hears Malfoy let out a little sigh before he shifts. He's obviously about to leave, and through the relief, James finds himself blurting, "It's the only thing I'm any use at."
Malfoy settles back again, looking at James contemplatively. "What?"
"Quidditch. It's the only thing I've a hope of making a living at."
Malfoy frowns and opens his mouth but James interrupts. Even as he's talking he's wondering why the hell he's saying all this to Malfoy when he's never said it to anyone, ever.
"I can't brew. Can't duel. Anything beyond basic Charms and Transfiguration passed me by, really. But that never mattered because Quidditch, I could do. It was my thing. My...the one thing I could count on. And then you..."
"What?" Malfoy demands, and now he sounds annoyed. "What did I ever do besides give you a run for your money?"
James opens his mouth to snap out a smart response and then closes it again. Really, he has no idea. No excuse. The realisation is decidedly unpleasant. "I – I suppose that was enough," he admits. "I couldn't – you were too good. I knew you could beat me, and I – I hated it."
"And that's the difference between us," Malfoy says, inclining his head slightly. "I never felt any shame about losing to you."
There's the slightest emphasis on the last word, and James nods.
"I was an idiot."
"You were," Malfoy agrees. "You were good, but I liked that about you, I didn't hate it."
James winces and nods once more. He feels like he's thirteen again, getting the 'I'm not angry, just disappointed' lecture from his dad. He has no idea what to say until Malfoy's foot taps against his own.
"Don't worry about it. All in the past, yeah?" he asks, and James nods gratefully, desperate for the awkwardness to just be over.
"All right, I - Team-mates?" he suggests, adding impulsively, "Maybe friends?"
Malfoy pauses for a long second, and James feels his heart sink. He feels like such a fucking idiot.
"Yeah," Malfoy nods eventually. "One condition, though?"
"All right..." James says warily.
"Stop calling me Malfoy, we're not in some nineteenth century novel."
James laughs and nods. "Deal." He holds out his hand and Malfoy – or Scorpius actually, and that's going to take a bit of getting used to – looks at it a moment in perplexity before he shakes James's hand.
"Maybe I was wrong about that novel," he says wryly, and James can't help laughing, dropping his head into his hands as Scorpius gets to his feet. "I should be going."
Impulsively, James says, "I want to say sorry."
Scorpius waves a hand dismissively. "No need."
"But I - "
"Oh, Merlin. Let's not get awkward, hmm?"
"But - "
Scorpius sighs and sits down again. "Alright, fine, let's get awkward. Before you start, don't feel too bad. I was a spoilt brat at school. And I did enjoy winding you up."
"I suppose I did make it pretty easy," James says grudgingly, and Scorpius laughs.
"Just a bit."
Pairing: James II/Scorpius
Rating: Hard R. Sexual activity and lots of swearing.
Summary: In which rivals become teammates. Because as Bill Shankly (almost) said, "Some people think Quidditch is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that."
Notes: The threatened second part, because when someone makes a new year's resolution on your behalf, it'd be churlish not to, right?
Words: 8500
Part 1
James is realistic enough to acknowledge that while he's talented, he probably wouldn't have got his reserve Keeper position at Puddlemere so quickly without his last name. Admittedly, his record as house captain at school was good - that one loss to Malfoy the only real blemish on his score-sheet, and that was largely cancelled out by the tightly fought victory in James's final year - but people usually don't get a first reserve position purely on the basis of their school record, with a lot of players spending a year, or two, at one of the academies in places like Skaistgirys and Treignac before making it onto a team.
James's offer had come through almost as soon as his schooling ended, before his NEWT results were released, and while the thought that some of his success is down to his name rather than his abilities is annoying on one level, most of the time James is too caught up in being surprised and amazed and thrilled that he's a proper Quidditch player - training with the professionals and actually being paid for it - to care how he got there. Anyway, he fully intends to make sure everyone knows soon enough that he'd have made it name notwithstanding.
Given the frankly ridiculous number of war-heroes in the family, James is used to having a lot to prove and he thrives on it. He trains hard with the team, and then requests extra solo-training exercises to do on his own time. Together with his godbrother and his dad, James sets up a full set of practice hoops in the back garden of his parents' house, and charms up to four Quaffles at a time to attack the posts in synchrony. His efforts pay off and he's able to push himself harder and harder in every match he plays, quickly making a name for himself at Puddlemere as a strong, determined player, open to criticism and willing to work. It's only four months after joining the squad - shockingly sudden even to James's mind - that the first team keeper goes down with Dragon Pox, and James is thrust into his first match for the starting seven.
In the twenty four hours before the match, James is sick four times, and he starts to seriously wonder if he'll be able to play. However, as soon as he gets on his broom and gets up in front of the goalposts, it's just like always, his body thrumming with the complete certainty that he's exactly where he's supposed to be. He's never been able to satisfactorily explain it to anyone, but flying feels so much more natural than walking. He does things while twenty feet in the air that make people watching him wince - or in his mother's and sister's cases, actually shriek with terror a few of times - and he doesn't even pause to consider it. It's easier than walking, even. Free and light and perfect, like he's weightless and riding on a gust of wind rather than a broom.
Puddlemere win James's debut match, and not by a slim margin, either. James has a wobbly start, letting in four goals in quick succession, but he manages to ignore the rising panic and fights back, saving shot after shot from the Tornados' admirable trio of Chasers. By the time the Puddlemere Seeker catches the Snitch James is in his element, not quite showing off, but making bold saves, taking daring risks, and loving every second of it. He almost wishes the Snitch hadn't been caught, wants that debut match to go on forever.
The first team Keeper, Adams, reclaims his place once the Dragon Pox subsides, but he takes James aside one afternoon after training and confides that the fight for his place had been a hell of a lot tougher than he was anticipating. Sensible of the compliment from such an experienced player, James forces down his disappointment at losing the first team place and starts learning the toughest, most important lesson of pro-Quidditch: you win some, you lose some, both as a team and on a personal level. It's still hard to accept with good grace though, and James has to work on not letting his frustration show, knowing that it's much easier to lose a good reputation than it is to build one up again.
James gets a few more first team matches that year, when Adams picks up a minor injury, or when the manager has chosen to rest him. He'd be lying if he said he was thrilled to be playing reserve matches, but at least he's playing. Puddlmere Reserves do well that season, finishing second in the league of reserve teams, behind only the Magpies. The weirdest part of it all for James is that he finds his name in the newspapers for reasons other than his parentage. Sports reporters are always keen to keep an eye on the reserve squads, because everyone wants to be the one who picked out a budding talent before they made a big splash.
Summer rolls around, and the season ends. Training continues, of course, albeit at a reduced level. The majority of matches are between the first team and the reserves, and they play a few friendlies with the local non-league teams. Although he's still playing and training, James finds himself at a bit of a loss. It's then that he starts to realise just how much he thrives on the sense of competition that comes with the pro-season.
The close-season is usually the time for teams to make new purchases and James has a few moments of dread, because Malfoy is trying out with various teams, and James thinks it would be just his sodding luck to end up on the same team as the pointy little bastard. Of course, he knows that in terms of the team, Malfoy would definitely be an asset. He is undeniably good. At school, people talked about Malfoy the same way they used to talk about James's dad. Whenever a team played Slytherin, it was generally accepted as a matter of when not if Malfoy would catch the snitch. Playing Slytherin was like starting with a 150 point handicap, and James knows it wouldn't be that extreme in the big leagues, but still. A Seeker like Malfoy, reserve or no, can only add to the potential of any team.
But on a personal level... On a personal level, James would be happy never to see the little shit again. There is something about the kid, something he does or says, some way he carries himself, which is just perfectly geared to get under James's skin. The way they were at school - sworn rivals who, apparently, were unable to keep their hands off each other - still confuses James. He doesn't consider that he was ever particularly attracted to Malfoy. He's pretty enough, of course, but James doesn't really go for pretty. And besides, the delicate looks that others raved about were usually twisted in disdain whenever he looked at James.
In the end, James's worrying is all for nothing, because Malfoy gets snapped up by a Bulgarian team, which is pretty fucking high praise considering the calibre of their home-grown talents in recent years, almost all coached at the Academy Krum founded in Popintsi. James tries not to think about the fact that he's vaguely disappointed he won't get to play against Malfoy. And beat him. Obviously.
Malfoy goes down a storm in Europe, and that's all James hears of him for the next few years, just that he's tearing up the Bulgarian leagues, that he's one of those hot properties that clubs want because yeah, he's only one player, but just like school, he can change the fortunes of the entire team, change the direction of a game. And he still catches the Snitch more often than he misses it.
James himself moves from Puddlemere to the Tornados in search of regular first team games the following summer. The Tornados team rotates on a different system from the one Puddlemere use, so James finds himself playing first team Quidditch at least once every couple of months. It's good, but it's still not enough, and after a couple of successful seasons there, James is a big enough part of the team to attract the notice of some of the more successful teams. He's genuinely surprised to find himself the subject of a bidding war between the Magpies and the Arrows.
The Arrows win the bidding war in the end, and sign James on as their first team Keeper. It feels a bit like fate, because Kerry Finnigan is also playing there as Seeker, trying to make inroads into the first team from the reserves. Their dads are old friends, but Kerry's a few years younger than James. She was a Ravenclaw at school, and didn't make the House team in time for them to ever play against each other competitively, but they've been playing five-a-side games in the summer holidays since they were kids.
After a few seasons, James thinks he finally feels secure. They have finished in the top two every year since he joined the team, and James doesn't think it's big-headed to feel proud that it's at least partly down to him. Of course, the rest of the team is hugely important, and James feels like he's settled in well with them, with a group of people who are almost family after a couple of intense years. The older members of the team seem to treat him and Kerry as though they need keeping an eye on at all times, and while it can be a bit stifling, it at least reassures James they don't resent him for being young and relatively inexperienced.
And then everything changes during James's fourth season with the Arrows. A couple of the older players announce their retirement at the end of the season, and Kerry tearfully leaves for the Harpies, where she's been guaranteed regular first team starts, in a surprise mid-season transfer. The last match of the season, against The Cannons is distinctly weird. Although they win, and guarantee second place at the expense of arch-rivals the Wimbourne Wasps, the atmosphere in the changing room afterwards is decidedly downbeat. Everyone knows that the team is going to be different now, that several new players will be brought in over the summer, and the likelihood of finding the same balance of camaraderie and professionalism again will be difficult.
Of course, James has no idea how difficult, until the list of close-season purchases is circulated among the players. And right there, at the top of the list, S. Malfoy (Seeker) from Vrasta Vultures.
Fucking. Hell.
He's still good. He's still really good, and one part of James's mind is already getting excited about the team's prospects with a Seeker like Malfoy. At school he was good in comparison to other schoolboys, but now, after those years in Bulgaria, he is brilliant. There's simply no other word for it. His posture is impeccable, the upright stance actually what counts for relaxed as a Seeker. He moves effortlessly around and between the other players, ducking Bludgers and rarely getting in anyone's way at all. Occasionally he will perform some showcase bit of flying, and when James manages to quiet the voice inside him that's insisting Malfoy is nothing but a bloody show off, he has to admit it's absolutely thrilling to watch.
Malfoy's first team in Bulgaria was SK Lyaskovets, who are solid but unexceptional, usually finishing in the upper half of the top Bulgarian league, but never even making a convincing run at the top three. James remembers reading that Malfoy was sought out by the Vultures, because of his flamboyant, daring style. When he'd moved on to the Vultures, famous for giving unlikely players a chance, he'd made a massive impact, helping them to win the league twice, and get to the final stage of the European cup once. There is no denying that Malfoy is an excellent player and will make a huge contribution to the team.
However, a much larger part of James's mind is occupied with worrying. This is the first full-squad practice with all the new players, and the first time James has seen Malfoy since school. Malfoy has barely spared James a glance, but that's only to be expected. Keeper and Seeker rarely have much contact over the course of a match, and James is more than content to keep it that way. Still, there is an underlying buzz of anxiety, because what if Malfoy's careful distance is covering a less neutral emotion? What if he still hates James too, what if the toxic atmosphere between them that had festered for most of James's seven years at Hogwarts hasn't died? What if it returns full-force and well and truly fucks up the reputation James has worked so hard to build? He was never able to keep his head around Malfoy, and given that only half an hour into practice, James is giving by far his worst performance in a year, that doesn't seem to have changed.
Bracing himself for the inevitable bollocking from the head coach after practice, James deliberately turns away from the sight of Malfoy sitting perfectly balanced on his broom, scanning the skies for a glimpse of the fluttering gold snitch. For the next hour, James works hard to pull himself together, and manages to deliver a passable enough performance for the rest of training, good enough that the bollocking is fairly mild when it does come. Still, even a mild telling off from Penrith Kneen is pretty terrifying. His family are legendary in the sport, and Kneen has been Beater for the best clubs in Britain and Europe, as well as playing in the famous England world cup victory of 2018.
James remembers watching that match from a box in the stadium and then watching it again and again on the Omnioculars, studying play after play. It was that game more than any other than made James understand the beauty of Quidditch, the perfect connectedness of a brilliant team in full flow. It was a madly visceral, emotional reaction, and memories of nights spent watching those perfect plays with strange a tightness in his throat are never far away.
In the end, after a relatively mild talking to on Kneen's part, and a sincere apology on James's, James ducks into a shower stall only fifteen minutes after the rest of the team left the pitch. As he washes hastily, blinking water out of his eyes, he listens to the usual exuberant shouts and jokes of a Quidditch locker room after a training session. He can't hear Malfoy's voice, and everyone else seems to be in a rush to leave. James finds himself lingering under the hot spray, deep in thought. He has to work out a way to deal with this whole Malfoy thing. He can't let schoolboy stupidity ruin everything, so he has to stop feeling angry and sick and just wrong every time he so much as looks at the pointy little twerp.
It wouldn't be so bad if Malfoy wasn't one of six new signings, three each in the first team and reserves. If it was just Malfoy, James thinks he could safely ignore him, leave some other members of the team to help him fit in. As it is, if they don't all learn to get along, the team will fall flat on its arse. There are so many new faces, and everyone has to learn to get along with everyone else. This season is going to be tough as it is, so there's no way James can exacerbate that by going to pieces every time Malfoy's around. James ducks under the shower again, rinsing suds from his hair before he shuts the water off and retrieves his wand from the shelf, casting a quick drying charm on himself.
Out in the deserted changing room he dresses quickly in jeans and an Arrows t-shirt before going through the rest of his stuff more systematically. The strings on his gloves could do with replacing, and maybe the gloves themselves could use a wax and an oiling where the leather is cracked and worn. James turns the gloves over in his hands, brushing his thumb over one of the seams, checking the evenness of the stitching. Still fine.
"Well, well," a voice drawls, and James closes his eyes. Damn it. "Isn't this tense?"
"Malfoy."
"Potter."
James grabs the last of his things from his locker and closes it carefully, resisting the urge to slam it. He wouldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction.
"Is that it?" Malfoy asks archly. "No welcome-to-the-team chat?"
"Welcome to the team," James says shortly. "Let's just keep a healthy distance, yeah?"
Malfoy actually laughs, and it's almost enough to make James turn around. Then Malfoy says, "Dear lord, Potter. Did I ruin you for other men?"
"What?" James asks, and he's distantly shocked that Malfoy would bring that crap up so blatantly.
"Well it's the only thing I can think of to explain the lingering bitterness," Malfoy says coolly.
"You wish, Malfoy," James says, and then realises he's getting caught up in conversation with the sneaky Slytherin bastard. It always happens like this. Not this time, James resolves. "Bye."
He steps towards the door of the changing rooms, deliberately not meeting Malfoy's eyes.
"Wait," Malfoy says, and James finds himself stopping for no reason he can think of. "We need to at least be able to be civil again."
"What do you mean again?" James demands, reluctantly turning to look at Malfoy at last, if only to better register his incredulity. "We were never civil."
"Well, no," Malfoy admits. "But we were never team mates before."
Much as he hates it, James knows Malfoy is right (professional as well as skilful, the little git), and he nods curtly. "Okay. I can do civil."
"Good. Everyone's going to the bar. Be civil and come with us, hmm?"
James grits his teeth, but he nods, supposing he can always ensure there are at least three people between him and Malfoy at any one time. As usual, the team find themselves in The Broken Arrow, which proudly boasts of being Appleby's premier wizarding pub. In reality, it's Appleby's only wizarding pub. There's a better scene across the estuary in Hull, but after a long practice, they're usually content to settle for the Arrow's cheap drinks and relative privacy. Local wizards and witches are so used to seeing Arrows players celebrating a victory or drowning their sorrows after a defeat, that they rarely get approached these days.
As the first team and most of the reserves, along with the magi-physio and a couple of the junior coaches all pile into the pub and order drinks, James finds himself relaxing. There are enough little groups of people getting to know each other that James is unlikely to be forced into contact with Malfoy. His relief doesn't last though, and half an hour in, James realises he can't stop staring. He's aware whenever Malfoy's eyes rest on him – which isn't all that often actually; he's busy getting to know the rest of the team, apparently charming them with consummate ease – but even more worryingly, he's aware of...just...Malfoy. Where he is, what he's doing, how he's standing.
Fuck.
Deciding that he needs something stronger than the weak Muggle-style beers that have become so fashionable recently, James starts winding his way to the bar, only to be waylaid by an arm slung around his shoulders. It's Micky Dunleavy, one of the Beaters, and probably James's best friend on the team, so James can't exactly just shrug him off and leave. Which is a damn shame, considering that Malfoy is part of the group Micky is standing with. Micky, who wasn't at Hogwarts, starts to introduce James to Malfoy.
"Yeah, we know each other already," Malfoy interrupts. "Don't we, James?"
"Well enough," James says shortly.
Micky is obviously interested. "Oh?"
"We were only a year apart at school," Malfoy says, glancing over at James.
"Oh, did you play together?" someone asks, and Malfoy gets the beginnings of a wicked grin on his face so James answers quickly.
"Against, actually."
"Mm-hmm," Malfoy nods. "We're continuing family tradition, aren't we? Hated each other's guts, didn't we?"
"We did," James says as pleasantly as he can manage.
There's a little bit of awkward laughter and then Micky launches into another of his endless stories about the girls and the clubs and whatever else he gets up to. And this, James reflects as he takes a drink, is why Micky is his friend at the club, and not outside it. James does encounter the odd bloke and less frequent – but much, much scarier, and more determined – girl, who tries to pursue him, but he's learned the art of gentle rejection by now. He avoids the worst of it because he can't stand the party scene, photographers outside the doors of nightclubs and all the rest. Micky, on the other hand, laps it up.
James mostly tunes the conversation out, keeping half an ear open enough to laugh or roll his eyes at appropriate times. And then the conversation turns, and James tunes back in fast when he hears someone turn to Malfoy and ask,
"What about you, Scorpius? Got a girl?"
"No, I'm gay," Scorpius says, and James tries not to choke on his beer. Scorpius looks around at the suddenly silent group, and James can read the building irritation clearly on his face, wonders that no one else can see it.
Eventually, James gives in to the looks the others are giving him and clears his throat. "Talk to PR, yeah? They'll handle it."
"What d'you mean, handle it?" Scorpius asks, frowning.
"I mean, handle it," James says flatly. "Another drink, anyone?"
A couple of people make non-committal noises and drift off, obviously wanting to gloss over the awkwardness. Micky and a couple of others nod and call out their requests. Malfoy just looks at James wordlessly. James buys him a beer anyway, because it will look too weird otherwise. Malfoy looks surprised when he takes it, and as soon as James can, he wanders off on the pretext of asking somebody else a question about the upcoming season.
People gradually start leaving the pub, and James decides to walk home. It's almost two miles, but James could use the fresh air, and the silence. He says his goodbyes to Micky and one or two others before ducking into the loos. He's washing his hands when the door opens, and James sees an unmistakeable flash of white blond hair out of the corner of his eyes.
Bloody hell.
"Potter! What the hell were you talking about back there?"
James doesn't even pretend to understand, not wanting to prolong their interaction. "Like I said, talk to PR."
"And exactly why is my sexuality a matter for the PR department?" Malfoy asks coolly, as though it's James's fault.
James bites his tongue and takes his hands out from under the water, waving them over the charmed drying pad. "Look, just – fucking hell. Have this conversation with someone else, yeah?"
"Oh, by all means," Malfoy scoffs, folding his arms and looking at James like he's an idiot. "Point me in the direction of another poof on the team and I'll be right out of your hair."
James throws his hands in the air and turns to face Malfoy, saying in a low voice, "Fine. Listen. Being gay is not going to stop you playing. But you have to consider the press, okay? You have to realise that they're interested in your private life and you have to be ready for how they're going to dig around for information. So PR will decide how to handle it. Simple."
When he finally stops, James thinks it's the first time he's ever seen Malfoy look less than composed.
"Wh – what do you mean, dig around?"
"Got some guilty secrets, Malfoy?" James asks, but it's more a reflexive piss-taking than anything else. He never expected to have to exchange this many words with Malfoy, especially not on a topic in which, James is forced to admit, they both have a vested interest. Not to mention a topic that pisses James off like no other. His own coming out had been only semi-voluntary, a carefully stage-managed affair that had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He never wanted to be a role model gay Quidditch player, just any old Quidditch player. The furore has mostly died down, in the face of James's relatively quiet private life, and James admittedly isn't the first, but still... It's a less than ideal situation.
"You – are you serious?" Malfoy asks, dragging James away from his thoughts. "The press will really – "
"Yes, Malfoy, the press will really make your life miserable, and make it very difficult for you to get laid with any kind of discretion. Get used to it. Do they not have press intrusion in Bulgaria?" James demands, anxious to get the conversation over with as soon as possible.
"Not – not like that. Not about that. No one really cares what players do off the pitch."
"Well, they do here. You're a celebrity now," James says, and his smile feels brittle even to himself.
"I'm – just a Quidditch player."
If only, James thinks grimly. "Wrong. Now, do you mind? I came in here for a slash, and unless you've got some really guilty secrets, there's no need for you to stay, is there?"
Malfoy scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Oh, get lost, Potter."
"No, that's your job," James says, turning away. He has to suppress a sigh of relief when he hears the door close behind Malfoy. He washes his hands again, to kill time, and splashes some cold water in his face just for good measure. He glares at himself in the mirror and shakes his head, muttering, "Come on, Jamie. Fuck's sake."
Back out in the pub, people are heading for the Floo or Apparating away. James grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and slips out into the crisp evening air. When he first moved to Appleby from Puddlemere, he'd been shocked by how much colder it was this far north. Now he's used to it, and content to laugh at his brother and sister when they visit him and wear Gran's Christmas jumpers voluntarily for the first time since they were about four. It's an easy walk home, just a couple of fairly steep hills along the way, and James lets his mind go blank as he walks. Appleby's a quiet little town, and he only sees a couple of cars, and no one else on foot.
He tries to convince himself that today wasn't a complete disaster, but he's too used to being honest with himself about his performance for the lie to take hold. He hasn't played so badly in ages, and he knows he is going to have to get a lot better at ignoring Malfoy's presence if the season is going to work out.
James's plan of ignoring Malfoy works, to a degree. Off the pitch, it works like a dream, actually. They nod if they pass each other, smile and exchange a word if there are other people around, and that's the extent of it. It sends cool relief through James, because they can manage to be, if not exactly civil, then quietly frosty with each other. And off the pitch...off the pitch, that is fine.
On the pitch, it's less than brilliant. Their determination not to engage with each other seems to spill over, and James finds that whenever the Snitch brings Malfoy near his goalposts, they are both rendered hopeless. Every time he moves, Malfoy is there, fucking up his plan to dive for this hoop, or dodge that Bludger, and it makes the blood pound in James's temples.
Exactly a fortnight before the season starts, they are finishing training by playing a full game against the reserves. An hour into the match, James makes a sharp left, leaning along the length of his broom to slap the Quaffle away from his third post. At least that's the plan, anyway. In reality, as soon as he turns he collides with Malfoy, and his patience snaps.
"Fuck! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Me?" Malfoy demands, shoulders squared and a sneer firmly in place. "Why don't you try getting out of my way once in a while?"
"Try looking where you're going!" James spits back.
"If you had half an idea – " Malfoy starts.
James raises his voice to speak over him. "You're not the most important player on the team – "
"Nor are you! Why should we all have to manoeuvre around your clumsy arse?" Malfoy demands, his hands white-knuckled on his broom.
"Don't make me laugh! You couldn't manoeuvre your way out of a wet paper bag!"
James doesn't realise how much they've been squaring up to each other until a Shield Charm erupts between them, buffeting them both back a little on their brooms. Kneen appears a second later, red faced and furious, glaring at them both like they're idiotic children.
All he says is, "On the ground. Right now."
Malfoy glares at James like this is all his fault, and swoops down to the ground. James follows a little more slowly and once he reaches the ground, he stands next to Malfoy without looking at him. Kneen looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment, and then shakes his head in obvious disgust.
"I don't know what the hell is wrong with you two – "
"I – " James starts.
At the same moment, Malfoy says, "He – "
"And I do not care," Kneen says, raising his voice to drown them out. "Neither one of you are too big for a spell in the reserves, and if this whatever the fuck it is costs us a decent league position this season, it'll also cost you your jobs."
"But – "
"One more word, Potter. Just one."
James bites his tongue.
"Sorry, Coach," Malfoy says stiffly.
James nods. "Yeah. Sorry, Coach."
"Thirty laps each. Potter, you're at thirty feet, Malfoy, you at seventy. I don't want to hear a word out of either of you. And I don't care how you do it, but once you've done your laps, you are going to sort this out."
"I – " Malfoy starts.
"Honestly. Fight. Fuck. Whatever. Just do it, and do it fast, because this pathetic teenage drama is not going to carry on much longer. Do you both understand?"
James opens his mouth to reply and Kneen just shakes his head, lifting a hand to his forehead.
"Just nod, both of you. I'm sick of the sound of your voices."
James nods miserably, and takes his broom off up to thirty feet without sparing Malfoy a glance. Flying laps might not sound like the most awful thing in the world, but James knows from experience that it's a lot worse than it sounds. Kneen sets spells to detect instability in the broomstick, and only a completely level lap will produce the chime needed for it to count towards the thirty. It requires a careful balance between speed and stability, and as James sets off on his first lap, he is aware of Kneen dismissing the rest of the team.
After a few missed laps, it's getting dark by the time James finally completes his thirty and heads for the ground. He takes it as something of a victory when realises he's done before Malfoy. Still, James hasn't made it as far as the changing rooms before he hears the bright chime of Malfoy's final lap and then a thud as Malfoy lands, close behind him.
"Potter, wait – "
"I need a shower," James says without breaking stride. He almost manages to slip through the door alone before Malfoy shoves James's shoulder and follows him into the changing room, letting the door swing shut behind them.
"Potter, for crying out loud!"
James turns to face him and tries not to flinch when he realises how close that leaves them. "What?"
"You know what! I don't want to throw my career down the drain, and I'm sure you don't either. So Kneen's right. This needs sorting."
"Yeah," James says, using the pretext of unlacing his gloves and the rest of his protective gear to step away from Malfoy a bit. "You need to learn some consideration for the players around you."
Malfoy's mouth twists like he's biting down a sharp retort. "You don't have this problem with any other players," he says eventually. "And neither do I. I think we both know this has very little to do with Quidditch."
"Don't start – "
"I mean it! You're so determined to ignore me that it spills onto the pitch, and you can ignore me all you want, but you can't ignore your team's Seeker."
Lectures on professionalism from Scorpius sodding Malfoy. The day couldn't get much worse, really, James reflects dully. The hell of it all is that James knows Malfoy is right. Unfortunately, you can't really play well with someone unless you're willing to know them, how they move, how they play. And James just does not want to know. He doesn't trust himself to look too closely, doesn't like the tight clench of his stomach every time he meets Malfoy's eye.
James knows what people would say if they knew. It seems so obvious. Someone you used to mess around with (albeit in an angry, conflicted kind of way) shows up in your life again, and you completely go to pieces. It doesn't take a genius to work out why. But James is sure it isn't that. It's more that Malfoy has seen a side of James that he himself isn't keen on. For James, sex has always been about affection, or at the very least, about fun. It's not about proving a point, or shutting someone up, and James knows most of what he feels around Malfoy is a sick sense of shame for the behaviour they seem to draw out of each other. James likes to see himself as an easygoing, calm, friendly bloke off the pitch, and Malfoy makes him wonder if that's all a lie.
"Fine," James says, aware that the silence is dragging on. He finishes pulling off his gloves and turns away to leave them in his locker until he's done in the shower, along with his outer robes. The space between them lets him breathe, and James feels powerfully relieved until he realises Malfoy has followed him, is leaning against his own locker three along from James's, looking at him coolly. "Fine," James says again. "What do you suggest?"
Malfoy arches an eyebrow. "Well, I know Kneen said fight or fuck – "
"Yeah, I think he was joking," James interrupts hastily. "Only poofs on the team and all that, we naturally must want in each other's pants."
"Yes, I'm sure that's where he drew the inference from," Malfoy says, deadpan, and James eyes him suspiciously.
"So what, then?" James asks. "What do you suggest we do?"
"Not quick, are you, Potter?" Malfoy asks, and then his hands are on James's cheeks, cool fingers bracketing his face before he leans in and kisses James hard.
For someone accused of being not quick, James thinks he moves pretty damn fast. He shoves Malfoy away from him and backs up several steps. As Malfoy looks at him, unsurprised and unruffled, James lifts a hand to his mouth and wipes the taste of Malfoy from his lips.
"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"
Malfoy shrugs and says, "Sorting it." He doesn't take his eyes off James as he steps close and James raises a hand to keep him at a distance.
"I'm warning you – "
"Of what?" Malfoy asks.
"I – "
Malfoy reaches out, lightning fast Seeker-reflexes at play, and grabs James's wrist, pulling his hand down to his side.
"Don't – " James says, and Malfoy laughs, low and darkly amused, right in his face.
"Coward."
James tightens his jaw and pulls his hand away from Malfoy, only to have it grabbed again, forced against the growing hardness in his own breeches that he's been trying so hard to ignore since Malfoy's mouth slammed onto his.
"Still nothing more than a – " Malfoy starts, and James sees red. He's never understood the expression before but his vision really does seem to waver and flush, a roaring noise takes up residence in his head, and he grabs a handful of Malfoy's hair in his free hand, hauling him close and bypassing his mouth in favour of biting at the corner of his jaw.
Malfoy seems surprised for a moment before he lets go of James's wrist and turns his head to press his mouth against James's, more pressure than kiss, and they stumble together, already yanking at clothes, their own and each other's. James is shirtless and his breeches are open, threatening to slide from his hips by the time he feels the cold tiled wall at his back.
Even though they're older and their bodies are harder and larger, it is exactly like school. Malfoy crowds him up against the wall, squeezing his shoulders and pressing him into tile like he wants to push James straight through to the next room. Malfoy's mouth and his kiss are the same biting, treacherous things they always were, and it feels good to be able to fight back, to grab and pull and squeeze with abandon.
But then Malfoy goes to his knees, and James's brain shuts down altogether, because that is nothing like school. Malfoy would never have conceded the upper hand so readily. For that matter, neither would James have done.
"Cat got your tongue, Potter?" Malfoy asks, a pleased smirk in his voice.
"Hurry up if you're going to," James says, his voice full of bravado, and maybe a little brusque, but Malfoy doesn't seem to care. He just pushes James's legs further apart before trailing his mouth over the inside of James's thigh, soft lips and then a hard bite. James swallows a groan and lets his head fall back against the tiles, squeezing his eyes shut. He can already tell that bite will leave a mark, a little smudge that will fade from purple to grey to yellow over the days.
Malfoy wastes no time at all, stroking James firmly for the scant seconds it takes to get him completely hard. As soon as he is, Malfoy's lips fit themselves around the head of James's dick and his hot mouth sinks down determinedly. James can't help letting out his breath in a hiss of pleasure, and Malfoy moans. Fucking loves it, doesn't he, James thinks fleetingly, but then further thought is impossible as Malfoy starts bobbing his head industriously, meeting the circle of his fist where he's still jerking the base of James's shaft.
The hand disappears and Malfoy starts taking him deeper. James can't stop the shallow roll of his hips but Malfoy doesn't protest or even seem to register the movement, so James does it again, and then again. Malfoy lets out a groan that sounds distinctly pleased, and James twines his fingers through Malfoy's hair, briefly holding him down with James's dick deep in his mouth, nudging the back of his throat. When James lets him go, Malfoy takes a few ragged breaths but he still doesn't complain, and James wonders just exactly what he's prepared to take.
The thought is almost enough to finish James off and as soon as Malfoy's mouth descends on him again he's coming, so lost in the hot wet pleasure of it that he barely notices Malfoy's hand stroking his slick length, coaxing yet more stuttering waves of relief out of him. James lets his head fall back against the wall again. He can feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his overheated skin tingling against the cool tiles. He hardly notices Malfoy getting to his feet until he guides James's hand between his legs. James is too wrung-out to even think about arguing and he jerks Malfoy in slow, smooth motions. There's a noise of protest and James works him harder, faster, until Malfoy slams a hot, musky kiss onto James's mouth to muffle a shout as he spills himself over James's hand.
James falls still and lets Malfoy's slumped weight hold him up against the wall. Their breathing gradually slows, and James lets his head drop back, staring up at the ceiling.
"For fuck's sake," he mutters, more annoyed at himself than anything else. Malfoy moves away without saying anything and James does the same. The silence is just too much, and James turns away without breaking it.
He thinks he sets the world record for quickest shower ever, but Malfoy is still waiting for him in the main changing rooms, sitting on one of the benches with his back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him. James groans in despair at the sight of him.
"What now?"
"Now, we sort things."
"I thought – "
Malfoy shrugs. "That was just to shut you up for five minutes. I do have an idea."
"Right," James says warily, turning away to his locker and quickly sorting through his stuff. "Well?" he asks.
"I was thinking of some moves we had to do at Vrasta," Malfoy says. "Not plays, but just...oh, I don't know. Sort of complex manoeuvres like the Beaters practice sometimes, but closer together. Krum used to make us do that instead of flying laps if certain players weren't gelling."
In spite of himself, James feels his interest piqued. He met Viktor Krum a few times as a child, and once he got over the mute hero-worship, had harangued the man with Quidditch questions until his parents had demanded he stop. But a few hours talking classic games over tea is nothing compared to training under the man for several seasons. Having packed everything away, he turns and leans against the lockers, looking over at Malfoy.
"What was he like?"
"Krum?"
James nods. "Uh-huh."
Malfoy tips his head back and looks up at the ceiling. "Amazing. Terrifying. We all loved him, but we'd never have stepped out of line. But he's fair, you know? Very fair. When he came to see me at Lyaskovets, I could hardly believe he wanted to give a starting team place to some skinny English kid."
James laughs in spite of himself and fidgets with the strap on his bag. "So. What are these moves, then?"
"Oh, they – it's not so easy to explain. I'll put together some charts and we can try them out tomorrow after training?"
Spending time with Malfoy is the last thing James wants to do after today, but he knows that Kneen was serious about the threat of ending up in the reserves. If James wants to avert that, then his only option is to work with Malfoy, to show Kneen that the effort to smooth things over is mutual.
He nods and hefts his bag. "Yeah. Alright."
The moves Malfoy shows him are just as complex as he promised. When James looks over the charts, movements inked in Malfoy's flowing script, his first thought is that it looks more like something the cheering squad would do, or one of those poncy 'air dances' that you see from time to time. He bites down on the comment though, and notices Kneen watching them from pitch-side as they start working through the complex, tight loops and parallel dives. The moves are awkward as hell at first, but they work hard at it, and after a little while, James feels like they're making a bit of progress.
When they finally stumble from the pitch, an hour and a half after everyone else has left, Malfoy pushes James up against the wall of the changing room and kisses him. They leave a trail of clothes to a shower stall, and bring each other off under the hot water, gasping and clutching and barely meeting one another's eyes.
They run through the moves Malfoy learned at Vrasta every day, and both make the starting line-up for the first match of the season. Kneen takes them aside afterwards and quietly says that he is impressed by the effort they have made. Praise from a legend, a hero of a player, feels great, and James can't deny that Malfoy is probably to thank for the progress, and therefore the praise. Still doesn't mean he likes the bloke.
And that's...it's weird, but that's how things are, for a while. They might be able to fly together better, and the collisions on the pitch might be a thing of the past, but the strained atmosphere still ratchets up over time. James feels more and more tense just because of Malfoy's sodding proximity all the time and then his skin starts to feel too tight and then... Yeah. Then they find time or make time and they get off together. It's convenient.
It's still weird as hell but it's convenient, and it keeps James on a fairly even keel. It even starts to feel almost normal until the day when Malfoy gives James a long, assessing look in response to his covert suggestions and says, "No."
James blinks in honest surprise. "What?"
"I said, 'no'," Malfoy replies tightly, undoing the spelled clasp on his robes and folding them into his locker before sitting down on one of the benches and looking up at James seriously. "I'm not going to do this anymore."
"Oh. Er...why not?" James asks tentatively, taken aback all over again by Malfoy's carefully blank tone.
"Because you don't like me," he says simply.
James laughs. "What? But – that's daft! You don't like me either," he points out.
"Yes, I do," Malfoy says in that same inflectionless tone of voice. "Of course I do."
"Oh," James says. His instinct is to leave, but... How can he? How can he walk out on a statement like that? Warily, he sits on the bench opposite Malfoy's. "I – thought you didn't."
Malfoy rolls his eyes and says, "Well, I do. And I'm not twisted enough to do this indefinitely with someone who doesn't like me."
James wonders if that's a criticism, and forces himself not to rise to the bait. "No?" he asks, for want of anything else to say.
"No," Malfoy says with a tight little smile. "Doesn't exactly do much for one's self-esteem."
Self-esteem? Merlin's beard... James never imagined that what they do would have any impact on Malfoy beyond the heat of the moment.
"I don't – I don't know what you expect me to say."
Malfoy shrugs. "Nothing. Or...actually...why is it that – how did this start?"
James isn't entirely clear what Malfoy's talking about and he clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. "What's 'this'?"
"Does it all really come back to Quidditch?" Malfoy asks, like he's just thinking aloud. "Are you that angry when someone beats you? I mean – it was years ago, but I was the only one at school who came close to you, wasn't I?"
Uncomfortable, James just shrugs and fiddles with the torn knee of the jeans he'd pulled on after his shower.
"Does being the best matter that much to you?"
"I don't know what you – " James starts defensively.
Malfoy holds his hands up calmingly. "It's not a criticism. I'm just curious. Doesn't seem a very Gryffindor trait. I thought you lot were all about doing your best, not reaching the top no matter what."
James doesn't want to admit that Malfoy's words have struck a chord with him and he looks away, his jaw tightening. "You have no idea what I'm all about."
"Apparently not."
There's a long, long silence, and James thinks he hears Malfoy let out a little sigh before he shifts. He's obviously about to leave, and through the relief, James finds himself blurting, "It's the only thing I'm any use at."
Malfoy settles back again, looking at James contemplatively. "What?"
"Quidditch. It's the only thing I've a hope of making a living at."
Malfoy frowns and opens his mouth but James interrupts. Even as he's talking he's wondering why the hell he's saying all this to Malfoy when he's never said it to anyone, ever.
"I can't brew. Can't duel. Anything beyond basic Charms and Transfiguration passed me by, really. But that never mattered because Quidditch, I could do. It was my thing. My...the one thing I could count on. And then you..."
"What?" Malfoy demands, and now he sounds annoyed. "What did I ever do besides give you a run for your money?"
James opens his mouth to snap out a smart response and then closes it again. Really, he has no idea. No excuse. The realisation is decidedly unpleasant. "I – I suppose that was enough," he admits. "I couldn't – you were too good. I knew you could beat me, and I – I hated it."
"And that's the difference between us," Malfoy says, inclining his head slightly. "I never felt any shame about losing to you."
There's the slightest emphasis on the last word, and James nods.
"I was an idiot."
"You were," Malfoy agrees. "You were good, but I liked that about you, I didn't hate it."
James winces and nods once more. He feels like he's thirteen again, getting the 'I'm not angry, just disappointed' lecture from his dad. He has no idea what to say until Malfoy's foot taps against his own.
"Don't worry about it. All in the past, yeah?" he asks, and James nods gratefully, desperate for the awkwardness to just be over.
"All right, I - Team-mates?" he suggests, adding impulsively, "Maybe friends?"
Malfoy pauses for a long second, and James feels his heart sink. He feels like such a fucking idiot.
"Yeah," Malfoy nods eventually. "One condition, though?"
"All right..." James says warily.
"Stop calling me Malfoy, we're not in some nineteenth century novel."
James laughs and nods. "Deal." He holds out his hand and Malfoy – or Scorpius actually, and that's going to take a bit of getting used to – looks at it a moment in perplexity before he shakes James's hand.
"Maybe I was wrong about that novel," he says wryly, and James can't help laughing, dropping his head into his hands as Scorpius gets to his feet. "I should be going."
Impulsively, James says, "I want to say sorry."
Scorpius waves a hand dismissively. "No need."
"But I - "
"Oh, Merlin. Let's not get awkward, hmm?"
"But - "
Scorpius sighs and sits down again. "Alright, fine, let's get awkward. Before you start, don't feel too bad. I was a spoilt brat at school. And I did enjoy winding you up."
"I suppose I did make it pretty easy," James says grudgingly, and Scorpius laughs.
"Just a bit."
