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“Coevolution: Jaguars and Jack Rabbits”
She wasn’t my first love, but she’ll be my last. Regardless of who ever comes after, or who may come between us, she will always be a part of me, and I will love her until I sing my final swan song or she sings hers.
Her name is Wendy Darling. And she had no business being placed in the bumbling hands of a then-fourteen-year-old boy who had no idea what to do with so much power and beauty. But she was mine, and I fell in love with her the first time I caressed her neck with shaking, eager fingers. When I touched her that first time, inexpertly and experimentally, she let out an ugly, horrifying wail, like a dying beast.
But she taught me how to do it properly, how to touch her just right to make her cry prettily. And as I learned to make her moan beneath the firm press of my fingertips, Wendy Darling made me a man. She seduced this coy little boy out of his cocoon and allowed me to transform into a sensual creature, aware of his own power to seduce and to enchant, if only for one rapt moment of pleasure.
“It’s almost obscene, the way you touch it,” Scorpius says, just a faint hint of a blush coloring his cheeks.
I giggle, blushing equally, but smirking nonetheless. “Yeah, it sort of is.”
Alexa rolls her eyes at us. “Typical teenage boys. You make everything phallic.”
Lloyd retorts, quirking a disbelieving brow in her direction, “Come on, Lex. It isn’t much of a stretch. You can’t tell me that doing that,” he gestures at me, “Isn’t highly reminiscent of doing this,” he pantomimes something vaguely masturbatory with his hand.
Scorpius’ blush deepens. “I didn’t even mean that. I just meant… Albie gets really into it.”
Of course, leave it to Scorpius, heart-breaking-ly sweet and adorably naïve Scorpius, to completely overlook the sexual nature of my very first torrid love affair.
My love affair with Wendy Darling. Twenty-four inch scale, nine-point-five inch fret board radius, and miles of pure, sleek sex. Her solid body is all smooth curves, hewn from alder wood. Her elegant neck is made of maple and rosewood. She’s adorned with gleaming, silver, single-coil humbucker pickups and shiny, chrome knobs. She’s baby blue and dirty blond and all mine.
Dad had probably been over-compensating for something when he gifted me with a Fender Jaguar as my first electric guitar. You wouldn’t give a novice flier a top-of-the-line racing broom, but clearly dad had not followed this logic when he gave a Jaguar to a kid that sort of knew how to play guitar.
Even though I had not yet known the nuances of playing an electric guitar of this epic magnitude, I would not squander this gift. I gave her a name, because every guitar of this caliber and artistry deserves one. I knew she’d be my companion forever as I flew off to fantastical lands with lost boys. So I named her Wendy Darling. I had no idea that playing guitar could be such a sensual, carnal, emotional experience until Wendy taught me how to make her sing.
“I didn’t mean it like that either,” I say, lying just a little bit about the pseudo-sexual nature of guitar playing, so as to not seem like a complete pervert in front of Scor. “When I play guitar, it’s like… my whole body resonates with her,” I explain, wistful, “I feel her vibrations deep in my bones.” I sigh and close my eyes, like a lovesick fool, “Gods, and the way she makes me feel…”
Alexa breaks my reverie with her wry commentary. “You jealous, S?” she prods Scorpius.
Scorpius giggles, perhaps a bit nervously, and blushes impossibly harder. “Why should I be?”
Duston throws his hands up and declares, “Hell, I ship it. I ship Albie and Wendy hard.”
I chuckle and say, “It’s an open relationship. I want everybody that listens to me to feel the way I do.”
“We do! I love watching you play, Albie!” Scorpius happily admits. “You play that guitar like it’s an extension of your body. Like it’s a part of yourself that you really love touching.” He says it with an innocent intonation, but with a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s more astute to the innuendo than he’s leading us to believe.
“It really is,” I begin to explain as I quietly strum a melody, “Sometimes I get into a particularly intricate guitar riff, I hit every string just right, I feel every individual note flow from my fingers, and it’s just so bloody perfect.” I bite my lip and groan, as if savoring the notes as I play them. “Mm, like that.”
“So, it’s like musical masturbation, is what you’re saying,” Lloyd clarifies, “And your audience is basically watching you wanking off, and thus getting off on you getting off.”
Everyone groans at Lloyd’s vulgarity, though laughing as they do. And even though Alexa admonishes him with a slap on the shoulder, she’s still chuckling. Scorpius is giggling and hiding his blushing face behind his hands, shaking his head with playful disapproval.
I give up and facetiously concede, “Yeah. It is. Band practice is basically a wank fest in my basement. I hope you brought tissues, because the boys will be here any minute now.”
As if on cue, mum calls down to the basement. “Albie, the band’s here!” It’s more of a warning than an announcement.
Everyone hurriedly hides any signs of magic – wands are shoved into pockets, magical sweets are stashed away, wizarding magazines are hidden under the seat cushions of the old sofa. And just in time too, because four of my mates from the neighboring muggle town come bounding down the basement stairs, lugging instrument cases.
It’s near the end of the summer, and The White Lies have been making sure to get in at least two practices a week before I go back up to That Boarding School in Scotland. The boys quickly get to work setting up.
Scorpius comes up to me as I tune Wendy again. He knows he’s not disturbing me. “You gonna ask them tonight?” He twists his hands in the front of his shirt nervously.
My attention moves from the tuning pegs of my guitar to Scorpius’ face. I can’t help but be amused by how unsure he looks – as if he really doesn’t know that I’d do anything for him. Even if it meant the risk of accidentally breaking the Statute of Secrecy.
I give him a reassuring smile. “Of course. I’ll talk to them. But only if you’re sure.”
Scorpius nods emphatically. “I’m sure. I don’t want to end the summer any other way.”
And that’s why I find myself asking muggles to come perform at a party at Malfoy Manor. Scor’s ancestors must be turning over in their graves knowing that a muggle rock band would be setting foot upon their estate to perform muggle music.
Love’s a funny thing. It makes you want to do the impossible. And before I’ve really thought through the logistics, I’m inviting a bunch of muggles to a party at Scor’s house. Scor is bouncing on his soles and clapping excitedly when the boys enthusiastically agree. Of course, they’d agree. A captive audience at a mansion, alcohol, no parents, and girls – what’s there to object to?
And even though I’ve just made Scorpius hugely happy by just agreeing to this, my heart immediately sinks. Oh. Shit. How are we ever going to pull this off? There is the issue of getting the band and the equipment to bloody Wiltshire, and then setting up on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and then somehow getting electricity out to the equipment by non-magical means, and then hoping that all of my friends remember not to use magic in front of my muggle band. Never mind the fact that Scor’s gran is going to be home and we have to somehow hide a party and a band from her. Scorpius is going to be so gutted when I fail to pull this off because there is a very big possibility that I won’t be able to.
I’ll have to figure it out later. For now, The White Lies needs to rehearse in preparation for another gig at the local dive.
We’ve been performing at The Rusty Bucket every Friday since the beginning of summer. It’s far from glamorous, with sticky floors and rickety booths. Kit, the salty barkeep with ugly tattoos, claims he’d been part of the punk scene in London back when he was a kid. He has a soft spot for scrappy local teenage rock bands, and that’s how we got this regular gig.
When we started playing at Rusty’s, as the locals fondly refer to the pub, the only people that ever showed up to see us perform were our friends and family – our parents were obliged to come every time, since we’re minors. The pub regulars used to clear out before our set, but soon, they started staying. Word got out that we’re actually rather good. And once our synth player, Jamaal, began posting videos of our performances on the muggle interweb, lots of kids from the neighborhood started showing up. Before we knew it, we had a decent following, and now we have a good reason to be sharp for our performances.
It blows my mind that total strangers can sing along to our original songs. It was surreal when it first started happening. To know that music I wrote is affecting people enough to sing and dance – that’s a rush I’d never felt before and one I want to keep on feeling. My rock star dreams are coming true, if just on a small scale, but it’s brilliant.
But really, the only opinion that matters to me is Scorpius’. All of the songs I write are about him in some way. He’s my muse and he’s only vaguely aware of it – at least, he acts like he’s unaware that my love songs are about him.
The band is ready to start practicing. My friends are all squeezed together on the sofa, just sort of there for lack of anything better to do. Except Scorpius – he’s always the most enthusiastic person in the audience, whether it’s rehearsal or a gig at Rusty’s. You could almost say he’s my biggest fan, but he’s more than a fan. He’s the reason I even have songs to play. He inspires me more than he’ll probably ever know.
“What should we start with?” I ask the band.
Before any of them can answer, Scorpius blurts out, “Jack Rabbit Heart Beat! I wanna hear that one first.”
Scorpius is the only non-band-member who is entitled to dictate what we play. And the band has learned not to question him. He’s our biggest supporter, after all, and our loudest cheerleader at gigs. If Scor wants us to start with Jack Rabbit Heart Beat, then we’ll do it happily.
Daniel counts off the beat on his drumsticks, and then we come in with a jaunty rhythm in unison. And I become a different person. When I’m performing, even just practicing, I transform. It’s not a conscious effort – it just happens. The music takes over me and Wendy Darling lets me out of my protective shell. I’m out there and vulnerable and putting my heart on my sleeve and it’s totally okay because Wendy gives me license to be who I really am, even if it’s overly emotional or hyper sensual.
My lips brush against the microphone as I sing and I can literally feel the electricity flowing through me like a spark, jolting me to life.
“Can you feel me burning? Can you feel the heat? Can you feel the rhythm of my jack rabbit heart beat?”
As I sing the words and emote with my voice and writhe with the cry of my guitar, my eyes never leave Scorpius’. How can he not know that this song is about him? I find it terribly ironic that he’s singing along, bouncing in his seat, verbalizing how he makes me feel without acknowledging it in actuality.
“You touch me and my pulse starts to race. It feels like fever when I look at your face. I can’t control myself, I’m all over the place. Put your finger on my pulse. Baby feel my jack rabbit heart beat.”
There’s something so intimate about Scor watching me intently while mouthing the lyrics along with my voice – it makes me feel connected to him in ways we have never been able to connect otherwise. And as his lips move in synchrony with mine, it almost feels like a kiss, and I know it is the closest we will ever come to actual kissing. Part of me loves this connection that we have that I share with nobody else, and part of me feels heartbroken that it will never translate physically.
Later that night, after band practice, after the basement empties out and only Scorpius remains, we sprawl out on the sitting room sofa to watch telly. Scor’s more interested in watching than I am, as is usually the case. I’m just over the moon that he’s here with me, holding my hand like it’s nothing, and blissfully unaware of how he’s making my heart do flips inside my chest, oblivious to my jack rabbit heart beat.
I’ve been in unrequited love with Scorpius for so long that I’ve forgotten that it hurts. Because the pain of Scorpius not loving me the way I love him is but a dull and negligible ache buried deep inside me, compared to this bliss - the bliss of being Scorpius’ best friend – the joy of being special and worth keeping close – the delight of being allowed privileges such as these that nobody else is allowed. Nobody is closer to Scorpius than I am. Not Alexa, not Duston.
Later still, Scorpius convinces his mum to let him sleep over my house. We stay up whispering to each other – me in my bed, Scor in the trundle next to my bed. We talk about the movie we watched on telly and Scor gushes over the soundtrack.
“I love that song. How did it go again?” He starts to sing what he remembers of it, which is remarkably a lot. “Cause it's so perfect, I'm so perfect, you're so perfect, you're not here…”
I can only smile, nod, and half-heartedly agree. “Yeah, it’s not half bad.”
He knows my taste in music is very particular, and I’m sure he can tell that I’m not all that into the song he’s decided to obsess over. I figure that he’ll soon forget about it – just another one of his fleeting favorites, as fickle as his music palate is.
He hums the melody and then suddenly he’s in my bed, singing and tickling me and I’m trying to shush him while giggling and telling my body to calm the fuck down - he’s just playing around. Because his fingers are dipping under my pajama shirt to get a good, proper tickle in, but his hands set my bare skin alight.
“Stop, Scor,” I whine breathlessly between giggles, even though I don’t want him to stop.
I’m on fire from just that innocent brush of his hands on me, and I’m desperate for more. But I know that it’s unfair to encourage him because my need for his touch is anything but innocent.
But he ceases his assault with a resigned sigh before collapsing beside me. “It’s a good song. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he teases.
He makes no indication that he’s going to sleep in his own bed, and part of me wants to kick him out of mine, because it has become increasingly difficult to hide my excitement from him as we’ve grown bigger. I don’t want to be that creep that pops an erection while sharing a bed with his best mate.
But he’s so warm and so soft and has the smell of summer on his skin and all I want to do is to touch him and play him like a cherished instrument. We’re two, large, fifteen-year-old boys, squished so close to one another on the little bed that I can feel the side of his hip digging into mine, and it conjures fantasies of him lying on top of me, his hips fitting perfectly over mine, and then I am that creep that’s popping an erection while sharing a bed with his best mate.
I bite my lip hard and turn my back to him, admonishing myself for being such a pathetic, horny bastard who can’t control himself.
Scorpius knows me well and senses my tension. “You okay, Albie?” he whispers with concern.
“Mm-hm,” I say, perhaps more stiffly than I mean to. After all, I’m dealing with a stiffy, trying to get it to go away by sheer will alone.
But Scorpius isn’t buying it. “Albie, I’m sorry if I tickled you when you didn’t want me to.” He sounds a little dejected.
“Mm-hm,” I say again, trying to sound softer and reassuring, but obviously failing.
“I guess we’re getting a bit old for it. I’m sorry that I’m so immature sometimes,” he mumbles, self-depreciatingly. Gods, he’s so adorable, I could just kiss this sweet, innocent angel.
I glance at him over my shoulder and smile at him in the dim moonlight coming through my open window. “It’s alright, Scor. Really.”
He sighs sadly. “Goodnight, Albie.”
I’m not convincing him that it’s okay. Probably because it really isn’t okay. But I can’t very well tell my best mate to stop touching me because I secretly want him to touch me in ways best mates aren’t supposed to touch.
This isn’t the first time we’ve shared a bed and even now, when we’re nearly sixteen and too big to fit on my little mattress, it will only feel slightly inappropriate. And that inappropriateness is entirely my fault. I’d die before I let my hormones ruin our friendship. I’d die without Scorpius. And then I realize that not even Wendy Darling could make me feel the way Scorpius makes me feel, and that’s saying something. I’d much sooner give up Wendy than Scorpius.
About a week later, I’m lazily stroking the frets of my acoustic guitar while Scorpius is lounging on my bed, humming something completely contrary to what I’m playing. And I realize he’s singing that ridiculous song again.
“Is that the song from that movie we watched?” I ask him.
He nods, smiling. “Will you play it for me?” Scorpius requests. And then my heart soars when he says, “I want to hear you sing it.”
Gods, how does Scorpius not know that I’m completely in love with him? He must know that every song I sing, I sing for him. Every lyric and every note I compose has been written for him. I’m his own personal minstrel, at his beck and call. What do I have to do to make him realize that he’s the reason why my heart sings?
Of course, I’ll play it for him. I will have to learn this stupid song that I don’t even like, and find enough pleasure in singing it to make Scorpius smile. I’ll do it, and I’ll do it happily, because Scorpius actually wants to hear me sing it.
“I’m pretty brilliant with a guitar Scor, but I can’t just play any song without learning it first,” I say with a soft chuckle.
Scorpius pouts with disappointment. It’s the reaction of a spoiled child, but Scorpius has always worn entitlement with grace and beauty, as all Malfoys do.
And then the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, shifting his pout from one of displeasure to one of subtle manipulation. “Well, will you learn it? For me?”
Damn, this kid. Scorpius knows exactly how to play me. Inwardly, I’ve already agreed, but he feels like I need to be persuaded, and I’m all for his method of persuasion. That sweet little grin could drive me to commit crime. It’s the smile I press my lips to when I dream of kissing him. It’s the smile that he reserves just for me. It’s the smile that wraps me around his finger. I’ll never complain.
It reminds me that there’s a new song I’ve been working on, and I put off learning that other song for now. “I want to play you something else. Something new.”
Scorpius’ face lights up as he claps his hands excitedly. “Ooh a new song! What’s it called?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet. You know I don’t title my songs until they’re done.” I absently strum my acoustic, trying to remember the exact chord progression. And when I find it, I start singing with eyes closed. It’s a slow ballad, a bit cheesy, but I know the band will manage to turn it around and make it into something upbeat when I let them get their hands on it.
“When you smile at me that way, I fall to pieces on the floor. When you walk out the door, you always leave me wanting more. Your smile is disarming. Your smile is a warning. That if I get too close it will become an addiction. Love is like an affliction. So take care when you flash that grin, don’t pull me in, don’t pull me in. I know I’ll never win.”
When I finish, I open my eyes, and I’m surprised to find Scorpius looking at me with a troubled expression. “That’s a really sad song, Albie.” There’s that pout again, but this time it’s genuinely sad.
“It’s not meant to be really sad,” I explain, “If it came from a really sad place, I would have written it in minor chords. But it’s a major chord progression, so it sounds… pretty.”
Scorpius shrugs, not convinced. “Yeah, it’s pretty, but it’s also sad. The lyrics are really, erm… defeatist, I guess is the word for it.”
He’s never been so negatively critical before. I bite my lip nervously and bow my head. “Is it that… bad?”
Then Scorpius’ smile suddenly reappears. “Oh my goodness, no! I love it! I just don’t like to see you so sad, and your voice sounded so sad when you sang it.”
“Did it really?” I don’t even realize how very into it I get.
Scorpius nods slowly, “It made my heart hurt.”
“Awh, I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Scorpius reassures me. “It’s your talent. It’s what makes you good at what you do. You make people feel things. Things they never knew they could feel.”
I grin stupidly and blush at the compliment. It’s the best review I could ever receive. And if I weren’t so used to being in unrequited love, I’d read too deeply into what Scorpius has said. If I didn’t know better, I’d interpret a deeper meaning to his words and let it give me hope.
Don’t pull me in, don’t pull me in. I know I’ll never win.
The end of summer comes sooner that any of us would like, and before we know it, it’s the day of the big party at Malfoy Manor. Luck is remarkably on our side every step of the way. Scor’s dad and his Uncle Theo portkey out of the country early that morning. Scor, little devil that he is, manages to pilfer a shit tonne of alcohol from his mum’s house, and gets his gran to eat just enough fever fudge to keep her inside Malfoy Manor for the night.
Courtesy of granddad’s collection of muggle things, I rig up extension chords from the boathouse by the lake at the Malfoy estate. They’re not actually plugged into anything, but the band doesn’t know that, and Scorpius’ brilliant magic ensures that it supplies a steady flow of electricity.
Jamaal’s older sister borrows their parents’ mini van and she drives the band and all the equipment to Wiltshire. Soon after they arrive, the invited guests start showing up with their own guests in tow, and the party becomes bigger than Scor and I ever expected.
It’s going to be fucking brilliant. One for the history books. Although we’ve made it clear to everybody that there are muggles in our midst, I can feel the magic buzzing in the humid, late summer air. It’s a different sort of magic. It’s an energy that we’re all generating – an electric feeling of unbridled revelry that only a party in the absence of adult supervision can provide.
Everyone is properly buzzed by the time The White Lies takes the stage. I’ve drunk only just enough to take the edge off – not that I’m the least bit edgy. I know tonight’s going to be special, and I’m ready for it. With Wendy strapped to me, I’m already uninhibited enough to not care what comes out of my mouth.
We launch into our set, and it’s like an outdoor music festival from the get go. Duston sets off a mosh pit of sorts, and I lose sight of Scorpius for a moment. But then he emerges from the chaos of drunk, wild teenagers, and he’s all I see. He’s my anchor and my muse, and I sing every song like a lascivious serenade, straight to the object of my affection and my desire, disregarding the connotations of how I move my fingers along the fret board or how I slink around the microphone stand.
Midway through our set, I plan on playing that stupid song that Scorpius wanted me to learn. I don’t even know if he remembers. We’d been practicing the song on our own, outside of rehearsals at my house, so that it’s a complete surprise for Scorpius.
“This one’s for you, Scor.” I give him a cheeky wink, because maybe I’m a bit more buzzed than I’d like to admit.
Within the first three notes, Scorpius’ eyes go wide. He looks as if he’s in shock. I had expected him to go nuts for this song, but he’s just standing there, dumbstruck, and I wonder if he’d forgotten about the song. He’s so uncharacteristically still, that I begin to worry that I’ve somehow offended him with this song. I carry on, hiding my growing concern and burying the sinking feeling that I’ve upset Scorpius. When I’m on stage, I’m pretty good at keeping in-character, never letting my cocky rock star persona slip to reveal the nervous boy on the inside.
When I get to the chorus, a spell seems to break, and Scorpius is himself again. He’s singing all the words and dancing around wildly with Alexa, spinning her around gleefully. For a moment, I’m jealous, but it’s a fleeting moment, because I realize that Scorpius’ eyes have never left mine. It doesn’t matter who he’s dancing with – he’s here with me, in body and in soul.
The song ends, leaving me and everybody at the party breathless. Scorpius is frozen again, staring at me like time has stopped, with so much hanging heavily between us. I can’t understand what I’ve done to make him act so strangely. Inside, I’m screaming, don’t you understand, Scor? Every song is for you. I love you, damn it!
He looks feverish from dancing and from the heat of the night. His hair is all askew, his cheeks are pink and dewy, and his flimsy tee shirt is damp with sweat and clinging to him. He looks like a right mess, but in that singular moment, he makes my chest tighten. He’s so beautiful and so perfect and I want to tell him that I love him so fucking badly. His eyes are silver-blue flames, sparkling through the dusk with some sort of emotion that I can’t quite discern. And for a few seconds that pass like slow treacle, Scorpius looks at me like he knows – like he really knows. I don’t have to tell him how I feel because he’s always known and he’s finally allowed himself to believe it. No more playing naïve, no more hiding behind denial.
And for the very first time, the love that I project with every ounce of my being is being reflected back at me – without words, without action. I can tell, just from the look in Scorpius’ eyes. Because I’m so used to being friend-zoned, I believe that this moment will be fleeting – that he’ll glance away and I’ll realize that I was seeing things that weren’t really there.
But he moves towards me. His steps are anxious, determined. Initially, I think he might even be angry for whatever ridiculous reason. I think he might want me to stop playing – perhaps I didn’t imagine it and I really did make him feel something, and maybe it’s something he’s not ready to deal with. Maybe he needs to shut this down right now before somebody gets hurt, before we ruin our friendship.
“Scor, we’re not done with the s--.” I don’t get to finish my sentence and protest that the set’s not over.
In a gesture that’s somehow both possessively aggressive and tender at the same time, Scorpius grabs me behind the neck. At the back of my mind, I’m worried that he’s touching me when I’m all sweaty and gross. But at the forefront of my consciousness, I’m saying, oh my gods he’s touching me! And in the next moment, OH MY GODS HE’S KISSING ME! And I could just die right then and there.
My knees go weak and threaten to buckle under the heaviness of my guitar that’s wedged between us and the weight of this moment. Scorpius’ lips are softer and warmer and more wonderful than I had ever imagined. And despite the extensive fantasies I’d had about kissing Scorpius, it still hadn’t prepared me for the real thing.
He kisses me like we’ve been doing it for ages, like it’s natural. And really, it is – it’s the most natural progression of our friendship, and feel like it was always meant to happen. It took a while, but it happened exactly the way it was supposed to.
I’m feeling every single song I’ve written about Scorpius. I’m the personification of that jack rabbit heart beat, thrumming in time with Scorpius’ own. I’m in love, and it doesn’t hurt anymore.
I’m only vaguely aware of everyone cheering us on, and my smug inner rock star is loving the attention. It’s better than any raucous call for an encore. My cousins Roxy and Freddie choose the perfect moment to set off the fireworks they’d procured from their dad. Scorpius is startled and gasps against my mouth, mid-kiss. When we giggle, there is no question that this kiss hasn’t changed our friendship, and I’m glad. I’m still in love with my best mate, and maybe, my best mate is in love with me too.
The party manages to rage on well into the small hours of the night. It’s near dawn when revelers start dropping like flies, strewn about the lawn in passed-out heaps of drunkenness and exhaustion. Scorpius and I are snuggled up lakeside on a blanket. I refuse to let my eyes close, lest I fall asleep and wake up to find that it was all a dream.
I stare bleary-eyed at Scorpius as my hand gently cups his face, and I trace his bottom lip with my thumb. His mouth is still pink and perhaps a little bit raw from all the snogging – we had a lot of catching up to do. I appreciate all the ways I’ve already been privileged to touch him, and begin to think about the grand possibilities that have opened up for us – all the wonderful ways we can touch one another, now that this final barrier between us has broken. But there’s no rush. I know in my heart that we have forever.
Scorpius settles in with his face buried against my neck and I smile at the prospect him falling asleep in my arms, whereas just a couple weeks ago, I’d been ashamed to share a bed with him. His hand slides from my shoulder to my chest and comes to rest over my heart.
“Baby feel my jack rabbit heart beat,” he sings languidly, and it’s nearly a whisper. We sing the chorus together, as if it was always meant to be sung as a duet.
“Best party ever,” I mumble hoarsely, the night’s revelry finally catching up with me.
Scorpius chuckles against my skin and the warmth of his breath makes me shiver pleasantly. Then he moves to stare down at me pointedly. “You’re only saying that because you got snogged.”
I have to laugh, because his vague allusion to this amounting to an end-of-summer hook-up is ridiculous.
“Well yeah, but only because it’s you,” I admit.
And just so he knows that this is so much more than a random make-out session at a party, I flash him a mischievous grin and pull him down for a proper kiss. His lips may be practically bruised at this point, but he’s not complaining.
My tongue licks a teasing, hesitant line across his top lip and he opens his mouth just enough to let out a small, pleased gasp. “Oh, fuck… What was that?”
I giggle and press my puckered lips against his flushed cheek.
Maybe we’re not ready for full-on French kissing at this point, and that’s okay. After all, we need to save something for when we’re alone. And there will be a time when we’re all alone, away from the eyes of our friends, hidden behind a locked door, with not even the barrier of clothing to separate us.
And I can’t hardly wait.