Twinsensibility Part Five

[dysonrules]

I had to write this at work in between reconciliations. HAHA! Thankfully, it's kept me from going into a numeric coma.

It was an accident. Lorcan reacted without thinking, which was an unforgivable sin for a Ravenclaw. He had just been so… livid.

He stared at the dots of pink snow in horror, following the uneven splotches as they grew darker, reaching true red beneath the head of Aaron MacMillan, who sprawled on the snow, unmoving.

Lysander sat on his knees next to Aaron, looking at Lorcan in horror. “Get Pomfrey!” Lysander yelled. Lorcan wanted to run, but he could not seem to move. “Lorcan, now!”

His brother’s frantic tone penetrated Lorcan’s shock, but instead of running he lifted his wand and cast a Patronus. A white flash in the shape of a hawk exploded from the end of his wand and sped away toward the castle.

Several students clustered around the prone figure of Aaron, most of them whispering uselessly. One sixth-year Gryffindor cast a spell that, thankfully, seemed to stop the bleeding.

Pomfrey was fast, despite her age. She arrived in a flurry of robes and snow. “What happened?” she cried. That was the point where Lorcan broke and ran. He fled for the castle, knowing his actions had no rational explanation. He would probably have detention for a month, but no punishment could be worse than the look on Lysander’s face.

Lorcan bolted through the castle doors and headed for Ravenclaw Tower before veering off and making his way to his favourite brooding place. Events replayed over and over in his mind—if only he hadn’t been so angry.

Snow had fallen early, sending the students outside in paroxysms of glee. Just two days ago it had been balmy and almost too warm. Snowballs fights and snow angels had ensued. Lysander had been playing with an assorted group, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs mostly. They had been screwing around, tossing snowballs and enchanting them into silly shapes. Lorcan had ignored them and attempted to construct the tallest snow fort in Hogwarts history.

At least, he had ignored them until some idiot yelled, “Kiss tag!” Lorcan had looked up just in time to spot Aaron McMillan tackle Lysander into the snow and plant a kiss on his lips. Lorcan had gone a bit insane. His wand was already in hand—he had been using it to freeze the snow into blocks of ice better for building. The hex had flown before he was even aware of it. He remembered Aaron flying through the air and slamming hard into a nearby tree. And then the blood reddening the snow... and Lysander’s horrified look.

Lorcan walked briskly through the Hall of History. It was basically a museum of relics related to past Headmasters, Professors, and students of Hogwarts. Several brooms stood in glass cases—donated by famous Quidditch playing alumni. Many ancient robes, a few wands, and a large assortment of furnishings occupied various parts of the room. Lorcan skirted the desk supposedly preferred by Salazar Slytherin and headed for what he considered his private alcove.

Entry required a bit of a climb. Several bricks stuck out at strategic angles, leading to an upper gallery that had apparently been sealed off and forgotten. It looked out over the Hall, but from below it merely looked like a dark spot on the wall. He and Lysander had discovered it in their first year and used it as a private getaway. He had spent hours up here reading while Lysander had doodled pictures instead of studying, but Lys never complained about spending all of their time together.

Maybe that would change now. Things had become so strange between them lately. Ever since their first kiss when Lysander leaped off the wall... well, they had certainly snogged enough. Lorcan could not seem to get enough, although he seldom initiated contact. He did not want Lysander to know the depth of his need, but Lys always seemed to sense it, anyway. He had fairly pounced on Lorcan after last night’s Quidditch game, dragging him beneath the Hufflepuff stands and pushing him against a supporting post. Their tongues had battled for dominance until Lysander made a squeaking noise, forcing Lorcan to notice that his hands were gripping his brother’s arse far too tightly.

Lorcan’s erection had been agonizing. He had gone beyond wanting to snog Lysander senseless. His imagination had moved eagerly into the territory of picturing them naked, writhing, sucking at each other. He wanted more more more... But he was not certain how Lysander felt. He would do anything, deny himself anything, to keep from hurting Lysander. If Lys was willing to grant him a few kisses, then Lorcan would take what he could get.

He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes and tried to regain control. It was stupid of him to have lost it. Aaron McMillan had only been playing a silly game. And yet, when he had kissed Lysander, it had sent rage flooding every cell of his being. Lorcan could give himself all the pep talks in the world, it did not change the fact that Lysander was his. Goddamn it all, Lysander was his.

“I thought I’d find you here,” a familiar voice said softly.

Lorcan did not open his eyes. “Merlin, Lys, I’m so sorry.”

He was suddenly enveloped in warm arms and Lysander’s lips pressed into his throat. “Shhhhh,” Lysander said in a soothing tone. “It’s not your fault. You’re just a bit too impulsive these days.”

Lorcan opened his eyes. He was not certain what irritated him more—the fact that Lysander was defending his unconscionable act or the possible reprimand in his words. Impulsive? Did Lys mean the incident with Aaron? Or what was happening between them?

Lysander’s lips found his in the next moment and Lorcan closed off the questions battering his tired mind. When Lysander kissed him nothing else mattered. He willingly sank into mindless bliss.

“You’ll have detention forever,” Lysander whispered. “I suppose we had best make the most of our time together.”

Lorcan held him tightly and kissed him again, intent on doing just that.