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They are fifteen. Long awkward limbs, and bodies that seem suddenly too big. Feelings that seem to bubble out of nothing, and tempers that flare.
They are fifteen, and trying to revise in their bedroom and Albus is furious. How can Scorpius be so clever, so able to understand this bloody Transfiguration nonsense? Scor isn’t even trying, Albus fumes, and it’ll all stay in his brain like he used a Permanent Sticking Charm.
Albus is fifteen, and he’s jealous. Sore about Scorpius, and his good grades, and his stupid sweet innocence.
Albus feels ungainly in comparison. Inelegant, like every word he utters is inane. Even if he worked twice as long, his marks wouldn’t be as good as his friends. Looking at his friend, Albus scoffs. Scorpius’ got only one eye on his textbook. He looks like he’s about to fall asleep, blanket round his shoulders, warm and heavy eyed.
Albus is about to snap at his best friend, say something mean and petty. He feels frustrated. Nothing wants to stay in his mind today; no incantation, spell or wand movement. All he can think of is Scorpius, his best-friend sat in front of him, suddenly so graceful, spare and beautiful.
When did that happen? When did everything change? Albus gets up, goes to find a glass of pumpkin juice, because he values his friend too much. Doesn’t want to say anything he’ll regret.
Albus is so focussed on his mission that he doesn’t see the Quidditch shirt he’d carelessly thrown on the floor earlier. His feet, so ridiculously big and unwieldy, tangle with it. And then he’s falling, pumpkin juice flying through the air. His body finds itself landing on top of Scorpius, his mouth crashing into that of his best friend. The only thing that runs through Al’s brain is how wonderful those lips feel; velvety and sweet, just like Scorpius himself.
But Albus is fifteen, awkward and shocked. Within two seconds, he’s disentangled himself from his best friend and kicked away the Quidditch shirt from his feet. He’s muttering, I'm sorry, I’m sorry, as he runs to the dorm bathroom, face red and clothes sticky with spilt juice. He doesn’t even dare to look back, terrified of the distaste and scorn he’s sure shows on his best-friend’s face.
In the bathroom, Albus nearly cries, livid with himself. An angry tear tracks down his face. He drinks nearly a pint of water and cleans up his robes with a Scourgify, before he feels brave enough to return to Scorpius. The other boy has cheeks as red as Al’s, and has cleaned up his bed and books tidily. Albus is careful when he sits down, angling his body so no part of their bodies touch.
“What do you think Al?” Scorpius murmurs, not looking Albus in the eye. “Shall we go over this exam stuff once more?… Then have a game of Exploding Snap? Or just a walk?”
Albus nods his assent, and they settle down to their books. They are fifteen, and nothing and everything has changed.