Rendezvous 1/1

[lackadaisicalnereid]

Title: Rendezvous (You call it casual, but I call it love.)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1366
Characters: Hermione, Fred


 

"Are you awake?" he asks her, sitting up, propping himself up on his elbows. Fred looks at her the same way he has been doing for the last few months, with the look of complete adoration in his eyes. His beautiful eyes. Hermione had opened hers, woken up by the sound of his voice.
"I am now," she answers, lifting her upper body and closing the distance between them. Sealing it with a kiss. He responds willingly. It doesn't surprise her. In all the months since their first rendezvous, he has never been unresponsive, never reluctant.
Neither has she.


"Don't you look all handsome tonight," she says as she approaches him, something flirtatious sneaking its way into her tone.
"Touche," he replies and motions towards the empty seat next to him. She is beautiful. She is wearing a dark blue knee length dress. It's a shade more beautiful than the sky at night, and her eyes look like stars. At least to him they do, and he's only had one glass of Firewhisky.

Or was it two?

She takes the offer and sits down, staring lazily into a spot behind him.
"I can't believe they're actually getting married," she says without any announcement.
"They're in love," he offers a reason. He takes a sip of his drink.
"They're young, in love and awfully impulsive," she adds to the answer.
"I think that combination would look brilliant on you," he says and it's his turn to sound flirtatious now.
She smiles at him, and her eyes flicker.


He smiles at her, and his eyes flicker.
Her gaze travels across the room, stopping on the calendar on the wall.
"I can't believe it's been a year already," she comments. A year since Ginny became a Potter. A year since she smiled at Fred, seeing something in him she hadn't noticed before. A posiblity for something further. A year since she leaned in to kiss him. He tasted like Firewhisky and she remembered thinking that on him, it was the most masculine scent.
He nods. He doesn't speak, but he smiles.


"We had sex," she says.
"The sky is blue," he responds matter-of-factly. The white sheet covers only his lower body, and she still has a more than decent (well,quite indecent) view of his chest, the chest she kissed and touched yesterday. The chest of Fred Weasley. Who she had sex with. Who she fell asleep on.
She is now staring at him, wondering how he can say things like that, so unexpected, so frustratingly amusing. And she'd just wanted to be angry, but she can't because he makes her smile.
"I hate you," she teases him.
"You tell yourself that, darling," he jokes and she laughs now. They laugh together.


They don't laugh today. Their happiness is more of a silent one. It's palpable, and it tastes like pancakes Hermione's making (with blueberry jam, because it's the only kind Fred will eat). It smells like the pineapple juice (because it's the only kind she'll have) Fred is pouring in two glasses. It looks like the smiles on both of their faces, and it sounds like silence.
Their happiness is silent, but they know it's there. Ever present.
He sits down and she serves the pancakes. She gets the syrup for the pancakes, and they both start eating. After a while, she lifts her legs from the floor and puts them in his lap. He looks up from his plate and she winks at him.
"You, my dear, are a dangerous girl,"


"You, my dear, are a dangerous girl," he says to her after a family (plus Harry and Hermione) dinner at the Burrow. She had threatened to kill Ron herself if he said another single word against the idea of Harry and Ginny getting married. Even if it was a joke.
She giggles.
"I especially enjoyed the point where you told him you'll curse his head a year in the future and his legs a year in the past. Very detailed, I like that in threats," he says and they stop walking for a second. They're just in front of the door of her flat. He always insists on walking her home and she never objects.
"Well thank you, Fred" she speaks but the rest of her sentence is silenced by his lips pressing firmly on hers.
"Oh, but that's why you love me," she speaks and then freezes.
Time stops.


"You know...this is likely to get complicated," she speaks softly, not moving her head from his chest. Not wanting to do it.
"I know," he speaks, softly.
"And I...I don't want complicated," she adds, stuttering a bit. But Hermione never stutters, and even when it's a small amount, it's noticeable.
"Neither do I. We'll just keep it casual, okay?" he offers, and she sighs, relieved.
"Casual sounds perfect," she adds, kissing his chest lightly.


There's nothing casual about this, even if her tone may try to make it sound like that. It's not, she knows, and he knows. So they stare into the other, knowing they can't escape the words, because they are out there. They may sound innocent, but they know better than to trick themselves into thinking that.
There's nothing remotely innocent about it.
"I should go," Hermione says abruptly, getting up from her chair. She doesn't clean up behind herself, she doesn't kiss him goodybe. She turns around and leaves. But as she walks towards a cafe she wants to drink coffee in, she replays the scene in her head, and knows she won't be able to escape from this. Even if she does leave him alone in the kitchen.
She orders coffee. At the moment, she is thankful that she and Fred never went here, because it would only make it worse.
Casual.
Let's keep it casual, they agreed.
But there's nothing casual about love, even if only implied. Even if only for the sake of teasing.
The blonde waitress sets the cup in front of her, and Hermione is just about to take a sip when a voice stops her.
Of course he went after her.
It's not casual at all, so of course he does it.


"I do, you know," he says, and she stares at him, a blank expression painted on her face.
"What?" she asks, a bit annoyed. She's always annoyed when she doesn't understand something.
"I do love you," he explains, and Hermione understands now. She almost wishes she didn't.
"You can't love me. I've given you no reason to-" Hermione speaks, but is soon stopped.
"Don't be dense, especially as I know for a fact that you're not. You've given me every reason to love you," he adds, defensively.
"You have the driest sense of humour I've ever seen in a girl. It's awfully attractive. Especially when I do something you don't approve of, which is more often than I care to admit. You're kind. To everyone and everything. To me. You care. About me. I don't blame you. Who wouldn't?" he tells her and winks at her.
His winks are as deadly as his words. She knows that well.
"You...you are the most self-centred person I've ever met. You think everything's a laugh, and you think you're always right," she adds, fire in her voice.
In her eyes.
"I hate you," she spats at him, something fake in her voice letting him know she's lying.
"I hate you, too," he adds before pulling her in for another kiss.
When she pulls away, they're both breathless and look desperate to hold on, desperate to continue, trying to deny the need for oxygen.
"So, casual, huh?" he asks. As a response, she hits him playfully in the arm.
"Git," she hisses.
"Minx," he copies her tone.
She smiles.
"Get used to it," she responds, sitting down and taking a sip of her coffee. He sits down next to her, motioning to the waitress to come to their table.
They drink their cups of coffee quietly, the only mean of communication between them an occasional glare.
There's nothing casual about this, she knows, but she realises now, and her smile widens.
It's oh much more enjoyable this way.


The end.