Look nice, they said. Smile, they said. You might have fun, they said.


No, Rick’s expression very clearly replied, as he stared into the face of Puddifoot’s holiday cheer. What, it tried again, as he took in the cutout hearts dangling from the ceiling, the garish color scheme that plagued the tables, and the thick, cloying scents that assaulted his werewolf nose. Stop, it said feebly, as the white hearts chimed all over the place, their good cheer a nigh-palpable force within the room.

There had to be a mistake.

I need a drink, Rick thought blankly, as his gaze fell on the stray rose petal caught beneath his boot.

“Oh good, you wore the shirt I told you to!” someone said, as a pair of smart-looking heels came in view– CeeCee, it turned out, and you could almost hear Rick’s brows snap into a glare, because he wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for her. But she only laughed, because she was the older sibling, not he, and went on inspecting his clothes, which was just plain insulting. “I was worried you’d show up in a tank and jeans-”

“I am wearing jeans,” he glowered mutinously.

“For which I forgive you,” CeeCee primly shot back as she fussed at his clothes. Here and there she tugged and adjusted, until – finally satisfied – she was dusting invisible lint off his shoulder. “Now if you’re done dragging your feet, your table is right over there,” she pointed at it, somewhere smack in the middle of all the pink and white, “table five. Leon should be here soon. Be nice!”

“I hate you,” Rick growled, stalking past her. (He ignored the charmed Cupid doll that had flown towards him—even sent reeling back with the sheer force of his glare.) He hated everything– his shirt, which was a stupid (-charcoal, his brain pointlessly supplied in a voice that, irritatingly, sounded a lot like CeeCee) button-down that he made peace with by rolling up the sleeves and leaving the top button undone; his pants, which were, thankfully, just a regular pair of jeans or would have been if they weren’t so damn tight (goddammit Izola) –even his hair, everything. The whole thing was stupid, there had to be better ways of raising money–

With extreme prejudice (but quietly, because he was annoyed, not stupid) Rick took a seat and sat back, folding his arms like a shield. Surrounded by dainty, cutesy things, he felt sorely, ridiculously out of place, awkward and tense in a way that made his clothes feel too tight and his skin prickle with awareness. And stress made everything so much… more, in a way that made the whole deal even worse– noises louder, scents stronger. It grated on his nerves. He wanted out.

But he couldn’t, unless it was certain his date wouldn't show. Rick hoped he wouldn’t, even if it meant being stood up in public.

Sighing, the wizard tipped his head back and waited.

---

Pausing outside the door to Madam Puddifoot’s, Leon looked at his hands glumly, wishing that he’d had time to wash the paint off properly, so that there weren’t yellow patches that made him looked slightly jaundiced. As it was, even with Irina turning up to make sure he was ready on time, he’d  still left the house after he was supposed to arrive, thankful that he could apparate and be there almost instantly. Less reassuring was the mess he’d left behind, which he’d have to clean up when he returned. But there was nothing he could do about that, or his hands, for the moment.

Pushing the door open, his intention of slipping quietly to a seat without drawing any attention to himself was forgotten when he was distracted by the intense effect created by the decorations. Wow. They’d really gone all out for Valentine’s Day here, although that could have been because the organisers of this event had put them in after the café had shut for business. If it had even been open today – they could easily have decided to shut up for Valentine’s Day.

Distracted from his observations by the arrival of a doll, he stared at it curiously before realising that he was supposed to be following it. At least he wouldn’t have to explain why he was late to an organiser, although he would still need to apologise to his date. Date? Date. “Lead on,” he tried, before doing his best to seem inconspicuous while he followed it.
Slowing as he approached the table, the only one with just one person seated, Leon stared at the back of his date warily, with – ah. Right. Yeah. Right. It hadn’t been covered the last time he’d seen it, but.

An insistent gesture from the doll reminded him that he was supposed to be talking to the man sat at the table, not staring at his shoulders, and he moved slowly forward again, hoping despite himself that he’d just imagined the resemblance.

He paid more attention to the decorations than the other man while he sat down, trying to delay the inevitable, but eventually, he had to face – yeah, that was him. For a moment, Leon stared, taking in the details that had been lost on him, and then his eyes fell away, unwilling to look too long.

Instead of hiding his hands in his lap, he moved an elbow onto the table, rubbing at his neck as much to relieve tension as to hide the colour of it. Prodding at the skin, he smiled cautiously at the man opposite – Rick, the card said when he checked it, before returning to staring at his teeth, which were the pearly white of whitening treatment, and reminded him of a rabbit’s, which was odd because when… nope. Nopity, nopity, nope. There was to be no dwelling on that, he had better control of himself than that.

Eventually, Leon realised that his date (ohgodohgodohgod) was more than happy to leer at him while he twisted his fingers into approximations of prisms, he took a deep breath and tried to smile, “Hi.” It was hardly anything, but it felt like Leon had achieved something, “Sorry I was late, I, um, lost track of time.” His smile cracked in the face of the powerful beam opposite him, and he looked down at his hands, now making a shape vaguely like a cube, before looking back at Rick.

“So,” he tried again, “uh. Clothes. They look... good on you.”

So long, verbal filter.

He’d heard him approach, despite the ridiculous white hearts and the low murmurs coming from the other tables (and because werewolf hearing didn’t just turn itself off), but after the first couple of newcomers had proven to be anyone but his date, he’d stopped twisting his head to look; he wasn’t some kid at the jokeshop, and so he had resolved to leave it to the damn dolls that his date would find him, impatience having long since left his face to leave room for resignation. So far it seemed like his wish would come true, and boring though it was proving to be, he wasn’t about to complain–

(CeeCee, though—they were going to have words.)

And then. And then… his wish went up in smoke. But in its wake surprise took over, brows lifting as he slowly straightened in his seat, eyes rapt on that face.

Rick stared, because this had been the very last thing he’d expected—even though he had spotted Elixa when he had entered the café, and knew Charlotte was supposed to make an appearance at this thing, too. But the last time he’d seen him, it had been under different circumstances– the kind that didn’t leave much room for a reunion elsewhere, much less Puddifoot’s.

Circumstances that, when recalled, had the werewolf wetting his lips– the tip of his tongue idly tracing along the curve of his upper lip –as the other man very carefully avoided his gaze. And while he did, its owner took that as an opportunity to do the exact opposite– to take in the long fingers and the broad shoulders (and that mouth) Rick remembered a lot little differently –and leer, his mouth slowly curving into a wide, toothy grin. That, with those teeth, should have been just cute but looked anything but.

Or, just cute, anyway. Because when Leon finally spoke (and faltered in a way that, to an educated eye, made Rick’s grin downright shit-eating)– “thanks,” Rick said, clearly pleased if the way it grew exponentially worse (which was a way that was known to inspire blown pupils) was anything to go by. “You too.”

And he meant every word of it. Leon was screwed.

---

That was not fair. Saying that was just morally wrong, Leon was already suffering enough trying to keep his thoughts in the present without that being said, even if it was very flattering his fault that the topic had even come up. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that it hadn’t exactly opened an avenue of conversation, but Leon was still frustrated at the failure. He didn’t want to sit here in increasingly frustrated silence trying not to look at anything in particular.

Especially not that grin – how was it humanly possible for him to grin so widely? Somehow, under the warm lighting of Madam Puddifoot’s, it was worse than before, and made Leon want to curl up in his seat so that he wouldn’t have to see it. Or just get rid of it, the how wasn’t that important to him.

But - well, what could he say? Asking about Rick’s job would hopefully be more successful, but it was slightly rude, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to confess to being a barista. It wasn’t his career, and he hopefully certainly wasn’t going to be one for the rest of his life, but it was what he (sadly) spent more time doing, and anyway asking about someone’s job right off was kind of creepy. Plus, he blathered worse than Phillip trying to talk his way out of something when he talked about sculpting, which would be just as embarrassing.

So… What? It would be nice if he could think of something, ideally something intelligent and meaningful without being pretentious, that would then lead into a conversation that wasn’t filled with increasingly extended pauses while Leon tried to divine something from Rick’s expression and appearance that would give him a clue as to what might be slightly more successful at initiating conversation than sitting there in silence.

Of course, his mind was suddenly blank of everything that wasn’t thinking about how annoying it was that he couldn’t come up with anything to start a conversation, and that the longer he stared at Rick’s teeth, the less able he was to equate them to bunny rabbit teeth.

“The decorations are impressive?” Leon tried hopefully, “How did you end up coming to this? Do you like omelettes? What’s your favourite work of art? Do you have a quidditch team?” Somewhere in there had to be something that Rick could work with, Leon was done with stewing in awkwardness, and if the flurry of questions probably hadn’t been as helpful as he’d like, it was at least an attempt at starting conversation, more than could be said for Rick.

For Leon’s effort, Rick took pity on him and muted his grin– though he still stared as much as ever, clearly pleased with what he saw and unashamed to show it. With his family and friends either absent or preoccupied, it was easy for the normally taciturn wizard to just sit back and enjoy himself as his date grew flustered, grasping for straws. When Leon’s mouth moved  spoke, there was a lot to track, and Rick –more at ease with every passing second and feeling so damn smug– didn’t want to miss one bit of it.

Casually, he leaned forward, folded arms set on the table… gaze dragging from there to Leon's much like the tip of a finger.

“If by ‘impressive’ you mean ‘memorable’, then yes—I’m going to remember them for the rest of my life,” he couldn’t help but smirk dryly, aforementioned decorations suddenly a lot less stifling than before. Now they were just background to a face a lot more interesting, with its moles and cheekbones and- yeah. In the brighter lighting of the tea shop there were little details he hadn’t caught the first time. “Not much of a quidditch fan, but Montrose Magpies, la Sagrada Família, never met an omelette I didn’t,” the snippets of trivia came easily, offering Leon small pieces of a picture that, hopefully, he’d like. Or at least ease him up a bit, because the longer Rick looked at him, the more sure he was that he’d like another chance to. (Preferably naked.)

That last question, though– his smirk faded somewhat, briefly twisting into a grimace before he laughed, the sound a soft, sheepish huff. Plucking his card off the table, Rick fiddled with it, head bowed to hide that growing self-deprecating grin. “How I ended up here…” Shaking his head, he looked up and sighed, mouth curving ruefully. “My sister. She, uh, caught me at a bad time and made me sign something, just so she’d leave.” There. That sounded better than ‘went in for the kill’ (apt though it would have been).

“I found out it was for all of… this,” he gestured at the room with a sweep of his hand, “just this morning. But I can’t say I regret it,” and that smile– that same awful, terrible smile, all playfulness and teasing –came back, smaller than before but worse, because of how sincere it was.

And then it turned just a tiny bit filthy, because that was Rick for you. “Leon, huh?” he hummed, shifting a little closer in his seat, shoulders hunching– straining against his shirt, as his arms stayed folded. His gaze flickering at Leon’s mouth before meeting his eyes, that ‘little bit’ became ‘entirely’, eyeing that plush bottom lip as thoughtfully as any thumb. “I’m glad I have a name I can use, now.”

Although Leon had been going more for pick one and go from there, getting an answer to all of his questions was good too, and by the time Rick had finished listing them off, he was smiling in slightly surprised amusement. It was generally a pretty good answer, with the exception of supporting the Magpies. But the Sagrada Família was a decent choice, even if it wasn’t one that sprang to mind when he thought about art – but it was one, of course, he could acknowledge that. There was more than one medium, and even though buildings weren't what sprung to mind, it was nice to hear an answer that wasn't a painting too. “The Magpies?” the sculptor asked, smiling despite his disparaging tone, “Really?”

Aside from that one criticism, he listened to Rick’s story in silence, a hand rubbing at his arm before he remembered that they were the colour of vile disease and folded his arms awkwardly, well aware that it looked more than a little like a less impressive mimicry of the other man’s posture. It was a little embarrassing, to be sure, but there wasn’t much he could do about it – and anyway, he was still the one who had actually tried to start a conversation here.

Maybe, if Leon didn't have siblings, he might have thought that it was sweet that Rick had been tricked into signing up. Instead, he had siblings, and Irina, who was worse than the lot of them put together when it came to meddling. Not that she wasn't amazing and brilliant, but she insisted on interfering in his life in a way that had been barely tolerable when they were small, and was purely frustrating now that they were adults. But it was nice to know that the other man had layers. Like an onion, ha ha ha. “She sounds like my cousin,” he said, still smiling, “Except she was completely upfront about what she was condemning me to.” He shrugged slightly, as if to say that it wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting, and that the condemnation wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The terrible conversational skills of his partner aside, that was.

And that - that was not fair. At all. Sure, there were a lot of things that Rick could be implying, but that expression made it pretty obvious what he was referring to, and there was a telltale flush of hear that meant he was blushing, which was stupid given the... the context. Maybe he wasn't going to escape without having the contents of the sculptor's glass chucked at him for a second time after all, because this was every bit as bad as he was expecting – no, it was worse. But two could play at that game, and his irritation wasn't quite enough to stop a smile from tugging the corner of his mouth up, not quite a smirk, "Same." The flick of his tongue – quick, small enough to be dismissed as unintentional and only just visible – was entirely deliberate, slight payback for everything that he was being made to suffer.

His pride at not spluttering and upending his glass over anyone aside, it wasn’t like his answer had opened up avenues of conversation, although he was beginning to think that they would be able to get through their allotted time with Rick making snarky comments while he tried to respond in a non-humiliating way. Better to find something to talk about that wouldn’t make him want to hide under a table. “What do you do for a living?” he tried, hoping that this time the attempt at normal conversation would be slightly more successful. Which meant one where he was not constantly reminded of the many uses of Rick’s stupid forearms, "Since I already know how you spend your spare time." His smile was too embarrassed to be smug.

Rick– whose eyes tracked every movement with a regard that bordered, no, insufferably sauntered into avarice –watched Leon’s tongue with acute interest, disguising little to none of the other things he could imagine it doing easily. By itself, Merlin knew it was tempting enough—but a flick over a mouth that, even now, still sent a wave of heat swooping through his gut? Yeah, he’d get back to you on that one-

(tonight, most likely, if he was going home alone)

And so he laughed, honestly laughed, delight hitting him like a punch to the gut, swift and sudden and unexpectedly pleasant. He deserved that, he was aware, thanks, and yet the knowledge didn’t rankle him so much as nudge, rousing him out of the smug stupor he was in just enough to remind him it hadn’t just been the moles and mouth (and everything else) that had caught his eye in the first place. That first time. It was a good thing, just as much as it was nice, and so the smile stayed—this one different from the ones before. If anything, it softened– was still pretty patronizing, maybe, but while the unabashed interest was still as present as ever, it at least lost (most of) that predatory edge. (Which promptly migrated to his shoulders, as he backed off, leaning back to better give his date much needed air  space. A shirt could only do so much; it hadn’t been made with his muscles in mind.)

He did, though, watch Leon with a slightly different kind of interest—not suspiciously per se, but appraisingly, as anyone would when he wasn’t harboring misgivings, but was still wary of… possibilities. It was searching, was what it was, and this– “I’m an artificer” –always called for some scrutiny on his part, no matter how attractive he found the person. He understood that his profession wasn’t the first thing that came to most people’s minds, but that didn’t mean he had to grin and bear it. “I make things,” he supplied with a wiggle of his fingers, and the slight quirk to his lips that accompanied it gave it a self-deprecating air. He wasn’t all thumbs – he did too much work with them as it was, work that required finesse when ruthless wrangling wouldn’t do – but they both knew who had the thinner, more dexterous-looking hands between them, paint-splattered though they were. “Sometimes repair, or alter stuff altogether, but I mostly get by on commissions. I’ve got a shop Southside, near GalloLoans.”

Satisfied with what he found- or, didn’t find– Rick relaxed. Something terribly, awfully familiar crept back onto his expression, as he gave those hands a look more appreciative than was purely professional. They were big– not just long-fingered, but big, and covered in enough hair that any idea of femininity or delicacy never came to mind. Turned over, Rick knew he’d find enough calluses that’d imply more hard work than the paint did—which said nothing of the strength Rick knew very well they had. “What I do in my ‘spare time’ doesn’t pay the bills,” he teased, peering up at Leon slyly.

And paused, before adding, “anymore,” because he could; whether that was actually true or not, didn’t matter. And it probably didn’t help, the way he was looking up at Leon, if only because the last time he did it wasn’t speaking he’d been doing. or who

Distantly, Rick heard the spluttering sounds of someone violently choking elsewhere in the room, but he ignored them in favor of watching Leon’s face, which was at least a hundred times more attractive and a thousand times more entertaining. “And you?” he asked, grinning an ingenuous grin that fooled exactly no one. “What do you do for a living?” Thoughtfully, he took one of Leon’s hands and turned it over, thumb a light pressure on on Leon’s wrist as he mused, “It’s not what I do, is it? I don’t remember getting stains like that.”

The look Leon gave Rick’s hands, being waved so obnoxiously (what about the man wasn’t obnoxious?) in mid-air was mostly assessing. Only mostly, because, like apparently everything he did, the motion provoked memories that Leon quashed ruthlessly, smiling at the answer to his question. Making things, Leon understood. What he did was making things, too, and although he highly doubted Rick was a sculptor too. For one thing, he had his own shop and Leon would have seen it. It was only because admitting to being a barista would make him feel wholly embarrassed, rather than the partial embarrassment he was currently feeling, that he didn’t mention that he worked down the road from Rick. Instead, because he was obviously incapable of holding a normal conversation with Rick, he just smiled encouragingly, hoping that Rick would elaborate.

“What I do in my ‘spare time’ doesn’t pay the bills, anymore,”

Or not.

This time, the tongue flicking across his lips was unconscious, as was the slight inhalation, sharp and oh so slightly nervous. Almost like Leon had, underneath his terrible attempts at bravado and diversion, a sense of self preservation, and was possibly even beginning to run low on reserves of patience. But then again, he was still sat here, trying not to think too hard about the implications of what Rick had just said, which was sort of difficult (maybe impossible – being told not to think about something, even within the relative comfort of your own head, inevitably meant that you would think about it with alarming focus) especially because he should not be saying that. 

Would he even be saying that if it wasn’t true? But why would he imply that if it wasn’t? Other than because he seemed to enjoy making Leon’s life excruciatingly embarrassing. “Well,” Leon tried, his throat too dry and his cheeks brilliant, “I guess that worked to my benefit.” Although he was inevitably going to lose the game of chicken that they were playing, he wasn’t so chicken that he would leap aside so early on. He had been placed in Gryffindor, dammit.

And, if it came to it, he would just throw the glass of whatever it was in Rick’s face. So, even if he lost, he would win.

Considerably happier with this revelation, Leon’s thoughts were brought abruptly to the immediate situation by Rick’s thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist. Of course, that also meant that he was acutely aware of Rick’s hand, warm against his own. It took Leon a moment to remember what he was supposed to be talking about, why he was staring at Rick’s hand with fixed intensity, and when he spoke his answer was faint, “I – sculpting.” There was a pause before he continued, “I’m a sculptor,” he repeated, regretting it although it was said with considerably more strength, a certain fact rather than the mumble that his initial answer had been. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was his profession, and if things went well then hopefully in a while, it would be his only job. Not that he didn’t enjoy working at Alohomocha, but it wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life.

Leon retracted his hand a little, turning it so that he wouldn’t have to endure Rick’s thumb moving slowly on the inside of his wrist. The reminder that his hands were stained, although at this point Leon felt like he might as well have turned up in a paint splattered t-shirt and ratty jeans, was still enough to make him withdraw his hands slightly. “I’ve always been good with my hands,” he continued, and Rick wasn’t the only one who could waggle his hands – not that Leon was waggling, the slow curling and uncurling of his fingers was nothing so inelegant. “I mean, that’s not all there is to it, but I like it, or I would have quit ages ago,” Leon elaborated, shrugging slightly. Apparently he couldn’t even try to make people flustered properly, really, was there any point in trying? “What about you – what do you make?”

A sculptor. Something– nothing concrete, but still –tugged at Rick’s memory, nagging at him to remember before slipping away. Before he could do so much as frown, though, he wasn’t holding Leon’s hand anymore, and he schooled his features before he could smirk quietly at the loss; watching the other man- the sculptor– move his fingers like that was a damn sight better anyway.

I’ve always been good with my hands. Rick didn’t doubt him for a second.

His gaze lingering on them, he stared at the splotches of paint that speckled them. He could easily imagine them running over stone, clay taking shape between them, wood bending in ways it wouldn’t otherwise – fingers skittering over a surface – a wand held steady as it cast—and he did, eyes briefly lidded, almost sleepy-looking, at the thought of it.

When it started to turn towards one that wasn’t imaginative so much as nostalgic, Rick looked up again, his stare as innocent as the day he was born.

Or, would have, if his train of thought hadn’t snuck into his expression anyway. “Artifacts,” he replied, smiling innocently - cheekily - through it a split second before relenting. “Anything from cogs to whole artifacts, from scratch or design. Commissions.” The words came easily– almost surprisingly so, but not quite. While he hated talking about his work a lot less than his personal life, the pride he took in it was a craftsman’s pride, the quiet kind that was downplayed even after a week’s worth of sleepless nights; anything more than an objective review, he’d learned, often bored him or made him uncomfortable.

Merlin knew he wasn’t a humble man– too many a ceiling had heard his name for him to be a humble anything –but bragging about what he did always seemed… sacrilegious. There were even some days he wasn’t really much more than a repairman, just someone to fix the wayward printing press or filing cabinet (though you could bet your ass he’d never admit it), and expecting praise for he’d made or fixed feel like a kid—an unwelcome feeling.

Somewhere – caught up in his brooding – Rick had fallen silent, the look in his eye thoughtful for once as he stared at Leon’s face.

“I like my work, too,” Rick shared, the slight quirk to his lips just a little bit teasing—more honest than it mocked this time. He was man enough to admit that Leon’s answer was pretty much what he would have given (though probably without the feelings). “Not all of it-” If he was lucky, sometimes people were just assholes, idiots who thought they knew better than him or could call on him whenever they pleased; it was always harder to deal with them when they were annoying about how attractive they found him, while he depended on them for their custom, “-but… I got hooked on it early.” The faint smile turned wry. “And didn’t know I’d have to deal with people eventually, ‘til it was too late.”

Just thinking about them while he was on a date was making him cranky, actually, and wouldn’t that be a shame? “What media do you use?” he asked, genuinely curious.

---

As Rick explained, Leon smiled more. Not only had he (finally) got the conversation on track, what Rick did sounded… pretty awesome. Being crap at making useful things made Leon appreciate the difficulties of being able to do it properly, and Rick sounded sure of himself, either because he was arrogant or because he was genuinely competent, and while he certainly was arrogant, to make a living from it he would have to know what he was doing.

“And didn’t know I’d have to deal with people eventually, ‘til it was too late.”

Leon outright grinned at that. He didn’t dislike people, but the realisation that in order to support his artistic endeavours he’d have to take on specific requests made by pushy clients had hit hard. It wasn’t that they were bad people, but they just didn’t get it a lot of the time, and asked for things that were unreasonable or way outside what they were willing to pay, and then got angry when he tried to explain why he had to charge so much. “Tell me about it,” he agreed, “I feel like I spend half my time trying to make sure people pay me the right amount.” It was frustrating, and sometimes he barely managed to control himself, but he was willing to suffer a few idiots if it meant he got to continue sculpting – and anyway, most of his clients were fine.

“What media do you use?”

“I use different things, depending on what I’m doing. I usually do a few practice sketches beforehand, and if it’s more technical I might make a wire model. It’s mostly stone, though, when I’m actually making, it’s more traditional and I find it easier to get the spells to hold, but I think that’s just me – other people prefer metal, so maybe it’s just a matter of practice. It just works better, y’know?” As he spoke, Leon’s hands gestured in mid-air, becoming increasingly fluent as he began to relax into a subject that he knew and loved. His smile had relaxed too, and although his expression was quick to reflect his words it always returned to the same confident, enthusiastic beam.

“I still have to think carefully about what I want to do with metal, but it’s not the same as if I mess up with a chisel and make a nick in a nose. It can be stressful, especially in the middle stages, and sometimes I just want a laser cutter because it would be so much easier – um, that’s a muggle thing, I don’t really want one, don’t worry – but having to be careful is part of the fun, kind of. There are ways of fixing mistakes, of course, but it’s way easier if you don’t have to.”

Oh god, there was the other reason why talking about work was a bad idea, because Leon couldn’t shut up about his and, at the first sign of interest, would monologue about it – he couldn’t help it. It was important to him, and that made it easy to talk about, even at the risk of alienating his audience. His smile was apologetic, the laugh that accompanied it forced, and he looked away guiltily. “Uh, sorry, I know I go on,” he apologised, shrugging a little as if to excuse himself from guilt.

It wasn’t his fault if he loved his job, and Rick didn’t look pissed off, or bored, and he certainly wasn’t polite enough that he would pretend that he wasn’t bored. One hand moved to cup his chin, his expression losing some of its tension. “What about artificing?” Leon asked, the word unfamiliar, and possibly not a real word “why d’you do it? If you don’t mind talking about work, that is.” Most people were surprised by how much he loved his job – both jobs, if he was honest, he just didn’t like to own up to the other one – so he understood that not everyone wanted to talk about work, the weekend being a time to get away from the pressure of responsibility. But Rick had seemed proud of his work, and Leon was worried that if he did change the subject, it would result in innuendo, and he didn't think he could cope with much more of that.

Admittedly, Rick wasn’t listening to Leon speak as much as watching him speak. The flow of his hands, the light in his eyes, his mouth curling and stretching over syllables in his enthusiasm to share—all, to Rick’s libido, were significantly more interesting to pay attention to. But its owner was more than that, and an inventor at that, so despite himself he found himself listening more than he thought he would, rather distracted by how unwaveringly attractive all of Leon was.

Which was a lot. A considerable amount. An amount that fascinated both of Rick’s… brains… and made him wonder why the hell he hadn’t gotten this guy’s name that night, if not for coffee than at least for another round in a place with more trustworthy privacy (Desrosiers you skeevy prick). For a very brief, fleeting moment, Rick was profoundly grateful that Leon wasn’t seeing anyone right now, because that? Would suck.

…Or was Leon seeing someone right now? Shit. He should ask.

“I don’t mind,” Rick said dumbly  belatedly, clearing his throat as he looked away. For the first time that evening, the werewolf looked a bit flustered—shy, even. If that was a thing he did. Which it definitely was not. At any rate he was a bit flustered at being caught out, because not pissing off his date was slightly more important now, and he looked at Leon, expression earnest. “You– it’s interesting, listening to you,” and despite his best intentions Rick looked faintly bewildered by this—like he hadn’t been expecting that, Leon being as interesting as he was attractive.

He plowed on, though, before– hopefully– Leon could take (more) offense. “I don’t like art much-” which, fuck, wasn’t promising at all. And wasn’t totally true either, in that he did care about it, he just didn’t like it much. A sense of aesthetic was necessary in Artificing, because so much of it was based on a marriage between beauty and utility; there were reasons why it called as such, instead of just ‘inventing’. It was inventing, but with artistry. Rick simply saw that aspect of it as a necessary evil. “-but the mechanics—that interests me. And you’re so… fuck, enthusiastic about it.” He glanced down at Leon’s hands, glaring at them almost accusingly.

If Leon’s aim had been to distract him all this time, it was finally working; the werewolf was looking slightly uncomfortable now, not quite as cocksure as before. And talking about his work– not just explaining things, but why he liked it –was… unsettling, though not so much for the reason Leon guessed.

It was because usually, he saved that kind of honesty for later—much later. It wasn’t a question that was asked often, for a few reasons, and a lack of interest was only one of them; the man himself rarely– if ever– encouraged it. For one, it gave off the wrong impression. But now, looking at Leon’s face…

He’d make an exception.

“It’s something I’ve always done,” he replied, his gaze more open and honest than it’d ever been, outside of the leers and dirty grins. “According to my sister, I’ve been doing it since I was a kid—as soon as I could walk.” When he told people he’d gotten into the profession early, he hadn’t been joking. “It’s…”

–the feeling of having something in his hands, knowing it was already whole but could be more, better, a part of something larger and more complex, knowing he was the one to do, could do it, would do it—the satisfying clicks and whirring of pieces slotting into place, the feeling that came as an Artifact came alive, telling him he’d done right–

“It just feels right,” Rick finished, shrugging almost helplessly. “I did metal charming before, a few years back, but it just-” Mimicking Leon’s pose from earlier, he suddenly cupped his chin in his hand and sighed. “It’s not the same.”

Grinning wryly, his smile peeked through the cage of his hand. “Have you ever worked jobs you didn’t really want, but had to?” Or rather, “are still doing. How old are you, anyway?”

---

Under Rick’s scrutiny, Leon found some of his earlier flush returning to his cheeks. It was – nice, sure, certainly flattering, but it still made him feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, following Rick’s gaze to his – crap, he’d forgotten about the paint – hands. His fingers lifted and retracted, forming loose fists that he barely managed to keep from hiding under the table. It didn’t help that he was reasonably certain that Rick was picturing what his hands could do. Had done. Either was just as bad, really.

But then Rick had to go and say stuff like that, and even though the tone was less than polite, it was still kind of sweet that he’d said it at all, and the surprise – well, that meant it was genuine, because if he’d been faking interest he wouldn’t have sounded so incredulous about it. Unlike the attention paid to his hands, it surprised Leon, but it was still better, and despite the tone, Leon smiled. Sure, it wasn’t – Leon couldn’t really empathise with not caring much about art, who didn’t care much about art? But Rick was being honest. Brutally so, but still honest, and that was better than being told half-lies to try and make him feel better.

“Just a little,” he agreed, before subsiding to listen to Rick’s answer. It wasn’t as eloquent as he might have hoped, but it had been kind of a personal question, and although Leon was always a little too happy to talk about his work, other people didn’t share the same comfortableness, and Rick’s answer was still a good one. One he could relate to, because – well, he hadn’t decided that he wanted to become a sculptor after his first meeting with play doh, but he’d always liked that kind of thing. Just right worked.

“Yeah, kind of,” Leon muttered, “I’ve had to do a lot of jobs that I didn’t want to do, so that I could keep doing sculpting in the meanhile,” he brightened, “Do you know about KFC? If you’re not a muggleborn?” A shake of the head, and Leon smiled a little, “I worked there for about a month and I couldn’t get the stench of fat out of my clothes. It was probably the grossest job I’ve ever had, although I’ve done a few – well, a lot of others that I haven’t enjoyed. I’m just grateful I never ended up as a bin man, my brother did that for a summer and we would literally leave the room he was in, even if he showered and changed.”

His smile wavered a little before he continued, “but now, I work as a barista. It’s not bad or anything, I like doing it and it smells way better than KFC ever did.” It paid a hell of a lot better than most of the other things he’d done to supplement his career, too, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you discussed unless you were a pompous businessman with way too much money to burn. Logically, Leon knew that being a barista wasn’t a bad thing, that it was necessary, but when Rick told him that he had been stuck metal charming, which was still something you could have a career in, it just seemed inadequate.

“You ever stop by Alohomocha?” he asked hopefully, “It’s on Diagon Alley. I suppose being here counts as supporting the opposition, or something.” Actually, he should have used that when he was arguing with Irina about how his going to this event was a terrible idea – which, Leon could admit, it wasn’t. There had been moments which had been pretty terrible, mostly when Rick wouldn’t stop implying things, but now the conversation had moved into smoother waters, ones which actually involved holding a conversation, it was fun. A lot of fun, actually. Rick was open, if not precisely amiable, and he was – attentive, to more than Leon’s face. Which was better than Leon had been expecting, the way that the beginning of their discussion had gone. “If I say I was just doing research, maybe I'll escape intact,” he mused, only half joking. Clementine was terrifying, especially when her competition was mentioned, although his other co-workers would be more sympathetic. Well. They would certainly enjoy teasing him about it.

He laughed lightly at Leon’s story, a flash of pearly white behind the cage of his hand. While he hadn’t heard of kay-eff-cee specifically, the concept of fast food chains weren’t entirely foreign to him– thanks to a certain sister. With her tireless enthusiasm for just about everything (magical and muggle) she’d seen fit to drag her youngest brother along on her (mis)adventures as much as she could; as a result, he’d become closely familiar with the joy of greasy, mass produced fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

Some of that fried chicken and potatoes had been good, but the thought of having to deal with the nasty side of it – smells ‘n all – was enough to have the werewolf wince in sympathy, albeit laughingly.

The laughter subsided as quickly as it came, though; he froze, stilling as recognition nudged its way through. Instead of smirking at the bit on ‘opposition’ as he would have (he’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime, mostly in the form of too tight shirts and the cafe's name and address slapped across his ass), Rick found himself latching onto the ‘Alohomocha’ bit instead, the pieces beginning to fall into place. And they fell heavily.

Leon should be here soon. Be nice!

-and then she was like, ‘I bet you can’t,’ and he did. Ugh, it was so amazing, it turned into a dragon and everything, I don’t know why you won’t visit…

One order of Black As Your Soul for you! Leon sends his regards.

…Oh, that? That’s a cat, obviously. A grumpy one- Merlin, don’t give me that look, it’s latte art! He only did it because I asked him to. Hey, he’s really good, isn’t he? It looks just like you–

“You- you’re Leon,” the words tumbled out before he could stop himself, surprise written all over his face, “you’re Leon, you’ve- CeeCee.” Abruptly, Rick’s head snapped in her direction, expression not quite murderous, not yet, though it certainly grew more incensed at the sight of a conspicuously empty chair.

Why he’s mad, he can’t quite explain; there was only a need to focus the blame, the faint but persistent feeling that there’s something to blame for, that he’d been had for a very strange joke. It was pure coincidence, was what it was, but– coincidences. Rick never liked coincidences. He’d been screwed over by them too often to like them much.

Suddenly remembering that, no, he wasn’t alone, he faced Leon again, although he was still too caught up in– feelings. Surprise and confusion and faint, bewildered anger, because Leon was just that lucky. “CeeCee’s my sister,” Rick not-quite-explained, shooting that vacant seat one last, distracted glance/glare. When he looked back at Leon, his eyes skittered over Leon’s face, and differently this time; he saw the same eyes, same nose, same mouth…

Still attractive, yeah, but—different.

…And was starting to look horrified, and– yeah, Rick was definitely embarrassed now, but the words “you make my coffee” slipped out before he could stop himself. And as soon as they did– hell, before they did– he knew he had made another  mistake.

Fuck.

Leon found himself frowning, waiting for a response from Rick, and then staring in shock when he did get one. Where did he get off being angry? Because Leon needed to work so he could pay off his bills? Because while being a barista was not what he wanted to do, it was still enjoyable enough and well paid enough that it was the best option? He had no right to be angry, but Leon couldn’t quite summon anger over that. Mostly, he just felt tired, in an uncomfortably bitter way that he didn’t like at all. It had been going well – or as well as he could have hoped – and now Rick was acting like working with CeeCee was a crime, second only to murder.

It would be better if he wasn’t letting it get to him. If Rick’s obvious distaste wasn’t so – hurtful. It was something Leon wasn’t exactly happy about doing, sure, but there was nothing about it that deserved that kind of response. It shouldn’t matter if Rick, a relative stranger, thought worse of him because of it, but it did. Because it was something he was… touchy at best about, Rick’s response – so much worse than mere apathy and concerned surprise – hurt.

He could see it now, now Rick had oh-so-considerately pointed it out to him, because it wasn’t like Rick had gone unmentioned – he remembered making his coffee, now, crap, even creating pictures in the foam because CeeCee had asked him to. She’d told him stuff about Rick, sure, and most of it was embarrassing stories about him, but why did that matter? They were pretty good friends, but that shouldn’t be a problem either. Maybe it was just the shock of it, but it still didn’t explain why it was such a bad thing.

”You make my coffee.”

Well. That was a pretty conclusive answer. Leon’s face felt chilled, like he’d been walking in the wind for a while and the cold had seeped into his skin and drawn it tight, and his smile was just as frosty.

“Yes, probably,” he agreed, retreating to the security of formality and looking in the direction that Rick had been so that he didn’t have to look at him. There was nobody there, but Leon stared anyway to forestall having to say anything else. Why, why did he have to be such a jerk? He’d not recognised Rick, assumed that he didn’t go to Alohomocha – or that if he did, it was at a different time to Leon’s shift, but instead, Rick was throwing it in his face.

He turned back to Rick, his expression carefully schooled into blankness, “Is it to your satisfaction?” It wasn’t a mature response, Leon knew that, but he didn’t care. Melodramatic though it was, he really would have preferred to be anywhere else, ideally with Irina to rant at and blame for getting him into this stupid thing in the first place. The important thing was that Rick wouldn’t be there.

His hand edged closer to the glass of water without a conscious decision on his part, but the chill of it when his fingers closed around it was reassuring.