Dawn, 0500 hours.


Thud!

Balfour was awake, one moment in dreamlessness and the other pushed towards that sharp ether of consciousness. He struggled to open his eyes but the abrupt manner of his waking stopped him from falling back into sleep. It was, he knew, Sunday. There was nothing to be done on Sunday except sleep and sex and then maybe even more sleep. Even so, he was compelled to at last pull himself up and rub his face. What time was it? What was that sound?

The tower room was unlit. It was still his childhood bedroom, made roomier once the clutter had been cleared out. Quidditch and dragon posters, broomsticks and bats, shelves of textbooks, odd bits of furniture, a single cello. With only the great bed in place - they hadn't yet decoated - Balfour could tell even in darkness that the space appeared barren.

But no space could truly be barren, with Johann. He cast a sleepy gaze at the wizard next to him - wrapped in the thick flannel duvet because it was still chilly up here in Scotland. Chillier, actually, than it should be. Bal glanced up and saw that the circular window high above the bed was propped open. Weak, cold dawn slipped in.

Just as he reached for his wand, a fluttering movement in the corner of his eye caused him to snap around to it. Lumos! Blue light flooded the room. An owl beat it great wings and took off from a beam in the ceiling, flying nervous circles above them. It was seanair's owl!

Balfour quickly slipped off the bed and looked around to find what post had been dropped at this early hour; he found it one the floor not far from where they'd been resting. A copy of The Prophet. He picked it up delicately, sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers.

"Johann," the Scotsman murmured - unfolding the paper in one hand and reaching for his lover's foot with the other, "Darling, my love. I think..." his breath stammered at the photo of Ira Almasy abusing a cigarette, "I think we ought to read this." Bal looked over to see if his commotion had woken the other man.

In muddled dreams, it was suddenly a cold winter’s day with brilliant clear blue sky. The light from Balfour’s lumos permeating the pale eyelids of the wizard wrapped in tartan on the mattress beside. One of the dogs was nudging at his feet, asking to go for a walk, and Balfour was calling him.

“… darling, my love…”
“Hurrumm?” Johann let out a hum of response, though still did not wake. “I’ll take you for a walk in a minute, go get your lead-.”

It was odd to be woken up by your own voice but it wasn’t the first time, and Seanair's owl and Balfour’s calling and touch had contributed more to the process in balance. Blue eyes opened and then squinted, pale hands wrestling out of blankets to blot out the light from the wand.

“What, what is it? What’s going on, what … time is it?” Johann replied, somewhat automatically, blinking and forcing his eyes to adjust to the light and being awake. As sleep retreated from his brain and his eyes could make out his surroundings, he clocked the newspaper and the distasteful visage of Ira Almasy. “Who’s dead?”

It took a bit of a squirm to wriggle out of the blankets to read it, unclothed torso pressed against Balfour’s bare back, one hand gripping the other side of the newspaper. He skimmed the article instinctively, and then with a shake of his head... “Fuck me! Seems too good to be true…!” … read it again in better detail. He clutched Balfour with one arm, and his heart beat quicker, alarmed at the news and what could lay ahead.

“In spite of the Department’s best efforts to launch a covert attack,” Johann read aloud, “… became apparent that their presence was expected.” He ran his tongue over his lips in thought, and glanced to Balfour, considering Riordan. That whole ridiculous dinner had been a little show of who might be in her pockets, or could be with little effort. He wasn’t an Atreus resident, had no clear relations with any of the other diners, just like Alberic Grimm turning up at the end as it all got bloody and Mihai left by the window. Was this an elaborate end game, or had whatever the illness Ira had exhibited been for real?

“This is good, very good, but also very, very bad. I almost feel like celebrating is tempting fate, but fuck it.” His bright eyes were alight with rapidly moving thoughts within, and he pressed his lips to Balfour’s shoulder to land a kiss. “We’re free,” he exclaimed with hushed glee, and seized Balfour with joy, delivering an enthusiastic, celebratory kiss.

Johann, pressed to his back, was exactly the reassuring presence he needed as he read (and re-read) the article. Dead! Ira Almasy dead! And Atreus destroyed! It seemed surreal, as they had only left a few days ago - nothing but discarded furniture and odd ends left in their old apartment. The voice in his ear started reciting from the Prophet, and Bal looked up to catch the glance his lover cast at him.

Someone told on the Aurors. They were both thinking of the dinner in March, where more Ministry people were gathered under Ira's roof that anyone could feel safe acknowledging. He wanted to feel elated, just like he had when Johann had first delivered news of Ira's will, but it felt too good to be true now that it was actually happening. Is this what dreams felt like?

             "...but fuck it." A soft mouth blessing his shoulder roused him from his daze. "We’re free," Johann's words filled the room, and Balfour turned to properly look at the other wizard in time to be surprised by the kiss. Whiskey yelped, their joy suddenly infectious.

A laugh tickled Balfour's throat as he threw the newspaper to the floor, not caring where it landed. . And then dropped his wand just as willingly, so that he could slide his hands around Johann's bare waist and reciprocate in kind. Because yes... yes, they were free. Oh, gods. They were bloody free! Odin bless seanair for waking them with his blasted owl!

Bal pulled back, corners of his mouth curled into a grin as he stared at Johann, "When have we ever shied away from tempting fate?" he laughed and kissed his beautiful wizard once more, quickly, before playfully shoving him down on to the tangled duvet covers. He couldn't stop smiling!

"I don't know what to do," Balfour leaned over the German, one hand thoughtlessly smoothing over the plane of his pale torso, "It's like Christmas come early." It was probably too early to drink, wasn't it? "Tell me what we should do, Johann Storm..." he bowed down further for another kiss and savoured it longer than before.

“Tell me what we should do, Johann Storm…”
“Celebrate, Balfour Spectre, celebrate!”



Sunlight fell through the window where Balthair’s owl had fled near an hour before. Ira Almasy’s smoking image continued to stare blankly at the ceiling of the tower room, her cigarette everlasting in print. The mattress sighed gently beneath Johann’s knees as he lowered himself down to rest, pale skin pressed against Balfour’s reclined form on the sheets. His lips lifted from collarbone to the rough stubble on Balfour’s jawline as he settled, damp with perspiration, legs entwined. He let his head rest on the pillow close to his lover’s ear, rosy cheeked and a little out of breath, dark curls full of knots. A contented noise escaped his throat as an arm found its rightful home around Balfour’s waist. He wore nothing but a brilliant smile that he could not cast off for love nor money - for it was love and relief that gave birth to it.

“Well,” Johann uttered, delight in his voice, “I feel the celebrations are off to an excellent start.” He gave a giddy little laugh, and inhaled more deeply, his lungs catching up. “Worth five fucks on her roof, that,” he laughed, merry hysteria at the deepest relief that life was finally as he had always yearned for. Free from criminality, full of love and under a safe roof, today was the first day of a dream. “Nearly was five, too…” he joked lightly, patting Balfour’s lean stomach. Terrible. “… We’ll make up for it later.”

Johann - somehow, always, miraculously - knew precisely what to say and do. The surreality of the situation had caused the Scotsman to take utter leave of his wits but in a handful of words his confusion was resolved. More than words, in fact, but touches. It brought reality back to him in such a rush: that they could touch at all, that they could kiss and press upon or into one another, that they could hold their warm bodies together and whisper nonsensical lovely things into the heated air between them....

Yet none of it under the shadow of a foul woman. All of it without a care and with every bit of hope for the future. Hope! That's what this feeling was! Absolute and unblemished hope.

So as he laid back against the pillows in his bed, coming down from their celebrations, Balfour found he could not speak at first. He allowed it to pass for a moment needed to catch his breath while Johann curled up with him, ecstatic. His hand came to rest on the one on his stomach. Above them, three of four floating jellyfish were glowing so hot a shade of pink it was almost red. Somehow they'd slipped in through the tower door.

          "Nearly was five, too..." Bal laughed at this, turning his head slightly so that he could smile at the wizard who shared his pillow " … We’ll make up for it later."

"We've all our lives to make up for it, and then some." A glimmer entered his eye and he laced their fingers together, "I can hardly believe this is all real but, gods, Johann. We're too lucky." It seemed too good to be true! But Odin smite him if he let something like doubt taint their good morning.

Now was a time for joy. "Shall we call for Grizelda? A great breakfast and maybe we could go for a walk, or into town..." he mused, thumb running over Johann's knuckles. The possibilities of a leisurely Sunday were slowly opening up to them. "We can't really celebrate in public view-" Balfour's mouth quirked into a smile, meaning in either sense of the word celebrate, "- but we ought to do something. Besides this."

He stretched his neck and rolled over a bit to land a pointed kiss on Joh's cheek. After all, they had the entire estate at their disposal! What couldn't they do? And why shouldn't they do it all?

“We are lucky without Ira dying,” Johann protested in a soft voice, pale eyelids shut as he relaxed.

“Possibilities, possibilities,” he replied to Balfour’s suggestions and wriggled his toes. “Plenty of those … places… you’ve told me about to explore.” He mumbled, not quite remembering what the word was and deciding not to risk it. He reasoned with his lust that Balfour was right that they should try and see civilisation.

Johann opened his bright blue eyes and studied the side of Balfour’s face. “That does sound like a good start, always ravenous after an early start, but don’t call Grizelda yet.” He reached up to smooth his fingers down his lover’s cheek. “She’s scarred enough without having to see us like this.” He chuckled, returned the kiss and reached in for a sweaty, somewhat sticky, cuddle with the wizard he loved above all others in the world.

By the time it was appropriate to call the Spectre family’s best elf, Johann was sporting a dressing gown and examining the other articles in the Prophet, sat cross-legged upon the wrinkled bedsheets. His chin was propped in his upturned hand as he read, having returned to the front page twice to re-read the words just to check it hadn’t somehow changed since the early hours. There would inevitably be questions from the aurors, but they were not immediate concerns. They were free from her at long last. Johann’s heart was singing in his chest, as he outwardly hummed a little off key, a happy, loving smile stuck on his face.

“I’d frame the front page if it wasn’t a bit crass,” Johann told Balfour, glancing up without lifting his chin from his palm. “Hang it in a toilet, print it on toilet paper,” his eyes had a mischievous glint. “Speaking of which,” he sat up, remembering the contracts. “I think I’ve a couple of things to burn later.”

Odin, he loved this man. Johann's suggestion to explore - or christen, as it was - the grounds was tucked into a corner of Balfour's mind as they had luxuriated in bed. Their Sunday mornings in bed were not complete without curling up for a little longer in the aftermath of more vigorous activities. And in truth he would never tire of these moments. Warm and sticky and almost unbearably intimate. Joh was right... Ira or no Ira, they were a pair of lucky bastards.


Once decent it was easy enough to spare Grizelda an eyeful and take orders for the great big breakfast. She would set the tables in the conservatory; the day too pleasant to remain cooped up in one place, Balfour reasoned. He had pulled on his own flannel dressing gown, and had procured a bit of parchment.

             "Speaking of which, I think I’ve a couple of things to burn later."
"That's a good idea," Bal looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, scribbling a thank you note to seanair and still grinning from the quip about toilet paper.

He nodded his head at the unlit fireplace not far from the bed. "You can start one here if you'd like," the wizard signed his letter with flourish. Most of the rooms had fireplaces, a common Scottish symptom, though it was easier to use heating charms as Balfour was accustomed to doing. A fire was more appealing in the winter than at the height of spring.

"A bit of a hike after food?" he got off the floor, sticking his hands in his mouth to whistle a chipper calling tune, "I think Ivoire and Sangre deserve a celebratory walk. Wherever they've hidden themselves."

His great owl, Freja, appeared at the circular window - she cast a far larger shadow than their bearer of good news had done. Balfour reached his hand into the air and allowed her pluck the rolled up parchment from his fingers. And then she was gone. Hopefully Balthair would rest easy knowing that they were sensible to news of Ira's death.

“No time like the present.” Johann uttered in response to the fire. He leaned back on the bed to grasp his ebony wand from the bedside table, back just in time to see Balfour’s grin and acknowledge the question. “Definitely. I feel as if a ten-tonne weight’s come off my shoulders. Perfect time to expend some energy outside.”

Johann wriggled off the bed, his bare feet patting across the floor. Whiskey following his path with dark eyes and a wag of the tail. They had, after all, just mentioned walking. Johann shot the hound a knowing smirk, but passed by, slipping out of the room to fetch things from his well-worn travelling trunk in a nearby room.

On his arrival back, he threw a misplaced pair of walking socks onto the bed covers without thinking. Whiskey hopped up, thinking it was for him to chase, and sniffed at before curling up on the covers on the vacated warm patch with a grumble. Johann was oblivious, knelt down before the bedroom grate with his wand. There were two scrolls poking out of the dressing gown pocket. He lowered himself to the floor to sit cross-legged as the flames took with a crackle and looked back over his shoulder to Balfour.

“Care to join me?” He slid both copies out of his pocket and extended one to his partner. Out of curiosity, he unrolled the one in his hand to be sure it was his contract still and not some horrible trick. There is was, in best ink, his signature beside hers. “Never again,” he resolved. “Even if we’ve not got two knuts to rub together.” He shuddered and rolled it up, looking to Balfour approvingly before he extended the parchment into the flames. If he burned his fingers it’d only serve to remind him.

Balfour gave poor old Whiskey an affectionate head rub on his way to join Johann at the fireplace. There would be time to play with and walk the dogs later - business first. He accepted the other scroll of parchment, sitting on the floor just behind the dark haired wizard and glancing at the copy of the contract that could so easily compromise the happiness they had recovered in spite of these last few months. It could burn alongside the bad memories.

He slid a hand around Johann's waist, leaning forward to press a feverish kiss into the back of his neck. They smelled of sweat and sex and, faintly, cologne.

"Never again," Balfour echoed in a quiet voice and then reached out to throw the copy into the hearth. It landed softly amongst the firewood, taking its time to catch. "This is our life now. We will protect it."

There was nothing he wouldn't do to ensure that. He had let Ira Almasy interfere in his life before and he would never allow it to happen again - not from her, not from the Ministry of Magic. Licks of flame began to eat up at the paper. Bal clasped his partner's wrist, squeezing it gently to suggest he let go of it before the fire reached flesh. He kept his face half buried in the nape of Johann's neck and breathed out slowly. Like he was trying to exhale every bad feeling in his chest.

"I love you," he murmured as the last of the contracts crumbled into ash.