Maybe he would, without Johann, resort to tears and drink. What Balfour feared much more than the hypothetical life without his lover was one in which he could lose the other man - how, having known happiness this intense, could he possibly be happy again? He ran his thumb over Johann's knuckles as he listened to reassuring words spoken in a rich, velvety voice.

             "He’ll be home before we know it..."

"Aye," he agreed with a sigh, trying to bring himself away from his worries. "He seemed alright when I saw him in Greyfriar's office. I think I was worse off, to be honest, having to talk to Bagnold about the whole business. I kept thinking about... about her."

About the long shadow she cast over their lives and how it flitted in the corner of his eye if he was looking for it. The answer, probably, was not to look for it in the first place - something recent events couldn't allow. He shifted positions slightly, turning his shoulder so that he was leaning on his side and better facing his fiancé.

"I know you don't like to discuss that." Balfour's brow wrinkled in apology, eyes searching Johann's countenance as he leaned closer. "If there is anything of her in this terrible business, we'll get to the root, won't we? And we'll burn it. I won't let her mar our happiness, our family."

If Ira Almasy thought it a cruel joke to keep a son hidden from him all these years, he wasn't going to laugh. Feliks was a part of their felicity, not a stain. He released Joh's hand, realising he was clutching it too tightly - and in turn, realising the sudden seriousness of his words.

"Sorry. That just came out of me," the Scotsman huffed a shaky laugh. "Wedding. April. Mr and Mr Spectre."

“… I kept thinking about… about her.”

Don’t think about her, Balfour. Johann let out a long, low sigh at this admission. He shifted to let Balfour change position and turn onto his side, now looking directly at Johann sprawled on his back still.

“… we’ll get to the root, won’t we? And we’ll burn it. I won’t let her mar our happiness, our family.”
“Never.” Joh agreed, with finality. There was a serious pause between them, broken by Balfour letting go of his grip on his hand, apologising.

“Mr and Mr Spectre.” He agreed. “And young Spectre. A proper family.” With their thoughts in that area, and all the uncertainty, it seemed the right moment to bring it up, and divert his fiancé’s worries. Johann ran the tip of his tongue over his lips in preparation.

“About that,” a sentence start that might stop a wizard’s heart dead a second in fright, so he ploughed on quickly, “I wondered if I might talk to Feliks when he comes home, about making it official? Adopting him properly. I mean, me, adopting him - you’re his father.” Words, blithering words. “I’ve found everything we need to do, but obviously if he says no, I’ll respect that.”

It wasn’t that Johann expected Feliks to say no, but more that he’d considered numerous scenarios in his head. That he should wait until they were married, until Feliks was a little older and settled, that he shouldn’t ask at all and just wait to be asked, that it wasn’t necessary if they were married, but then the worry if something were to happen to Balfour and Feliks were expected to live with Balfour’s parents or worse, an Almasy. Nightmare.

He had expected a reprise of their conversation on the sloping hills - music bands and first dances and cake flavours - but Johann brought up a subject that hadn't yet occurred to him.

Adoption. His eyebrows went up in slight surprise and he reached for the other man's face with his free hand, tracing that pronounced cupid's bow with a light touch.

"That. Um, that would be..." Balfour's own mouth twitched into a charmed smile. "My love, that would be perfect. I can't imagine Feliks would say no. He thinks the world of you. I'm madly jealous," he teased lightly, "but I guess one of us has to be the cool parent. Lucky you."

Apparently sardonic linguists outclassed beast handlers in his son's eyes. Though of course there was more to it than that. More to Johann that Feliks admired.

He had never known his own birth mother but Balfour grew up from the start with his technical step-mother, so it wasn't the same. There had never been a need for official adoption or anything like that. It would mean so much more to Feliks, who fell quiet and thoughtful at the mention of Ira. A parent who didn't want you.

"Lucky Feliks, too." Balfour added, thinking about it. "Two fathers. The three of us are going to be a sight, in kilts and all this Spring. Speaking of which..." his smile turned into a grin as he slid his hand down Johann's neck, past his pronounced collarbones to rest on his ribs. "Should we wear ours the traditional way? What do you reckon?"

Well, that was settled then. Not that he should have been at all worried! Of course Balfour was going to support such a proposition! A knot untied in Johann’s mind, and he forgot to correct Balfour on the whole ‘cool parent’ business. Balfour would forever be the cool one in Joh’s eyes. Leather trousers, terpsichorean hips and friends for miles, there was no competition which could compete, and that was before the whole list of reasons to love him.

“Brisk!” Johann agreed, laughing. “Have you ever - I mean - one might assume, but have you really?” He was genuinely curious. The whole bit about underpants and kilts seemed like a running joke for the Scots, and he’d been inclined to disbelieve anyone would. Wasn’t wool itchy, for one? “Not sure I’ve worn long socks and bare knees since I was half the age Feliks is.” He stretched his legs out, wiggling this toes as he inspected them, trying to picture the sight in his mind’s eye.

“Next you’ll be suggesting I wear a garter,” he looked back suggestively, well aware of the conclusions some had drawn on the news Johann had decided to take Bal’s name when they got married. “Suppose I can’t deny you…” He leaned in, stole a kiss. “But I’ll be looking up the best warming charms, Spectre, otherwise it’ll drop off.”

            “Have you ever - I mean - one might assume, but have you really?”

He grinned, wordless, mirroring his lover's laugh. It was one of those instances, Johann musing and muttering, mouth doing unexpected things to his unusual countenance. One of those silly everyday instances when Balfour felt helpless against his affection for the other wizard. The way he stretched his beautiful long legs and wiggled his lovely toes and flirted charmingly in the way only charming people can when they are naked in bed together.

            "...otherwise it’ll drop off."
"Oh and we can't have that, can't we?"

Balfour returned the kiss as the hand pressed against Johann's chest slid purposefully lower. He smiled into the kiss and huffed a laugh, abrupt. "You really shouldn't have mentioned the garter. I'll spend the whole ceremony thinking about what's under your kilt, darling."

Gods forbid he picture his future husband in clan tartan, they'd never leave the bothy. Bal really was trying not to be so... them. He had dutifully cut out a whole paragraph in his wedding vows because it wouldn't do to wax lyrical about how you think your groom is outrageously erotic. Such a shame.

"I hope the Ministry will still be standing when we get back from our honeymoon," he remarked in a dry, amused voice as he traced shapes on Johann's hip. "Although I'm sure everyone agrees we'll be unfit for public consumption once I'm allowed to call you husband. We shall simply have to nauseate the Americans instead."

“If we get back,” Johann corrected, though they could not abscond forever, he could dream. Feliks would return from Hogwarts eventually! “Nauseate we shall,” he agreed.

As if to express commiseration with the Americans, one of the dogs grumbled from the floor of the bothy, and Johann laughed at the timing. He was quite sure the Americans would be able to stomach them both. For all Balfour was forward and confident, he felt that was standard in those he had met from across the Atlantic, especially in British culture.

He rolled onto his front, all the better to peer at Balfour from. He propped himself up on pale elbows, his laughter leaving a blithe expression, eyes bright.

“In 48 days we’ll be getting married,” he reminded them, as if it were not front of mind for both. “Six more weeks of living in sin before a whole lifetime of it together,” his blue eyes left Balfour’s expression to look up, thoughts casting back to a warm September evening, margaritas, masks and a lemongrass bath. He bent his knees, crossed his ankles, toes drawing a lazy circle behind his crown of messy dark curls. “Husbands,” he added, “parents,” he met Balfour’s loving gaze once more, closing in, “and I hope, forever.”

Darker thoughts seemed to retreat in the light of Johann's smile and laugh - all trace of Ira, the Ministry, unknown threats. They shied away from the presence of two souls delighted by the prospect of eternity together. Balfour grinned at his fiancé, whose pose struck a boyish note now. Husbands. Parents. It didn't matter how many times someone said it, he still felt an anticipatory tingle.

The Scotsman sat up in the bed that occupied the bothy nook, and leaned down to kiss Johann briefly.

"Forever," he agreed before going in for another, longer kiss, remembering how he could have lost this wonderful man to the hospital poisonings last year. "Although the prospect of living in sin has been quite the turn-on..." Balfour added with a little mock sigh as he pulled away.

Something playful tugged at his mouth and he glanced at the dogs, who had been quite patient with them until now. Well. They could afford to be patient for a little longer. The fire crackled and the wind outside had picked up, a low whistling through the trees. Spring was coming, yes, but it was not here yet. Staying indoors still had its attractions.

Balfour ran a hand through Johann's curls. Sin. Yes, they were sinfully happy together . "That means we only have 48 days to take advantage of that, don't we?"