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Heart Of The Sun

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It’s eleven o’clock when Godric stumbles into his kitchen, barely functional and still half asleep. He only knows he’s missing a sock because the lino is freezing against the sole of his left foot, and not the right.

“You look like shit.” His head snaps up, sending a burning pain through his neck, and there’s Salazar fucking Slytherin, reaching into his cupboard and, most importantly, being all shirtless and attractive.

“I moved the key,” Godric says, with a whine in his voice as he slumps into one of the mis-matched kitchen chairs. “How did you get in this time?”

“You moved it to the flower pot,” Salazar says, with an arch of his eyebrow that is far more sexy than it deserves to be. “That’s not exactly the most imaginative hiding place, Godric.”

“Fuck you,” Godric replies. “Make me a cup of tea.” Salazar scoffs, but he takes another mug from the cupboard and sets it on the side. The kettle rattles on it’s base as Salazar pops the teabags into the mugs. Godric doesn’t think about how one has a snake on, because that would mean it’s Salazar’s mug, Salazar’s mug in his cupboards.

“Why do you have Coco Pops?” Salazar opens another cupboard and frowns at the contents, like there’s something more offensive than breakfast cereals and bread lurking in there. “They’re for children. That’s why they have the little monkey.”

“His name is Coco. And I have them because they’re great,” Godric says, rolling his R’s.

“Isn’t that Frosties, though?”

“You tell me, Sal.” A mug of tea is set in front of Godric, placed perfectly on a square of kitchen roll with a mutter about coasters, he never has coasters before Salazar sits opposite him, frowning at the way the chair shifts slightly beneath him. “So what was it this time? You forget where you live and just decided to break in and crash on my couch?”

“I told Helga her love of yellow makes her look like a demented canary and she made the taxi driver dump me outside,” Salazar says, somehow managing to make it sound not completely ridiculous. “And I couldn’t be bothered to walk home.”

“So you broke into my flat?” Godric repeated. “For the twelth time in three weeks?”

“I suggest you stop leaving your spare key outside then.” There’s a moment of silence, while Godric scowls at Salazar over the rim of his mug, and Salazar gets that truly obnoxious smirk on his face. “Right, you’d lock yourself out if you did that.”

“You’re a terrible person and I hate you,” Godric mutters, and tries not to stare at Salazar’s nipples when he shifts in his seat. “You should put a shirt on.”

“Can I get a lift home?” Salazar stretches as he speaks - his muscles flex and for a moment, Godric can’t remember what the question was. “Godric?”

“What?” He blinks, and Salazar is grinning at him like, like, a shark or something evil that wants to eat him. “Oh, fuck you. Put your top on.”

“You love it,” Salazar says, but he’s standing up, draining the dregs from his mug, and Godric is trying not to look at the curve where his lower back meets his arse.

“You’re a prick.” He pointedly doesn’t look at Salazar as he puts his mug in the sink. He doesn’t look up even when Salazar walks past him, close enough that Godric can smell the weird cigarettes he smokes and a hint of Helga’s favourite perfume.

“You’d love my prick,” Salazar says, from the doorway, and Godric wishes Rowena had actually gone through with cutting out the bastards tongue, like that time she threatened to when they were twelve.

 

Apparently, Salazar had actually lost his shirt, because he’s lounging in the passenger seat of Godric’s shitty Ford like he’s on a beach in the Bahamas, wearing one of Godric’s that he hasn’t even bothered to button up properly. Every time he moves, Godric catches a hint of nipple, and he only seems to move when Godric isn’t paying attention to the road.

“How much did you even drink last night?” Godric says, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, not even vaguely in time with the music blasting from the radio.

“Lost track when Helena ordered B-52’s. That was after the appletini’s, and they were after the Cuba Libre’s.”

“It’s like you’re talking a foreign language.” Salazar snorts, but he nods. “I think we should put a warning sign on Helga. ‘Will drink you under the table. Beware’.” He glances at Salazar, who’s holding a hand over his eyes and looking pretty awful, now that Godric can actually focus on something other than his abs. “And we’ll get you one too. ‘Don’t serve alcohol if with Helga’. You need to stop competing with her. She always wins.”

“What’ll we get you and Rowena, huh?” Salazar says. “‘Boring twats, please get them shitfaced’.”

“I drink,” Godric mutters. “I just don’t drink with Helga, because the first time and last time I did, I ended up with alcohol poisoning.”

“That was quite funny,” Salazar says, lifting his hand off his eyes to look at Godric. He’s smiling - acually smiling, and not just mocking Godric with his bloody smirk - but he still looks a bit green. “Give us a fag. I think I finished mine.”

“I’m quitting,” Godric says, but he still points to the glove compartment. He turns onto Salazar’s road as Sal digs through the glove compartment, abandoning insurance documents and paper licenses to the floor until he finds the pack of marlboros and a lighter with tits on.

“Classy,” he says, around the cigarette as he lights it. “Very you.”

“Shut up,” Godric mutters, pulling up outside the house. Salazar’s cat is sitting on the doorstep, glaring at the two of them, as much as a cat can. “It was all they had.”

“Thanks for the lift,” Salazar says, as he climbs out of the car. “And the fag.”

“And the shirt,” Godric points out. Salazar’s flashing his nipples again.

“And the shirt. I’ll wash it.” He goes to slam the door shut, but he hesitates for a second, bends down to look back in the car. His cigarette is held between two fingers, and he looks almost...pensive. “Call us if you get a life, and we’ll go out for drinks.” The door slams.

“Twat!” Godric yells. There’s no reply, just a raised middle finger and a grin.

 

Godric doesn’t see Salazar for a whole week. More specifically, he doesn’t wake up to Salazar on his sofa or in his kitchen or, like one incredibly awkward time, in his shower. He does get daily texts covering a range of subjects - the lack of BLT sandwiches at Salazar’s local cafe, the annoying woman on the tube with a dog in her handbag, the annoying man with sweaty armpits, Salazar’s boss and how he’s tempted to brain him with a stapler, the lack of bacon in general at Salazar’s local cafe, the magnificence of Rowena’s tits (Godric replies to that one with ‘don’t objectify her, but yes’), the sub-par coffee at Salazar’s local cafe and how irritating Salazar’s boss is.

Mostly, Godric spends his time wondering why Salazar keeps going to such a shitty cafe and how he lives disliking so many people.

It’s Tuesday before he sees him again. He’d been just settling in for a night of terrible reality TV and eating more chocolate than is strictly necessary, when his phone started ringing.

“What?” He said as he answered the phone. “The answer’s no, Sal.”

“What if the question is ‘will you let me suck your cock?’” Godric thinks for a moment.

“Is that the question?” He asks, reaching for the remote to switch to something more intellectually stimiulating than Teen Mom. He wouldn’t be surprised if Salazar could find an opportunity for mocking, even through the television.

“No-”

“The answer remains the same.”

“What about if the question is ‘let me in, I’m on your doorstep and I’ve got beer’.” Godric thinks for a moment again.

“That’s not a question. Is Helga involved?”

“No, she’s having a ‘men and women both suck’ evening with Ro.”

“Am I your last resort?” Godric frowns at the TV. A crocodile is eating something, and there is blood everywhere.

“I bought beer, Godric.” Godric sighs, and switches back to Teen Mom.

“Come in. If you can find the key in less than five minutes, I’ll let you have the good biscuits.” He hangs up.

Less than two minutes later, the front door creaks open, and Godric hears the rattle of metal against the table beside the door.

“Under the stone lion. You’re getting better, mate,” he hears Salazar shout from the hallway. “I’ll just get the biscuits and I’ll be in.”

Godric ignores Salazar’s comments about his choice of television programs when he walks into the living room. He catches the biscuits when they’re thrown to him, and moves his feet so Salazar can dump the twelve pack on the coffee table.

“What’s the occasion?” He asks, pulling one from the pack and cracking the lid off.

“I was bored as shit,” Salazar says, sticking his feet up on the coffee table. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.” Salazar lights his cigarette anyway. “You’re a fuck.”

“No, you’re a fuck,” Salazar replies, smiling contritely at Godric. He does offer the cigarette at least, but frowns when Godric takes it. “I thought you were quitting.”

“Changed my mind.” He takes a deep drag before handing it back to Salazar. “Now shut up. She’s about to kick her boyfriend out,” he says, gesturing at the television. Naturally, he ignores the look on Salazar’s face.

 

Between the beer, the (bloody expensive) biscuits and the way Salazar had leaned into him half an hour into the TV marathon session, Godric was feeling more than a little cosy, and more than a lot out of control of his brain/mouth filter.

“Cats are pretty awesome,” he says.

“No,” Salazar replies, and that’s the end of that. “You’re such a lightweight.”

“You have a liver of steel, you’re a mutant. You’re liver man. You’d be a shitty mutant. What the fuck would you do, out drink Magneto?”

“Shut up, Godric,” Salazar says, cupping a hand over Godric’s mouth. “Don’t lick me.” A pause. “I said don’t lick me.” There’s a squeal in Salazar’s voice as he rips his hand away from Godric’s mouth, immediately rubbing his palm against his chinos like Godric had actually slobbered on him or something.

“You’re irritatingly good looking,” Godric says, frowning at Salazar. “And I am rather drunk.”

“You’ve barely drank anything!” Godric glances at the coffee table, at the twelve empty bottles of beer, and decides Salazar is probably exaggerating. He reaches out his arms and for a long, long moment, rests his hands on Salazar’s shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Salazar’s frowning, just a little, and it makes his nose wrinkle. His nose wrinkles and his eyebrows drop, and Godric doesn’t like that, because it makes his eyes a lot harder to see. “Godric, this is weird.”

“You know, though,” Godric says, far too close to Salazar for either of their comfort levels. “You always tease me for it.”

“Know what? You’re not making sense.”

“You never wear clothes!”

Later, much later, Godric will describe it by saying he ‘snapped’. Salazar will say Godric attacked him. They’ll never agree on it, much like they never agree on anything else. Either way, whether Godric snapped or whether he attacked Salazar, somehow they end up kissing.

It’s not particularly good - Godric is too close to tipping forwards, they’re both too drunk, no matter what Salazar says, and beer, cigarettes and expensive chocolate biscuits don’t make for the nicest of tastes.

Neither of them will admit to imagining it before, and neither will admit to it being different or actually kind of better to what they thought.

 

Godric wakes up to a pounding in his head, a disgusting taste in his mouth and Salazar in his bed.

“Technically, you broke in again last night,” he says, rolling onto his side. Salazar’s got no shirt on and Godric takes a moment to ogle the sharp cut of his hipbones. “It still counts, even if I told you to.”

“Shut up,” Salazar mutters. “It’s too early in the morning for your voice.”

“If I recall correctly, you were encouraging me to be louder last night.” Godric laughs as he talks, rolling back onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “If I recall correctly-”

“You don’t,” Salazar says. “Shut up.”

“Salazar,” Godric says.

“We’re not talking about our feelings, Godric,” Salazar says, rolling over to scowl at Godric. “And I swear, if you even try-”

“I was going to ask for a cup of tea, actually.” There’s a groan from Salazar as he struggles to pull the covers up closer to his face. “You make good tea.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Godric laughs again, but before he can say anything, Salazar is shoving a hand over his mouth again. “Don’t even say it. Don’t even.”

“But you did it so well last night,” Godric says, cackling beneath Salazar’s hand.

Salazar, quite rightly in his opinion, doesn’t help when Godric laughs so hard he falls off the bed.