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Le Déjeuner du Matin

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“Potter,” a young man purred, his dark brown locks managing to shine in the sun still, a red glitter to it. “Hold still.”

“Maybe,” the other replied, “I could remain still if your laugh wasn’t that charming.” He paused, for effect, to see him turn crimson, up to his ears. That fragile, pale skin made Potter wish to jump and sit on the ground, in front of him, and run the backs of his fingers across the man’s cheeks. To remember and touch every freckle that crossed his face, the universe and far-away stars splattered onto his face. “If you weren’t so charming.”

The man meant to move, to rise, but a pen pointed sternly in his direction made him rethink it. “Sit. Merlin’s sake, you’re going to ruin my dra--”

“That’s your problem, Starchild,” Potter interrupted, waving a hand and an arm about that had been laid upon his risen knee and had been placed back with a sly, yet innocent smile with a look from the other man. “You only do drawings. And while they are Marvelo-us-” Starchild gave him a stare- “Paintings would be much more… entertaining. Life-sized, please and thank you.”

“Would you like me to get on my knees, too?” the boy countered, looking delighted despite his words and tone. He now sat crossed legged, still sketching, drawing and inking.

“If you must.” After all, Potter had been stretched on the green-covered bed, half sitting, an emerald-shamrock coloured cover hiding away his special regions. The other sat in a chair, a robe wrapped around him, Gryffindor-marked no less. He had a way with many people, a charming fellow was he; and so he had ways with the house elves, too. Only that was the reason that the boys had gotten refreshments and snacks at leisurely times when they had shared rooms and beds, and yet none knew of their relations. At least no Human or Ghost had. So, Starchild dropped his notebook into the now empty chair. He walked to a table with his coffee, by a tall, slim window and sat once more. Potter watched, a poem coming to his mind, one that Tom had recited in French, and, though Potter was still learning, he at least spoke the title and the name of the author in the man’s mother language: “Le Dejeuner matin, Jacques Prevert.

The other smiled, happy, nearly chirping at it. One would think that a man such as himself would be quick to remember and recompose himself, but no. Not in front of his lover. “Close, my love. But you forget your accents and the way the French language flows. Le Déjeuner du matin, Jacques Prévert.” He turned around, for his coffee.


“He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He stirred
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without speaking to me
He lighted
A cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
In the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried.”


“Tom,” was now standing in front of an open window, snow blowing in, and an occasional distant sound of Christmas carols, bells and perhaps even shouting and laughter, too.

“Harry,” laid uncovered, the sheets offered to the man, his man, in hopes that they are to be wrapped around them both. Starchild - Tom dropped Potter’s robes, elegantly stepped to the bed and laid on the other.

He wrapped them both, close together, and they both, in unison spoke. “I love you.”