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The words floated up on the back of the dog, Ask him about his hand.
What the hell, Junta thought. He looked over at where Hajime was, changing into pajamas, tan lines stark over his muscled thighs. Junta heartily approved; Prongs senior had also developed powerful legs, notorious for his fast kickoffs on the Quidditch pitch. Junta snapped the watchdog shut and rolled over onto his stomach to wait for Hajime, leaving space on one side of the bed.
“This is much nicer than Grimmauld,” he chattered as Hajime walked over. “I’m glad you switched the beds out, though. Seems morbid to keep the old one – awkward, too,” Junta continued, stretching his arms out, digging his fingers into the bedspread. Hajime just smiled and reached over with his right hand to shut Junta’s copy of Shop Gods. Junta grabbed his wrist.
It was easy to miss, the new skin pale against the back of Hajime’s hand; honestly, the way his Quidditch gloves left his fingertips and wrists sun-browned was much more noticeable, and probably stole attention away from the sheen of the scars. Junta angled the back of Hajime’s hand around, squinting as the moonlight in their bedroom bounced off the faint words, I must not tell lies.
“Who did this to you?” Junta asked.
“Mmh. It was detention,” Hajime replied, voice soft and scratchy from underuse.
“Is that why you’re so quiet? Someone cut you for lying so now you barely say anything at all?” Junta asked, full of concern, barreling past any need for tact. He could play around and mince phrases in front of Onoda, Imaizumi, Naruko, and Makishima, but here, he would not put on a show. He trusted this young Prongs the same way he trusted Jin, his boisterous werebear of a best friend, still as loud after 20 years. Junta felt from the beginning that Hajime deserved open honesty, since what little he said himself was so honest. Now he began to worry about why that was.
“I was always this quiet,” Hajime said simply. There was iron behind his words, though, that Junta could detect. And I've always told the truth. Junta’s throat tightened as he rubbed his thumbs over the scarring.
He lifted Hajime’s hand to his mouth and pressed his mouth against the pale ridges there – definitely not a kiss, Junta would justify it later to himself, merely an instinctive use of the extra tactile sensitivity of the human body’s lips. Hajime pressed his own lips together in a subtle smile again, dragging his hand free, and ruffling Junta’s curls affectionately. That was nice, even as a boy.
Junta got the signal, though; lights out. He morphed into Padfoot, still somewhat indignant on Hajime’s behalf, but overcome for now with warmth and tiredness and, underneath, moved by the other boy’s conviction. Those scars were nothing special to Hajime; he still went about his normal business with that hand, and scratched Padfoot’s chin with it countless times already. Junta found it special now, though. Padfoot gave Hajime’s fingers a few extra little licks, before settling his head at Hajime’s hips and drifting off to a monochrome doggy sleep.
