Night of October 19th, 1893 - The Augurey

A secret: Kieran was sober. It was hard to be in the Augurey without drinking, and harder to stomach the election without it — but it was Election Day, and Jude might need him. So he was sober, and he was tired, and from their observations of polling locations and the Wizengamot's election officials — Jude had done better than anyone expected?

But they wouldn't know until the morning, when the Prophet announced it. Polls had closed hours ago. Kieran was feeling antsy. And he could tell, from looking at Jude, that Jude was exhausted — of course he was. He'd been running for Minister for months, being perceived by more people than ever, and out of his comfort zone. And to so many of them he would always be the cause.

The crowd had thinned out. It was mostly their friends now. Kieran, who had been shadowing Jude for much of the day, put a hand on Jude's shoulder. "Can we go home?" he asked — Kieran's home, Jude's home, it didn't matter, but they had to get out of here eventually, and Kieran wanted to be with Jude when they did.

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   Jude Wright

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It had taken until tonight to really realise that all this was insane. The day had felt something like a fever dream, and even now he felt the nerves and the anticipation and the exhaustion, and there were still hours before they would actually know.

A touch to the shoulder made him look sidelong. Kieran. If Jude was on edge about it all, Kieran had had it worse – he’d made it clear enough how he hated this – but still he’d showed up every day. So Jude nodded, grateful to him and a little grateful for the excuse. (He’d begun to wonder if anyone would ever leave.)

“Let me just say goodnight,” Jude agreed and, catching a few people’s eyes, told Esteban and the others in turn that he was going to get some sleep. There was no way he would sleep until the election was officially called, but they let him go with some wishes of luck and well dones, and Jude met Kieran just outside the door.

“Can we go to yours?” he asked, hopeful. There was too much from the campaign still littering his house, and too many thoughts in his head, and if anyone wanted to find him there even in the early hours, they would. A change of scene, a brief reprieve, might do him good.

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Kieran waited just outside the Augurey, tapping his fingers against his thigh. Regardless of whether or not he pulled this off — Kieran still thought it pretty unlikely — there had been some impact. Jude had done something. Kieran had been feeling vaguely hopeful all day — it was an off-putting feeling to have — and he didn't know what to do about it.

And finally, Jude stepped outside. "Of course," Kieran said — he was still occasionally embarrassed to have Jude in his home, but Juliana stopped by often enough that he usually kept it tidier than he had a few years ago. And Eileen was still at the Augurey, so — they'd have at least some time alone.

It was a short walk from the Augurey to Kieran's flat, and the streets got worse the closer you got. Kieran shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and set off, matching Jude's pace. They had only gone a block when he said, "You should be proud, you know."

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He bathed in the companionable silence that had fallen between them as they started walking – through cool air, down dark familiar streets. He felt more awake again for the movement, or maybe just from the escape, but his stride slowed when Kieran spoke. Jude was a little surprised by the sentiment.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, halfheartedly. Wasn’t it still too soon to say? He was proud of how the campaign had gone, for the most part, and proud of his friends for all the efforts they had made to help, and he didn’t regret doing it... but he wasn’t sure if he could say he was satisfied.

Jude hmed in response. “I don’t know,” he said contemplatively, with more the air of a confession than an argument. “I just don’t know if I did enough.” To win, or just to have made enough difference – it was hard to tell about either from here. There was something about the results looming and the hours of waiting in the way: the uncertainty of what came next (for him, and for everyone) had left an opening for the doubts to grow. He couldn’t have admitted it to everyone, but...

And he wasn’t used to feeling such unease; but then tonight was more pivotal than most in his life. He didn’t know what his tomorrow would look like, and both the best outcome and the worst were sinking in with sudden, terrifying clarity. (Maybe he hadn’t made any impact at all, and it had all been for nothing. Or maybe he’d done well, and people would vote for him – but then a conservative would win because of a split progressive vote, and Jude would be a partial architect of that. Or, wilder still, maybe opinions had shifted enough to give him a chance of winning – but what then? He was almost less worried about the governance, uphill struggle though it would be, than about how his life would change by it. There would probably be – no more evenings at the Augurey like this.)

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They were halfway to Kieran's building, now; what would he do with Jude all night? Kieran had no expectation that either one of them would be willing to sleep.

Kieran's mouth twisted wryly. "You did enough," he said, "You did more than anyone could have asked of you." Jude had debated and campaigned and met with strangers; he'd brought his opinions to the masses and at least some of them had voted for him.

He cleared his throat. "I voted for you," he added. Obviously he had, of course he had — but it still meant something, didn't it? When Urquart had run, Kieran had not been able to vote yet — and today, he had been able to cast his ballot for Jude Wright for Minister of Magic.

He hadn't thought it possible, but Kieran was more in love than ever.

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   Jude Wright

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You did enough. Reassurances from Kieran were always odd things to parse. He’d known him long enough to half-expect argument at every turn, or at least a hefty dose of pessimism. And then occasionally there would be this, this strange turn to gentleness. (What had happened to him tonight, to make him so devout?) He’d called Jude deranged at the start. He’d loathed every minute of it.

But he had voted for him, nonetheless – well, that was something, Jude thought, with a spark of affection in his chest. “Then at least I’ve achieved something,” he said lightly, with a brief, teasing smile as if that were already a better result than he’d been expecting. It was, really. His friends were good to him, he knew that well enough – but it had never been a given. Especially not from him.

Jude studied Kieran’s face, cast half in shadow, and tried to drink it all in, just in case. He breathed out, still wondering about him and why he stayed. He hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near the campaign, and yet – hadn’t he always been there? Not just for the posters, or the paper; Kieran had been there day to day, faithfully, no matter what. He’d cared more than he needed to – and Jude didn’t know how to thank him for it.

“You’ve done more for me,” he said, serious, “than I could ever have asked of you.”

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"Well," Kieran said, with a wry smile. "You know you've done the same for me a hundred times over." Jude was there, every full moon night — in the corner of the attic he let Kieran change in every month, after risking everything to become an animagus and help Kieran even more. Maybe Kieran had not asked to be a werewolf, but Jude had not asked to help one — and running for Minister had ended.

Kieran swallowed. There were not enough words, tonight — and they would not even know what happened today for several more hours.

"I would do anything for you," Kieran admitted, quiet. "If you asked."

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Jude shook his head, but he didn’t know how to argue that, except by saying it’s easy. It’s nothing. It’s no work and no sacrifice if it’s you.

But then – Kieran was saying the same thing, wasn’t he? They did the same thing for each other, over and over again, in whatever ways they could. Jude had to fall to a stop at that, just to process the thought. Did that mean he might feel the same way too?

He caught Kieran by the arm and turned to face him better, trying to actually meet his gaze. Because he – he couldn’t just let that sentence go tonight. On top of the election and everything else, he was tired, and he needed to understand. And he wanted to believe it, to take it on faith alone – but just once, it would be nice to have some certainty.

Still, the words came out frayed with tentativeness, because something about Kieran’s – confession and this conversation felt exceptionally fragile, and he didn’t want to be the one to break it. But he might not be able to ask it tomorrow.

And Kieran said he would do anything. “And if I ask you why,” Jude said slowly; if that was all he asked of him, “will you tell me?”

Please, he could almost have begged, although he thought – hoped – he knew.

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Are you asking? Kieran wanted to say, but didn't — because he knew that Jude was asking. And after everything — the animagus transformation, years of nights in the attic together, Jude running for Minister, all of it — Kieran did not think that he could push Jude off with a near lie.

They were alone in the street, and Jude was meeting his eyes, and Kieran swallowed. He felt his heartbeat in his throat. There was so much risk. Jude wouldn't sell him out, he knew that — but their lives would never be the same, no matter the outcome.

But — would it really hurt that much? To finally know for sure? Kieran had been lying to Jude for years; over a decade, at this point. It had been easy, at first. To stare and paint at a man who didn't like him at all, who wasn't his friend, who thought he was a terrible person. Then they had become friends, and then they had become — whatever they were now. So maybe he could not lie again.

Kieran swallowed again. The words pushed through his throat and for his mouth. "You always make me say it," Kieran said, a fond smile on his face. The memory was horrible — Jude, poking and prodding at him until he finally admitted that he was a werewolf — but it had turned fond, all the same, with the years.

Kieran was always confessing. Lycanthropy, biting Topaz Urquart, and now —

"I've loved you the whole time," Kieran whispered in the dark and empty street. "Didn't you notice?"

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It had to be more than just gratitude, didn’t it? No amount of gratitude went as far as this. Jude swallowed too, just waiting and hoping and praying that he hadn’t got this all soundly wrong.

He exhaled at that first remark, heart sinking a little, because then he had done it again without meaning to – asked too much, pushed him too far. He opened his mouth slightly, about to apologise or take the question back. Because Kieran still didn’t owe him anything, no matter what it was. Jude didn’t have to know. Just this could be enough.

And he felt dizzy with fear and anticipation when Kieran started to answer him anyway, so dizzy he thought he might miss it. But there was no missing that – there was nothing else but that: I’ve loved you the whole time – and he had scarcely felt the relief of it before Kieran added, didn’t you notice?

Jude made a strangled noise in his throat. He was suddenly, impossibly, indignant, and lost for words – maybe angry, even. Because of course he hadn’t, the answer was obviously not, and how was he supposed to have known? That was ridiculous: when had Kieran ever made that clear? He shook his head, casting back through everything... Was he blind? But Jude swore he had been far too obvious about how he felt for years – and hadn’t he been trying to get through to Kieran, over and over again? – and if Kieran had really always felt the same way, why had he never bloody said?

“Are – you – insane,” Jude answered faintly, finally, against the furious racing of his heart. Surely there had been sooner opportunities than this, if that was true. Countless days at the Augurey or mornings at Jude’s flat: there had been weeks and months and years gone to waste and –

Heedless of the fact they were still in the street (although thank Merlin it was late and deserted and dark, and that Kieran lived in the unfortunate kind of area where no one liked to look too closely at passers-by to begin with) – heedless of everything – Jude stepped up to him and, more tenderly, met Kieran’s mouth with his.

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Kieran waited, as if on a precipice, for Jude to reply beyond the noise from his throat. And he was ready to back up at Jude's next statement, ready to make complicated explanations and excuses.

And then Jude was kissing him, and it was like Kieran was drowning. He opened his mouth, immediately leaning up into the kiss. His mind was empty with the thrill of it. On instinct, Kieran reached his hands around to Jude's back, grasping helplessly at the fabric of the other man's coat.

Years, years he'd been orbiting Jude and tormenting himself and fantasizing, and — maybe he could have had this all along? Jude's lips were soft, and Kieran's stubble scratched against his smooth face, and Merlin, he wanted his hands in Jude's hair. He wanted to keep tasting Jude like this, to spend long hours kissing him lazily, to kiss him frantically and desperately and again and again and again —

He wanted. He'd been wanting Jude for years and something had finally burst, and Jude was kissing him, and had kissed him first, and maybe Kieran was finally losing his mind?

It was a need to breathe that had Kieran reluctantly breaking off the kiss, stumbling back from Jude, and gasping for breath. "Come — home with me," Kieran managed, "It's a block, come home with me." If they were going to figure this out, they needed a little bit more space — any amount of space. He couldn't wrap his mind around this.

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If Jude had any trace of doubt or disbelief about his feelings, the way Kieran kissed him back was more than convincing enough.

He hadn’t quite ancipated it – he might have gasped into the kiss, already overwhelmed before Kieran’s hands were at his back. (Kieran was already doing better than he was, then, because he couldn’t think, let alone work out what he should do with his hands. Impulses came to him, clamouring – to press a hand to his neck or his shoulder or his jaw – to grasp him by the hips and pull him closer – to touch him somewhere, anywhere, more – but he hadn’t managed much more than curling his hands around his sides before the kiss was over.)

He let Kieran pull away, lips still slightly parted, head reeling and still breathless from it.

“Right,” Jude echoed, surprised he could form words at all, “yes.” His heart was still fluttering so fast in his chest that he was almost disoriented enough to look around, like he’d forgotten that was where they were going. And he knew it wasn’t far, but judging by the beseeching look on his face it might as well have been miles. And he didn’t dare trying to disapparate them, not now, not after all this. So he gave a shaky nod and exhaled and – if he wasn’t allowed to kiss him again yet – settled for clasping Kieran’s hand instead to say come on, then. His strides now were longer and more impatient than before, trying to keep a better pace with his pulse.

Maybe it was sensible, besides, to have a moment longer to process this. That somehow Kieran loved him. That somehow there was an unfamiliar new warmth spreading through his limbs, already enough to have chased out any consciousness of the crisp autumn air. He kept going until Kieran’s tenement building came into view, but Jude hadn’t been able to stop himself from glancing sidelong on the way, shooting Kieran little dazed looks – almost afraid, for some unfathomable reason, that by the time they made it there, he might have changed his mind.

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Kieran could have kissed him again, just because of the look on Jude's face. But he could kiss him more at home than he could here, so they — simply had to make it a block. Kieran tugged the door to the tenement open with force when they got there, and kept Jude's hand clasped in his on the way up the crooked stairs. He nearly fumbled with the key and then they were in, he pushed the door shut behind him with his foot, and they were in and alone and safe in the darkened apartment.

He'd kept his grip on Jude's hand the entire walk over. Kieran looked at him, still disbelieving — like Jude was a precious thing that he could not believe he was allowed to touch. Because he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch Jude; he could not believe that Jude had kissed him.

"Kiss me again," Kieran said, tone plaintive — they needed to kiss more, for him to even remotely believe this.

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   Daffodil Grimstone

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Keeping their hands entwined while they walked and climbed the stairs and Kieran tried to unlock the door might not have been terribly practical, but Jude had needed it like a lifeline. To hang on tangibly to that conversation and that confession, if nothing else; to affirm that this was real and true and happening to him.

Now they were inside, Kieran’s flat still and quiet and familiar, and none of the brimming urgency had died down on the way. You painted me here, he recalled with stark new clarity, the year before last, on Valentine’s day. Extricating their hands at last, Jude swallowed and lifted his to Kieran’s face, brushed a hand along the line of his jaw in wonder.

As if he had needed to ask; as if Jude hadn’t already been imagining kissing him again. Almost solemnly, then, he let his hand drop to cup Kieran’s neck instead and settled his other hand around his waist as he leant in again. He still didn’t know if he was doing this right, but he was already well-convinced that one kiss alone would not be enough to quell the feeling. So when they broke for breath, Jude couldn’t stop himself from chasing one kiss with another, each longer and deeper and fiercer than the last. His mouth opened; his arm tightened around Kieran’s waist; he was determined to be closer than they were – and Kieran’s mouth was one thing, but he desperately wanted Kieran’s hands on him again.

And there were so many things Jude wanted to say, too – things that had been locked up and living in his ribcage for years, waiting at the back of his throat – but perhaps there was no harm in letting them spill out this way until he could arrange them into words.

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Jude's mouth tasted like coffee. Kieran had wondered, over the years, what Jude's mouth would taste like — he should have known it would bring this strong, caffeinated taste, like a jolt of awareness. He was aware — of Jude's hands on his neck and his waist, of Jude's taste, of the tenement door pressed against his back.

He ran his hands over Jude's chest, just feeling. Once, he had kissed Jude's shoulder, after a full moon — he should have been braver then. He should have been braver this whole time, and then their kisses would be less urgent, and Kieran would have been able to focus on them fully, instead of on the racing of his heartbeat.

The break in kisses was something Kieran forced; he tucked his head against Jude's chest. "What do you want to do tonight?" he forced himself to ask, in an almost-panting tone. Because he could kiss Jude by this door all night, but he desperately wanted to know: what did Jude want?

  

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“With you?” Jude murmured, unabashed. “Everything.”

He kept his arms around Kieran but loosened his hold, slowly becoming aware of his own wild heartbeat in the dark. Anything might have been a fairer answer, because he would take anything. He knew he was asking for too much.

But Jude wanted all of it. He wanted to keep kissing him for hours; all night; for days. He also wanted – quite desperately – to fuck him, and for Kieran to fuck him too. (Preferably both of these more than once.) He wanted to make good use of his hands and his lips and teeth and tongue, and to shut out the world until he had learnt every inch of him by heart. And he wanted to turn up the lamplight just enough to see him properly, as well. To gaze at him without guilt or the bitter ache of longing, without having to wonder how soon he should glance away. Freely, openly, without constraint: Jude wanted to look at everything that way, to reconsider everything he remembered in this new slant of light, with the angles different and the meanings clear.

(Some moments made sense. Garlands and paintings. Tidying up late after May Day, the streetlamps low and their spirits high. Kieran at his door asking for help. Jude knelt in the kitchen, washing Kieran’s wounds. That night in the attic – there had been endless full moon nights – when he’d surveyed the bite on his shoulder and the bruises on his wrists, and actually dared to hold him for a moment. Watching him leave in the mornings... how many times had he wished Kieran would stay? Some still bewildered him: especially those fights in the Augurey, sprawling arguments and ugly ends to conversations; Kieran often drunk, Jude usually angry. Loved you the whole time, Kieran had said, somehow. He wanted to make sense of it. He wanted to hear it a thousand more times.)

The list went on. He had thought too much about the question, had wanted for years; there was not enough time in tonight for half of it. But they were here, and alone, and had a few hours yet – so Jude was optimistic, at least, about their chances of undressing.

“I love you,” he said, first. Just in case that wasn’t obvious; in case Kieran thought he felt any less, or that this was all some elaborate attempt to distract himself from the election. (It was hard to think about the election now, breathless from kissing. Instead, his hands had moved to play helplessly at the edges of Kieran’s jacket.) “I thought you knew.”

And if he hadn’t, well... “I always wanted to say it,” Jude admitted earnestly: he had come so close to telling him so many times, “but I was afraid I’d – scare you off.”

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