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westernredcedarTitle: Seekers
Part 1: No Need for Being Sorry
Characters: Charlie/Viktor
Prompt: if you wanted honesty
Summary: Light-hearted, smutty romance, with a touch of angst, between two boys who, not surprisingly, have quite a lot in common, including winding up in hospital together.
Hospital is a surprising place to meet the person you will spend the rest of your life with, but who can predict such things.
Rated: NC-17 overall, R in this part
Warnings for this part: none really, just lust, recovery from injury
Word Count: 2,500 in this part, appox. 15,000 in finished fic
Disclaimer: These are not my characters, and I make no profit from this.
A/N: Thank you to the fabulous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schemingreader for her amazing beta abilities. All remaining errors are all mine.
This was written for my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
7spells claim, and will be cross-posted over there eventually. Sneak preview for the flist for now...
Because it got quite cloying in such volume, I have chosen not to write Viktor's dialogue in the dialect JKR used in canon, but I attempted to preserve an accent for him in other ways.
This is a finished fic, I'll post part 2 today as well, the next parts over the next few days. The last few sections are with my beta, there should be very little waiting.
Hospital is a surprising place to meet the person you will spend the rest of your life with, but who can predict such things.
Charlie had been alone in the room for a day when his roommate was wheeled in, flat on his back. The new patient didn’t even look in his direction. Charlie, doped up from pain relieving spells, was reclined in his bed, his upper body wrapped in fresh bandages. He could only make out the hazy image of a dark haired man being moved into the bed, lying very still.
There was a buzz around the new patient from the first moments: an extra healer or two, aides who seemed to just be there to look on, curious faces peeking in the door a regular intervals. Even in his altered state, Charlie noticed that his new companion received more attention than he did. He was, after all, only a careless dragon-keeper with a nasty burn.
After the flurry of visitors died down, Charlie tried to start up a conversation.
“What are you here for, mate?” he asked, turning his head on his pillow to face the still form in the next bed.
There was no reply.
“Oi, are you awake?” Charlie asked quietly, peering over to see if his neighbor’s eyes were open or closed. They were open. “It’s a new form of hell to be here, but nothing to do for it now, eh? We’re stuck.”
He looked again. “You all right…?” he asked.
A heavy, deeply accented voice interrupted him. “Please do not speak now.”
“Oh sure, sorry.” Charlie leaned back. So much for a friendly companion to help him pass the weeks of rehabilitation he was facing. At least the man was honest, didn’t let him go on and on when he wanted quiet. Charlie could appreciate that.
He learned quickly that if you wanted honesty, there was no one better than Viktor Krum.
The healer’s aide assigned to their room was an enormously tall, thin witch named Irina. Although Charlie tried repeatedly, she refused to even smile at him, no matter how much Weasley charm he poured on. She marched in every hour, thick stockings rasping together under her robes, checked his status, and repositioned him on the bed. The iron grip of her fingers was enough to leave a mark as she rolled and adjusted him to alleviate pressure on the worst parts of his burn.
Just after she had left the room the next morning, Charlie heard the deep, accented voice from the next bed ask, “Do you like that woman?”
“Who, The Claw?” Charlie responded.
“The aide,” said the still figure.
“I call her The Claw,” said Charlie.
For the first time, the man in the next bed turned his head slightly and looked towards Charlie. “Why do you call her such a name?” he asked.
“The first time she rolls you around like a bloody rag doll, you’ll know why,” said Charlie, smiling.
“Ah. She seems to me to be quite effective.”
Considering all the he had heard from his neighbor so far was an abrasive command for silence, Charlie took the comment with a grain of salt.
“Eh, she’s alright. Wants to help you get well, that I’m sure,” said Charlie.
“That is good.” It was quiet again. “I will also call her The Claw.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. He looked towards the other bed. “I’m Charlie, by the way, burned by dragon fire.” He pointed to his arm and torso, swathed in bandages. “Sorry I’m too far off to shake your hand.”
“I am Viktor Krum,” the head said to the ceiling. “Back broken by Bludger.”
“Oh,” Charlie said, trying to hide his surprise. “Sorry.”
He knew who Viktor was, of course. He had watched him play, seen him catch the snitch at the Quidditch World Cup, followed his skyrocketing career. Charlie had given up his professional Quidditch dreams years before, but he still envied those who had been able to make it. He would never have connected the cocky super-star he had watched over the years with the morose lump lying flat on his back in the next bed. Now that he knew, he studied his profile and recognized the heavy brow, large nose, and sturdy jaw he had both admired and resented.
He had not heard about Krum’s accident. Of course, he had been busy getting roasted by that rowdy Welsh Green.
“I am already feeling my legs again. They have regrown the spinal column, now I will be in the rehabilitation,” Viktor explained. “No need for being sorry.”
Rehabilitation. That was why his team at the reservation had sent Charlie to this clinic. It was a good distance south of the colony, in an isolated part of Greece along the coast of the Thracian Sea, but it was closer than being sent all the way home to England, and was the best facility of its kind in Eastern Europe. They specialized in long term healing, physical therapy for wizards and witches with recent trauma. His burns had been severe, and even with quick spell work and early healing at the reservation, he now had enormous scars forming across his back and shoulder, down his left arm, and up the side of his neck. Some areas of skin were still ugly and blistered, some still blackened. When the pain spells wore off, the agony was intense.
“No need to be sorry for me either,” Charlie responded.
“I will not be, then.” Viktor Krum settled back into silence. Charlie sighed and turned back to staring at the fascinating blank wall in front of him, trying not to dwell on where his life had led him.
Later that afternoon, Charlie got his first hints of what was to come.
The Claw stomped into the room and unceremoniously pulled the sheet back from Viktor’s body.
“Time to walk,” she stated. With her tong-like fingers she rolled Viktor to his side and slid his legs off the edge of the bed. Charlie watched out of the corner of his eye. The Claw’s ministrations were often humiliating, and he didn’t want to embarrass Viktor on their first day. He found, however, that after a brief glimpse, he could not stop himself from turning to stare.
Viktor was dressed only in loose hospital issue pants. His upper body was bare. As The Claw maneuvered him around, the highly toned muscles of Viktor’s athletic torso moved under his dark skin. Charlie could see every line of them. Viktor had a thin crop of hair that started on his chest, traveled in a thin line down his flat belly, and disappeared under the drawstring at his hips. His arms and shoulders were massive. Charlie remembered from his own days at Seeker the physical effort it took to hold steady on a broom with one arm. Viktor had a slight slouch, was a bit asymmetrical, imperfect. His face was harsh, not really beautiful, but strong, firm.
Viktor Krum glowed with energy, with exertion, with masculinity, even sitting limply on a hospital bed. He radiated sex. Charlie’s cock roared to life, he was forced to rotate his hips under his sheet to avoid embarrassment. He had not felt a single stir of desire since his accident, since that morning. Well, he was drenched in desire now. He went back to looking only from the corner of his eye, hoping to alleviate the sudden urgency in his body, Viktor’s physical presence hitting him like a tidal wave.
The Claw had managed to manipulate Viktor’s body into a sitting position. She raised him up, her long arms snaking under his, and they moved into the room. Viktor was stiff and upright, holding himself awkwardly. As they took halting steps, Charlie couldn’t help noticing the outline of Viktor’s prick, swinging loose behind the thin pants. That did not help.
It may have been his imagination, but Charlie could have sworn he saw Viktor’s eyes flick over to him in his bed as they walked, just for a moment.
There were weeks to go, sharing this small room. As The Claw moved Viktor back into the bed, Charlie sighed, closed his eyes, and thought of England.
Later, Charlie was horribly ashamed of himself. There were thousands of squealing Quidditch fans lusting after Viktor Krum, and now he was one of the predictable throng. He would just have to get over it.
Happily, he was distracted that evening by visitors, his parents and Bill.
Trust Bill to make an impression. He walked in, glanced at Charlie’s roommate, and exclaimed, “Holy shit, Viktor Krum!”
“Bill, language!” Molly Weasley said, eyes ablaze. She was carrying a large basket of what Charlie could only hope was home-cooked food. His father was following behind with a vase of sunflowers from the garden at The Burrow. Charlie smiled.
“Mum, I’m 30 years old,” Bill responded, and winked at Charlie, striding with his long legs over to where Viktor lay flat. “Honor to meet you. Sorry about what’s happened.” He shook Viktor’s hand. “We saw you fly at the World Cup. I’m Bill.”
“Viktor, allow me to introduce my mother and father, Molly and Arthur Weasley. You have met my idiot brother already.” Charlie looked over at the figure in the opposite bed, and was pleased to see that he was looking out at the Weasley family without malice.
“Hello,” Viktor said in his deep tone. He nodded slightly to each of the visitors. The Weasleys smiled back at him and then turned their eyes to Charlie.
“Charlie, oh Charlie,” Molly crooned, trotting over, kissing his cheeks, and brushing her hand through his red hair, a sweet, sad, smile on her face. She pulled a chair up next to his bed and grabbed his hand. “You look so much better today. Are they feeding you well here? How do you feel? Do your bandages need to be changed?”
Charlie had spent much of his adult life trying to get clear of his over-bearing mother. Dragons in Romania had been a lovely excuse to stay away from home for long periods. He was a success, he was happy, he owled home every Sunday, and she didn’t worry. She also never had the chance to ask too many probing questions about his lack of girlfriends and not settling down and who’s that man I always see you with. It was a mutually beneficial situation, although Molly was unaware of how much so.
Being ill, however, was a different matter. There was nowhere Charlie would rather be when hurt than home, his doting mother tending to his every need. The impersonal care of The Claw encouraged his body to recover, but his spirit truly needed the love of his family. He almost wept at his mother’s blathering questions.
Arthur sat at the foot of his bed and laid a soothing hand on his foot.
“How are you, m’boy?” he asked.
“Getting better already, really. This is a great place.”
Bill took a seat on the opposite side of his bed, kicking his long legs out as he relaxed into the chair. “I suppose you did this to gain some dragon-keeper cred. Scars to prove yourself.” His tone was joking, but Charlie knew his brother well enough to see the underlying love and concern.
“Yeah, it was some real macho bullshit, Bill,” he replied, and Molly muttered a horrified, “Charlie!”
“You are a fucking man now,” Bill replied, grinning, waiting for the predictable, escalating “Bill!”
They stayed for an hour, just chatting, and Charlie basked in the warmth of home. Bill brought him some logic games from Egypt to pass the time. His father had collected a week’s worth of Daily Prophets for him to read. His mother hung up a few of his old posters she had taken from his room at home.
“Mum, those are ancient,” he laughed, as she unfurled an image of the 1985 Chudley Cannons. He glanced over to Viktor, who appeared unfazed. It was better than staring at the blank wall. The basket was indeed filled with meat pies, and homemade toffees, and fruit from the garden. They included Viktor in the conversation when they could, and Molly kissed him on the cheek as they went to depart.
After the three visitors left, Viktor turned his head slightly to Charlie and said, “You are lucky.”
“I know,” Charlie replied, taking a juicy bite of plum. “You too, you know. If you play your cards right, you’ll have Molly bringing you your own baskets of food by the time we are out of this place. She’s a pushover.”
“I have no such love in my life.” There was Viktor’s honesty again. It sucked the air out of Charlie’s lungs.
“Millions of people love you, Viktor.” It sounded lame even to Charlie's ear.
“It is not the same.”
Viktor indicated the Cannons poster, changing the subject. “Did you have a favorite on that squad?”
“Sure, Brackenbury. As a kid, I always favored the Keeper.”
“Foolish of you, when you could have admired Tyler. He was a world-class Seeker,” Viktor replied.
“Don’t misunderstand. I loved them all,” Charlie said with a grin. “I know now, of course, that Seekers are always the ones to watch.”
Viktor turned away, but Charlie was sure he saw a brief smile.
“So what did your mother bring for us to eat?” Viktor asked.
They changed the subject to food and eating, Charlie tossed Viktor a plum, and so their friendship began.
Healing was exhausting. There were long stretches of each day in which Charlie could do nothing but lie there, staring ahead, letting his body be still, repair itself. It was exquisite tedium. His family members stopped in every few days. The Claw made her appearances, forced him into agonizing positions to stretch his scars, loosen his wounded muscles. His healer came by, poked and prodded and added spells and potions to his chart.
But most days, most of the time, it was just him and Viktor. As the weeks passed, Charlie was pleased to discover that he sincerely enjoyed Viktor’s company. He could be abrasive, but he was smart, and open, and willing to fight the language barrier to communicate. He enjoyed talking about Quidditch strategy, did not seem at all patronizing when Charlie told him about his glory days as Gryffindor House Seeker. Viktor liked to read, to exercise. He liked the outdoors, was curious about Charlie’s life with the dragons. They were both eager to heal quickly, felt pent up and frustrated, and jumped at every opportunity to get up and move, to go outside.
Charlie was able to suppress his raw desire, most of the time.
Viktor was a physical man. He kneaded at Charlie’s stiff neck sometimes when they sat together, unasked. He taught Charlie new exercises by touching his limbs, moving them into the proper position. He slung an arm over his shoulder for support if they walked together, sometimes bending his elbow and letting his hand sit in Charlie’s hair.
If Charlie happened to think of those moments as he quietly brought himself off in the dark of the night, well, that was just what Charlie needed to do.
Sometimes, Charlie thought he would catch Viktor staring at him, but it was probably just his imagination.
They were friends. They were healing.
Part 2
Part 1: No Need for Being Sorry
Characters: Charlie/Viktor
Prompt: if you wanted honesty
Summary: Light-hearted, smutty romance, with a touch of angst, between two boys who, not surprisingly, have quite a lot in common, including winding up in hospital together.
Hospital is a surprising place to meet the person you will spend the rest of your life with, but who can predict such things.
Rated: NC-17 overall, R in this part
Warnings for this part: none really, just lust, recovery from injury
Word Count: 2,500 in this part, appox. 15,000 in finished fic
Disclaimer: These are not my characters, and I make no profit from this.
A/N: Thank you to the fabulous
schemingreader for her amazing beta abilities. All remaining errors are all mine. This was written for my
7spells claim, and will be cross-posted over there eventually. Sneak preview for the flist for now...Because it got quite cloying in such volume, I have chosen not to write Viktor's dialogue in the dialect JKR used in canon, but I attempted to preserve an accent for him in other ways.
This is a finished fic, I'll post part 2 today as well, the next parts over the next few days. The last few sections are with my beta, there should be very little waiting.
Hospital is a surprising place to meet the person you will spend the rest of your life with, but who can predict such things.
Charlie had been alone in the room for a day when his roommate was wheeled in, flat on his back. The new patient didn’t even look in his direction. Charlie, doped up from pain relieving spells, was reclined in his bed, his upper body wrapped in fresh bandages. He could only make out the hazy image of a dark haired man being moved into the bed, lying very still.
There was a buzz around the new patient from the first moments: an extra healer or two, aides who seemed to just be there to look on, curious faces peeking in the door a regular intervals. Even in his altered state, Charlie noticed that his new companion received more attention than he did. He was, after all, only a careless dragon-keeper with a nasty burn.
After the flurry of visitors died down, Charlie tried to start up a conversation.
“What are you here for, mate?” he asked, turning his head on his pillow to face the still form in the next bed.
There was no reply.
“Oi, are you awake?” Charlie asked quietly, peering over to see if his neighbor’s eyes were open or closed. They were open. “It’s a new form of hell to be here, but nothing to do for it now, eh? We’re stuck.”
He looked again. “You all right…?” he asked.
A heavy, deeply accented voice interrupted him. “Please do not speak now.”
“Oh sure, sorry.” Charlie leaned back. So much for a friendly companion to help him pass the weeks of rehabilitation he was facing. At least the man was honest, didn’t let him go on and on when he wanted quiet. Charlie could appreciate that.
He learned quickly that if you wanted honesty, there was no one better than Viktor Krum.
The healer’s aide assigned to their room was an enormously tall, thin witch named Irina. Although Charlie tried repeatedly, she refused to even smile at him, no matter how much Weasley charm he poured on. She marched in every hour, thick stockings rasping together under her robes, checked his status, and repositioned him on the bed. The iron grip of her fingers was enough to leave a mark as she rolled and adjusted him to alleviate pressure on the worst parts of his burn.
Just after she had left the room the next morning, Charlie heard the deep, accented voice from the next bed ask, “Do you like that woman?”
“Who, The Claw?” Charlie responded.
“The aide,” said the still figure.
“I call her The Claw,” said Charlie.
For the first time, the man in the next bed turned his head slightly and looked towards Charlie. “Why do you call her such a name?” he asked.
“The first time she rolls you around like a bloody rag doll, you’ll know why,” said Charlie, smiling.
“Ah. She seems to me to be quite effective.”
Considering all the he had heard from his neighbor so far was an abrasive command for silence, Charlie took the comment with a grain of salt.
“Eh, she’s alright. Wants to help you get well, that I’m sure,” said Charlie.
“That is good.” It was quiet again. “I will also call her The Claw.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. He looked towards the other bed. “I’m Charlie, by the way, burned by dragon fire.” He pointed to his arm and torso, swathed in bandages. “Sorry I’m too far off to shake your hand.”
“I am Viktor Krum,” the head said to the ceiling. “Back broken by Bludger.”
“Oh,” Charlie said, trying to hide his surprise. “Sorry.”
He knew who Viktor was, of course. He had watched him play, seen him catch the snitch at the Quidditch World Cup, followed his skyrocketing career. Charlie had given up his professional Quidditch dreams years before, but he still envied those who had been able to make it. He would never have connected the cocky super-star he had watched over the years with the morose lump lying flat on his back in the next bed. Now that he knew, he studied his profile and recognized the heavy brow, large nose, and sturdy jaw he had both admired and resented.
He had not heard about Krum’s accident. Of course, he had been busy getting roasted by that rowdy Welsh Green.
“I am already feeling my legs again. They have regrown the spinal column, now I will be in the rehabilitation,” Viktor explained. “No need for being sorry.”
Rehabilitation. That was why his team at the reservation had sent Charlie to this clinic. It was a good distance south of the colony, in an isolated part of Greece along the coast of the Thracian Sea, but it was closer than being sent all the way home to England, and was the best facility of its kind in Eastern Europe. They specialized in long term healing, physical therapy for wizards and witches with recent trauma. His burns had been severe, and even with quick spell work and early healing at the reservation, he now had enormous scars forming across his back and shoulder, down his left arm, and up the side of his neck. Some areas of skin were still ugly and blistered, some still blackened. When the pain spells wore off, the agony was intense.
“No need to be sorry for me either,” Charlie responded.
“I will not be, then.” Viktor Krum settled back into silence. Charlie sighed and turned back to staring at the fascinating blank wall in front of him, trying not to dwell on where his life had led him.
Later that afternoon, Charlie got his first hints of what was to come.
The Claw stomped into the room and unceremoniously pulled the sheet back from Viktor’s body.
“Time to walk,” she stated. With her tong-like fingers she rolled Viktor to his side and slid his legs off the edge of the bed. Charlie watched out of the corner of his eye. The Claw’s ministrations were often humiliating, and he didn’t want to embarrass Viktor on their first day. He found, however, that after a brief glimpse, he could not stop himself from turning to stare.
Viktor was dressed only in loose hospital issue pants. His upper body was bare. As The Claw maneuvered him around, the highly toned muscles of Viktor’s athletic torso moved under his dark skin. Charlie could see every line of them. Viktor had a thin crop of hair that started on his chest, traveled in a thin line down his flat belly, and disappeared under the drawstring at his hips. His arms and shoulders were massive. Charlie remembered from his own days at Seeker the physical effort it took to hold steady on a broom with one arm. Viktor had a slight slouch, was a bit asymmetrical, imperfect. His face was harsh, not really beautiful, but strong, firm.
Viktor Krum glowed with energy, with exertion, with masculinity, even sitting limply on a hospital bed. He radiated sex. Charlie’s cock roared to life, he was forced to rotate his hips under his sheet to avoid embarrassment. He had not felt a single stir of desire since his accident, since that morning. Well, he was drenched in desire now. He went back to looking only from the corner of his eye, hoping to alleviate the sudden urgency in his body, Viktor’s physical presence hitting him like a tidal wave.
The Claw had managed to manipulate Viktor’s body into a sitting position. She raised him up, her long arms snaking under his, and they moved into the room. Viktor was stiff and upright, holding himself awkwardly. As they took halting steps, Charlie couldn’t help noticing the outline of Viktor’s prick, swinging loose behind the thin pants. That did not help.
It may have been his imagination, but Charlie could have sworn he saw Viktor’s eyes flick over to him in his bed as they walked, just for a moment.
There were weeks to go, sharing this small room. As The Claw moved Viktor back into the bed, Charlie sighed, closed his eyes, and thought of England.
Later, Charlie was horribly ashamed of himself. There were thousands of squealing Quidditch fans lusting after Viktor Krum, and now he was one of the predictable throng. He would just have to get over it.
Happily, he was distracted that evening by visitors, his parents and Bill.
Trust Bill to make an impression. He walked in, glanced at Charlie’s roommate, and exclaimed, “Holy shit, Viktor Krum!”
“Bill, language!” Molly Weasley said, eyes ablaze. She was carrying a large basket of what Charlie could only hope was home-cooked food. His father was following behind with a vase of sunflowers from the garden at The Burrow. Charlie smiled.
“Mum, I’m 30 years old,” Bill responded, and winked at Charlie, striding with his long legs over to where Viktor lay flat. “Honor to meet you. Sorry about what’s happened.” He shook Viktor’s hand. “We saw you fly at the World Cup. I’m Bill.”
“Viktor, allow me to introduce my mother and father, Molly and Arthur Weasley. You have met my idiot brother already.” Charlie looked over at the figure in the opposite bed, and was pleased to see that he was looking out at the Weasley family without malice.
“Hello,” Viktor said in his deep tone. He nodded slightly to each of the visitors. The Weasleys smiled back at him and then turned their eyes to Charlie.
“Charlie, oh Charlie,” Molly crooned, trotting over, kissing his cheeks, and brushing her hand through his red hair, a sweet, sad, smile on her face. She pulled a chair up next to his bed and grabbed his hand. “You look so much better today. Are they feeding you well here? How do you feel? Do your bandages need to be changed?”
Charlie had spent much of his adult life trying to get clear of his over-bearing mother. Dragons in Romania had been a lovely excuse to stay away from home for long periods. He was a success, he was happy, he owled home every Sunday, and she didn’t worry. She also never had the chance to ask too many probing questions about his lack of girlfriends and not settling down and who’s that man I always see you with. It was a mutually beneficial situation, although Molly was unaware of how much so.
Being ill, however, was a different matter. There was nowhere Charlie would rather be when hurt than home, his doting mother tending to his every need. The impersonal care of The Claw encouraged his body to recover, but his spirit truly needed the love of his family. He almost wept at his mother’s blathering questions.
Arthur sat at the foot of his bed and laid a soothing hand on his foot.
“How are you, m’boy?” he asked.
“Getting better already, really. This is a great place.”
Bill took a seat on the opposite side of his bed, kicking his long legs out as he relaxed into the chair. “I suppose you did this to gain some dragon-keeper cred. Scars to prove yourself.” His tone was joking, but Charlie knew his brother well enough to see the underlying love and concern.
“Yeah, it was some real macho bullshit, Bill,” he replied, and Molly muttered a horrified, “Charlie!”
“You are a fucking man now,” Bill replied, grinning, waiting for the predictable, escalating “Bill!”
They stayed for an hour, just chatting, and Charlie basked in the warmth of home. Bill brought him some logic games from Egypt to pass the time. His father had collected a week’s worth of Daily Prophets for him to read. His mother hung up a few of his old posters she had taken from his room at home.
“Mum, those are ancient,” he laughed, as she unfurled an image of the 1985 Chudley Cannons. He glanced over to Viktor, who appeared unfazed. It was better than staring at the blank wall. The basket was indeed filled with meat pies, and homemade toffees, and fruit from the garden. They included Viktor in the conversation when they could, and Molly kissed him on the cheek as they went to depart.
After the three visitors left, Viktor turned his head slightly to Charlie and said, “You are lucky.”
“I know,” Charlie replied, taking a juicy bite of plum. “You too, you know. If you play your cards right, you’ll have Molly bringing you your own baskets of food by the time we are out of this place. She’s a pushover.”
“I have no such love in my life.” There was Viktor’s honesty again. It sucked the air out of Charlie’s lungs.
“Millions of people love you, Viktor.” It sounded lame even to Charlie's ear.
“It is not the same.”
Viktor indicated the Cannons poster, changing the subject. “Did you have a favorite on that squad?”
“Sure, Brackenbury. As a kid, I always favored the Keeper.”
“Foolish of you, when you could have admired Tyler. He was a world-class Seeker,” Viktor replied.
“Don’t misunderstand. I loved them all,” Charlie said with a grin. “I know now, of course, that Seekers are always the ones to watch.”
Viktor turned away, but Charlie was sure he saw a brief smile.
“So what did your mother bring for us to eat?” Viktor asked.
They changed the subject to food and eating, Charlie tossed Viktor a plum, and so their friendship began.
Healing was exhausting. There were long stretches of each day in which Charlie could do nothing but lie there, staring ahead, letting his body be still, repair itself. It was exquisite tedium. His family members stopped in every few days. The Claw made her appearances, forced him into agonizing positions to stretch his scars, loosen his wounded muscles. His healer came by, poked and prodded and added spells and potions to his chart.
But most days, most of the time, it was just him and Viktor. As the weeks passed, Charlie was pleased to discover that he sincerely enjoyed Viktor’s company. He could be abrasive, but he was smart, and open, and willing to fight the language barrier to communicate. He enjoyed talking about Quidditch strategy, did not seem at all patronizing when Charlie told him about his glory days as Gryffindor House Seeker. Viktor liked to read, to exercise. He liked the outdoors, was curious about Charlie’s life with the dragons. They were both eager to heal quickly, felt pent up and frustrated, and jumped at every opportunity to get up and move, to go outside.
Charlie was able to suppress his raw desire, most of the time.
Viktor was a physical man. He kneaded at Charlie’s stiff neck sometimes when they sat together, unasked. He taught Charlie new exercises by touching his limbs, moving them into the proper position. He slung an arm over his shoulder for support if they walked together, sometimes bending his elbow and letting his hand sit in Charlie’s hair.
If Charlie happened to think of those moments as he quietly brought himself off in the dark of the night, well, that was just what Charlie needed to do.
Sometimes, Charlie thought he would catch Viktor staring at him, but it was probably just his imagination.
They were friends. They were healing.
Part 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 27 May 2011 03:02 am (UTC)Here via snegurochka_lee's rec........ off to read MOAR !
Oh, and love The Claw, btw *snort*