day 15 - enemies to lovers kiss (Gramander)
“Why did you that? I thought you hated me,” says Scamander, voice full of such blatant suspicion that Percival has to hold back a laugh.
The man’s (frankly distracting) face reflects it as well, and Percival wonders when it became endearing. Hate, he thinks; it had never been as strong as that. Infuriating at times, yes, for all the recklessness and irrationality and lack of professionalism but nothing so definite. And if only that were still the case, then he wouldn’t be struggling whether to draw closer or turn his back now.
“My personal feelings do not affect my professional duties, Mr. Scamander,” Percival answers calmly, hands sliding into his pockets. “Did you have any other business with me or was this simply to seek hidden intentions?”
A frown tugs on that wide, generous mouth, emphasizing it in a way that helplessly draws Percival's eyes for the briefest of moments. The action, as expected, fails to escape Scamander's notice with him being one of the most observant people Percival has ever met, and his look turns contemplative.
“What might those personal feelings be, Mr. Graves,” and Scamander meets his eyes directly—has been doing so for the last few weeks—as he says this.
Mercy Lewis.
“The same as yours, perhaps,” Percival tosses back with a confidence he doesn’t feel, and questions at the same time; if it's interpreted as something negative, then that's fine with him.
But Scamander pauses, and they regard each other carefully for a minute; then it’s hard to say who moves first. There’s nothing soft about the way their mouths meet, hands at grasping at sides and tilting chins, fuelled by the frustration that has been endlessly brewing between them all this time; even that can only be antagonistic for so long when working many, many hours together in close proximity.
At least, that's Percival’s reasoning. What Scamander thinks he can only guess, but he has a fairly good one in this very moment.
Scamander abruptly pulls back and out of his grip, face flushed and gaze no longer bold. His hands unknowingly squeeze where they’ve landed at Percival's waist.
“That—that was,” he starts, stops. “I do not—I was indebted—”
“Then consider it repaid, Mr. Scamander,” Percival says, a bit amused.
A strangled noise escapes the man and he seems on the verge of combusting, skin turning impossibly redder as he realizes where he’s holding and snatches his hands back. Without another word he whips around and nearly runs out the doors.
Percival, left alone with fading warmth from the kiss, smiles to himself.