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When the world comes back into focus around him again, Brutus drops Cassius’s hand and takes a look around at their new location. They’re in a small clearing in some unknown wood, and in the distance a small brook babbles reassuringly.
“God, I hate Apparating,” Brutus grumbles.
“Is this a good location?” Cassius asks.
“It’ll do,” replies Brutus, stumbling slightly and clutching onto Cassius for support. Cassius nods, rummaging in their bags and resurfacing with the tent. With a flick of his wand it pops into shape and anchors itself into the sparse shade of a nearby tree.
Brutus takes out his wand and starts casting the protective enchantments. For a moment they are both silent, Cassius having disappeared into the tent with their supplies and Brutus nonverbally casting the enchantments and watching the wisps of light disappear into the autumn evening. The leaves of the trees have all fallen, decaying slowly in blankets of muted reds and golds on the forest floor. The winter wind is settling in, and snow will come soon after. Shivering slightly, Brutus adds a heating charm to his jacket and puts his wand back into its holster before entering the tent.
“Got any ideas as to what the password is?”
Brutus looks over at Cassius, who is sitting at the table in the tent tapping at the radio with his wand. Cassius raises an eyebrow at him and repeats the question; Brutus shrugs and takes a seat opposite him.
“Mad-Eye?” he asks.
“Tried that one already.”
“Fenwick.”
Cassius taps the radio, frowning. He shakes his head.
“Hm.” Brutus taps his chin. “Meadowes.”
Cassius shakes his head again. “That was used last time.”
“Bones.”
Cassius taps the radio, and almost immediately the static crackles into distinguishable words. Brutus laughs; Cassius smiles briefly and turns up the volume of the broadcast.
“— reported to be missing since August. There have been no reports of a body, so we can only hope that he is safe in hiding.”
“They’re talking about you,” Cassius remarks. Brutus blinks.
“Really? I thought a lot of Order members disappeared in August.” He folds his hands and rests his chin on them, listening avidly.
“In relation to Marcus Brutus, though, the Ministry’s issued want posters for a known friend of his, Caius Cassius, formerly chief foreign affairs correspondent at the Daily Prophet before he went off the map in early June.”
“They’re talking about you now,” Brutus remarks. Cassius laughs.
“If anyone’s ever read one of his articles, Cassius is a very vocal opponent of the Ministry’s new policies.”
“True, no one reads my articles,” Cassius scoffs.
“I read them.”
“You’re kinda required to, as my friend.”
Brutus snorts in laughter. “Don’t flatter yourself, Cass,” he says, but he’s grinning nonetheless as he reaches out and pats Cassius’s hand. Cassius clings onto his fingers, squeezing gently. Brutus’s pulse quickens a bit.
“Who wouldn’t be? The Death Eaters have a chokehold on the Ministry. They’re rounding up Muggle-borns as we speak. Nah, I’m pretty sure they’re doing it because he was a vocal opponent of You-Know-Who last time around and they just want to make sure everyone who opposed him last time was taken care of.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it. Anyway, if you’re thinking of disappearing like these two seem to have done, boy have we got tips for you!”
Cassius flicks his wand, and the radio goes silent.
“Aren’t you going to listen in a bit longer?” asks Brutus.
“We’re already on the run. What else can we do? As long as we don’t bandy You-Know-Who’s name around like Dumbledore encouraged us to do, we’re safe.” Cassius rolls his eyes. “We’ve had this conversation literally every time we go to some new location.”
Brutus rises to his feet. “What else are we going to do, though?” he demands. “Listening to Potterwatch is literally the only thing we do other than eat and sleep and wander like leashed dogs in the charmed areas of our various locations.”
“It’s not that —”
“Oh, sure. Sitting around doing nothing might be your idea of a good lifestyle, but it chafes at me! I need something to do! I need something, something to remind me that my life right now is worth —”
Cassius flicks his wand towards the radio. Music begins to play, low and calming. Brutus looks at him helplessly from his position in the centre of the room; Cassius rises as well, striding over towards him and cupping the other man’s face in his hands, putting their foreheads together.
“Cassius.” Brutus’s voice is hoarse.
“Shh,” replies Cassius, swaying slightly to beat of the music. “It’s going to be all right.”
“If this is your idea of a —”
“Put your hands on me.”
“What?” Brutus blinks owlishly at him; Cassius responds by moving a hand down to put one of Brutus’s hands on his hips. Brutus visibly swallows as he meets Cassius’s gaze again. “Why?”
“Why not?” Cassius pulls back to look at him.
“Because you’re my best mate, and I —”
“And…?” Cassius raises an eyebrow.
Brutus’s gaze flickers briefly to Cassius’s lips. “I don’t want to ruin what we have,” he admits after a moment, his voice rough with want.
“How would it be ruining,” wonders Cassius, as Brutus begins to sway with him in time to the music, “if we both wanted it to happen?”
Brutus swallows. “Have we?”
Cassius laughs, pressing their foreheads together again. “I have, if that’s of any consolation.”
“Oh.” Brutus’s voice is quiet now as he leans in and closes the distance between their lips.
Cassius responds almost immediately, his hands moving to cup Brutus’s face more tightly as he kisses back. Brutus feels a sense of urgency and desperation in the other man, as if he isn’t sure if he can trust his senses but will, in the meantime, enjoy every last moment. Cassius kisses greedily, his lips claiming Brutus’s as Brutus’s fingernails dig into the side of his body.
When they pull back for air, Cassius’s hands gently trail down Brutus’s cheeks to rest lightly on his shoulders before moving downwards once more. Brutus’s heartbeat pounds in his ears as he closes his eyes, feeling the lightness of Cassius’s touch. The other man’s lips brush against his again, and he responds by opening his mouth to deepen the kiss.
Cassius’s fingers trail lightly down his chest and to his waist. They ghost at his waist for a moment before untucking his shirt out of his jeans. Brutus retaliates by moving his own hands upwards, fingers creeping under Cassius’s t-shirt to rest lightly at his waist. Cassius’s lips falter at the contact, and Brutus chuckles into the kiss.
His fingers make to move up higher, but Cassius breaks the kiss, causing Brutus’s eyes to fly open and peer at him. The lights they had conjured earlier are still glowing brightly, but Cassius’s eyes are darker than usual; his breathing is ragged and, when Brutus moves one hand from under Cassius’s shirt to take the man’s hand, he can dimly feel the elevated throbbing of Cassius’s pulse.
“A-are you…” Cassius is uncertain again, trailing his other finger down Brutus’s chest and hooking lightly at the waistband of Brutus’s jeans, “are you sure you want to continue? Because I don’t want to force you into something you don’t —”
Brutus interrupts by letting go of Cassius’s hand to start unbuttoning his shirt. “Don’t finish that,” he says.
“I just wanted to make sure —”
“Of course I want this to continue.” Brutus’s jeans are already too uncomfortable for him to consider any alternatives, and Cassius, though he offers an escape, clearly wants an affirmative answer. It’s not as if Brutus doesn’t want this to happen. He has, for a long time. Possibly even since their Hogwarts days, since that night Cassius invited him to a Slug Club function and showed up in front of the Hufflepuff common room dressed like a Roman Senator. Brutus had spent most of the dinner distracted by the toga and wondering how he could take it off.
But now there is no Hogwarts, there is no toga, there is just Cassius and him in worn and dusty Muggle clothing clinging onto one another in an uncertain world. And Brutus marvels at that as he kisses Cassius again, shrugging out of his now unbuttoned shirt as he does so. He breaks the kiss to take off his vest, and Cassius’s breath hitches once more as his gaze travels up and down Brutus’s body. Brutus crosses his arms over his chest and takes a step back, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain, but Cassius steps forward once more, casually tugging his t-shirt over his head and letting it drop to the ground.
Their gazes meet, and Brutus’s hands fall towards Cassius’s belt loops, tugging him forward and pressing their bodies together. A shiver involuntarily races down his spine when he feels Cassius’s bare torso pressed against his, when he feels Cassius’s breath hot against his neck as the other man begins pressing heated sloppy kisses down Brutus’s neck and along his collarbones.
“Caius,” he breathes, tugging at Cassius’s belt loops again. Cassius looks up at him, expression concerned.
“Marcus?” he whispers. Brutus nods to the other side of the tent where their cots lie; Cassius chuckles and flicks his wand. The cots expand and merge as Brutus and Cassius make their way across the tent. Cassius’s legs hit the side of the makeshift bed moments later; his wand clatters to the floor as Brutus pushes him into a sitting position on the bed and kisses him again.
Slowly, the rest of their clothes are divested, and Brutus takes his time to explore Cassius’s body. They’re both pale from the extended sparsity of sunlight, but Dementor-created fog is the last thing Brutus wants on his mind as he straddles Cassius and cups the other man’s cheeks.
Cassius wraps his arms around him, wanting more contact between them. In the dim lighting of the tent (they’d cast a couple orbs of light but it was hardly considered bright lighting) the other man’s eyes seem to shine with barely-hidden emotion.
“Merlin, you’re beautiful.” The words are just a whisper, and Brutus can’t help but laugh. Cassius frowns at him, and Brutus shakes his head, running his fingers through the other’s hair.
“Never thought I’d live to hear that,” he remarks.
“You are, though.” Cassius leans into Brutus’s touch almost like a cat. Brutus vaguely wonders if he could make the other man purr. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. Probably even since Hogwarts, since —”
“Shh,” Brutus suggests, pressing a firm kiss to Cassius’s mouth to get him to stop talking. The other complies, wide-eyed, as Brutus pushes him back into a lying position, clambering over him with a wide grin on his face. “Save it for the pillow talk, Caius.”
Cassius raises an eyebrow. Brutus laughs a little harder and presses their lengths together, causing the other to gasp.
“Does that…” he trails off, uncertain of himself. He looks at Cassius pleadingly; the words are hovering in the suburbs of his thoughts, refusing to make themselves known. But Cassius seems to understand; he bucks his hips upwards, demanding more friction. It’s quite like him; Caius Cassius is a needy person, and it doesn’t surprise Brutus that much that this sort of behaviour extends to the bedroom.
And perhaps that’s why they’re so well-matched; all Brutus knows is how to give. And so he gives more of himself, thrusting to meet with Cassius’s arches and giving him the friction he needs. He’s rewarded, of course, by the other man’s reactions; Cassius is a vocal lover, moaning and sighing with every press of Brutus’s body against his own.
This, whatever this is, is slowly gaining speed and desperation as Brutus loses himself in these new sensations. He’s no stranger to sex, of course, but somehow this first time with Cassius feels like the first time, where everything is newer and rawer and possibly a little painful. And just like the first time, he doesn’t care.
His breaths grow more and more ragged as his thoughts are scattered by pleasure, as Cassius reaches down to touch him, his expression briefly reverent before he tosses his head back again with a full-throated moan. Had Brutus been a less-experienced man that might have set him over the edge, but as it is, he responds by pressing kisses along the line of Cassius’s exposed throat, stifling his own moans against pale flesh.
Cassius pauses after a moment, causing Brutus’s own motions to cease. His heart pounds loudly in his ears for a breath or two, and then Cassius — with that wicked smirk on his face — flips them so Brutus is being pinned to the bed. And then the breathless desperation returns, filling the tent with gasps and sighs. Brutus is fairly certain Cassius can hear, if not feel, the frantic beating of his heart as he nears climax.
“Caius,” he murmurs, but now Cassius is in charge — glad to see that made it into the bedroom, too, Brutus thinks momentarily — and he presses silencing kisses to Brutus’s face and body, trailing sloppy, heated designs across Brutus’s skin with his lips and tongue. Brutus’s head falls back and his eyes close; his mind is about as helpful as a failed potion — and probably the same consistency right now, given the sensations — and it’s with a shuddering breath and a quickly aborted cry of Cassius’s name that he climaxes, his mind a whirling fog of pleasure just slowly starting to settle once more..
He reaches down then, stroking at Cassius’s length to coax him further, eyes opening to watch the other’s expressions. Cassius’s breathing is hard, his eyes half-closed, his hair falling into his face — and yet, he is breathtaking, especially when he cries out, tilts his head back, and comes.
Afterwards, Cassius reaches for the wand he dropped in their haste to get to the bed and cleans up the mess with a flick, settling into Brutus’s arms once he’s done so. Brutus presses slower kisses to the top of his head now; Cassius responds by entangling their legs.
“Are we going somewhere else tomorrow?” he asks after a moment or two of silence. Brutus absently runs a hand through Cassius’s hair in response.
“Do we have to?” he asks quietly.
“We can stay here, if you want.” Cassius’s tone is mellow, the most mellow Brutus has ever heard from him. “We could stay here forever, if that’s what you want.”
“The war’s going to end someday,” Brutus points out.
“What’ll you do if our side loses?”
“Don’t be so glum.” Brutus huffs in mild amusement. “We could win, you know. Why don’t we talk about that instead?”
“If we win, we’d still have to rebuild,” Cassius replies with a sigh. “Thinking about our side losing is at least marginally more interesting, even if it’s more dangerous.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s only one answer for what would happen to us if we lose,” says Brutus, “and I would rather think about moving into a flat on Diagon Alley and retaking my job at the Ministry instead of something like that.”
“What’s wrong with your current flat?” wonders Cassius.
“It’s hardly current. I sold it.” Brutus shrugs. “You can just hide, but I have to pretend I don’t exist at all.”
Cassius responds by leaning up and pressing kisses all over Brutus’s face. “Don’t think about that,” he pleads. “Talk to me about your flat in Diagon Alley.”
And Brutus does, talking about a particular flat he visited once during his brief trips home to London, about the ivy that creeped up the walls outside and how the light shone through the windows just right at three in the afternoon and how the neighbour’s toad was once found in the teapot of the flat’s former owner. Cassius falls asleep sometime during the tale, of course, but Brutus doesn’t mind; he presses a kiss to Cassius’s head once more and falls into silence, looking out at the dimly lit tent, at the warbles of Celestina Warbeck from the radio on the table.
This is a stolen moment, he knows, and he might not see another one like it again, lying sated next to Cassius somewhere in their own little world, where protective enchantments keep the dangers of reality at bay. They would never stop running altogether, not until the war is over, but for this brief time, they can pause and live again.
With that, Brutus closes his eyes and follows Cassius into sleep.