Buttercup Boy | fred

Chapter 13

Soft light highlights the dancing of dust against a morning sun. Wilted flowers sit in an aged vase and the pages of a disclolured book lie on the desk, dents in the paper worn down by inky fingertips.
In the furthest corner of the room is a red velvet chair, dust spilling from it's plushness and into the air, joining the mob of twists and turns already lining Cherry's lungs. A large dent in the seat tells of a recent presence.

She draws back the curtain and sits upright. Dawn pools around her slumped frame which sits, defeated by the previous day's exhaustion.

From her position beside the window, Cherry admires the same fields Fred and herself often did together.
It wasn't quite the same without a lanky warmth to her left.

George must have already woken up. His bed's empty. Perhaps she should go downstairs; maybe look for him?
The idea was sweet, however it turned a little sour at the thought of tearing back the bedsheets and padding across chilled cobblestone.
So, instead of following her previous, friendly thought, Cheryl remains slouched under the watchful gaze of a winter sun.

Ice melts from the wild flowers lining their land and she is sure a figure lingers a little distance away, near the small path leading to her spot in the forest.
Cherry hadn't visited there in a while. The last time she had, Fred kindly 'allowed' her to continue her stay at the burrow.
Smug bastard.

"Oh," Says a voice. "Thought you'd still be alseep?" What Cherry had previously mistakened for disappointment bled into a pink hue on Fred's cheeks, a tray towered with breakfast foods - appearing underdone or burnt - held between his hands. His knuckles pale, eyes darting anywhere but the bed-ridden girl who smiles politely.

"Yeah, well," Cheryl's chest aches as she watches crimson creep up his neck. "Sorry to disappoint."

Fred sheepishly approaches her.
Only then, tray outstretched, does Cheryl understand. Her eyes widen.
"Merlin, Fred, what've you done?"

"Huh?"

"You've obviously done something that's gonna piss me off..." Fred's expression remains pink and puzzled. "This is preemptive compensation, surely? Why else would you make me breakfast in bed?"

Right, thinks Fred, we dislike eachother.
"I poisoned the orange juice." But his usual spite sounds deflated and Cheryl pretends not to hear it.

Instead, perhaps due to an abundance of exhuastion or something else entirely, she thanks him politely and shuffles completely upright so as to balance the tray on her crossed legs.

Fred stands there.
Cherry waits. She takes a sip of her drink.

Neither knows who's less comfortable.

Just as Fred goes to declare his leave, Cherry extends a freshly picked strawberry with a small, friendly smile.
"Strawberry?"

He takes it in suprise and sits at the end of her bed, a suitable distance away.

Small talk, thinks Fred, make small talk.
Every fibre of the redhead's being willed their each interaction to last longer than the last, and it was growing frightening (the joy he was earning from every conversation), mulling over the way she grinned his name or frowned with sarcastic amusmant.
But he wasn't worried. Not yet.
Every enemy analyses their opponents characteristics.
It's strategy.

And a little bit of intruige.

"Busy day?" He asks. Cheryl's lips curl into another friendly smile.

"I'm going to Hogsmeade -"

Fred laughs. "Again? Would've thought visting with me was enough!" His faux offense has laughter bubbling from the woman's chest. Weasley can't help but grin in reciprocation.