gooseberryhigh | (no subject)

Who: Wilde & Saira.
When: Tuesday, January 23rd.
Where: Gardens.
What: Wandering together & discussing the upcoming Parent-Teacher Conferences.
Warnings: N/A.

It’s Tuesday, and the sky is mottled grey and white with shifting clouds. Wilde pushes his hair out of his eyes to squint up at it, out at the distant water, and then into the snow-dusted trees at the edge of the meadow.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe there could be anything dangerous about this place, when everything’s so winter sleepy and calm. The garden is like a still life now, in the hour after Transfiguration. Except for Spore, of course, flashing in and out of sight under a row of camellia, and now Saira -- at least until he (probably) walks her back to the lodge for History of Magic.

He looks at her after a long moment of watching the treeline, then lets his gloved hand fall back to his side. The other reaches for hers when he speaks:

“I hope it snows again.”

Wilde’s outdoor plot has been landscaped and fussed over for optimum neatness and color in a winter landscape. He’d like it to look extra impressive when Thomas is here, because so far the beginnings of his senior project in the greenhouse doesn’t. Not entirely. Which is fine, because half of it’s a written component if things turn out the way he thinks they will, and…
Whatever. He’ll go look it over later.

“Let’s make the rounds,” he tells Saira. “Even if it’s fucking cold.” His tattered coat’s been enchanted for warmth so many times it’s surprising anything still holds.

“It is only cold,” Saira murmurs, fingers wrapped firmly around Wilde’s, “if one cannot manage to dress oneself properly.”

She rolls her eyes- at him? At herself- and reaches with her free hand to unwrap the scarf she’s wearing, an extra layer only in place because of the very good charms upon it, and drape it so that it hangs around his neck as well as hers. It’s less effective that way, but it is nevertheless a gesture she feels safe in making since she’s already inured herself to accusations of sentiment with that little bit of mockery.

“It will snow again,” she adds, glancing sideways at him as they begin to walk a familiar path around the garden; she’s gotten almost as comfortable here as in the library, recently, and though it’s rather less suited to note-taking, it works just fine for some light reading when she isn’t strolling with her boyfriend. “We’re in Utah. There are several months of winter remaining. It will snow.”

"Thanks for the tip," Wilde teases drily.

He returns her sideways glance from the corner of a blue eye, amused. Today he won't tease her about the gesture of the scarf, or of offering assurance that sounds only half-sarcastic in the afternoon light. It will snow. Of course it will, but of course that's not the entire point. He's been speaking in inane wishes daily of late. It's nice of her to be patient.

"Remind me," he says after a moment, easing their path toward a row of levitating holly. "Who's coming for conferences, and how much do we have to pretend we don't know each other?"

“Both of my parents, of course,” Saira replies quickly; it obviously bothers her and excites her in equal measure, the idea of her mother and father coming here to see how she’s doing and what she’s made of herself. Before, there was always Kazim for them to focus on. This year, she will be their only purpose in coming, and as such perhaps it would be flattering that they’re both making the trip if she didn’t know that her mother is coming to find things to fret and scold about and her father to keep her mother in check.

“And we are classmates. We know each other in passing. In another school, I would say that we may know each other well as two of the brightest, but everyone is bright here. It will be best if we’re acquaintances and nothing more.”

It’s less obvious whether or not this part bothers her.

"Okay. I barely know you."

Wilde says this easily enough, of course. Saira is unreadable, so he is too, except for a little quirk of the mouth. There's something equally interesting and uncomfortable about this aspect of their relationship. He doesn't care much what anyone thinks about it, and yet here he is. His girlfriend's acquaintance, for better and not worse.

"Mom'll probably be... whatever about it," he adds, after a moment. "In case you wondered. I'll try to convince her not to even wave."

There was still always the possibility of her clumsily introducing herself to the Razas anyway, especially without his magic-anxious father there to need looking after, but Wilde's fairly certain she'll be too distracted with judging his various projects or asking Thomas what he was up to at this age to do much damage in the end.

"I wish we could opt out of even informing them."

Wilde says this last bit somewhat absently, distracted by Spore's movement in the row of holly. Then he stops suddenly and, without thinking about it much, moves to pull Saira into a hug.

“If your mother waves within view of mine, I will have to prete-” Saira begins, before she's startled by the hug. It's not a bad surprise, and it is a mark of how far their relationship has come that she relaxes fairly quickly despite the suddenness of it and returns the embrace just as quickly.

“And how will you be about it?” she asks, an afterthought but genuine all the same. “You don't wish that my parents would wave at you, I hope.”

Wilde rests the side of his face against hers, just for a moment, before pulling back with a shrug.

"Well, I was kind of hoping we could be best friends," he jokes, moving along again. The wind has picked up, whipping his hair into his eyes. "But in seriousness? I don't know."

He gives Saira a semi-mischievous smile. "Maybe it's fun having a secret."

That hits close enough to home that perhaps Saira ought to be shamed by it, but then again she has never had much time or room for shame. It’s true that part of the appeal of her relationship with Wilde is hot little her parents would approve, if they knew, and another part the melodramatic romance of the forbidden and the secret.

Still. That’s not all it is. She won’t argue the point, but she can be secure in her own knowledge of the truth.

She reaches to brush his errant hair aside. “It’s nice that something so crucial for me can amuse you, Jonathan.”

Wilde leans very slightly into her touch, partially without realizing.

"You know me. Always look on the bright side of life."

He falls quiet, maneuvering over some shards of broken pottery -- note to self, pick those up later -- and then glances back to her, expression solemn. "Seriously, it's... If this is how it has to be, it's whatever to me. It’s worth it."

That is mostly the truth. It's 95% truth, even, with the other 5% taken up by the undercurrent of random feelings he always struggles with.

He smiles at her, hoping she can sense his sincerity. He doesn't even try to be charming.

“This is how it has to be,” Saira says firmly, catching and holding his gaze for a moment. This is not new information. Not for either of them. Still, it is worth reiterating. Boys, she has managed to deduce in her eighteen years, can be stupid. Better to make sure.

“For now, anyway,” she adds as she starts to walk again. A breadcrumb, maybe.

"For now."

Wilde's smile widens considerably; it shines on her for a moment, but then he feels oddly shy about it and looks away.