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Sunny was, in every way that mattered the least, a firm believer of bullshit.
In other words, he was the kid who thought Santa was real just past his double-digits of age, he was the guy who sent links of 🌈the more you know🌈 videos to his alt account to save for “later”, the one who trusted the quora answers google searches gave without blinking twice and– most importantly of all– he was a sucker for philosophical phrases that were just catchy enough to shape his entire belief system around.
In other, other words, he was very familiar with the wisest of dictions, the one that defined what should’ve been, for him, common fucking sense:
Once was an accident. Twice a coincidence.
But three times.
Three times.
Three was a pattern.
And three romantic-y gifts wasn’t ha-ha funny kiss the homies good night platonic man-cave type of bullshit pattern, like the kind Sunny had assumed during the first bouquet (Harry had cleared his throat, asked “milk or dark?”. Sunny blinked twice in confusion at that, and Harry must’ve read his bamboozlement as mathematical morse code for he nodded and grabbed the flowers with dark chocolate petals), or during the second heart-shaped box (“You haven’t a peanut allergy, right mate? O-or– erm, well, not m-mate perhaps, but, well–”), or during the third candy jar.
Three romantic-y gifts.
Nah fuck ‘romantic-y’, three explicitly romantic gifts.
It– it was a pattern.
Except.
Except… what?
Sunny and Harry were by the cashier, and his friend’s (friend’s, so why the fuck–) ears were as red as his scarf as he mumbled replies to the worker lady on the other end of the desk, talking money and prices and more shit Sunny was too busy having an entire goddamn revelation to hear.
Most of the candy was being put into a paper bag, quiet crinkles mingling with the sound of clicking coins by the left, but the bouquet was still held within the crook of his bent elbow, stems wrapped with periwinkle plastic and a white ribbon.
Flowers.
Edible flowers, at that.
He couldn’t help but zone out as he looked down, his eyes unfocusing the rose-shaped bud and turning the entire thing into a blurry brown bush.
This.
This wasn’t normal, right?
Gay or European was a tale as old as time, but Sunny was pretty damn sure that between the two Harry just fell into the latter. He liked Quidditch, which was basically the wizarding world’s equivalent of football. You can’t get straighter than that.
“A-alright, erm,” came Harry’s voice from the side, the high-pitched stutter interrupted by a strong ahem. “I’ve got everything. Where’d you, uh, where do you reckon you’d want to go next?”
Got everything.
Sunny blinked, eyes focusing again, and turned his head to look over at Harry. His ears were back to the color of his skin instead of his scarf, though he was still snuggled into the knitted thing quite a bit, curls poofing up a little by his front just enough to slightly obscure his eyes but the green was bright to peek through and it was staring at Sunny and he’d bought him flowers and chocolate and it was almost as if they were on a… a…
…shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit what the actually fucking everything there was no fucking way.
No way.
“Sunny, are you alright?”
Absolutely nothing of the growing panic was showing in Sunny’s face, yet Harry’s voice had suddenly switched from slightly nervous to straight-up alarmed, so Sunny looked away, nodding as he vaguely stared at some random point in the air.
We can go wherever, was the appropriate answer.
Except he ticked his gaze back to Harry just in time to see him furrowing his brows in growing worry, raising his head just a bit from the nest of his scarf let his poofed curls drop a bit lower to his ears and–
“–you bought me flowers,” Sunny stated, the words dragged out slowly. And, yes, ‘stated’. Tone lowering more than he intended as he did, the fact leaving his mouth with the same courtesy of an announced funeral.
Obviously, Harry reacted to said announcement with an appropriate reaction.
Dawning horror.
“D’you not like them?!” he asked with a snap upright of his posture, glancing down at the bouquet with the level of panic a chocolate fucking rose should NOT have the capability to stir. “Oh Merlin, I thought–”
Sunny realized his mistake quickly enough but he did not have the time to fix it before a gruff voice shoved its way into conversation from behind.
“Ay, get ou’ of the line lovebirds, we’ve go’ things to buy too yeh know.”
The automatic response of hurrying out the way didn’t even register in Sunny’s brain as Harry spluttered out apologies, grabbing Sunny by the hand– no, the hand at first, but then switched to the wrist last-minute and oh Harry’s ears were red again– to pull him out of the way.
Auditory processing became as stupid as the mush of Sunny’s brain, echoy and fuzzy, and he never knew his internal voice could wheeze until it did just now, repeating what he’d heard.
Lovebirds.
Lovebirds.
“–a-anyway,” continued Harry as he continued to tug Sunny, slowly guiding them both to the exit door, vivid rainbow candies decorating every shelf and step of the way (and if that wasn’t a sign from God). “Sorry, I thought… I thought you’d like them, e-erm– I didn’t… sorry, do they not give flowers in the States?”
Sunny wasn’t staring at the bouquet anymore, a gust of cold air pouring across his skin as an overhead bell rang, Harry swinging the door open with his free hand. His other hand was still occupied. Holding Sunny’s wrist. By the sleeve, but still his wrist, and…
“...in the States?” Sunny managed to echo, somehow keeping his voice firmer than a wheeze.
The outside of the store felt like stepping into a lake of ice, every inch of Sunny’s exposed face drowning into a frozen mask. It wasn’t snowing as badly as it was earlier, but still snowing enough for the flakes drifting down from the sky to smudge the air with white. That, of course, was the only reason his cheeks were growing red. The cold.
Harry turned to him, curls catching a few delicate specks of snow already, most clinging to the thin ones that seemed to glow in the lighting of the pouring yellow from the shop’s windows behind them. He’d dipped his head back down into his scarf, but not so much that Sunny missed the half-cheeky, mostly-apologetic smile growing on Harry’s face.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m afraid I hardly know American date etiquette.”
Date etiquette.
Sunny stared at Harry. Glanced at the paper bag in his hand, crinkled at the top where his fist curled, too folded for such a loose grip, probably crackled when Harry opened the door. He looked back down at the flowers.
Ron didn’t just do a double-take. He did a triple, quadruple, quintiple(was that a word?) take, blinking at Sunny again and again and again as if he just grew a third head.
And then, without explanation, he just let out a singular hearty, “HAH!” that was so loud Sunny flinched.
“Wha–”
“Bloody hell, that explains so much.”
Said through laughter, all that.
Then, a hand on Sunny’s shoulder. Two pats. A solemn nod.
“Don’t worry, you’ve got my blessing, mate. Honeydukes, you said? We’ll wait for you there, and I’ll let him know.”
…oh.
Oh.
Oh.
This time, not even his goddamn PhD in denial allowed him to convince himself that the reddening of his entire fucking neck was because of the cold. Oh, no. That was the heat. The heat rising up and up to bake his cheeks and boil him alive and something began to beat quicker in his chest and–
And Harry was still staring at him, so Sunny brought his gaze away from the flowers.
WE’RE ON A FUCKING DATE?!
He swallowed.
This.
This was his fault.
No, fuck that actually– this was Ron’s fault. Ron who– who– who looked at Sunny and then at Harry and said: “that explains so much” like whAT THE FUCK WAS THAT EVEN SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!?!
This was a mistake.
Yet, Harry stared at Sunny, used to his silences by now, smile softening from emotion to patience.
This was such a bad fucking mistake this wasn’t– Sunny hadn’t meant to–
Harry stared at Sunny, still holding his wrist. His wrist, because Sunny never allowed for more before explicitly, and Harry would understand, surely, he wouldn’t be mad, he wouldn’t be upset, surely, why would Harry even like him like that and he was still holding his wrist and… and… and…
…
Sunny swallowed. Thicker this time.
“...I like the flowers,” he whispered, and oh, goodness, the way Harry’s smile grew.
“Brilliant,” his fri– date(??) said, grinning as if he’d just been given the sun, and Harry looked away, walking forward again and tugging him along. “Now, c’mon! Hermione said she’d reckoned we’d like the Shrieking Shack a whole lot, rather curious about it, d’you want to go there we could…”
…and on he went, naming places and activities and never really stopping once, taking Sunny’s silence as an invitation to keep going, the way he always knew exactly when and how to do.
Sunny held the bouquet in his arm, focusing only on Harry’s voice and making sure he didn’t bump the petals into anybody as they weaved through the snowy expanse of Hogsmeade, snow crunching softly beneath their feet.
Eventually, a scurrying stranger sliced between them, muttering apologies and tripping over his feet.
Sunny shifted the bouquet in his grip to allow it to be more secure, holding it gently.
Eventually, he reached over again, and held Harry’s hand, too.