It wasn't odd, the situation Blaise currently finds himself in.
With a broad chest pressing him against the wall, heavy breaths hotly coating the clammy skin on his neck, hands spreading and roaming and squeezing his body, leaving trails of fiery want across his skin.
No, these situations he came across quite often, actually.
Usually when Blaise would make show of his stupendous skill at firing hexes in quick succession, which always had a positive everlasting effect on Ron Weasley.
It had started during Magical Law Orientation, when every attendee was required to take a course in self-defense before being sorted into their corresponding department. It was the Partner Project, where Minister for Magic Shacklebolt Kingsley had decreed that all Aurors were to have an Unspeakable with them on their missions.
Made perfect sense, one the brawn, one the brain.
Blaise was registering as an Unspeakable, whereas Ron had obviously already become an Auror. Him attending Orientation was really just a courtesy.
The medical portion of the course had passed quickly, as first-aid is always something widely taught to the young around the Wizarding World. Ward detection and tactic charms was also something that Blaise handled quite well.
All up until the defense portion, in which he hadn't noticed the redhead was part of the course until they had coincidentally become paired, Blaise was fine.
The problem then was that although Blaise was excellent in every portion of the course, especially defense, he hadn't expected having to fire at blue eyes and a charming grin, specifically one he had become so negatively acquainted with in past experiences.
Blaise had been picked to do the firing, while Ron was on the receiving end. He'd frozen, his body locked in place with his wand pointed at Ron's chest when the instructor had shouted at them to begin.
Flashes of the War, of being shot at by people who he'd known all his life because he wasn't killing nor getting killed, of hiding under a boulder before Draco had come to pull him out to drag him to the Room, he'd kept on mumbling something about ending this where it began. Flashes of spectacles and a scar, of bushy hair and clenched fists, of blue eyes and freckles, and flashes of red and yellow and orange all swirling violently.
Climbing, climbing, climbing.
And no matter how high he'd managed to get, the heat insisted, crawling under his skin, pulling the water from his body, scorching any hopes of him getting out of this alive.
Until he could hope.
Because no matter how many wrongs he'd done, there was always going to be one right he could stand by.
Ron had whipped him up, the strength granted to him by adrenaline in that moment was surprising, slinging his body behind him and zoomed off before a flare of Fiendfyre attempted to snatch his robes.
He couldn't even look at Draco, his wide eyes permanently recollecting the possibility of his death mere moments ago, his hands clutched tightly around Ron's middle. Ron was steering with his right hand while his left hand was secured around Blaise's thigh as they sped towards the door, and he knew from then that this boy was his salvation.
Which is why he couldn't fire a simple lung-lock jinx, and he only spared Ron's worried blues a glance before he turned and fled.
The Slytherin had only been hidden in an empty briefing room for exactly five minutes and twenty-six seconds--he'd been counting, it was his only way to calm down--before Weasley had opened the door.
"You good?"
"Fine, Weasley," Blaise exhaled, turning from resting his hip on a desk to leaning forward with his hands flat on the surface.
"You know," Ron had drawled nonchalantly, his shoes squeaking on the recently polished tile. "You and I never really exchanged hostilities. So, technically, firing at me shouldn't cause you panic."
"It's not the action," Blaise snapped over his shoulder. "It's the precedence. You may not know this, but the Ministry has extensive corrective programs for indecisive criminals like me."
Blaise didn't see it, but Ron's entire demeanor darkened immediately. He stepped forward. "Torture?"
"Of sorts," Blaise mumbled softly, weakly, squeezing his eyes shut and curling his fingers into his palm.
"Have you tried defensive spells? You know, since the Ministry...?"
"No," Blaise began to shake at that point, he was sure there were crescent shaped indentations in his skin. "I haven't."
"You could," Ron shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets and took a tentative step forward towards Blaise's trembling frame. "I don't know. You could try them on me. I promise you won't hit me."
A shaky gasp and then an exhale later, Blaise slowly turned, his fists held tightly to his sides as he lifted his eyes to Ron. "You don't know that."
"I do," Ron nodded then, a small grin spreading across his lips. "I developed quite the reflexes on the Hunt."
"So did I," Blaise shuddered when Ron's body heat clashed with his. "I was bred for war, Weasley. This is not a joke."
"I know," the redhead's voice was soft, softer than anything Blaise had ever heard. "More than anyone. I know. I know the power, I'm familiar with it. You can control it, believe me. Take it from someone who's had their taste of Dark Magic and found their way back. I know what it feels like, I'm like you. Let me help you."
"How?"
Ron had stepped back then, spreading his arms beside him. "Hit me."
"Weasley--."
"You won't hurt me. Hit me."
Blaise shook his head, slamming his wand down on the desk beside him. "You idiot Gryffindor. Have you no logic? Do you know what I will do to you?"
"How will I know if you never show me," Ron smirked, wiggling his fingers smugly. "I'm still standing. Which means your reflexes to defend yourself are quite futile."
"You don't," Blaise shook his head again, grinding his teeth.
"I do," he saw Blaise's hesitation, realized that he had no choice but to push him to rise to the bait. Ron let his arms fall to his sides and let a smug mask fall over his face, not before eyeing Blaise's wand on the desk. "What am I even saying, you're not fast enough to catch me off guard. All you do is talk and talk and ta--."
Ron sucked in a breath and pivoted down to his knee, angling a shoulder back as a spell whizzed right past where his heart used to be. It slammed into the chalkboard, exploded and left the surface burned.
He stared at it for a second, his chest heaving with the spike of adrenaline, before he slowly twisted his head to look at Blaise.
And, Blaise. Blaise was in his defense stance, shoulders back and feet apart, his back straight and angled to accommodate his dominant hand, which held his wand aimed directly where Ron was situated. His face was steeled into a chilling disregard for emotion, impassive, eyes blank and lips pressed together.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered in awe, his eyes wide at just how fucking amazing Blaise looked. When the hell had he even lifted his wand?
"Fast enough for you, Weasley," Blaise exhaled through his nostrils, reeling in the power coursing through his veins, sizzling over his skin and running straight to his head. His mind struggled to differentiate between Ron as his defense partner and as an enemy, and when he tightened his hold on his wand, Ron whipped out his as well.
"Socundo." The Slytherin's wand doubled in his palm and then Ron mumbled a quick, "Expelliarmus," and they both zoomed into his awaiting hand.
He held his hands up in surrender, showcasing all three wands.
"You are pretty fast," Ron chuckled.
So, a grudging partnership became a sudden friendship. And then, one day, well into their third year of working as partners, during a training session, Blaise had fired several jinxes rapid fire.
Ron went down from the last one, stumbling back until he lost his footing and fell flat on his arse, his hand clutching his side. The silence stretched out for eons before Blaise rushed to action, quelling his pounding heart as he slid on his knees to where red was staining Ron's baby blue shirt.
"You were supposed to block it," Blaise hissed out of frustration, tears burning the corners of his eyes as he yanked the material up to inspect the damage. "Merlin."
"I'm fine," Ron had chuckled--chuckled, the idiot was laughing, and placed a still hand over Blaise's. "It just took me by surprise, is all."
"Surprise?" Blaise questioned in horror, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Ron, you're bleeding!"
"Just a scratch," the pale man shrugged. Whatever Blaise had been holding back disappeared, and he shoved Ron's shoulder until he was laying down on the mat. "Woah," Ron laughed.
"Hold still, idiot," Blaise mumbled, shaking his head. He gingerly moved the shirt out of the way with his wand, ignoring the blood rushing through his ears at the realization that Ron was still holding his hand.
It was just a scratch. Superficial. But it was bleeding a lot, must have burst a vein.
"Episkey," he whispered, watching carefully that the spell healed Ron's skin right again. When the spell was done, he rubbed his thumb over the surface, and he jumped when Ron's hand clamped over his and harshly moved it.
"Don't," Ron exhaled loudly, his eyes moving from his healed side to Blaise's face and then to the ceiling. "Don't do that."
The darker, confused and still high off adrenaline and shock, frowned. "Don't do what?"
"Touch me like that."
"Heal you? You don't want me to heal you?"
"That's not what I meant," Ron sighed as he stood, leaving a lost Blaise kneeling on the floor and puzzled beyond compare.
"What did you mean, then?"
"I just don't need you touching me like that, alright?"
"If you didn't want me touching you, you should have blocked the spell, Weasley. It's not my fault you're incapable of producing a decent shielding charm--."
Blaise gasped in his throat when he was hauled up by his underarms and shoved against the wall. Ron roughly untucked a corner of his shirt and pressed his thumb to Blaise's abdomen, and very softly caressed the skin.
The Gryffindor was eyeing his reaction, eyelids closing halfway when Blaise purred in delight. "I said I didn't need you touching me this way. I didn't say I didn't want you to touch me. Just not like this. And preferably not here."
"Weasley," Blaise breathed, searching for a reason as to why he shouldn't do this.
He hadn't found one.
So, here they were. More often than not, Blaise would end up snogged seven different ways to Saturn. All because he could hex in quick succession.
And, after Blaise would preform such an arduous task, he'd glance over his shoulder and give Ron the most satisfied, inviting smirk. Which would then prompt said Weasley to push him up against any solid surface and moan breathily in his ear.
All is well in the world.
Well, until Ron's logical side wins and he pushes off his lover with the utmost effort, sighing as their shared body heat becomes their own.
He pulls Blaise's hand and drags him to the middle of the room, depositing him in the center.
"Okay," he claps his hands, sending Blaise a wink. "Patronus."
This was the last part of their training. The Patronus was vital to learn in case Blaise got into a sticky situation, and seeing as War-Hero Ron Weasley could cast one, he was Blaise's instructor.
"You don't have to use one specific memory. You can think of a place. Of one moment. Or a person. You can use all your memories of one person that makes you feel like you're gold."
Blaise squeezes his eyes shut and then relaxes again. "Alright."
"You got it?"
He jumps at the feeling of Ron standing behind him, angling his wand, which is held shakily in his hand, to cast the spell.
"Now, the spell interacts with you, not just your wand. So when you say it, you have to want to cast it, you have to want to get your message across. Imagine projecting all the good feelings you've learnt to hide."
"Got it," Blaise nods, eyes flickering at the lingering kiss Ron leaves at his shoulder before he steps back.
"Go for it."
The Slytherin takes a deep breath, and with a slightly shaking hand with the remnants of Ron's warmth, casts, "Expecto Patronum."
His heart is thumping in his ears, so he doesn't hear the surprised noise Ron makes, and his eyes are screwed shut in concentration so he doesn't see the silvery blue light that shoots out of his wand. And he definitely doesn't see his successful, corporeal Patronus trotting around proudly, it's head raised regally.
Ron laughs out loud, first in surprise and then in realization. "Blaise," he whispers, amazed. "Blaise, look, love."
He has to take one of Blaise's hands and lock their fingers together to get him to open his eyes. When he does, he feels a surge of shock pulse through him, and when that runs out, confusion. He turns to Ron. "I did it?"
"Yes," Ron laughs. "Yes! You did it!"
"And," Blaise breathes in excitement. "And a full one."
He watches his Patronus strut about the room, and then Ron lifts his wand, efficiently waving it until his Terrier is running out.
He watches them both come close to each other, touch noses, and then his Patronus scurries off, looking behind him as the dog starts chasing him around in circles.
"It's a fox?" Blaise has never been more confused in his life. "A fox?"
Ron gives him a wide grin. "Yeah."
"But," he feels his lungs deflate. "But a fox and..."
"Oh, right," Ron says quickly. "I guess you didn't know this, but Jack Russell Terriers were bred in England to chase foxes."
"So," Blaise's eyes widen, and he briefly feels Ron take his hand and pull him into his side. "So that means..."
"You're stuck with me," Ron grins, kissing his open mouth. "For a very long time."