intermission | solo & lennox
Love had always been the fuzzy, far-off goal that Lennox had aspired to. As a boy, it had been the thing that had made him smile in the dark when he felt a body beside his own or when a warm hand had brushed his palm. Lennox knew for sure that, someday, he would get married; he knew his family would be there, and that once they’d exchanged vows and rings, it would be forever. He would be loved, and they’d never leave, and he would be happy. Of course, the older Lennox had gotten, the more the dream faded. He still wanted to fall in love, the kind that would inspire a muse to awaken and burn brightly, but it wasn’t the same - he was jaded a little, worn at the edges by the failed friendships and few attempts at a relationship he’d had. And even now, at eighteen and ready to leave Hogwarts to be an adult, Lennox wasn’t sure he was someone built for love and marriage and the kind of romance that had coloured the pages of his favourite books. But he was going to try anyway.
The premise was simple, but Lennox had been digging himself into holes for days trying to work out something perfect. It was a date - a date with Solomon Renfield, no less - but Lennox wanted it to be good. He’d promised Solo that he’d think about it and come back with an answer, and a date was what he needed to be sure of that answer. It would determine whether they could be alone together for any extended amount of time without Lennox throwing a punch or Solo sinking to his knees for some other guy. His hands were sweating as he places the letter on Solo’s bed, along with the flower he’d managed to make bloom with magic (which had taken three hours but he would later lie and say it’d been minutes worth of work). It made Lennox’s lips twitch into a smile as he looked down at it: the display was minimal but romantic, and even though he knew that Solo’s feelings weren’t the ones in question, Lennox still hoped he would agree to come.